The Hoard of Mhorrer

by M. F. W. Curran

  Looking away, William drew on his fading strength to trudge back up the steps. ‘We must leave,’ he said, and pointed down at Peruzo. ‘Help me carry him.’

  Peruzo shook his head and beckoned William close. He put his ear to Peruzo’s lips and struggled to hear him above the shriek of appalling torture from the pit below.

  ‘I have to stay . . .’ the lieutenant murmured.

  ‘We can carry you,’ William protested.

  ‘There’s a daemon here . . .’

  ‘Yes, this is why we must go.’

  ‘The powder around the pillars, William . . . We can still destroy it – all of them. Give me a torch . . .’

  ‘There’s no time, my friend. The temple would be destroyed with you inside it.’

  ‘But so would . . . the daemon . . .’

  William turned his head to look Peruzo in the eyes. There was little sparkle left in them, but the lieutenant’s grey face had formed a contented smile. It was fragile enough, but he was already resigned to dying.

  ‘I must . . . I must . . .’

  William swallowed down his sadness, and tears began to roll down his cheeks. ‘I know,’ he replied.

  ‘I’ll give you . . . enough time . . . You must go . . . Now.’

  William nodded and took hold of Peruzo’s hand. He looked up at the others. ‘Jericho, get them out of here.’

  Jericho hardly heard William but was staring down at the abomination that had been Thomas Richmond. The daemon opened its mouth wider than it could conceivably manage until the bottom jaw hung down its belly, spewing out smoke and cinders.

  And then it spoke: ‘DOOMDARRRR . . .’

  The syllables were nonsense, but the sheer shock of hearing the daemon address them at all shook Jericho to the marrow. Never in the history of the War had a daemon talked through its host. This was not just a devil conjured by a box of tricks, but something greater. Something more powerful than any of them had seen before.

  ‘Jericho!’ William shouted again, this time furiously. Marco pulled on Jericho’s arm, too afraid to look at the daemon himself. ‘Get them out of here!’ his uncle ordered.

  Jericho half staggered and was half pulled away by Marco, who was eager to escape the horror growing from the pit. The Ayaida who hadn’t fled from those infernal cries now shook off their paralysis, throwing down their swords and torches in their desperate flight from the daemon climbing from below Jericho and Marco followed after them.

  William reached over and took one of the discarded torches from the floor. He handed it to his lieutenant, regarding him proudly. ‘I’ll say a prayer for you, my friend.’

  ‘Say several, William Saxon,’ Peruzo replied and smiled weakly. ‘It was a pleasure to . . .’

  ‘The pleasure was mine.’ William pulled himself to his feet and stepped away, taking a last glance at the daemon, the warped horror of what had once been Thomas Richmond.

  Thomas’s body could not cope with the daemon’s essence. At any moment it seemed the unholy merging of mortal flesh and immortal spirit would split asunder in a geyser of ash and light, yet the daemon stepped elegantly forward, rolls of smoke billowing before it. It raised its blackened, sinewy arms to William and shouted again: ‘DOOMDARRRR . . .’

  William backed away. He paused to retrieve Engrin’s sword from where it had landed, and then fled the temple.

  VIII

  The procession of fleeing Bedouins was infectious. The panic that spilled from the first Ayaida to take flight spread to the other Bedouins scavenging the Rassis dead; very soon these too began to flee. But while some of the tired Aquila and Tarabin followed at a slower and more uncertain pace, the fresher Suwarka were more wary and some even scoffed at their warnings: ‘The Devil is coming! The Devil is coming!’

  That is until Marco and Jericho and the remaining Ayaida appeared at the temple doorway and rushed down the stairs towards them. This time the Suwarka were concerned and the terrible howling roaring from above gave them cause to panic. Fearing that the Devil would descend upon them, they turned tail and fled with their trophies, some dropping Rassis masks or swords in their haste.

  In the chaos, Marco halted abruptly and stared back up the steps.

  ‘Marco!’ Jericho called to him as he dashed to the next flight of steps after the fleeing Bedouins.

  ‘I won’t leave without him!’ Marco shouted back.

  ‘Blast you!’ Jericho cursed and grabbed hold of the boy’s arm. He wouldn’t budge, and only when William appeared, hobbling and puffing down the stairway, did Marco relent and the three of them try to escape.

  IX

  Peruzo battled to stay conscious. He could feel little except for the warmth of the torch flame near his cheek. The light of it was blinding, but he could still see a shadow shuddering up the stone steps inside the temple; crashing closer with the stench of sulphur growing.

  Peruzo opened his eyes as much as he was able, the better to view this abomination. He was eager to face his last enemy.

  The daemon appeared above the top step before its feet were halfway up the rise. It glowered down at Peruzo and at the flame in his hand, its burning eyes triumphant in their warped sockets. As it rose higher and higher with each step, the daemon opened its mouth and belched a flurry of seething sparks over the landing that only missed the trailing end of cut fuse by mere feet. It was followed by a belch of sulphuric smoke that made Peruzo cough.

  He smiled, quite pleased with the creature before him. He had never met a foe so challenging, and doubted that anyone else had.

  ‘The stuff of legends . . .’ Peruzo murmured as his vision began to tunnel. His hand seemed to droop a little and then the torch fell out of his fingers as he died. It landed to the side, near the thin line of gunpowder poured through the cracks of the flagstones around the pillar. The flames writhed about for a moment and then the gunpowder ignited.

  X

  They had just started down the second flight of steps when the first explosion came. It rumbled above them like a distant earthquake, preceded by a brilliant flash of light. William paused momentarily to see it happen, but then urged Jericho and Marco on down the steps, their path uncertain in the dark of night.

  The next two explosions moments later shook the stairs and William fell. Marco heard him drop and turned back, rushing up the steps to take his arm. They reeled along the quaking stairway, pieces of the temple falling in a hail of stone. Larger pieces fell at their feet, and it was pure luck that neither of them was struck on the head: the chunks would have staved in their skulls.

  A fourth explosion followed fast after the second and third. It appeared to be closer than the last, had that been possible, and there was a bright flash that lit up all the steps for a moment. The sound was colossal and Jericho stumbled forward, falling against the side of the stairway. He put his hands over his head as more rock and dust rained over them, William too dazed to move, while Marco hung on.

  The last detonations were the worst. The remains of the temple blazed with white light, stronger than the rising sun, and the world about the peak turned to day for the briefest of moments. Then the ground trembled, heaving about as though an unseen titanic hand was moving beneath it. The stairway split apart. Huge fissures tore through the quaking rock, and blindly again they retreated, lost in the storm of rock dust and pelting scree. At one point William believed he might simply stumble sightlessly over the edge. He had no idea where he was going, and yet Jericho guided them forward.

  Too weak to go on, and with the fissures along the stairs widening, now they collapsed on the steps where they stood and simply huddled by the wall of rock, hoping to ride out the worst of it. Jericho held on as best he could, and William sat back, his arm around Marco, who clung to his uncle and huddled against the stairs as they bucked about. William closed his eyes and waited for the world to open up and swallow them whole.

  Soon after that, the temple above them collapsed. It fell inwards, the pillars no longer standing to support it. The Hoard
of Mhorrer and the remaining keg of gunpowder tied to the platform were sucked into the abyss below.

  They were followed in their descent by the shattered torso of the daemonic prince, blown apart by the first of the blasts. Its flaming body overtook the Scarimadaen and debris and collided with the keg of powder. At once the keg exploded, and then the mountain’s peak did the same with a catastrophic roar.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Graves of Stone

  I

  Next morning there were stories of heroism. Tales of sons and fathers helping each other to escape the avalanche of rock. Stories of men carrying the wounded, even stories of sacrifice. But some stories were more incredible than others.

  The Ayaida who had witnessed the daemon gave the most vivid accounts. It was the daemon, they said, that brought down the mountain. Sheikh Fahd had other ideas, yet they were only confirmed when three men were carried before him; three white ghosts plastered in the rock dust that covered them from head to toe.

  ‘You did this?’ he asked William, who was supported by both Marco and Jericho. William had sprained his ankle during the flight from the temple and it was still quite sore – that and the other wounds to his cheek and his hand.

  William smiled slightly. ‘It wasn’t entirely my fault.’

  ‘My people believe the Devil caused the collapse of the mountain,’ Fahd said.

  ‘That is closer to the facts, sir,’ William replied.

  Sheikh Fahd crossed his arms a little sceptically, but his previous experience of the vampyre and the Rassis was enough to convince him that maybe it was true. ‘What about your prize?’

  ‘Destroyed,’ William said wearily. Jericho lowered him to the ground and William sat, his aching leg stretched out in front of him. He rubbed gently at the ankle and looked up at Fahd. ‘Thank you for trying to warn me.’

  ‘Ah . . . The letter, Fahd replied.

  ‘It was a little late,’ William admitted. ‘But I thank you anyway.’

  ‘I thought it was the Rassis who had killed Mazin’s men. Was I right?’

  ‘No. It was Thomas Richmond,’ William replied.

  ‘But Richmond was killed . . .’

  ‘He wasn’t. But he is now So is Hammid,’ William said sadly, remembering Hammid’s brave act. ‘And so is my lieutenant.’

  ‘You have lost your prize, and your men,’ Sheikh Fahd remarked. ‘I am sorry for that.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ William murmured and looked over his shoulder. ‘The mission was a success. The Hoard is no more.’ But as he looked to the mountain, nothing more now than a hill that resembled a dormant volcano, William felt the loss of Peruzo keenly. He had not expected to leave the lieutenant on that mountain. That had been one sacrifice too many.

  ‘At least you live, Captain Saxon,’ Sheikh Fahd said, appearing to read William’s thoughts, ‘as do your nephew and some of your men.’

  William regarded Marco and Jericho in turn as they sat by their captain. He felt immensely proud of both of them. Against all odds, they had survived the mission.

  II

  The army that was – the army of the Ayaida, Tarabin, Aquila and Suwarka, and the grey-clad Europeans – did not leave the Valley of Fire until two days later. They spent that time digging a mass grave for their dead, and much sombre and sorrowful prayer was conducted for their passing.

  William cleaned himself up as best he could and attended the funerals of the Bedouins, specifically of Sheikh Anwar and Mazin’s son. They were given honoured cremations away from the mass pyres of the hundreds of other Bedouins who had lost their lives in the battles.

  Finally, William returned to the grave of the monks of the Order, a grave gratefully dug by Fahd’s people. It was a long trench, where the men of the Order lay side by side as they had fought. Jericho had provided markers, a weapon of the Order thrust into the ground beside each brother. As with the tribesmen, oil was poured over each man, and Sheikh Fahd handed William a torch which burned brightly even in the afternoon sun. Prayers were spoken, and William was struck by overwhelming sadness as he listened to the song of a lone Bedouin who attended the funeral.

  Then William tossed the torch into the pit and the bodies were aflame.

  Afterwards, Jericho stood apart with Marco, his expression likewise numbed by sadness. He had grown to know each of the monks during their journey from Rashid. They had bonded like true brothers and Jericho had learned much. Each face was one he would never forget, from the joking Ettore to the gallant Donato.

  There had been bodies that could not be found, among them Brothers Filippo and Vincent, and of course Lieutenant Peruzo. Marco and Jericho had dug anonymous graves themselves and placed something by them to mark the three lost men.

  William looked across the grave in silence. He could not think of a fitting prayer, nor a psalm, and part of him was too angry to say any hymn. He felt betrayed, betrayed by God’s guardians: the Dar’uka. They had forgotten them, and forgotten their mission. William and his company had sacrificed their lives for something the Dar’uka should have willingly taken part in. There was no excuse for their betrayal and this enraged William further.

  He clamped his teeth together against his emotions and lifted his face to the sun. ‘There is little a survivor can say on occasions such as this,’ he began. His voice roused Marco and Jericho and they stood upright, only moving when they noticed Sheikh Fahd, Galal and Mazin appearing behind William. Quietly, the leaders of the Bedouin tribes stood by as William continued with the service.

  ‘A warrior goes into battle knowing that he may die. A captain goes into battle knowing that those he commands may die. And yet, when your brothers fall, there is no victory on this earth that can justify their deaths,’ William said, his voice breaking. ‘Our mission may have been the most vital mission for any warrior on this earth, but I would not count a thousand Scarimadaen worth the life of any of you who have died under my command. You were the best soldiers . . . The best men I have had the privilege to lead. And you had the best lieutenant there has been. A man of infinite courage, honour and friendship. And I will miss greatly Lieutenant Carlo Peruzo, as I miss all of you.

  ‘May God grant you peace . . .’

  Marco wiped his eyes and was comforted by Jericho. Marco had known Peruzo almost as long as his uncle, and now there would be no more secret fencing lessons, or discussions about tactics. He would no longer hear about his uncle’s exploits through that silver-haired lieutenant of the Order.

  William lowered his head in quiet prayer and turned from the grave. He was surprised to find the three sheikhs standing behind him and bowing humbly. William bowed back to them, solemnly.

  ‘It is done, Captain Saxon,’ Sheikh Fahd said.

  ‘It is,’ William conceded. He walked from the grave and Sheikh Fahd joined him away from the others. ‘I understand Brother Orlando is making a fine recovery.’

  ‘Are you so surprised my physician could take good care of your man?’

  ‘Just grateful,’ William lied. From all accounts he had expected Orlando to die from his wound, yet the monk had spoken to William that very morning and was taking in water following the fever. ‘There could be another battle ahead of us. I need every man who can stand.’

  ‘You speak of this vampyre?’ Sheikh Fahd said. William nodded. ‘You can count on the Ayaida, William Saxon, for help.’

  ‘Your people have done enough, sir. I cannot ask anything more of them,’ William replied.

  ‘After yesterday, I am sure they would follow you, as I would. And perhaps even the Aquila and Tarabin. Maybe even Mazin’s people. You are a legend in their eyes, and they’ll tell stories about you for generations to come,’ Sheikh Fahd said. ‘The man who conquered an army of ghosts and destroyed a mountain. There has never been such a story before. They would die to keep that legend alive. You may call it an obligation, if you wish.’

  William thought about this and then turned around quickly. He paced a few steps, stopped and then shook his head. �
��They don’t have to,’ he said distantly. ‘Maybe there is one thing you can do for me.’

  ‘Ask what you will,’ Sheikh Fahd offered.

  ‘I need to write two letters . . . Would your fastest rider deliver them for me?’

  Fahd nodded.

  ‘The first letter will be for a man called Andreas, who is staying at the British consulate in Alexandria. He is our only point of contact in Egypt and must be apprised of our situation.’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘The other letter will be trickier, I think, for it must go to your enemy – the commander in chief of the Rashid militia: a man known as Khalifa. And I will need your help to write it, for he will not understand Latin or English.’

  ‘If he can read at all . . .’ Fahd mocked. ‘Why Khalifa?’

  ‘He made a similar promise to yours, yet he has not suffered as much as the Ayaida, and I think this obligation would rather suit him. If he agrees, then the vampyre and his army of kafalas will no longer be a problem.’

  ‘And if he doesn’t?’

  ‘I’ll need more than luck to get back to Rome,’ William laughed bleakly.

  ‘Once you have written your letters, we will leave this place,’ Sheikh Fahd announced.

  ‘I can write them on the way to your camp,’ William said. He looked out at the ruined mountain and the burning graves at its foot. ‘We should not stay in the valley much longer.’

  ‘But there is no danger, Captain Saxon,’ Fahd remarked cheerfully. ‘The ghosts are defeated.’

  ‘No, Sheikh Fahd,’ William disagreed. ‘There are more ghosts here than ever before.’

  Epilogue

  Marco watched patiently as the monks packed up the camp. The remnants of the company – those brothers who had stayed with the Ayaida to recuperate – struggled against old and healing wounds, but they were as efficient as usual. They would leave little for the morning, except for their tents, blankets and what they would eat from. Apart from their rifles, which they would carry with them, the weapons were all stowed away. It was the last of a long list of actions that marked their final days in the Sinai, and despite having blended into the Bedouin culture quite easily over the past weeks, they all seemed glad to be going home. Including the man who stood with Marco, looking past the monks to the horizon.