The Mongoliad: Book Three

naginata around in a powerful swing. The blade sheared through the Khan’s right arm and continued into his chest, where it stopped against his ribs. With a sharp tug, Zug pulled it free, and the Khan gasped, blood spattering from his mouth. Zug whirled the naginata around his head and with a reverse stroke, separated Onghwe’s head from his body.

“It is done,” Zug said quietly.

The Khan’s body lay twitching on the rug-covered floor of his pavilion. His head had rolled a few paces away, and it stared at the rug, its mouth hanging open.

Kim hefted the Khan’s guan do, comparing it to the guard’s spear he had been using. It had been a long time since he had used one of these Chinese pole-arms. It was a slashing and cutting weapon, not at all like the spear.

It felt good in his hand.

“I don’t suppose they are going to let us walk out of here,” he said.

Zug offered him a tiny smile, the first sign of humor that Kim had seen from him in a long time. “No,” Zug said, “They are going to be somewhat angry with us.”

“Should we meet them outside?” Kim asked. “Would you rather die under an open sky?”

“I would,” Zug agreed. He bowed, sweeping a hand toward the entrance of the pavilion. “After you, my friend.”

“It has been an honor to fight beside you, Zugaikotsu No Yama.”

For a moment, Zug seemed to be on the verge of saying something else and then he swallowed the words. “The honor has been mine, Kim Alcheon,” he said.

Kim kept the spear, figuring he could throw it at the first Mongol who came at them. Weapons in both hands, he walked unhurriedly toward the pavilion’s entrance where Madhukar and the pair of Rose Knights were waiting for them.

“I missed the fun,” Madhukar sighed.

“Oh, the fun is not over yet,” Kim laughed, slapping the taller man lightly on the arm. “Come, let us go tell the Mongols what has befallen their Khan. I’m sure that will provide more opportunities for your club.”

He was going to die a free man; they all were. It was a fitting end.

Kim shoved aside the heavy flaps of the tent and stepped outside, surveying the field outside the Khan’s pavilion. The air was filled with smoke, and the stench of blood and death greeted him immediately. There was less activity than he had expected, but there were still enough Mongols surrounding the tent to present rather insurmountable odds.

“Ho, warriors of the Mongol Empire,” he called out, making sure he got all of their attention. “Here I am.”

“Here we are.” Zug emerged from the pavilion to stand next to him. The others stood beside them. Zug held up the Khan’s severed head. “And here’s your Khan.” He dropped it on the ground and kicked it toward the mob of Mongols. “His dogs got the better of him.”

An angry surge raced through the Mongols and spears, swords, and clubs were all brought to bear on the pair. Kim didn’t even bother to count the number of deadly weapons pointed in their direction. He looked and laughed. Not at the Mongol’s reaction to Zug’s contemptuous gesture, but at what he saw rapidly approaching the rear of the Mongol mob.

The knights of the West.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

Congregabo Te

The day was nearly over before Ocyrhoe found them.

Ferenc and Father Rodrigo had stopped on the side of the road, apparently for a meal. Father Rodrigo’s satchel was lying flat open, the cup-unusually brilliant in the late afternoon sun-sitting in the center as if it had just been unveiled. Father Rodrigo himself towered over Ferenc, speaking loudly and rapidly in Magyar. Ferenc’s body language was that of a person either in shock or grieving, seemingly paralyzed by Father Rodrigo’s fervor.

Ocyrhoe dismounted from the horse she had been given by the Emperor-whose stables were not as bereft of suitable mounts as he had intimated. Ferenc spotted her first. He made no move to rise and greet her, but only struggled to offer her a weak smile.

“Your Eminence,” she called to Father Rodrigo, and her use of the honorific broke through whatever fog was clouding his brain. His mouth snapped shut, and he stood still, staring at her and blinking, as if he could not quite remember how he knew her. Ocyrhoe put her hand over her heart, squeezing her fingers into a fist to hide from him how much they were trembling. “I greet you as a friend. Do you still recall me as such?”

Father Rodrigo’s mouth worked, as if he were tasting her words. She recalled the meeting with Robert of Somercotes, and how Father Rodrigo had seemed to be in a daze until he had seen Ferenc. Even then, he had only been intermittently engaged with the rest of them.

Ferenc spoke up, and she heard her name mentioned. Father Rodrigo swung his head toward Ferenc like a dog finding a scent, and the priest blinked heavily as he listened to Ferenc’s words. “Yes,” Father Rodrigo said, “I do remember you.” He straightened, his face brightening, losing its slackness as he tightened his mouth into a smile. “Have you come to join us on our crusade?”

Ocyrhoe glanced at the cup sitting on the satchel. It had lost some of its luster, as if the sun-which had been previously shining on it-had slipped behind a cloud. It was, as Frederick had mentioned, a silver cup, and not one of gold. She shivered, feeling nothing but apprehension about the cup. “What… what crusade?” she inquired, using the question to cover her nervousness. To give him more time to remember her because she was still not sure he did.

The first day she had ever laid eyes on the priest had been at the market near the Porta Tiburtina, and he had stared at her as if he knew her. His gaze had been wild and feverish, and while he seemed to recognize nothing else, he had known her. Now, his eyes were unclouded by fever, but he kept peering at her as if he thought she were someone else. So little has changed since that day, she thought, and yet so much too.

“The cedars,” the priest said, his voice slurring. “I must save the cedars.”

Ocyrhoe glanced around, not seeing the sorts of trees he was talking about. “Father Rodrigo,” she said softly. “This crusade is-”

“What?” Father Rodrigo answered with a harsh, mocking laugh-unlike any sound she’d heard him make before. “I am the Summus Pontifex Ecclesiae Universalis. I am bound to serve God, and He has revealed His plan to me. To me. Not Fieschi. Not any of the others. I was the one who carried His message from Mohi. I was the one who suffered. I am the one who is strong enough to carry it farther, and that is what I intend to do.”

“Why?” Ocyrhoe asked in a plaintive voice. She wandered closer to Ferenc, resting a hand on his shoulder. He stirred beneath her, a shudder running through his body. “You want Ferenc and I to join you on this crusade, but where are you taking us? What are we supposed to do?”

“You are supposed to serve God. We are going to drive out the infidels.”

“How?”

He gestured at the cup which brightened visibly as he paid attention to it. “The Grail will provide a way,” he said thickly. His hand shook.

Ocyrhoe recalled Lena’s words back in the room Father Rodrigo had stayed in at the Castel Sant’Angelo. What you need will be offered to you, in unexpected ways and times. Father Rodrigo had the same faith. But she and Frederick had talked about faith too, in relation to the Grail. In a flash, she understood