The Hoard of Mhorrer

by M. F. W. Curran

  He could have passed for any Bedouin. He was dressed in their dark robes and wore a white keffiyeh head-dress that was tied about his head with an agal. His face was tanned but paler than most Arabs, and he was smooth-shaven. His demeanour was serious, yet calm.

  As a gentle breeze fluttered the ends of his keffiyeh, William Saxon closed his eyes against the sun and sighed. He had enjoyed staying with the Ayaida. Their hospitality was equalled only by the people of Villeda, and he had quickly become firm friends with Sheikh Fahd. Often they would go hunting together, or riding along the desert passes. At night William sat in Fahd’s company and they talked about matters such as the British empire or life in Rome. Not once did they speak about the Valley of Fire. This was left to the storytellers of the tribe, who spun tales and songs about their exploits.

  (It was Jericho who regaled the remaining monks with the full story of the battle, having experienced it from the point of the first assault to the rise of the daemonic prince and the explosions that followed. He embellished Peruzo’s death, imagining what their lieutenant had done in his final moments: his brave defiance and sense of victory. It was a story that would live on beyond the cloth walls of the Bedouin tents, across the waters to Rome and in the cobbled streets of Villeda.)

  But there came a time for them to leave, and after staying with the Ayaida for over a week, William announced to Sheikh Fahd they were to head home. The sheikh was disappointed but understood. He felt he would be losing a friend, but William promised otherwise.

  Marco was also sad to be leaving. He was quite the centre of attention since their return from the Valley of Fire. Jamillah had recovered from her wound and they spent much time together – with a chaperone of course. William had teased Marco about this, saying they would be married in no time.

  ‘No, no!’ Marco had protested. ‘I couldn’t possibly marry her!’

  ‘I thought you loved her,’ William had remarked.

  ‘I do,’ said Marco, ‘. . . But I want to return home with you.’

  ‘ToVilleda?’ William said wistfully and sighed, remembering that a vampyre and an army of kafalas still lay between them. ‘As do I .’

  ‘If I marry Jamillah, I cannot return home. If I marry Jamillah, I cannot join the Order,’ Marco added cheekily.

  William had eyed him then and crossed his arms. ‘After everything we have been through, you still wish to become an initiate?’

  Marco nodded cheerfully.

  ‘I see,’ William conceded.

  ‘I have learnt so much,’ Marco explained. ‘And you promised.’

  ‘I may have,’ William replied.

  ‘With more training, I can be a better monk,’ Marco said. ‘I won’t fail you.’

  William smiled sadly. ‘You never have,’ he admitted, and embraced his nephew. ‘You proved yourself time and time again, Marco. If this is what you really want, I will not stand in your way.’

  ‘Then I can join?’

  ‘The Order would be poorer without you.’

  Marco hugged his uncle back, then stood to attention. ‘You will not regret this, Captain.’

  That evening, as the brothers continued to pack and William watched nearby, Sheikh Fahd emerged from the cluster of Bedouin tents. Marco bowed to him, as was the custom, and the sheikh dismissed it with a playful wave. ‘Please, Marco, Don’t be so humble,’ he said in English, and Marco frowned, not understanding a word he said. As usual, this caused Sheikh Fahd to laugh heartily. ‘Your nephew needs to learn another tongue, William.’

  ‘He will be learning plenty in Villeda, my friend,’ William replied, patting Marco on the shoulder.

  ‘So still I cannot persuade you to stay?’ the sheikh grumbled.

  ‘Alas, no,’ William replied.

  ‘That makes me sad,’ Fahd said, and he shrugged. ‘The very least we can do is celebrate your time here. To night we will hold a great feast.’

  ‘For us?’

  ‘Of course,’ Sheikh Fahd said, delighted. ‘Song, dance and more stories. And good food, of course.’

  ‘It will be our pleasure,’ William said politely, but judging from the revelry that had occurred when they returned from the Valley of Fire several days ago, he doubted the term ‘celebration’ would do any of the festivities full justice.

  ‘And I have some other news which may interest you,’ Fahd said. ‘A short while ago, a rider returned from south of Dumyat. There was a battle there between a foreign army and the militias of Rashid and Dumyat.’

  ‘A foreign army?’ William said hopefully. ‘Who were they?’

  ‘I do not know. Only that the infidels landed illegally near Dumyat and were crossing the desert during the night. The militias ambushed them in the passes. Many were killed.’

  ‘Was a vampyre mentioned?’

  Fahd shook his head.

  ‘I can think of no other foreign invader who would land so near to the Sinai,’ William explained, ‘and I’m also eminently optimistic.’

  ‘A vampyre was not mentioned in the report,’ Fahd said sadly. ‘But then fate has been good to you so far, it might be again. If it were these kafalas you have told me about, then your way back to Rashid will be a safe one. I will pray to Allah it is so. And Allah has not ignored my prayers of late, William Saxon.’ He put his hands on his hips benevolently and grinned. ‘I will leave you now. I have a great feast to prepare for, and must dress for the occasion. Your uniforms are clean, I believe. Will you wear the regalia of your Order for dinner?’

  ‘If it pleases you, I will continue wearing the robes you have given me, Your Highness,’ William replied light-heartedly.

  ‘Splendid, old boy,’ Sheikh Fahd joked; the English expression sounded odd coming from the Bedouin, yet he carried it well – a testament to his teachers in Rashid, and to William, who chuckled a little as he watched the burly Arab march back to his tent.

  ‘You can wear my jacket if you wish,’ William said to Marco. He nodded eagerly. ‘You should go and ready yourself. Dress smartly for Jamillah. This will be the last night you see each other.’

  Marco was suddenly forlorn, remembering that tonight would be one of goodbyes. He walked away with a heavy step, and William tried to remember what it was like to love at that age. Then he remembered Adriana and realized that young love was probably nothing compared with his feelings for her.

  William spent the next ten minutes thinking about Adriana and what she would be doing right now: sitting on the porch, making bread, riding through the fields, or lying calmly in bed. Seeing her in his mind, he pined for her company, her embrace, her touch. And he knew it was time to go home.

  ‘Uncle?’

  William turned from his thoughts. ‘I thought you were going back to dress?’

  Marco looked scared. He shot a nervous glance over his shoulder to the desert outside the camp.

  ‘What is it?’ William said.

  ‘There’s someone out there who wants to speak with you.’ Marco pointed out into the desert, the sands a blur in the sunset glare. It took a while, but by cupping his hand over his eyes, William discerned a shadow against the light.

  ‘Who is that?’

  Marco shook his head.

  ‘Stay with the brothers.’

  William set out across the sands, his right hand brushing the hilt of Engrin’s sword. The touch was as comforting as ever, even if his left hand was shorn of a couple of fingers. He would have to retrain with the sword and discover his balance again, either that or hope that the artisans in Villeda could fashion false fingers to replace those the Rassis had taken.

  As he passed the last of the Ayaida tents, William paused and looked out again to the shadow more than fifty yards away. The figure had retreated a little, but stayed close to the camp. William blew out his cheeks and wondered who or what it might be. If it was the vampyre, The move would be impudent, not to mention suicidal. But vampyres usually burned up in daylight.

  William strolled out to the desert, squinting into the light. It was
only as he got closer that he sighted a brilliance other than the sun. Blue light flickered about the shadow, shimmered around the shoulders, arms and legs, the sweep of the figure’s black cloak. William now recognized the shadow, and he strode on with purpose, relaxing his grip on Engrin’s sword, even though his heartbeat increased. As did his anger.

  When he stopped a few feet short of the silent figure, William spoke.

  ‘Where were you, Kieran?’ he growled. ‘As omniscient beings, you must know how many times I have cursed you and the Dar’uka. I’m surprised you found the courage to face me.’

  Kieran stared at William, impassive as usual. ‘It was always our intention to aid you against the Rassis, William,’ he replied in those many tongues. The myriad voices were not as loud or capricious as before. They were far from united, and strangely subdued.

  ‘Your intention?’ William mocked, and uttered a bitter laugh. ‘Do you know how many men I lost in the Valley of Fire? Your intentions have done nothing for our cause, Kieran. Nothing. The Hoard is destroyed because we destroyed it, not the Dar’uka. We needed you, and you forsook your duty to protect mankind. Damn you, Kieran. We are allies, yet you treat us as strangers.’

  William paced about for a few moments, seeking calm. He stopped at last, and looked over his shoulder. ‘I thought I could count on you and our friendship. I was wrong, and the cost was dear: Lieutenant Peruzo, many monks of the Order, a host of brave Bedouins. The brothers believed you would save them, even when I did not. Do you not see? Your betrayal cuts deeper than just our friendship.’

  This comment brought no retort from Kieran, who simply stood and listened to William rage on. ‘Why are you here, anyway? To apologize? To say sorry for missing the most important battle in the War?’

  Kieran’s eyes flashed, the azure light crackling across his face.

  ‘I’m here to warn you.’

  ‘Warn me?’ William bristled. ‘Is that a threat? What do you mean?’

  ‘Marresca has betrayed the Dar’uka,’ Kieran said coldly.

  William could hardly believe his ears. Was this some ruse to escape a chiding, to explain away a flaw in their judgement? All he could do was mutter: ‘Impossible.’

  ‘We once believed so, but we were wrong,’ Kieran said firmly.

  ‘But how could this happen?’ William said in disbelief.

  ‘We cannot say,’ Kieran said. ‘When he became Dar’uka we thought we could perceive his true thoughts. He hid them from us. He hid the truth.’

  ‘But I was his captain. He destroyed vampyres with me. He even destroyed daemons,’ William remarked incredulously. ‘I cannot believe he would be disloyal.’

  ‘He has deceived all of us, William. Including you.’

  William shook his head in a daze. ‘This can’t be right . . .’

  ‘Do not doubt it,’ Kieran insisted. ‘He betrayed the Dar’uka at Hell’s Gate on Gran-Terra. There is no doubting his allegiance now.’ Kieran fell quiet again and William noted the disquiet on his usually emotionless face. ‘There are only three of us now. We do not know where or when Marresca may strike again. We are sure he was not acting alone.’

  ‘You suspect another?’

  ‘Yes. A traitor in the Vatican,’ Kieran said.

  ‘Cardinal Issias was killed seven years ago,’ William reminded him. ‘That traitor is dead.’

  ‘There is another. That is why I have come to you. Not to warn you about Marresca, but about the traitor in Rome. With Marresca revealed, this traitor will certainly move against you and the Secretariat.’

  William couldn’t comprehend what this meant. He was too stunned by the revelation of Marresca’s treachery to accept this hidden enemy in Rome.

  ‘The Hoard is destroyed, but the War has not finished,’ Kieran told William. ‘There are other battles to fight. And should we lose them, then we will lose this War. Be vigilant, William, and remember what Engrin told you.’

  ‘Trust no one,’ William murmured.

  Kieran nodded and turned away to walk back into the desert.

  ‘Wait!’ William shouted to him. The Dar’uka halted and looked round. ‘Can I . . . C an I at least trust you?’

  To William’s pure amazement, Kieran smiled. It was unheard of to see the ice-cold warrior do so, and the transformation raised William’s spirits. The Dar’uka walked back to William, keeping that smile, if a little awkwardly. ‘Yes, you can trust me,’ he said. ‘You and I have always been friends . . . and always will be.’

  William nodded, choking down his emotions. The Kieran he remembered had returned, if only for this moment.

  ‘Look after yourself, William. Watch those around you,’ Kieran added as he turned away.

  ‘I will. Goodbye, Kieran,’ William said and watched the Dar’uka leave for a second and final time.

  He said little about the meeting to Marco, and nothing to the brothers. As Marco dressed, William stared into darkness. He felt no joy about their accomplishments now. The destruction of the Hoard of Mhorrer hardly seemed to matter now that Marresca stood revealed as a traitor. The War with Hell had taken an unexpected and terrible turn.

  William felt deflated, wearied by the secret ambitions of those around him. He had been betrayed by Thomas, and now by Marresca. The one man he believed had betrayed him was still his friend, but William felt more vulnerable. The Dar’uka would be concentrating on finding Marresca, wherever he was. They would not be fighting the daemons on Earth.

  And there was another matter, Something just as serious, which William had so far ignored. What would happen when he returned to Rome? He had disobeyed Cardinal Devirus’s orders. He had destroyed the Hoard instead, and while there had been nothing else to do at the time, he doubted the cardinal would see it that way, especially as William had involved the Bedouins in a legendary battle. He had been taken prisoner by the militia, and had broken so many rules of the Order that William would not be too surprised if he was excommunicated altogether. Given that the Father at the monastery of St Catherine was also likely to stir up a hornet’s nest, William felt his chances back home were precarious.

  With the prospect of another traitor working within the Vatican, only the thought of Adriana made him want to leave Sheikh Fahd’s hospitality.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ Marco said.

  ‘What’s that? Oh, nothing.’

  ‘You are, you know. You’ve been miles away for the last quarter of an hour.’

  ‘It’s nothing, really. Are you ready?’

  Marco nodded proudly, looking down at the grey jacket and shirt. As before, They were too big for him, but Marco had grown a lot over the past month or so, and he would soon fill out the uniform.

  Outside the tent came sounds of celebration. They could hear music and chatter, and already the smell of cooking food and burning fires was enticing. Marco led William into the cold night air and William breathed in long and hard. Above them the stars wheeled majestically, yet William felt scant comfort. He had once imagined Kieran and the Dar’uka flying among them, fighting for the salvation of every man, woman and child on this world. Yet now these angels were fighting for their own survival.

  And mankind? William realized they had to look after themselves for a while. As long as the Order remained, they would fight the War, fight on the Dar’uka’s behalf, with William leading the struggle – he could not contemplate retiring from the Order now.

  As Marco led him to the festivities, he realized that Lieutenant Peruzo had been right all along: there was no escape for Captain William Saxon from this secret war . . .

  Special thanks from the author

  This book and The Secret War would not have been possible if it weren’t for the following people:

  Will Atkins, Mike Barnard, Julie Crisp, Sophie Portas, and all the folks at Macmillan New Writing and Pan Macmillan. Louise Curran and Lee Harris for their help on the penultimate drafts of this book. Mel Hudson for MFWCurran. Com. Family Curran, Family Hind, and the Macmillan New Writers com
munity (macmillannewwriters. blogspot.com) for their unwavering enthusiasm and support. And friends of the past and the present who have always said I could make it, even when I thought I might not – your voices have helped silence my inner critic.

  And finally to Sarah L. Curran – my muse, my inspiration and my greatest friend.

  M.F.W. Curran

  Sheffield, 7 April 2008