Exclusive – The Hoard of Mhorrer by M.F.W. Curran (Chapter I)
Books, Excerpt | Jay Tomio | December 5, 2008 at 4:07 am
The Hunt
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 took 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 wasseparated 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.
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 razorsharp, 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 axeinto 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.
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.
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 youngmonk.
‘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.
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 attempting 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 char coal 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.
Air billowed through Marresca’s hair, lashing it into his 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 what ever 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 monkwas. 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 foot 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.
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.
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 moteclouds 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.
‘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, did 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 unfor tunate, 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.
———————————————————————————————————–
M.F.W. Curran was born in Essex in 1974. From an early age he was brought up on a diet of fantasy and science-fiction and has been writing stories since he was ten years old. In a past life he worked in the banking industry, for the Government, as a music journalist and a lyric-writer. The Secret War was his first novel. The Hoard of Mhorrer continues the secret war series. He lives in Sheffield with his wife, Sarah. You can learn more about M.F.W. Curran from his website www.mfwcurran.com
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