The Mongoliad: Book Three

his body, into his soul.

When he exploded, he knew he was the exultation of light that he had seen in his vision. The endless wheels within wheels were his existence, shattered and strewn throughout the profusion of possibilities, destinies, histories, implications, and connections. He whirled, each particle of his being shivering with an ecstatic thrill. He saw everything and heard nothing.

As the wheels began to slow, as his being began to coalesce once more, he started to weep.

He could see cracks in the vessel, and even with all this light and warmth, the cracks could not be healed…

Father Rodrigo struggled in Ferenc’s grip. “What are you doing, boy?” the priest screamed. His eyes were wild and his face was pale with blotches of red-the same sort of coloration that Ferenc had seen during more than one of the priest’s feverish fits. “She wants to steal the Grail. She’s a child of Satan.”

He didn’t believe what Father Rodrigo was saying-he couldn’t-and he felt more strongly the fear he had been trying to push away. He had seen the priest become lost in his fever fogs before, but never like this. Never with such little warning.

Without taking his eyes off Father Rodrigo, Ferenc listened to the sounds of movement behind him: Ocyrhoe’s ragged breathing; her hands and knees moving across the rough ground; the sound of cloth scraping against the same. Father Rodrigo thrust out an arm, pointing over Ferenc’s shoulder, and he heard Ocyrhoe’s horse spook with a deep snort.

“Stop her!” Father Rodrigo shrieked.

“Father,” Ferenc said, gently taking the priest’s outstretched hand with both of his and pulling it toward his heart. “Look away. Calm yourself. I beg you. She is not your enemy. She only wants to help. I want to help.” He squeezed the priest’s fingers.

Father Rodrigo shoved Ferenc sharply, and he staggered backward and barely caught himself from falling. “Open your eyes, boy! Domine, oculos habet, et non videbut.” His eyes were frighteningly bright and large, and he pulled his hand free of Ferenc’s grip. Shivering with rage, he grabbed Ferenc’s shoulders and spun the boy around. “I have seen her in my visions, and she is all that stands between me and our salvation. Look!”

Ocyrhoe dashed across the road, her legs at awkward angles as if each wanted to flee in a different direction. She clutched both the cup and the priest’s satchel against her chest.

With a roar, Father Rodrigo released Ferenc and threw himself at the fleeing girl, his hands grasping and clawing. Ferenc saw her, in her confusion and terror, grab the satchel even tighter to herself rather than attempt to avoid his outstretched hands. Father Rodrigo grabbed Ocyrhoe by the hair, yanking her to a stop. She cried out, struggling in his grip, and Ferenc flinched as she wrenched herself free, leaving a fistful of hair in Father Rodrigo’s grip.

Ferenc shook himself free of the fear that was paralyzing him and sprang after Father Rodrigo. The priest heard him coming this time, shook him off as he tried to wrap his arms around the mad priest. Father Rodrigo threw an elbow back, catching Ferenc on the bridge of the nose, and Ferenc tried to blink away the flood of tears that sprang into his eyes.

The priest lunged after Ocyrhoe again, grabbing at her neck and shoulders this time. As he found his grip, he squeezed and lifted her so that she was poised on her toes. Her face was very red, and her hands flew to her throat, trying to pry loose his grip.

“Father, stop,” Ferenc hissed. He grabbed Father Rodrigo’s arm and pulled, but it was like trying to pull a full-grown tree out of the ground. He slapped Father Rodrigo, but the priest ignored him. Ocyrhoe sputtered and choked. She had dropped both the satchel and the cup, and her tiny hands beat ineffectively at Father Rodrigo’s arms.

Ferenc looked at Father Rodrigo’s eyes and saw no sign of the priest he once knew.

He stood on his toes, and wrapped his right arm around the priest’s head and face. “I have to do this,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.” With his left arm folding in against his own chest, he grabbed Father Rodrigo’s right ear in his left hand.

The priest’s body tightened against his, dumbly realizing something was amiss. His hands stopped tightening, but he did not release Ocyrhoe.

Having gotten the man’s attention, Ferenc carefully pulled a little with his right arm as he pushed with his left, forcing Father Rodrigo’s head deosil enough to be uncomfortable. A nervous cry slipped from the priest’s mouth, almost as loud as Ocyrhoe’s rasping gasps for air, and Ferenc found himself almost unable to maintain his grip. He had heard the sound before when Father Rodrigo had moments of lucidity during his bouts of fever madness.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ferenc saw Ocyrhoe’s frightened face and her mouth, opening and closing like that of a fish pulled out of the water. He felt the muscles in his arms tremble, and he tightened his embrace. He had to be strong.

“Release her,” he said, his arms firm. “She is an innocent girl. When you wake from this madness, you will know yourself again. You will never forgive yourself if you do not let her go.” His heart hammered in his chest, and he silently prayed that the part of Father Rodrigo that he had just heard cry out could hear him.

When he had hunted in the woods outside of Buda, he had, on occasion, needed to mercifully end the life of a wounded animal.

Don’t make me do this, he pleaded silently.

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

Pursuit

Raphael caught the Mongol’s sword on his shield, and as his horse thundered past, he pushed his shield down and swung his sword in a heavy chopping motion. It bit through leather and flesh, tugging as it caught on bone, and then his opponent was behind him. Another Mongol rider was galloping past on his right, and he angled his horse after the man. He passed behind the other’s horse, and the Mongol twisted adroitly in his saddle, loosing an arrow at close range. He pulled his upper body down toward his gut, tightening in his saddle in an effort to hide behind his shield. The arrow smacked hard into his shield, breaching its surface and protruding a few inches out the other side. He rose out of his crouch, swinging his sword, and the Mongol spun away, blood rising in a plume.

He caught sight of Percival smashing a Mongol’s shoulder to a bloody pulp with his mace and following through with a merciful stroke across the enemy’s throat. He looked for Vera and Eleazar-didn’t see either of them-and then caught sight of Feronantus being unhorsed by a broad Mongol wielding a long pole, festooned with a plethora of horsehair braids. As he watched, the broad Mongol caught up with a pony laboring under the weight of its rider, a man wearing plum-colored clothing, and in a maneuver that bespoke a life spent on horseback, the pony lost its rider to the other horse.

The Khagan, Raphael realized.

Ignoring the other pair of Mongol riders nearby, he kicked his mount toward the fleeing horse. They had to catch the Khagan before he managed to reach the vale leading out of the valley.

Something kicked him in the ribs and he pitched forward across the horn of his saddle. He knew, without contorting himself to check, that he had just been hit with an arrow. A second arrow passed through the maille on his shoulder, grazing his neck, and he cursed his foolishness.

He shouldn’t have turned his back on the Mongols. He had forgotten their skill with bows. But he couldn’t turn back now. He had to keep riding. He had to catch the Khagan…

Yasper, his ears still ringing, slid down the hillside on his rump. The second explosion had scattered the horses, and the remaining Mongols were either wounded or dazed. A few horses were trotting aimlessly about the