The Mongoliad: Book One

Kim cleared his throat. “Kim Alcheon, Last of the Flower Knights, to…” He paused. “What is the name of the master of the order?”

“They guard their secrets closely,” said Father Pius, “but it is rumored that one of their masters—a man named Feronantus—has been spied in their camp. And if he is really there, then he is unquestionably the man in charge.”

“…to Feronantus, then,” Kim concluded. “Greetings. I and my brother- in-arms, Mountain of Skulls, have taken note of your prowess and—”

“Would you like me to translate that literally?” Pius asked.

“What?”

“Mountain of Skulls? It seems a trifle…undignified.”

“You may write Zugaikotsu no Yama, then, or whatever other name pleases you,” Kim answered, “as long as this Feronantus understands that the man being referred to is the one who fought their champion in the Circus of Swords most recently.”

“Very well, I shall make that clear,” said Father Pius, and he spent a good long time scratching out a series of odd-looking glyphs. Kim had difficulty telling one apart from the next. They all looked approximately the same in his eyes.

Pius was looking up at him expectantly.

“We would discourse with you respectfully and honorably, warrior to warrior. If it would please you to accept, send word with the bearer of this note or make yourselves known to us within the encampment of the Khan, which is where we dwell. Yours in respect and honor…and so on and so forth.”

“That is all? You would not like to say anything more specific?” Pius asked, seeming a little crestfallen. Clearly he had been hoping to glean something of personal interest or value by eavesdropping on the exchange of letters and was disappointed by the lack of detail in what Kim had said. Kim gave him a sharp look. Pius cringed, understanding that he had revealed too much of his own desires and motives. Without any further editorial remarks, he finished scratching it all down, dusted the parchment with sand to blot the ink, and then blew it off and rolled it up into a tube. He dripped candle wax along the edge to seal it, and Kim used his own personal chop to mark the wax.

“When will you deliver it?” Kim asked.

“I was about to go out anyway,” said Father Pius, “to run some errands. I shall do it now.” He paused. “Their chapter house is some distance away, and I will not be back for some time…”

Kim ignored the priest’s hesitation. “When it has been done, I shall come back and talk to you about how you shall be compensated,” Kim said, forestalling any complaint from the priest with a stern look, and then took his leave.

Pius had not been the only one to recognize him, and word had already gotten round that he was inside the church. When he emerged from the back room, he found several young warriors waiting for him. Fortunately they were all boys seeking instruction, not men who wanted to fight. Feeling no interest whatsoever in giving instruction to these unwashed and unruly novices, he was about to tell them gruffly to go away. Then, though, he recalled the words of Two Dogs Fucking: Is there someone you could trust more?

Some of the boys were half Mongol, and others seemed to have learned a few words of the language during the months that the Mongols had been running the place. After a few minutes of verbally sparring with them— seeming to show interest in them one moment, brushing them off like flies the next—he settled on one of the older and more fluent boys. His name was Hans, which stuck in Kim’s memory because, unlike many other Frankish names, it was easy for him to remember and pronounce.

“Stealth and guile are fine qualities in a warrior,” Kim said to Hans as he drew him aside. “See if you can follow Father Pius without being detected, and bring me a report of his actions. If I am pleased by the results, I shall teach you something.”

Hans’s blue eyes flicked to one side, then the other, counting the number of other lads in earshot.

“You may translate what I have said to these others, or not,” Kim said, guessing his thoughts. “The choice is yours.”

“What will you teach me?”

Kim looked him up and down. “Since you do not have a sword, I shall teach you how to defeat an armed man with your bare hands.”

Hans spun and took off as if Kim had just threatened to kill him. He was pursued by several other lads who wanted to know what Kim had just said.

Kim smiled and, leaving the ruined church, enjoyed a pleasant—and unmolested—stroll to the shop of a certain woodworker, a carver who had been making Kim a staff out of a certain type of local hardwood. It was difficult, in this part of the world, to obtain woods as dark and heavy as the ones that were used for such weapons in more civilized parts of the world, and so the project was proceeding slowly.

The artisan spoke no Mongol and Kim spoke none of whatever language was common in these parts, and so the conversation was slow as well. They were only a few minutes into it when they were interrupted by Hans, who barreled into the workshop with the news that Father Pius had gone straightaway to talk to the Master of the Something-or-other Knights.

This was just what Kim had hoped to hear, and so he told Hans to wait for him to conclude his business with the turner.

A few more hard-won sentences passed between them, but Kim noted, after a certain point, that he had not heard a word of what the artisan had said to him. Something was troubling his mind. He held up his hand to still the woodworker’s tongue and devoted a few moments to thinking about what Hans had said.

“Did you say that Pius is meeting with this man now?”

“Yes, I saw them talking to each other at the knights’ compound.”

“That is odd,” Kim said, “since I was led to believe that the knights were staying at a place some distance away from here.”

“Oh no,” Hans said, “it is no more than a bowshot from where we are standing.”

“What is the name of this master who Pius is talking to?”

“Dietrich.”

“Not Feronantus?”

Hans looked confused. “Feronantus is the master of the Shield-Brethren. Father Pius is at the compound of the Livonian Knights.”

“Take me to him,” Kim said. He snatched a staff from the woodworker’s supply—not the one he had commissioned, but a stout piece of oak that would do, in a pinch—and hustled after Hans. There was no time to explain to the woodworker that he was only borrowing and not stealing.

But by the time Hans had led him through the maze to the place in question, Father Pius had already finished his conversation with Dietrich and set out northeastward, in the direction of the camp of the Shield-Brethren. This news was given to Hans by a younger boy who was apparently acting as Hans’s deputy. Kim noted with interest and approval that Hans, even at his young age, was already capable of delegating responsibilities to followers. As Hans conversed in the local tongue with the younger boy, Kim scanned the stone building that the Livonian Knights had seized and made into their local headquarters—a building somewhat smaller than the standing church, but like it, in fairly good condition—and observed their sigil on a banner. The symbols were red—that much was correct, at least—but neither was a rose. This was not the standard of the Ordo—what had Hans called them? A simpler name than the impossible one that Pius had used. The Shield- Brethren.

Had Pius betrayed him to Dietrich? Or merely stopped by this building on some unrelated errand before proceeding to the meeting with Feronantus? I might not be able to trust him. Kim could already imagine the conversation with Zug.

There was only one way to be sure: check the seal on the letter.

CHAPTER 22: TO SAVE THE EMPIRE