The Hoard of Mhorrer Read online

  The decapitated body fell sideways against the ranks of wooden pews, sapphire flame consuming it completely as tremors filled the church. The body was soon engulfed by mote-clouds and racked by hideous shrieks that rose in waves of voices. A hundred. A thousand. A cacophonous wave of sound that drove the gibbering priest into a foetal position.

  When the worst of the inferno had abated, the radiance from the decapitated body imploded, drawing all its brilliance into a tremendous sphere of light, before it hurtled out of the church, bursting through one of the great windows. Marresca was buffeted by the blast and was almost torn from his horse, hanging on to the bridle as the animal reared up and staggered. The priest felt the ungodly power gust through his hair and he prayed for deliverance in a voice that could not be heard above the shrieking expulsion of the daemon’s spirit . . .

  . . . And then it was over.

  The sobbing priest peered up between his fingers at the blond-haired warrior astride the horse in the aisle.

  ‘Who are you?’ he pleaded.

  The young man did not answer but stared at the smouldering carcass prostrate across a row of shattered pews. Beneath the smoke the raw tinge of skin could already be made out as the host’s decapitated body returned to its original form, less a head which was lying elsewhere, having rolled under the wreckage of the aisle.

  The priest gathered his composure and got to his feet, leaning against the altar to face this mute saviour. He tried again, this time in Latin.

  ‘Who are you, my son?’ he asked.

  The young man cast his eyes down at him. ‘I am Marresca,’ he replied.

  ‘Marresca? A saint, an emissary .. . An angel?’ the priest asked.

  Marresca smiled. ‘None of those. But pray for me, Father, and I will become one’ he replied as he pulled his horse about to trot wearily out of the church, leaving behind the fading smell of sulphur.

  VIII

  ‘Peruzo, tell them we are not hostile,’ William said as he placed his sword slowly on the ground and raised his hands. The point of one musket was a little too close for comfort, and the owner was young and nervous. Accidents often occurred with the young and nervous, so William backed away carefully.

  Brother Jericho had dropped his weapon also. At his feet, Peruzo seemed to slip in and out of consciousness, while Brother Anthony was deathly silent.

  One of the uniformed men began shouting at them, which rattled the nervous young musketeer even further.

  ‘What is he saying?’ Brother Jericho implored, but Peruzo, one of the few who understood German, d id not answer. He had blacked out.

  William felt the urge to protect the Scarimadaen, throbbing inside his jacket pocket. City militias were officious, but they were also superstitious. With the daemon released, the pyramid could not possess a second soul, but it was also far from harmless. When there was any sign of devilry or vampyres, witches were always to blame. Often it was William and the men he led who were accused of being in league with the witches themselves, and the Scarimadaen was truly a sign of ‘witchcraft’.

  The militia grew aggressive, and William was faintly aware that his pocket was beginning to glow. He looked down, eyes wide, just as the accusations started. ‘Witch!’

  ‘We are not witches!’ William shouted back. He gestured at himself and the other monks, shaking his head furiously. ‘We are from Rome. The Vatican. Pope Pius!’

  The well-dressed leader glowered at William and began shouting again. He then pointed down to the ground, and William followed the tip of the sword to where the daemon had lost its claw. On the floor was the severed hand of some unfortunate, its bones ripped from the flesh and terribly askew. The manifestation had reverted to human form, which could only mean that Marresca had succeeded.

  Yet this did not help their cause, as the militia looked up murderously at William and his men.

  He was about to protest their innocence when there was a sudden and terrible scream and a streaking flash of light tore down the street towards them. It was the daemon’s spirit, hurtling back to the one thing that had released it: the Scarimadaen. It brought shock-waves that shattered the windows of the buildings a few yards away, and William watched in horror as the blue light dived straight for him, dragging with it an inhuman chorus of cries and shrieks that were quite deafening.

  The light hit William head-on, tearing through the ebony cloak in his hand and causing it to burst into flames, while the force of the energy jolted him off his feet and flung him back against the wall of the inn.

  William was surrounded by a blinding flash, a pall of smoke, accompanied by searing pain .. . and then he too lost consciousness.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Consequences

  I

  William put a hand to his head and groaned. His skull was throbbing and beneath his hair, matted with coagulated blood, he touched a large lump where he’d struck the wall of the inn.

  At least the sounds of shrieking had ceased.

  He felt cold; a gnawing cold that chewed through the skin and into his bones. A perpetual dripping ran down the wall from a window high above in one corner of the room. It had been dripping for years judging by the long lime trails down the crusted stone, and there were marks where previous guests had been forced to lick the moisture from the wall.

  Even in his drowsy state William had an idea of where he was. The conditions and the gentle cascading of water in the corner were enough to tell him his liberty had been removed. There was nothing to eat or drink, just a wall of bars separating him from freedom.

  ‘Are you awake?’ came a voice from the gloom.

  William made to answer, but his throat was too dry He coughed harshly, drawing moisture to his parched throat. He looked about and found his cell was occupied by another, hunkered silently in the shadows. But it was not that figure who had stirred.

  ‘Captain, is that you?’ asked a shadow from the adjacent cell.

  ‘Jericho?’ William croaked, finding his voice.

  ‘I’m here,’ Jericho replied, and some fingers appeared at the other end of the cell, through the wall of bars that separated each cell from the next.

  William crawled over and took Jericho’s hands, his skin cold.

  ‘I was worried, Captain,’ Jericho said.

  ‘I’m fine,’ William replied, and looked in the direction of the second prisoner, still all but hidden. He wanted to ask who his cellmate was, but coughing nearby reminded William of another. ‘Peruzo? Are you in there, my friend?’

  ‘Good morning . . . Or evening . . .’ Peruzo said near Jericho. He tapped the metal bars with his fingers to show his whereabouts and then sighed painfully.

  William felt his way across the bars until he reached the source of the harsh breathing. ‘How’s the leg?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s stopped bleeding,’ Peruzo murmured weakly.

  ‘We can be thankful for that at least. What happened back there?’ William said as he rubbed his sore head.

  ‘The daemon’s spirit returned to the Scarimadaen,’ Peruzo told him. ‘It knocked you out.’

  ‘They think we’re witches,’ Jericho said.

  ‘Where would they get that idea?’ William laughed bitterly. It was a hollow, echoing sound in their dank cells. ‘At least we know Marresca destroyed the daemon’s host, right?’ he added and then frowned. ‘Where is Marresca, by the way?’

  ‘Here,’ said William’s cellmate from the shadows.

  William turned about. ‘Come into the light,’ he ordered.

  Marresca shuffled into the centre of the cell where some of the torchlight managed to filter in.

  ‘Are you harmed?’ Marresca shook his head. ‘That is something at least,’ William sighed. He blew out his cheeks and looked to the ceiling. ‘Where is Anthony?’

  ‘They took him,’ Jericho groaned.

  ‘Where?’ William insisted.

  ‘I saw him, Captain,’ Peruzo murmured. ‘When they attended to me, they looked at Brother Anthony . He wasn’t
well.’

  William put his head in his hands. ‘Is he dead?’ he murmured.

  ‘None of us knows,’ Peruzo replied.

  ‘Does anyone have an idea where we might be?’ William asked despairingly after a few minutes of silence.

  Jericho told William of their passage to the cells. On arrival it had been night and their journey into the dark heart of the gaol was long, down several flights of stairs, each colder and darker than the last, until they arrived in a place that rattled with a subterranean sound. Jericho finished the account with the arrival of Marresca, how the lieutenant had been arrested trying to cross back over Charles Bridge but was surrounded by militia and then thrown into gaol.

  As William listened he concluded they were surely somewhere underground, and that window high above them was more likely a portal to the outside world up there, rather than an inaccessible view of the grounds of their prison. Peruzo added that if they were to escape, a bloody struggle with the militia would ensue. And that was no easy task if there was a garrison above them (which was likely). It would mean fighting innocents, and in a desperate breakout slaying them would be inescapable, an inexcusable crime in the Order.

  What made matters worse was their fate if they didn’t escape. They would be burnt alive, as all witches were, as soon as the sheriff saw fit. And if not burnt, then hanged as murderers.

  What did they do with the Scarimadaen?’ William asked.

  Who knows?’ Peruzo murmured.

  Will they use it?’ Jericho whispered.

  ‘If they do, then we don’t have to worry about escaping,’ William replied. ‘If a daemon is summoned, the militia and every prisoner in this gaol are as good as dead.’

  II

  William spent an almost indefinable time in their cell thinking about their choices, the lack of natural light making the passing of time incalculable. It could have been day or night for all he knew.

  He had not slept since regaining consciousness, though through the bars in the adjacent chamber he could see that Brother Jericho had fallen into a restless sleep, while Peruzo was sleeping out of exhaustion. To their gaolers’ credit, Peruzo’s shallow wound had been attended to, though hastily, so that already the dressing was coming away and a rusty stain was visible on the bandage. William’s first lieutenant needed attention. He was certain that he could save Peruzo’s leg with the proper ointments, but he had seen lesser wounds than that turn gangrenous, simple wounds that had not been cleaned after a day’s battle and left to fester in the rain and cold. Those legs were taken by the surgeon soon after.

  William’s other lieutenant, Marresca, was resting, though it was difficult to discern whether the young monk was asleep or just sitting with his eyes closed. Even though Marresca added little to the debate of their escape or fate, it was comforting to know that the lieutenant was fit and ready in case they did try something.

  Brother Anthony was another matter. A hollow feeling deep inside William doubted that the brother’s treatment would be any better than their own. In his heart, William already knew the monk was dead, but he couldn’t accept that quite yet, not until his body proved it.

  William heard Marresca stir. He looked up and found the young lieutenant staring back at him, his eyes gleaming from the dark.

  ‘Can you not sleep?’ William said.

  ‘Can you?’ Marresca replied coldly.

  ‘I’ve been thinking of a way out of here,’ William replied.

  ‘You have a plan?’

  ‘Not as yet,’ he admitted, and sighed.

  During past missions to Spain, to France and the snowy mountains of the North, there had been at least some hope that allies would aid them, once caught in similar situations. This was not the first time William had spent a night or three in gaol. But it was the first time there was no one to come to their rescue. Even in a crowded city, they were very much alone.

  In the adjacent cell, Peruzo woke and tapped on the bars with his hand.

  ‘Still there, old friend?’ William asked.

  ‘Still, Captain,’ Peruzo breathed in the shadows and William sensed a wry smile as he said it.

  ‘You should all be sleeping,’ William insisted.

  ‘There is plenty of time to sleep after our visit to the gallows, Captain,’ Marresca answered bluntly.

  William glared at Marresca and shook his head. ‘I swear to you all, we are not finished yet,’ he announced. ‘We will not be hanged, and we will not rot in this prison.’

  ‘We know, Captain,’ Brother Jericho said confidently. ‘You will save us.’

  William hesitated, surprised that his bravado should encourage his men so quickly. ‘Get some sleep. All of you,’ he said eventually. He had yet to formulate a flawless plan, but at least he had the backing of his men.

  Peruzo groaned again and William hunkered down next to the bars to look at the wound. ‘You’re in a bad way, my friend,’ he said, looking at the stained bandage.

  ‘I’ll live if we can escape this place,’ Peruzo replied.

  William smiled and looked past him to Jericho’s outline against the far wall.

  ‘What was that about?’ he whispered to Peruzo.

  ‘What, Captain?’

  ‘What Jericho said about me saving us,’ William said, secretly pleased that the young monk had such belief in his abilities.

  ‘Don’t be too hard on his trust,’ Peruzo joked, uttering a gentle chuckle that soon turned to a harsh coughing. ‘He is just naïve. And . . .’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well there are rumours, Captain.’

  ‘Rumours about what?’

  ‘About your friends. Your allies.’

  William looked bewildered.

  ‘The angels, Captain,’ Peruzo said as quietly as possible.

  William was staggered. ‘What are you talking about, Peruzo?’

  ‘All the brothers in the Order think it, Captain,’ he explained. ‘They believe angels watch over you, and the men under your command. They’ve listened to the rumours about what happened in Aosta. That angels came to your aid. That they’ve aided you other times as well.’

  ‘Other times?’ William gasped. He shook his head. ‘This is one story that has been embellished, Peruzo. There have been no other times.’

  ‘Then it is true. Angels did aid you?’ he asked.

  William fell silent. He was aware that Marresca and possibly Jericho were listening. He pressed his face against the cold bars of the cell.

  ‘Just the once. In Aosta,’ he whispered. ‘But that was years ago, and they haven’t come since.’ He tried to hide the dismay in his voice.

  ‘But what of your friend, Lieutenant Harte? Wasn’t he taken by angels?’ Peruzo whispered.

  ‘He was,’ William said distantly. ‘But that was a long time ago. I haven’t seen him or those angels for almost seven years.’

  Peruzo sighed.

  ‘Lieutenant,’ William began, ‘everything we have achieved, every victory has been our own. We have never needed the help of angels.’

  ‘Not even now?’ Peruzo asked.

  William chewed his bottom lip. He put his hand through the bars and clasped Peruzo’s shoulder gently. ‘No. Not even now .’ He got to his feet.

  ‘It is time for us to leave, gentlemen.’

  ‘You have a plan?’ Jericho asked hopefully.

  William put his hands inside his shirt and pulled out a chain that was always hung about his neck. On the end of the chain was a silver medallion, with several words in Latin engraved on one side, and on the other an image of Pope Pius. He displayed it for them all to see.

  ‘The Papal seal,’ Peruzo whispered.

  Jericho grew suddenly hopeful.

  ‘We cannot bring the Papacy into our troubles . . .’ Peruzo said.

  William frowned. ‘Why not? It is not often we ask the Church for help, yet we have done much for her over the years. The Papacy owes us,’ he whispered, and slipped the pendant back inside his shirt.

  ‘Of
that I have no doubt, sir,’ Peruzo replied, ‘but we are bound by our orders to be as anonymous as possible . . .’

  ‘Our anonymity was gone the moment the vampyres released a daemon in this city,’ William replied curtly, addressing them all. ‘Anonymity is meaningless once war is being waged in the streets. The Count’s men grow more daring. Our victories have driven him into the open, and that is where we fight. I am tired of serving under cloak and dagger. We are not secret agents. We are soldiers, aren’t we?’

  No one replied, but Peruzo gave a low and painful moan. It was enough for William to reach out for his lieutenant again.

  ‘My leg hurts, that is all,’ he groaned.

  ‘Blast it, Peruzo! I will not rest here under anonymity while my first lieutenant sits wounded in a cell! While a brother lies somewhere in this prison dying from his wounds! Damn the Church! I will use everything we can to get us out of here!’

  ‘I know, Captain, I know,’ Peruzo murmured dutifully. ‘But what would Cardinal Devirus say?’

  William touched the silver disc around his neck, fingering it as he considered the effect of its use. Even if their captors should listen, to invoke the Papal authorities would almost certainly be the end of their service in the Order of Saint Sallian, and perhaps the end of that clandestine brotherhood altogether. The Order only existed covertly. The Church would have it no other way.

  Burdened by this charge and the need to escape, William felt tired and leant heavily against the bars. In the adjacent cell, Jericho crawled over to sit next to Peruzo, checking on the lieutenant’s leg in what little light there was.

  ‘I think the wound has opened again, Captain,’ he said after a careful examination.

  ‘We’ve waited enough.’ William pushed himself away from the bars of the cell. ‘I’m using what aid we have left. Let us see these men cower in the face of the Church. Guards! Guards!’

  At first there was nothing, not a single reply, as though they were the only prisoners in this dank level of the gaol. William called again. Still there was nothing.