The Hoard of Mhorrer Read online

  The Hoard of Mhorrer

  Also by M. F. W. Curran

  The Secret War

  M. F. W. CURRAN

  The Hoard of Mhorrer

  Book Two of the Secret War

  Macmillan New Writing

  First published 2009 by Macmillan New Writing

  This electronic edition published 2009 by Macmillan New Writing

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan Ltd

  Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Rd, London N1 9RR

  Basingstoke and Oxford

  Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-0-230-73913-0 in Adobe Reader format

  ISBN 978-0-230-73912-3 in Adobe Digital Editions format

  ISBN 978-0-230-73914-7 in Mobipocket format

  Copyright © M.F.W. Curran 2009

  The right of M.F.W. Curran to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  For Sarah

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Hunt

  I Prague, 26 March 1822

  The interloper sat calmly amid the smog of pipe and candle smoke that curdled the air of the inn. Dressed in a simple grey jacket with matching breeches, he appeared prematurely aged, his crown of light grey hair and black beard flecked with silver contrasting with a younger face.

  Throughout the inn, the clientele of aristocrats in their sumptuous coats, fine shawls and top hats ignored the stranger, wrapped up in their own little worlds of vanity and gossip. And if they did raise their eyes towards him, alighting disdainfully on this gentleman, they may have been curious as to why such a fellow would find himself in this inn of all places.

  The clientele here were no different to those the interloper had discovered in other inns, be they in Paris, Madrid or Rome. They still told jokes in a tongue he did not understand, they conducted business with sly expressions and secret bargains disguised in their patter, and there was still the petty gossip (the gossip that was the same in any language).

  In such a place, austere appearances were easily forgotten; the gossips soon returned to their conversations, and the vain continued to admire themselves without giving the interloper a second glance. Yet it might have amused them to learn that this innocuous man was an assassin, and that to date his sword had claimed more than thirty lives.

  His name was Peruzo.

  Laughter and tobacco smoke continued to spill from the tables, the bar counter and booths, lifting and swirling to curl about the drinkers and the gossips, as Peruzo sat silently with his back to the main stairs that twisted up to the eaves and the balcony high above. Not once did he look up from the tankard in front of him, nor did his eyes dart elsewhere in the room, even when a second man, dressed in similar fashion to Peruzo, appeared between the locals crowding at the counter.

  The second man, however, was quite different in other ways. He carried himself confidently, at ease amongst the patrons of the bar; a few women looked his way appraisingly. His jacket was unbuttoned at the top and a bright white collar stood out. He was clean-shaven and immaculate, and much younger than Peruzo.

  The second man strolled over to take a seat opposite him, a tankard in his hand.

  ‘You seem uncomfortable,’ he remarked.

  ‘Amongst the decadent, flagrant peoples of this city, I am,’ Peruzo told him. ‘Are you not?’

  ‘You forget my heritage, Peruzo. I’ve known such decadence before,’ the man opposite remarked casually.

  ‘Yet now you appear so plain,’ Peruzo teased. ‘In this place, there is no austerity. It almost feels unnatural. Like that harlot in the corner.’

  The man looked over Peruzo’s shoulder and found a young woman, not much older than twenty years, with a red shawl draped about her shoulders, a gentleman beside her draped over that. Peruzo’s companion laughed. ‘Every man or woman should have their pleasures, Peruzo. You were always a tyrant to the fairer sex.’

  Peruzo grunted. ‘If I live twice without meeting a fiend in a dress, then I can count myself a lucky man. Should a woman ever weep in my company again, I would scarce believe her. If she professes love to me . . . Again, never would I believe it.’

  ‘All women?’ the man asked.

  Peruzo glanced up at him, his sharp blue eyes gleaming. Realizing that he’d stepped over the mark, he held up a hand. ‘My apologies, William . . . I did not mean Adriana . . . She is the fairest of all . . .’

  The man called William laughed again, drawing a slender pipe from inside his jacket. ‘No apology needed, my friend. You are too cynical to be bested by any woman.’

  Peruzo nodded soberly. ‘My captain knows me well.’

  ‘I am only surprised that you can abide a man who has so willingly fallen in love,’ William said fondly.

  ‘You are my captain. It can be overlooked,’ Peruzo replied.

  Peruzo had first met William seven years ago. At first he thought little of him, the son of an English aristocrat and an officer of the British army. At the time William had found himself caught up in a war most people were completely ignorant of; a war of infernal damnations and infinite horrors. That such a man should still be alive seven years later, and moreover still fighting this clandestine conflict, was a miracle in itself. But that this man, William Saxon, would be responsible for most of their victories during that time was beyond a miracle in Peruzo’s eyes. Captain Saxon had brought the war between Heaven and Hell back to the balance during the last seven years of servitude, and Lieutenant Peruzo would have happily given his life for him.

  Then there was the matter of the angels. That the captain was believed to have made allies of Seraphim and Cherubim, and that Archangels themselves had come down to aid him during a time of great peril, was a potent rumour, substantiated by surviving accounts. But Peruzo, who was a pragmatic man, believed only what he saw and experienced. And in that he shared a trait with his captain . . .

  William looked at Peruzo with dismay. ‘How can you drink that?’ he said, gesturing with his pipe at Peruzo’s tankard.

  Peruzo glanced down into the contents that lapped against the side of the pewter rim; the dark and cloudy liquid smelt like earth and dung. He shrugged. ‘I have drunk worse.’

  William looked down at his own tankard and pushed it aside, quickly losing his taste for it.

  During the time it t
ook for two courtiers to conclude business and a bearded gentleman to tell his lady friend a particularly lewd joke (judging by her shocked expression and his gruff laughter), a man arrived at the door to the inn, pushing it slowly open. He was dressed in a black jacket and breeches that appeared a little worn. His face was drawn and pale, and his eyes darted about the room as he entered, not settling on anyone in particular. He was agitated; his fingers scratching against the short hairs of his beard as he walked over to the bar.

  Peruzo saw him at once and his pupils widened.

  ‘He’s here?’ William said, noting the Italian’s tension.

  Peruzo nodded.

  The nervous gentleman tapped the top of the counter restlessly as he waited for the barman to walk over. Muttering a few words in German, the barman nodded and poured a glass of something bronze-coloured which the nervous man picked up with a trembling hand. He put the glass to his lips, seeming to take for ever to lift it, until he finally sipped and turned around to the rest of the inn.

  His eyes met Peruzo’s. They were tired, and they were terrified.

  The gentleman knocked back the rest of the spirit and gave a curt nod towards the stairs behind Peruzo. He then placed the glass on the counter and walked out of the inn without looking back.

  Peruzo bowed his head and locked his hands in front of his tankard of ale. ‘My suspicions were correct,’ he murmured.

  William stared at him silently.

  ‘Those we seek are above us,’ Peruzo said just loud enough for William to hear.

  ‘Those we seek?’ William repeated. ‘There’s more than one?’

  Peruzo nodded. ‘Last night he said there could be two.’

  ‘Two. I see. And you trust him?’ William asked.

  ‘He is the Law here,’ Peruzo imparted. ‘Four nights ago he lost one of his militia chasing our quarry to this district. It had killed a twelve-year-old girl and almost slew her mother when they found it. It fled and they followed, but one militiaman was separated from the others . . .’

  ‘And was slain,’ William finished, knowing too well what their quarry was capable of.

  ‘How should we deal with them?’ Peruzo asked as William disappeared for a moment within a cloud of tobacco smoke.

  ‘I do have a plan,’ William said, tapping the side of his head, ‘but one that is hastily conceived.’

  ‘A hasty plan is better than no plan at all.’

  ‘How do you think these pleasant folk would react should our quarry find itself pursued down here?’ William asked.

  ‘With dismay, Captain,’ Peruzo replied. ‘What do you think?’

  William laughed gently. ‘I was terrified the first time I saw a vampyre and yet I was a soldier. These socialites would be scared out of their wits!’

  ‘That will only aid our quarry’s cause,’ Peruzo lamented.

  ‘Not if we deal with it up there,’ William suggested, and emptied his pipe on the table, the contents smoking still. ‘If we stop the vampyre at the balcony, it has but one route of escape.’

  ‘The window,’ Peruzo suggested.

  ‘The window,’ William agreed, and slipped the pipe back in his jacket pocket. ‘Cover the stairs and Marresca will do the rest.’

  ‘You are letting Marresca loose?’ Peruzo asked incredulously.

  William smiled grimly. ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘He’s still very young . . .’ Peruzo began.

  ‘Young or not, he’s accounted for two vampyres and three daemons in five months,’ William pointed out. ‘He is the most formidable soldier I have had the pleasure of leading. He is young, yes, and a monk for only six months. But it is a risk worth taking.’

  Peruzo gave way, and for a moment wished he had a full tankard of ale. Some courage wrapped in pewter would have warmed the cold feeling in his stomach. Tonight there would be killing. Much killing.

  William rose, his fingers absently stroking the engraved hilt of the sword hidden under his grey jacket. ‘Take the stairs and be ready in case they fly from the balcony’ he said. ‘Use your wits, my friend. And do not hesitate.

  ‘For they will not,’ Peruzo added. He got up from his chair and looked up the stairs.

  ‘Good luck, Lieutenant,’ William said to him.

  ‘Good hunting, Captain,’ Peruzo replied.

  II

  In the chill of the early spring evening, Jericho and Anthony were tending to the horses in an alley adjacent to the inn. Brother Jericho, a fervent young monk, looked expectantly over his shoulder, noting the assortment of courtiers and local people wandering down the cobbled streets from the carousel of businesses that sat at the foot of the hill. Brother Anthony coughed gently, alerting his companion to a man strolling through a pool of light cast onto the street by the candles burning in the window of the inn.

  ‘Captain,’ Brother Jericho greeted.

  William acknowledged them silently and blew against his cold hands.

  ‘Have we found our quarry?’ Brother Anthony asked.

  William eyed them over his cupped hands, noting both monks’ eagerness. He pointed silently up to a window on the first floor of the inn high above them. It was lit by a dull glow and there were shadows betraying movement within.

  William lifted the hem of his jacket, freeing the hilt of his sword. He put his hand around the cold metal, feeling the smooth leather grip against fingers and palm. ‘Be certain that if the creature tries to escape from those windows, it will come down here. You know how sly the vampyre is; you know how dangerous . . . I do not wish a repeat of Vienna, understood?’

  The brothers nodded nervously, anxious to give a good account of themselves.

  William turned to the shadows. ‘Marresca,’ he said.

  There was movement in the darkness beside them and an athletic figure emerged. His short blond hair and youthful face made him seem too young to be involved in the savagery of their secret war, but the experience in his eyes was that of a man twice his age and with a lifetime of killing. Marresca was, as Engrin Meerwall had once remarked, ‘a killing machine . . . A weapon of the Order . . .’

  He stepped forward boldly and swept his sword free in the dim light of the alley. ‘What are your orders?’ Marresca asked, straight to the point as usual.

  William gestured to the window. ‘I don’t want to chance the vampyre escaping from the inn,’ he said, and pondered for a short moment, chewing his bottom lip. He regarded the wall of the building, the imperfections in the brickwork, the unfinished beams jutting out sporadically like a house that had been cut in half. ‘Can you climb up there?’ he asked the young monk.

  Marresca’s eyes danced up the wall as though mentally climbing it already, deciding where to put each foot and hand. He nodded.

  ‘Do it,’ William said, ‘and be careful.’

  Marresca pulled his scabbard away and tied it across his shoulders. He slipped his sword, just a shortsword but razor-sharp, into the scabbard and began to climb.

  ‘Be ready in case,’ William murmured to the brothers.

  As they watched Marresca climb, William saw a bright flash from the window above. It looked like a blaze of gunpowder, but after the initial glare, something glowed and crackled within. William stepped back to get a better view. From where he was standing he could not be sure what he was seeing.

  Suddenly there was a howl, like a terrible animal bellowing in pain, that shook the outer wall of the inn.

  William at once knew the source.

  How could I have been so wrong?

  ‘Marresca!’ William shouted. ‘A daemon!!’

  Marresca looked upwards at the same time as the window above him shattered. Shards of glass rained down and for a moment the young monk was obscured by the debris as it tumbled to the street. Behind it plummeted a creature of immense size cloaked in smoke and fire.

  William saw the daemon coming and flung himself out of the way, rolling against the ground. Brother Jericho stumbled and lay rigid with fright on the cobbles, sprawled in full
sight of the daemon as it landed with a crunch of bone and sizzling flesh, a spray of orange embers dancing on the ground. The creature raised itself upon its distended haunches and stretched above the frozen monk with long arms and giant claws breaching their ends. The daemon stared out from two burning eye-slits torn in its ruptured blackened skull, relentlessly crackling with sparks. As it opened a mouth the length of a carving plate and riddled with several rows of broken and jagged teeth, a terrible smell of sulphur and burning flesh poured forth, causing Brother Jericho to gag. Shaking, he pushed himself up, expecting nothing but death.

  And then Brother Anthony swung his double-handed axe into the beast’s side.

  The daemon howled as it felt the head tear through the armour of fused flesh and bone. It roared down at Anthony and swung its arm as the brother used all his weight to tug the weapon from its hide, unable to pull the axe-head free. As Anthony put both hands on the handle in desperation, the swollen claw of the beast caught him. It hurled the monk from his feet, throwing him several yards away to the cobbled floor.

  William flinched at the sound of breaking bones as Brother Anthony landed hard on the road. Cursing, he launched himself at the daemon, raining down a barrage of blows upon the creature. The first and second clanged uselessly off the plating of the daemon’s arms, the third tore a wound through the daemon’s left wrist, and the next severed it in a flash of fire and ash.

  The daemon howled again. Yet instead of turning to attack, it batted William aside and fled, its hulking body pounding down the cobbles, trailing smoke and embers. William swore loudly as he watched the misshapen beast disappear down a nearby street.

  ‘Anthony!’ Brother Jericho cried as he stared at the figure lying still in the road.

  William faltered. His instincts were to pursue the daemon, but Brother Anthony could still be alive and would require assistance.

  Above them, Marresca clung to the wall, having ducked much of the debris. He too had seen the beast flee and was determined to follow it. He pushed off from his position on the wall, and landed directly on the back of a horse tethered below. Before the animal had time to realize what was happening, Marresca had cut the tether and urged it into a gallop, leaving William no chance to utter a word of encouragement or warning as the young monk rode in pursuit of the daemon.