The Hoard of Mhorrer Read online

  III

  The very moment the daemon was let loose, Peruzo reached the second door along the balcony. He stepped back quickly from the cacophony of discordant howls and shrieks. How many times had he heard such sounds, and how many times faced the creatures that uttered them? Usually his instincts were sharp enough to confront anything that came through the door, yet tonight he was not prepared for a daemon. He retreated to the top of the stairs, his heart pounding so hard he felt it resonate inside his skull.

  There was a sudden crash, like a wall collapsing within, followed by shattering glass and the fall of masonry. Realizing that at any moment the slavering beast could break through the door towards him, Peruzo raised the sword to shoulder height, oblivious to the fact that all chatter had ceased inside the inn. All attention was now focused on the noises issuing from the room at the top of the stairs.

  There followed another sound, of shouting from the street and more falling debris, and Peruzo feared for his captain as he recognized the cries of desperation and battle. The daemon was loose outside, and his comrades, his friends, were facing it without him.

  Making a swift decision more out of urgency than strategy, Peruzo reached for the second door. Tiny threads of smoke leaked from its edges and around the hinges, while freshly shivered cracks upon the wood groaned and widened. He was within an inch of the handle when the door flew aside suddenly and a white-faced man with bright yellow eyes hurtled out of the room. His hair was shoulder-length and black, seeming to writhe about his neck as he stormed out of the room and almost ran straight into Peruzo. As the man faltered, Peruzo noticed something shimmer in his left hand: a pyramid made of stone that crackled faintly with cyan light.

  Instantly Peruzo knew who this stranger was and what he bore in his hand: a vampyre, and holding a Scarimadaen.

  The lieutenant stepped back as the creature came to his senses, shoving the pyramid inside his long ebony cloak with one hand as he pulled out a short black sword with the other. The transfer occurred frighteningly fast, yet Peruzo’s instincts were just as swift and he lunged at the vampyre with his blade. The creature bent backwards, the lieutenant’s weapon raking nothing but air.

  Under another swing of Peruzo’s weapon, the vampyre dived to his knees before raking his black sword across Peruzo’s leg. He cried out, swiping his shortsword across in blind defiance. The vampyre, not expecting such a wild attack, rose to retreat and Peruzo’s sword tore through the creature’s throat more by chance than skill. The vampyre staggered as fluorescent bile began to belch from the gash in his neck, his arms flailing wildly in disarray. He lurched against the balcony with a force that bent him over and flung his head back hard enough to tear loose what flesh and skin it was clinging to.

  Peruzo watched the head fall into the drinking hall below to the screams of those nearby as bright light consumed the body, the ebony cloak around it smouldering. Aflame, the torso tottered for a moment and then plummeted stiffly over the balcony rail like a fiery statue. It hit the benches below and shattered, exploding ash and embers in every direction.

  IV

  William knelt by Brother Anthony. He put his hands on the monk’s chest and lowered his cheek to his mouth. He felt breathing against the skin.

  He lived.

  William turned over his body slowly, noticing the damage done to the side of his head. The left cheek looked caved in, utterly shattered, with a large wound by his ear. His left eye was engulfed by a swollen pulp of bloody flesh and tissue, and his right arm twisted out in the wrong direction. William seethed. If these were the injuries he could see, how bad were the injuries he could not?

  Brother Jericho stood over them both, shaking. He was terrified and ashamed that he had frozen in front of the daemon. William knew this, but it wasn’t the time to counsel the young monk.

  ‘Is he . . .?’ Brother Jericho began.

  ‘He lives,’ William replied. ‘Help me.’

  The monk knelt down and they began to lift Brother Anthony slowly and carry him into the shadows. Now William heard screams as crowds of people began to flee the inn.

  ‘Captain!’ Jericho alerted as the panicked mob spilled past them.

  ‘Oh lord . . . Peruzo,’ William gasped distractedly. ‘Stay with Anthony!’ he ordered Brother Jericho and headed back to the inn.

  V

  Peruzo slumped on his side, the pain of his wound reverberating through his body with bouts of nausea. He could not tell how deep it was, though he’d suffered enough injuries in his career to know it was not a mortal wound. Despite this, the pain was enough to cause him to lose his grip on his sword, which clattered to the floor and skittered across the balcony boards. Before he could reach out for it, it slipped over the top step and rattled down the stairs.

  The second door opened again. Another vampyre appeared.

  Peruzo wiped his eyes and his heart pounded at the sight of this more formidable creature. The second vampyre was taller than the first by a couple of feet. His ears were pierced many times with thick golden hoops, his long white face spattered with blood, the crimson drops appearing quite black. His eyes flashed and crackled with light, radiating out from their black pupils to the yellow irises. But it was the hair that Peruzo recognized, hair the colour of flame, streaked with black. It was unmistakable, as it had been when he pursued this same creature through the grounds of the Schönbrunn. Peruzo had no intention of letting the vampyre escape this time, yet the pain in his leg was overwhelming and his sword was lost.

  The vampyre looked down at Peruzo, hate causing his eyes to burn brighter. ‘You!’ The creature hissed, remembering Peruzo instantly. ‘You will pay for Ferdinand’s destruction!’ he reached under his cloak and pulled out a broadsword of black, edged with barbs. He raised it to his face, the metal glistening as though wet, and the creature smiled coldly, sharpened teeth emerging from between his white lips.

  Peruzo gripped his wounded leg as he scrambled back towards the steps.

  ‘I will enjoy this, as I enjoyed killing your friends in Vienna,’ the vampyre teased as he stood over Peruzo, dancing the tip of the broadsword a few inches from the lieutenant’s chest.

  Peruzo’s hand was inside his jacket. ‘To hell with you!’ he growled and pulled it out. He raised it towards the vampire, who realized too late that it held a firearm. Peruzo pulled the trigger, there was a flash and smoke spurted from the pistol. From within the fire the lead ball burst towards the creature, striking him in the hand and taking off three fingers at the knuckles. The vampyre shrieked and stumbled backward, his black sword falling tip-first into the balcony floor just inches from where Peruzo sat.

  The creature cursed in agony, ash spitting from the severed digits. Peruzo took his opportunity and kicked the black sword away so that it clattered over the balcony and through the gap in the hand-rail to the floor below, much to the vampyre’s fury. The lieutenant began to reload the pistol.

  ‘I will feed your balls to my dogs! Son of a whore!’ the vampyre cursed, cradling his obliterated hand.

  ‘Not before I shoot your balls off!’ Peruzo spat back as he fumbled with the shot and powder. The vampyre hissed again, considering his chances, before a voice bellowed from below. The vampyre looked down and found a second man pointing up at him with his sword.

  ‘You!’ William shouted defiantly. ‘You are mine!’

  The vampyre uttered a cry; that he should be bettered by these two fools was unthinkable! Spitting at Peruzo, he leapt onto the balcony rail and then into the air, casting a vast shadow over William below, who lanced out his sword expecting the vampyre to swoop straight at him. But the creature had only one thought: to escape. The remaining barmaid behind the counter screamed, as the vampyre hurtled through the air and straight through the nearest window, shattering it utterly.

  William ran to the door to see their enemy escaping up the hill towards the castle, evaporating into the night.

  ‘Captain?’

  William turned back and found Peruzo attem
pting to descend the stairs. He stumbled on one step, The part-loaded pistol falling from his bloody fingers.

  ‘Well, at least you’re alive,’ William said as he jogged over.

  ‘Just,’ Peruzo replied weakly. His face was pale and his leg was drenched in blood up to the groin.

  William put his arm under Peruzo’s, sheathing his sword as he supported the stumbling monk from the steps.

  ‘There’s a daemon . . .’ Peruzo groaned.

  ‘Marresca’s in pursuit,’ William told him.

  ‘And the vampyre . . .? I killed one, but the other fled . . .’ Peruzo began.

  ‘I know, I know,’ William said as he helped him to cross the room to the door.

  The inn was very different to how William had left it minutes before. Stools and tables were turned over; belongings had been left in haste with their drinks: a fancy hat lay next to a glass of red wine, an expensive coat was spread across the floor, a red shawl underneath that. There was even a purse discarded on one table which was now covered by a thin layer of ash.

  ‘Captain,’ Peruzo managed and nodded over to a pile of charcoal and clothes. ‘There . . .’

  ‘The vampyre?’ William ventured.

  ‘Inside the cloak,’ Peruzo continued, pointing to the ash-smeared garment, ‘is the Scarimadaen.’

  William’s eyes widened. He sat Peruzo down on a nearby bench and scrambled over to the black rubble, the smell of sulphur and rot intensifying. With a mixture of elation and disgust, he rummaged through the remains of the vampyre and pulled out the cloak. The Scarimadaen toppled out and rolled along the wooden boards of the floor. William held his breath, and with the ebony cloak in his hand, he swooped down and plucked the pyramid from the ground, careful not to touch it with his naked flesh.

  Returning to Peruzo, he put his arm under the lieutenant’s again and pulled him to his feet.

  ‘Can you walk?’

  ‘I think so . . .’ Peruzo groaned.

  William half-carried the lieutenant into the night air, feeling the Scarimadaen throb faintly in his covered hand.

  Outside it was strangely quiet. The locals had long since fled, and only Brothers Jericho and Anthony were in the street, the horses standing nearby.

  William beckoned Brother Jericho over to take Peruzo’s weight. ‘Look after them both,’ he began. ‘Peruzo is hurt, so dress the wound.’

  Brother Jericho nodded.

  William pulled off his jacket. ‘I am not going to let that bastard creature escape a second time. The hunt is not over.’

  At that very moment from the shadows at the far end of the street streamed a dozen men-at-arms, soldiers and deputies. They surrounded William and his companions, their muskets and pistols levelled at the men in grey. William stared back with incredulity, considering whether to fight their way out.

  ‘Wait!’ Peruzo shouted and waved his bloodied hand at William. ‘Captain, those are the sheriff ’s men! They’ll shoot us for sure!’

  William met Peruzo’s deploring eyes and understood: the hunt was over.

  VI

  Air billowed through Marresca’s hair, lashing it into hi s face as he galloped down the lane. The horse was one of their finest, yet it struggled to keep up with the monk’s demands. Marresca pushed the beast harder and harder as the daemon appeared at the top of one street before fleeing down the next.

  As Marresca galloped after it, almost trampling a local in his haste, he pulled his mount about and directed it down a side alley. It was a risk, but Marresca believed it a shortcut to his quarry a quarry that was fleeing towards the river. Marresca had to intercept the creature before it reached the bridge and whatever haven might lie there.

  Above the sound of pounding hoofs, Marresca heard screams as he galloped out of the lane and into the street beyond. It was a marketplace by day and there were still traders present packing away their wares as Marresca charged out, crashing through an empty stall. The monk paid no heed to the cries of anger from the stall’s owner as he saw the daemon’s smouldering outline lumbering away from a group of traumatized locals who had been unlucky to stray into its path. Two were slain, the others were cowering, screaming and sobbing in its wake.

  The daemon clattered into a wheelbarrow full of pots, and it turned over, shattering the earthenware against the ground. It paused only to hear the horse galloping towards it before it ran on, gracelessly charging down another street on its swollen legs with a sound like hollow tree-trunks pounding on stone.

  Marresca could smell the sulphur on the daemon’s breath, the smoke of its smouldering skin and burning flesh. Driving his horse on, he drew the sword from his back and stood up in the saddle. The daemon seemed to mock Marresca’s pursuit with a high-pitched whine, before diving into a nearby building, an elegant hall fronted with two oak doors that shattered when it crashed through. Marresca didn’t falter but followed inside, carried by his mount through the ruined entrance.

  The hall beyond might have held a peaceful function moments before, but it now lay in chaos. Food and wine were splashed to the four winds, and several diners were torn apart by the monster’s elongated claw as it panicked and struck down those who blocked its path.

  Amongst the wreckage and hysterical guests, Marresca called out to it, catching the daemon’s attention again. It glowered at Marresca venomously, as though aware who this young monk was. It stepped back and howled despairingly towards him, waving its claw and severed arm with anger. It then lurched about and leapt on a table at the head of the hall, which instantly split in two. Unbalanced, the daemon slipped to the floor with a stone-shaking thud, before rising again. Over the detritus and debris, it swayed and collided ungainly into a free-standing candelabrum which toppled over against the nearest tapestry. The age-old material was ablaze in moments, and soon the next caught fire, and the next.

  Marresca refused his terrified horse the opportunity to retreat, even as the flames began shooting up the walls, igniting the beams above them. In the centre of the fire the daemon was blind, desperate to find an escape. A veil of flame fell between it and Marresca, and behind the glare and the haze of intense heat, the monk watched as the beast pounded its way along the wall, flames beginning to cascade upon its howling form. It was heading for the largest stained-glass window at the far end of the room.

  Marresca spurred his horse on and charged back to the shattered entrance. Behind him, the fragile timber roof collapsed, the sound of its destruction muffling the daemon’s escape as it burst through the ornate window.

  As Marresca closed the distance between them, he held on to the reins with one hand, drawing his sword again with the other. He balanced effortlessly as the horse swung from side to side, cornering buildings within inches of walls, Marresca ducking swinging shop-signs that the daemon had clattered into.

  Ahead loomed the river, a black void gushing between the two halves of the city. Against the night sky stood the giant gateway to Charles Bridge, oil lamps lit on either side. Marresca was not far behind the daemon and he urged his exhausted mount to greater efforts. The daemon did not falter as it hauled its burning body under the arch, its outline streaking in and out of the lamps across the bridge. Marresca held his sword out to his left, waiting to swing the arc that would take the monster’s head. His cold eyes looked to the daemon’s neck, already rehearsing how he would wield the blade and at what point it would enter the monster’s body.

  In his mind, Marresca had already killed the daemon.

  The monster’s bulging feet broke flagstones as it clunked towards the middle of the bridge, sometimes lurching to the side, disorientated and bewildered, knocking lamps into the river below or tearing off the face of one of the bridge-statues as it stumbled on.

  Hearing the horse gallop closer, the daemon halted abruptly and turned about. Marresca had not expected the sudden stop; he pulled back on his horse’s reins as the daemon turned and hurled a section of a statue in his direction. The chunk came within inches of crushing Marresca’s left foo
t in the saddle.

  When Marresca recovered, pulling the horse about as it reared, the daemon had run on, clearing the bridge before heading into the heart of the city.

  VII

  By now Marresca’s charger was near to collapse, and even Marresca was beginning to tire. Ahead, the daemon lumbered into the main town square. It juddered across the great open space in front of the Tyn church while the Orloj was in mid-chime. The astronomical clock’s rings were lost on his prey as it charged towards the enormous Gothic basilica and the clergy who were filing out of it.

  Marresca burst forth from the side street and hurtled after the daemon’s shadow as it thudded across the flagstones. The daemon was nearly upon the clergy, who panicked and ran for their lives, dividing in two like the Red Sea as the monster broke through them and into the church. One priest was caught up in front and ran before it. He fled down the aisle, praying in spluttered sobs. The smoking daemon lurched after him, knocking pews aside with its apelike arms.

  The priest reached the altar and sought sanctuary, terrified and muttering prayers. ‘Demons in the streets! Demons in the streets!’ he cried.

  The creature halted, its burning eyes glowing with hatred. It would have been the end of the priest, as it had been for many others that night, but Marresca did not pause as he charged into the church. The priest barely registered the sound of hoof beats echoing high into the roof, and never saw Marresca ride down the daemon. The monster looked up too late, just in time to see Marresca swing his sword down upon it. The shortsword, made by the finest smith in Italy, sliced through the brittle black bone of the daemon’s neck plate and into the rotting tissue beneath. The steel carried on unhindered, and the daemon’s head was ripped like a cork from a bottle, an eruption of ash and bright blue light spewing out from the wound.