The Mongoliad: Book Three

the valley floor. He saw shapes that were, most likely, mounted riders, the men trying to calm their terrified horses. Other shapes materialized-men crawling and staggering. As the haze thinned, Yasper got a better glimpse of the carnage wrought by his device. His gorge rose, and he clamped his hands over his mouth and sat down heavily on his rump, breathing rapidly through his nose.

Several Mongols had been shredded by the explosion. He had seen what bears could do to a human body, and the lacerations and dismemberment wreaked by beast paled in comparison to the bodily destruction scattered about the field below. The only means by which he could tally the dead was to count those still living; the dead were in too many pieces.

His gaze fell upon the other alchemical incendiary, and he kicked it away, horrified to be near such a hellish construct. It slid across the ground, and his horror mounted as he watched it tumble across the remnants of the tiny fire he had built earlier. It rolled to a stop, the prickly tongue of its fuse resting against the ground. Yasper held his breath, praying that the capricious imps who did the Devil’s mischief would not be watching.

They were. The fuse sparked and sputtered, and a thin blue finger of flame began to dance at the end of the fuse, flinging sparks with reckless abandon.

Yasper scrambled forward, burning his hand as he put it down in the not-yet-cold coals of his fire, and he grabbed up the lit incendiary, throwing it down the hill.

He threw himself to the ground and put his hands over his ears, in a futile effort to block out the horrific sound he knew was coming.

They burst out of the forest in a line, riding abreast, their maille glittering in the sun. Feronantus: the Shield- Brethren battle cry on his lips, leaning forward in his saddle as if he were a young man again. Percival: his armor gleaming brighter than the rest, sword in one hand, mace in the other, his horse responding to the lightest touch of his knees-the results of months of continuous training. Vera: sword and shield ready, her face hidden behind the blank mask of her helm; the woman he had kissed in the forest was gone, and all that remained was the indomitable spirit of the skjalddis.

And he, Raphael: veteran of the Fifth Crusade, survivor of the siege of Cordoba, oath breaker, man of God though cast out from the Church. A knight initiate of the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae, at first for expediency and then because the order was the only family that would accept him. He carried sword and shield, for now was not the time to hang back with spear and arrow.

Now was the time to look your enemy in the eye when you slew him.

They came at a hard gallop, their horses’ hooves pounding at the dusty ground. The Shield-Brethren rode to war, expecting to face insurmountable odds-one hundred, two hundred of the finest fighting men the Mongol Empire could field. They rode, anticipating a bristling barricade of spears and lances, and found…

… an empty plain.

Raphael sat up in his saddle, scanning for some sign of the Khagan’s host. When he and Yasper and Istvan had stumbled across its passage in the forest, they had been somewhat mystified by the size the track suggested, and they had assumed it was the advance party, the scouts who were ranging ahead of the main host.

He didn’t bring that many men with him, Raphael realized.

Nearly simultaneously, he spotted horses coming from either direction. The ones on the left wore matching colors and were riding hard; on the right, the horses were scattered far apart, and a few had no riders. This is it? he thought, and he recalled Roger’s boastful comment at the Kinyen in the chapter house near Legnica. Ten thousand of them means ten thousand opportunities for confusion.

He missed Roger fiercely. How I wish you were here for this moment, my friend, he thought. You would have laughed, and all our hearts would have been lightened by the sound of your voice. He gripped his sword more tightly. I am sorry, Roger, he offered as a silent prayer to the Virgin and the host of the dead whom she had gathered to her bosom.

And for a moment, he recalled Andreas-the young man he had met once on a German road. Had the Virgin claimed him too?

He might know the answer to his question soon enough.

And then the Mongol riders were upon them, and the time for memory and prayer was done.

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

On the Road to Rome

Cardinal Fieschi stared morosely at the scenery as his carriage trundled back to Rome. He had already sent ahead several riders to alert Orsini. By the time his carriage reached the Vatican, the countryside surrounding Rome would be crawling with horsemen wearing the Bear’s colors. Given his recent spate of foul luck, the Bear’s men would stumble upon an overzealous squad of the Emperor’s men and the resulting fracas would be the start of all- out war between Rome, the Church, and the Holy Roman Empire.

Was that Frederick’s goal? he wondered. For as little as Fieschi missed Gregory IX-the man had been a tyrant to his staff, and Fieschi had tolerated it longer than anyone else-he briefly wished the man were still alive. He had an incredibly deft mind when it came to understanding the myriad layers of the conflict for Christendom. Orsini’s effort to hide the Cardinals in the Septizodium might have won the election for the Church, but what did that matter if Rome was immediately overrun by a mangy bunch of Germans and Sicilians?

He had been Gregory’s right-hand man. He had run the College of Cardinals. He had bent the Senator of Rome to his will. He had dirtied his hands for the Church. But what had any of that gained him?

Gregory had been grooming him; Fieschi had no doubt that the previous Pope had been preparing the way for Sinibaldo Fieschi to become his successor. Perhaps he might even have taken the name of Gregory X. But the Pope had unexpectedly fallen ill during one of the heat waves that perpetually suffocated Rome in late summer. The man had caught a chill-seemingly impossible in the heat-and had died nearly overnight, leaving the Church headless. Between the Mongol threat in the north and the Holy Roman Emperor coming up from the south, it had been nearly impossible to call the Cardinals back to Rome in order to vote.

He had worked so very hard, trying to keep the Church alive. But no matter how hard he tried, matters kept slipping away from him. First, the country priest who had stumbled into the election and wound up being elected Pope. Then, the matter of the girl and the witch network in Rome-he had warned Orsini the trouble they could cause and he had placed too much faith in the Bear’s ability to contain the witches. They had missed one-one tiny girl! — and she had caused so much grief.

He pounded his fist against his wooden seat. He knew he was feeling sorry for himself, wallowing in the doubt that had nipped at him earlier in the day when the question of the second election had come up. He was letting these tiny reversals get the better of him. He was letting Frederick get under his skin-the Emperor’s words continuing to echo in his ear, nursing the doubt in his heart. Like a tiny breath that keeps a weak fire alive.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the Grail.

Had the spirit of God come back? And what were the chances that the Cup of Christ was the only artifact of God’s Grace that had been awakened?

He suddenly recalled the prophecy the mad priest had been carrying. The scrap of parchment he had taken from Father Rodrigo’s satchel was in his chambers and he recoiled at the thought of someone finding it there. He was going to burn it as soon as he got back to Rome. How he wished he could burn those words out of his mind.

A new order rises; if it falls, woe to the Church! Battle will be joined, many times over, and faith will be broken.

Lena found Cardinal Castiglione walking in one of the tiny gardens near the basilica. He was in the company