The Mongoliad: Book One

some angel or saint passed over me some weeks ago and shone his or her light into my soul and imbued me with a purpose. The nature of that purpose is not yet clear. But I believe that it has drawn me to this place. For what reason I cannot imagine.”

Roger was staring at Percival with a mixture of derision and affection that could only stem from long friendship.

Illarion met Raphael’s eye briefly, then turned to Vera and asked a question in Ruthenian.

Vera responded in kind; then she said, in Latin, “The hill below us is riddled with caves and catacombs where holy men have lived since Christians first came up this way preaching their Gospel. Any number of saints’ bones and artifacts are salted about the place. Of course, it is rumored that buried treasure is also to be found there. Whether the Livonians are here for relics or for treasure is impossible to say—I suspect the latter. But if some holy spirit has sent you to this place in pursuance of a quest, Brother Percival, then I would guess that its object is to be found beneath us.”

She nodded at the food on the table. “Once you complete this repast, I would be happy to show you the way.”

Istvan’s horse reared, pawing the air with its hooves.

More of the Livonians drew their weapons, and the sound of steel against steel was like the ringing of bells. Cnan wanted to put her hands over her ears, as if blocking out the sound would forestall what was about to happen next.

Feronantus made no motion toward his sword. “Your quarry is getting away,” he said in the hollow emptiness that followed the drawing of swords. His statement elicited confusion among both ranks until Kristaps blinked and turned his head to look up the slope of the hill.

The ragmen and their cart had reached the gate of the monastery. As they all watched, the portal creaked open enough for the two filthy men to drag their burden through, and then it rattled shut.

“How little you truly know, Feronantus,” Kristaps laughed.

“I know that, even outnumbering us thrice over, you are not sure that you can defeat us in combat,” Feronantus said quietly. “I know that my knight could put a single arrow through two of your men right now because they don’t know enough to not stand in a row. I know that some of the men on your left flank are terrified of what is going to happen when the knight behind me draws that enormous sword of his. And I know that at least one of your number is going to faint when I say that not only does this man”—he inclined his head toward Istvan—“eat human flesh, but so does his horse…”

Kristaps twitched—only slightly—when two of his men fell to the ground. The Livonian tried to hide his loss of composure with a mighty sneer, but to Cnan, his expression looked more pained than fierce. “You and your…degenerate barbarians…are not worth dirtying my steel,” he snarled.

“Nor you mine,” Feronantus answered. “Run along, Kristaps.”

“Next time—”

“Next time, you will be dead before you finish your threat,” Feronantus barked, driving Kristaps to silence with the veritable thunder of his voice.

The Livonian snapped his mouth shut, and his lips stretched across his teeth in a grimace. With a jerk of his head, he gave his men the signal to retreat. They milled about, uncertain if they should turn and flee or simply back slowly from the mounted Shield-Brethren. The two men who had fallen were left behind momentarily until Kristaps gestured angrily that they should be collected. Once the Livonians were all moving—the dazed pair being dragged by their arms—they appeared to remember how to conduct themselves and formed a more orderly procession up the slope.

Kristaps lingered, glowering at Feronantus, but when Yasper could no longer hold his amusement in check and let loose a great peal of laughter, the Livonian hurled a final curse at the company and stormed away.

R?dwulf lowered his bow and joined Yasper and Eleazar in boisterous and polyphonic revelry. Istvan stood in his stirrups and mocked the retreating knights loudly, shouting at them as if they were a herd of frightened sheep.

Feronantus did not join in the persiflage of the fleeing Livonians. He watched the retreating knights with a calm intensity, as if there were clues to some mystery that could be gleaned from their departure.

“Who are they?” Cnan asked. Now that the threat of violence was passed, all that remained was a lingering apprehension. How could they expect to undo the might of the Mongolian Horde if the Shield-Brethren’s old enemies were sprouting from the earth wherever they traveled?

“The Livonian Brothers of the Sword,” Feronantus answered softly. “Though they have not worn that sigil for more than five years. Most of their number were killed in a battle—at a place called Schaulen. A battle that could have been avoided. The pitiful few who survived were taken in by the Teutonic Knights, where they adopted a different livery.”

“Were you there?” Cnan asked, surprised by her own curiosity.

Feronantus gave her no answer.

“I know him,” Eleazar said, joining their vigil. “Years ago I was witness to the aftermath of his butchery.” He leaned over and spat noisily. “What are they doing here? The Livonians tried once before to conquer the northern lands and failed. And they had many more men than now.”

“I do not know,” Feronantus replied. “This bunch, though they dress like the Brothers of the Sword, have not worn the red long…”

The two senseless Livonians had been revived, and the armed party had managed to form a unit as they snaked up the narrow path. When they reached the gate, they stumbled to a clumsy halt, as if they were not quite sure what came next. Faintly Cnan heard Kristaps’s voice, and while he was too distant for her to understand the individual words, it sounded as if he were announcing his presence and not presenting a challenge to those who resided within the walls.

In response to his cry, the gate shuddered and then opened. Keeping their formation, the Livonians proceeded, disappearing through the gate, which promptly closed once more behind them.

“I…I thought they were chasing those men,” Cnan said, trying to make sense of what she had seen.

“Apparently not,” Yasper offered, scratching his chin.

“Cnan…” Feronantus turned to her. “You are the softest of foot amongst us, as well as the lightest. You and Finn.” He nodded toward the buildings at the peak of the hill. “Set your eyes upon the interior of that wall and tell us what the Livonians are doing.

“I was the one who suggested they were chasing those beggars, and in doing so, I betrayed our ignorance as to the Livonians’ true mission. As much as Kristaps desired to engage us, he had a more urgent matter to contend with. A holy mission, he claimed, and I fear he was not speaking lightly.” He waved his hand. “Quickly. We must discern what they are about.”

CHAPTER 31: DANGEROUS BEAUTY

The palace grounds flooded with music, dozens of melodies collapsing into one ear- ringing, chest-pounding sound. There was the constant clash of cymbals and piercing chime of bells, overlaid with the mad piping and bellowing of horns and flutes and the screeching of sinew-stringed fiddles. Singers too, giving voice to so many different songs that one could only catch fragments of verses at a time—heroic epics, songs of praise for the heavens and the mountains and the Khagan, short ribald tunes sung in a drunken roister, and low, droning throat singing. And beneath all that the steady beat of great drums, like a heartbeat, like the whole palace had become one giant body and all the revelers were the blood in its veins.

Cups of wine were shoved in Lian’s face as she tried to thread her way through the revelers that packed the