‘They fell?’ Sheikh Fahd said and looked up at the shadow of the peak against the stars. There were torches lining the stairs up there, and for a moment there had been a light at the peak, but that had soon disappeared.
‘No,’ one of the Ayaida disputed. ‘I think’ – he was quickly nudged by his brother – ‘we think, they were murdered.’
‘The Rassis!’ Sheikh Fahd growled and spat on the ground. ‘They should all be dead. Yet if any have escaped . . .’ He looked up at the peak again. ‘Where are my guard? Call them at once! And send them to the top of the mountain, or else Captain Saxon and his friends will be massacred!’
IV
The inside of the temple was quite broad and long: forty yards in width and the same in length – a square chamber supported by great stone pillars at each corner. The roof rose inwards from the pillars and tapered to a point high above, matching the geometry of the mountain peak. Below it ranks of steps descended from each of the four walls, like a square amphitheatre. These steps fell down for about twenty rows and halted abruptly at an abyss that was twenty yards square.
Suspended over the abyss was the source of the light. It sat on a platform supported by a great pillar of rock that fell and fell and fell into the darkness below Leading across to the pillar was a timber bridge weighted with black rock at each end.
And on the platform lay the two hundred and fifty Scarimadaen: the Hoard of Mhorrer. Each one was different. Each was formed from some special element, unique in its shaping, unique in its material. There were stone Scarimadaen, made of marble, granite, basalt; Scarimadaen of diamond, gold, platinum, and lead . . . They saw Scarimadaen of oak, of sand, of glass . . . And impossible as it was, they saw pyramids made of coloured smoke that seemed to lose composure for only a few heartbeats before remoulding themselves. There was a pyramid of water that sat at the top, rippling like the surface of a pond, shimmering with light. There was even a pyramid that beat like a heart, seemingly made of flesh stretched over bone . . .
The sound of voices intensified, as if an army was clambering up the sides of the abyss. Peruzo would have put a hand to his ears, if the light from the two hundred and fifty Scarimadaen had not been so blinding that he had to shield his eyes.
‘Oh my God,Jericho murmured, trembling.
William too was struck dumb with awe and a measure of horror. He stood at the top of the steps and willed himself to stand closer, but he was too afraid. The light of the Scarimadaen flashed and flickered, animating shadows in the temple so that it seemed that ghosts were leaping up the walls and against the ceiling.
He recoiled and looked to the others, who were just as troubled. The voices from below seemed to fracture and converge again, rising and circling the platform as the infernal light flickered and crackled over the pyramids.
‘What now?’ Jericho whispered, his mouth dry .
William looked about them and saw torches at each corner. ‘They’re just Scarimadaen, gentlemen,’ he assured them. ‘The voices you listen to are nothing but the fear in your own hearts. We will not submit to them, do you hear?’
They murmured in agreement, though not too convincingly. ‘This is but a parlour trick,’ William added, and walked over to the first corner of the room where a hollow length of wood was propped, stuffed with oil-soaked grass. He raised the torch and lit the grass, which burst into flame, then he marched to the second, igniting this in its turn. When at last he returned to their side, four torches were aflame and the azure light no longer played on their fears. The temple room was completely lit.
They relaxed and concentrated on the task at hand. ‘We need to destroy the whole room and the Hoard,’ William told them. ‘That hole in the centre . . . How deep do you think it is?’
Jericho took a deep breath and walked gingerly down the steps, concentrating on where he was treading in the torchlight while blocking out the clamour nearby. He ignored the Hoard for a fraught few moments and stared down into the gaping pit. There was no bottom to it and it seemed to fall away for ever, causing his spine to tingle, His balance to teeter. He stepped back and laughed nervously. ‘Very deep, Captain,’ he called. ‘Deep enough to lose the Hoard in.’
William was relieved. ‘Jericho can lash a keg of powder to the platform support down there, and run a fuse under the bridge. And then you and I will lay some powder around the pillars here and put the rest of the two kegs at opposite corners. That should destroy the Hoard and bring down the temple,’ he said to his lieutenant.
‘Only if the explosive is strong enough,’ Peruzo said quietly to him.
‘Engrin has never let me down,’ William replied. ‘Jericho, make sure you tie up that wound. Don’t let a drop of your blood touch a Scarimadaen.’
Jericho nodded and looked to the cuts on his arm and cheek.
‘What about me?’ Marco asked.
‘You can help Jericho. But keep away from the Scarimadaen, understood?’
The stars of worlds trillions of miles away began to shine brighter in the sky above the mountain, yet during those passing minutes nothing in the whole universe seemed as important as the process now at work inside the temple. The men within laboured wearily, yet spurred on by the sacrifices already made that day. They summoned up new strength, and carried out the tasks William assigned them.
Peruzo opened the first keg and filled the grooves of the flagstones around the pillars of the temple, laying a trail to a length of fuse that William had fixed to run out of the temple entrance. It would burn for ten minutes only, and William hoped he had the strength in his legs to run down the steps before the temple exploded.
While Peruzo worked on the pillars, William joined two lengths of fuse together and then trailed another down the steps to the platform. He handed Marco the end of the fuse and showed him how to tie it to the length that Jericho carried as he made his way carefully across the bridge.
With one length of rope tied about his waist and a second looped over his shoulder, Jericho stepped bravely off the bridge and onto the platform. Under his left arm was a keg of powder and in his right hand was a fuse that he let drop over the side as he crossed the end of the bridge. The keg was heavy and the way around the Hoard was precarious, yet he closed his eyes until he could barely see and ripped up his shirt to tie rags about his ears to dampen the chorus of the Scarimadaen. He would not look at the pyramids; he would not listen. He would only follow his captain’s orders.
As he navigated around the Scarimadaen, he looped the first rope around the Hoard. Then he gave a short, firm tug to see if it would hold the rope in place. The first tug was fine. As was the second, and he squinted back along the bridge to where Marco was standing holding the other end of the rope. Marco nodded at him nervously, sweat dripping from his brow.
Jericho nodded back and began to abseil over the edge of the platform, the keg still under his left arm. From the far edge of the chasm he had spotted a small natural ledge six feet below the platform. He aimed for this now. He swung precariously for a while as he let himself slowly drop, his feet seeking out purchase on the rock. When his feet reached the outcrop, he edged himself closer in and let go of the rope with his right hand to find a hand-hold on the column.
Marco felt the rope give and breathed sharply. Beads of sweat dripped off his chin and down his arms, as he anticipated disaster. Yet Jericho did not swing away, but stayed fixed to the column as if his hand was glued to it.
About two feet to Jericho’s right, in the irregular surface of the column, was a broad schism in the rock. It was a vertical cleft, shallow at top and bottom, but wide and deep in the centre. Jericho turned round so his back was against the column. He inched sideways and then leaned over to the cleft and slowly pushed the keg into it. He then lashed the second rope from his shoulder around the keg and the opposing sides of limestone. Using the rope which Marco held, he swung around the column in a full circle until the second rope was taut around the keg and the column, pressing it further inside the cleft.
Trying to ignore both the vertiginous drop below and the unholy chorus of the Hoard above, Jericho climbed up the rope and reached for the trailing fuse that he’d thrown over the edge of the bridge. After two attempts he snatched the end and drew it to him, then dropped gradually down the rope again to the ledge. Once there, he slipped the fuse into the keg and made it secure.
Throughout he kept glancing back at Marco to make sure the boy was concentrating. Even with all the hard work done – the keg secured and the fuse running from it to the other side of the chasm – Jericho could see the Scarimadaen were working on Marco’s attention. Despite his best efforts to watch Jericho, his eyes were straying, looking up at the prize.
And what a prize . . .
. . . The Scarimadaen were piled up, almost bleeding into each other. The humming that had been so constant when they first entered grew into something else, a song, a wailing of tortured voices and broken whispers.
Marco.
His jaw grew slack. His mind began to waver and break open, his thoughts to spin and churn into a tempest.
Marco. Marco. Marco. Marco . . .
He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. They were talking to him. These strange, small pyramids of metal, of stone, of vapour and blood and shit and water and sand . . .
Marco. Marco. Marco. Marco. Come to us . . .
Marco stepped forward once more, the rope in his hands slipping away, the song drowning his ears, pouring into them, down his throat, drinking the morose wailing as though it were honey. Before him, the Scarimadaen reflected his face, His heroism, his desires. He took more steps forward until he could see himself clearly in the pyramid of water, rippling and cascading down itself. The rope slipped further through his fingers.
Jericho grabbed hold of the rope as he saw Marco falter. Panicking, he climbed the rope as fast as he could, drawing deep breaths in his haste as Marco wobbled.
Marco. Come . . .
Marco reached out his hand and the rope fell from his grasp. Jericho reached the side of the platform just as the rope fell slack and he dangled from the edge. The end of the rope fell from the bridge into the chasm below. Cursing, he swung his leg over the edge and the tip of his boot scraped the side of the Scarimadaen. At once blue light writhed out and struck the leather, recoiling from the touch of dead skin. Jericho pushed himself up as the choir grew louder, the voices screeching through the cloth about his ears.
William heard them too and looked down from the steps to see his nephew moving across the bridge towards the light. The voices were striking out at Marco in unison as though a horde of castrati were trapped inside the pyramids. Hypnotized, Marco could do nothing more than reach out to the nearest Scarimadaen – the one composed of smoke.
‘Stop!’ Jericho warned and leapt forward. He was unbalanced and almost fell from the bridge as he pulled Marco away. ‘Gods, boy! What the hell are you doing?’
Marco looked back at him blankly. ‘The voices . . .’
‘Don’t listen to them, Marco. Don’t make that mistake,’ Jericho said and led him away.
Marco felt the urge to pull from him, to go forward and be with these strange singing pyramids that shone so beautifully, but as they got further away, he grew sick, his head reeling, his stomach rebelling until he arrived back at the steps above and vomited in the corner.
‘Are you all right?’ Jericho whispered to him.
‘They promised me . . .’ he said, and shook his head.
‘They promised you the world, I am sure,’ Jericho said and snorted. But he too felt terrified, unnerved by the power of the Hoard. They had promised him much when he first neared them. A kingdom of eternity, power unimaginable. To sit at the right hand of the Traitor. Of the Prince of Hell himself.
Jericho looked over to William. ‘It is done, sir,’ he said, a little relieved. ‘The keg is secure under the platform and the fuse runs directly under the bridge. When it goes up, it should take the platform with it.’
‘Good,’ William replied, and then looked over to Marco. ‘What happened to him? Was he hurt?’
‘Just overcome. It is a persuasive treasure, Captain.’
‘A deadly one,’ William replied. ‘Take him outside. Let him get some fresh air .. . and then the two of you can return down the mountain. Make sure the Bedouins leave here as quickly as possible’
Jericho nodded and took another look at the Hoard, for the last time. ‘Must we destroy them?’ he heard himself say ‘Can’t we take just one to Rome?’
‘Not one, William said resolutely, remembering the remaining vampyre. ‘Go now. Warn our allies they must leave. I will not wait long.’
Jericho helped Marco to his feet, who resisted long enough to look to his uncle. ‘I understand now’ he said to him. ‘I understand why they must be destroyed, Uncle.’
William smiled and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Then you are learning,’ he said. ‘There is no greater evil in this world than what lies here. Wait for me at the foot of the mountain.’
Marco nodded and allowed himself to be led away.
V
Peruzo patted the side of the keg. It was half full and he rested it near the temple entrance. He sat on it, the wood resisting his weight with a low creaking sound, as William walked up the steps after inspecting the fuse. He was sweating heavily despite the chill in the air; the intensity of the Scarimadaen was oppressive.
What happened to Marco?’ Peruzo asked.
‘It was a scare, little more,’ William replied.
‘The Scarimadaen seduced him?’
‘For a moment only,’ William said. ‘I cannot blame him. His first encounter with a Scarimadaen, and there are hundreds of them.’
Peruzo got up from the keg and stretched. ‘Not for much longer. I . . .’ he faltered and quickly put his hand on his sword. ‘Did you hear that?’
‘It’s probably Jericho,’ William said as he glanced over his shoulder.
‘No . . .’ Peruzo whispered. ‘Someone else is out there. Skulking . . .’
William turned about and felt the hairs rise up on the back of his neck as he heard another footstep; a cautious one. His right hand went to Engrin’s sword as Peruzo quietly stepped over to the wall by the entrance. William flanked him to the opposite side.
Peruzo saw a shadow, ever so slight, sliding towards them, and he rushed forward. He grabbed at a handful of robes, pulling them desperately. There was a yelp as he dragged them into view, unbalancing Peruzo; both he and the person he caught tumbled into the temple.
William drew his sword and pulled the fellow off his lieutenant. Levelling his sword to the assailant’s face, he towed him into the light.
‘Hammid?’ William gasped.
The Arab was terrified.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ William asked, even though it would elicit little response.
Peruzo got to his feet, furiously. ‘Treacherous, sneaking . . .!’ he began, placing the tip of his sword against the back of the Arab’s neck.
William was too tired to gainsay Peruzo, and too tired and bewildered by Hammid’s sudden appearance.
‘He followed us, Captain,’ Peruzo said as Hammid whimpered. ‘I told you he couldn’t be trusted!’
William stepped outside into the cold night air beyond the temple, Peruzo hauling Hammid after him. ‘What should we do with him?’ William asked.
‘I’d like to throw him off this mountain,’ Peruzo said angrily .
‘There might be an innocent explanation,’ William replied. ‘He did save Sheikh Fahd’s life.’
Peruzo seemed to back down slightly, but kept his sword close to Hammid, who began to keen like a baby. ‘This scum is a traitor and a liar, Captain. Can we really tru—’ Peruzo stopped abruptly. He seemed to lose his grip on Hammid’s shirt, and then dropped his sword. He looked at William in despair and then began to fall forward.
‘Peruzo!’ William cried and caught him before he could hit the ground.
Behind the lieutenant, and behin
d Hammid, a figure emerged from the shadows, outlined by the half-moon. It pushed Hammid gently aside and looked down at William.
The figure was a man, tall, yet slouched slightly and favouring an arm that was held in a makeshift sling. His hair was matted with blood and his face was covered in the same grime of sand and rock dust. His clothes were torn, one sleeve missing completely, yet the man standing over William was unmistakable.
‘Thomas,’ William gasped.
‘Captain Saxon,’ Thomas Richmond greeted, bowing slightly.
William looked down to his lieutenant and felt a wound at Peruzo’s back, wet and bloody. He didn’t need to guess how it had been done, or who had done it: Thomas was twirling a sword in his good hand, the tip wet with Peruzo’s blood. ‘You bastard . . .’ William hissed.
‘I owed him that, Captain,’ Thomas replied, and touched the scar at his cheek.
‘How did you survive?’ William said, trying to stall him.
‘There was more than one loose bar in that pathetic cage of yours. I took a risk and tried to grab hold of the roots that held the wagon before it tore free. It almost worked,’ Thomas replied and looked down at his own appearance. ‘Apart from my arm, I was lucky. I landed in a patch of soil below, not the rock that obliterated my prison.’
William could feel the lieutenant’s breath on his hand. Peruzo was still alive, but that didn’t mean he could fight. ‘What are your intentions, Thomas?’ William demanded.
‘To take the Hoard for myself,’ Thomas replied.
William laughed out loud, though his throat was dry and it came out as a fragile cackle. ‘With an army of Bedouins below, not to mention my own men on this mountain? Surely your arrogance does not extend to the impossible?’
Thomas smiled. ‘No, Captain. It doesn’t. But as you have already demonstrated by getting here, nothing is impossible.’
Hammid crept away, hiding by the entrance. His eyes darted fearfully about, to Thomas, to William and then to Peruzo.
‘As long as you die, Captain, that will be enough,’ Thomas continued.
The Hoard of Mhorrer Page 43