The Mongoliad: Book One

“Every soldier dreams of the night when he can put aside his armor and sleep without care,” Raphael said. “It is a familiar part of our burden to be denied such comforts—or any comforts.” He returned the skin bag. His words were slurring. “As you say, we have all marched to war before; these hopes and disappointments are not new.”

“True,” Yasper said. “But in the past, I have always found solace with hope of our destination, of knowing that we will—someday—reach a shining goal. If my destination is a place I have never visited, there is usually someone in my party who has, and I can persuade them to tell me tales of that place so that it becomes more real to me.”

“None of us has visited this destination,” Raphael pointed out. “We knew that when we accepted Feronantus’s call to join the company.”

Yasper laughed. “I’m not a member of your Order, remember. I volunteered.” He took one more swig from the skin and offered it back to Raphael, who held up his hand in denial, then relented and accepted another swallow. “But,” he said, all levity gone from his voice, “it has occurred to me since we buried Taran that you and the others are good soldiers. You will follow Feronantus wherever he may lead you, and that is all you need to know. But me? I fear not the repercussions of curiosity, nor of insubordination, and so I do wonder if that man knows where he is going. Where he is taking us all.”

Raphael recalled the look on Percival’s face in the woods, the serenity of knowing, and he mentally noted how cleverly Yasper had maneuvered their conversation. He knew the alchemist to be an intelligent and inquisitive man. The strange and esoteric matters that he strove to comprehend and master with his experiments were much more arcane and mystic than simply crafting smoke pots and figuring out how to distill this Mongolian liquor into something stronger. Of all the company, the Dutchman was probably as fluent in as many languages as he was himself, and he didn’t doubt the man could read and write all of them as well—even, very possibly, Arabic. If he knew the Greek physical sciences, then it followed he knew their rhetoric and philosophy as well. The man was no fool, as much as his countenance and his jangling pots and potions suggested otherwise.

Raphael nodded. “‘It is an ill plan that cannot be changed.’”

“I raise my drink to the wisdom of Publilius Syrus,” Yasper said.

Raphael lightly kicked his horse. “And I will go inquire after our leader’s mood.” He rode ahead, leaving the Dutchman to his depleted skin of fermented drink.

Feronantus was in conversation with Cnan, the dark-skinned Binder who had proved to be an interesting addition to their company. She was not the first Binder Raphael had met. She carried herself with the same distance and arrogance that most Binders did, but over the course of the last month, he had had time to observe her. She conversed mainly with Feronantus when she was with the main party, and Raphael knew the bulk of their conversation dealt with her reports of the surrounding terrain and the route they were taking. Once or twice, she had found some excuse to talk with Percival, whose deferential responses were so off-putting to the young woman that she never stayed long in the conversation.

He knew she had seen him in the woods, watching Percival. He did not know if she understood what she had seen, but she had seen enough.

He rode up to the pair and caught Feronantus’s eye. “A moment, if you please,” he said, and then nudged his horse farther on. He kept the pace for a little while, until Feronantus joined him.

“Raphael,” the old veteran of Tyrshammar said, “what is on your mind?”

“A topic on Yasper’s mind, actually,” Raphael said. “I did not have a suitable answer for him.”

Feronantus twisted in his saddle and looked back at the column of riders. “What is it that Dutchman seeks to know?”

“Our route to Karakorum.”

“I do not know that route. That is why we have brought the Binder, why we have Illarion. He knew that before we left, and nothing has changed. Our route will be revealed to us as we travel, by—”

“When?” Raphael interrupted.

Feronantus’s face darkened. “By what our scouts discover, and by the information they glean from local sources,” he said. “You know this, Raphael.”

“Of course. Nor do I doubt it. But, as you have just said, our route will be revealed. My question remains. When?”

Feronantus pursed his lips and considered Raphael’s question for some time. His hand fell to the hilt of Taran’s sword, not in a threatening way, but unconsciously, the way a man might put his hand against a wall or a rock to steady himself on uneven ground. “I would ask that you speak plainly, Raphael,” he said. “So that there is no confusion.”

“Have you had a vision?” Raphael asked bluntly. “Has our path been revealed to you?”

Feronantus’s hand tightened on Taran’s sword.

When it was clear that Feronantus wasn’t going to answer, Raphael continued. “I saw Percival in the forest, when he went to put down his horse. I was there when the Virgin came over him.”

Feronantus shook his head. “That cannot be.”

Raphael glared at him. “I saw it. Cnan did as well, though I doubt she understands it. We have been given a sign, Feronantus. We would be foolhardy not to recognize it.”

Feronantus did not relent, nor did his hand leave off from clenching the hilt of the dead oplo’s sword. “You presume much, Raphael, to speak to me of prophecy and visions, as if I were a slow-witted shepherd who seeks council and guidance from phantoms—”

“I was at Damietta,” Raphael interrupted, “when one of the Brethren was granted a Visitation. The legate, Pelagius of Albano, did not care for our Brother’s vision, and so he had one of his own fabricated. They even approached me to translate it into Arabic for them so that it would seem more authentic. When I refused, they wanted to drive us out of the city, and were it not for Saint Francis, we would have been cast out. We stayed behind while the army marched up the Nile.” His voice grew bitter, choked by the memory. “We stayed, while our friends and fellow Christians were led to their death by the pride and arrogance of the bishop.”

Feronantus released his grip on the sword, and the ferocity of his gaze softened, transforming his face into the visage of an old and tired man. “I am sorry, Raphael,” he said. “Too many, over the years, have been lost for similar reasons. Too many…”

Surprised by his own outburst, Raphael found he had no more words, and he nodded, his throat tight with emotion. Too many… His arms ached suddenly, as if his body had finally decided to accept the strain from this morning’s combat, and all he wanted to do was to let go of the reins of his horse and let it find its own way. Part of him hoped it would turn west on its own accord…

“Ride with me a little while longer, would you?” Feronantus asked. “I would appreciate your company while I give some thought to what you have said.”

Raphael flicked the reins of his horse, and the animal shook his head, as if to deny that it had been thinking of turning back. “Of course,” he said to Feronantus, and he sat up a little straighter in his saddle when he saw the comfort his presence gave to the old veteran.

CHAPTER 21: A PLEASANT STROLL

When Kim had first met him, the man who now fought as Zugaikotsu no Yama had been hanging around the docks of Byeokrando, scraping barnacles and unloading ships for whatever coins the skippers would throw at him. Local opinion had been divided as to whether he was insane or merely an imbecile, but he was definitely Nipponese. In those days, he gave a different answer whenever asked his name, and Kim—who had picked up a few words of Nihongo by talking to traders and fishermen—had figured out that he would merely glance