The Mongoliad: Book Three

keeping him on the correct path.

“I have been troubled as of late,” Percival said after they had walked awhile. Raphael grunted at this, but kept his eyes turned toward the emptiness beyond the camp. It was no mystery that the Frank shouldered a weight none of the rest of them wanted to-or could, for that matter-carry. It was not just Finn’s death, or the fact that Percival had had the watch when Graymane had approached. It went back further than that. Roger had fallen in Kiev, a stop they had made at Percival’s insistence.

“I know the others are disturbed by my visions,” Percival said. “But you have been in the presence of those who have been recipients of the Virgin’s Grace; you know how it changes a man. We cannot refuse what she gives us, even if we do not understand what it means.”

“We rarely do,” Raphael murmured, thinking of Eptor, the young brother in Damietta. Wounded in the horrific assault to take the city’s guard tower in the Nile, Eptor had been shaken to the core of his being by the Virgin’s Grace. He had seen ghosts-both companions who had fallen during the endless siege and other apparitions. The legate, Pelagius of Albano, had tried to turn Eptor’s visions to his own end, even though he had no power over the Shield-Brethren. Conditions were horrendous at the camp, and most of the men were so sick they could barely stand, which was the only reason the Shield-Brethren had not abandoned the Crusaders. They would not leave behind those who could not defend themselves, no matter how contrary to their Christian virtues they acted.

Knowing that Eptor trusted Raphael, the legate had demanded Raphael make the boy acknowledge the vision the Church wanted. Raphael had refused and been flogged for his insubordination. Pelagius tried to coerce Eptor during Raphael’s punishment, and the legate’s brutish insistence only frightened the sensitive boy.

By the time Raphael recovered from his punishment, Eptor had become lost in a squalid terror in his own mind. He had seen something while mentally fleeing the legate’s demands, and this dreadful vision devoured his spirit. The end came quickly. He was feverish in the morning, his condition worsening with each hour; by nightfall, he was raving. He screamed most of the night, and shortly before dawn, he died.

Raphael had been with him during the last hour, waiting for sunrise. Waiting for the life to leave the tortured knight’s body. His throat raw from screaming, he could only make tiny rasping noises like the sound of a knife being drawn against a leather strop. Raphael had sat as close as he dared, his head lowered toward the other man’s lips, listening to Eptor’s prayers. He only wanted to understand why the Virgin had chosen him.

“I have seen wheels in the sky,” Percival was saying. “Circles of flame and smoke that are not really there. I saw them in the woods when I laid Tonnerre to rest, and though I did not realize it at the time, I saw them again the morning Finn died. I was on watch, Raphael, my eyes did not stray. I am a knight initiate of the Shield-Brethren. We do not shirk from our duties. We do not fail to protect our brothers-in- arms.”

“We were tired,” Raphael interjected. “None of us would have been any more alert that morning.”

“I would have been,” Percival insisted, and the conviction in his voice stilled Raphael’s further comment. Percival laid a hand on Raphael’s arm, and Raphael turned his head slightly, trying to see the Frank’s face without spoiling his night vision. “I would have been,” Percival repeated. “And I was. I watched the sun come up. I watched Finn leave our camp to go fetch water. I saw him find the ravine and climb down. I waited for him to come back.” Percival’s grip tightened. “The next thing I knew the sky had been blotted out by the spinning wheels, and Vera was shouting at me. I wanted to look away; I wanted to know what had caused her alarm. But I could not tear my eyes away from the wheels.”

“What are they?” Raphael asked.

Percival dropped his hand and continued his slow course around the camp. “I do not know. They are both terrifying and beautiful. I find myself yearning to see them again, and I have never felt such desire as this before. Not even-no, I have never felt such conviction. And what is it that I desire? The sight of these wheels accompanies the death of those whom I love. What does the Virgin want of me? Am I to become a monster that puts his friends in danger so that he may receive a glimpse of Heaven?”

“No,” Raphael countered. “That is not what she wants of you. You simply don’t-” He paused. What could he tell Percival? What did he truly know of visions, of what they meant?

“But that is not all,” Percival said. “When we were in the tomb of Saint Ilya, I had a different vision. One I felt I had had before. In the woods. It was not the wheels that drove me to Kiev, it was the other vision. The one of the cup.”

Raphael inhaled sharply, but kept his tongue silent. The true vision, he feared.

“I saw a grave, a tomb of a great man. Resting on top of it was a flat plate and a gold cup. I saw my hands reach out and touch the plate, but I knew that was not what I sought. As soon as I had that thought, I felt myself put the plate back, and I reached for the cup instead. I used both hands, and they were not these hands…”

Raphael risked a glance over his shoulder, blinking as the firelight filled his left eye. Percival had raised his hands, staring at them as if he did not recognize them.

“… but they were my hands,” Percival continued. “I picked up the cup, and I thought it was empty until I looked inside. And that is when I saw the wheels.”

He stopped walking. Forgoing his night vision, Raphael stopped as well, turning to face the other man. “What is it?” he asked, sensing Percival had not yet spoken what was truly on his mind.

Percival raised his head and stared off into the night. He looked with such intensity that Raphael turned his head and tried to spy what Percival saw in the night. There was nothing but darkness beyond the camp, and Raphael shivered.

Percival was staring at something. It was not visible, and Raphael had a suspicion that even were the sun to be overhead, driving every shadow into hiding for a thousand miles, he would still not see what Percival saw.

“I’m going the wrong way,” Percival said softly.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

God’s Plan

Andreas and Styg stood in the heart of the raucous audience, watching as the dead Livonian was dragged away. The Khan’s man, a ferocious fighter who had beaten considerable odds, had been driven out of the stadium by men with padded sticks. Men who were clearly terrified of the man, even though he was wounded. He had heard stories from the others about the riot that had followed Haakon’s fight, about the demon warrior with the pole-arm who had slain a number of Mongol guards before they had subdued him. Clearly, this man was of the same ilk, and Andreas found it fascinating that the Mongols were so cowed by their prisoner.

But it was more than just the guards’ trepidation toward the captive warrior. There was a restless uneasiness among them as well. Looking at the seething mass that filled the arena, Andreas began to understand the source of the Mongolian unease. They were mobile warriors, used to fighting their wars on horseback, skilled at covering great distances and making war as far away from their homeland as their great mobility permitted them.

Horses were more of a liability than an asset within the confines of a city, or even the close-knit environs of a forest. He recalled his own ride to the arena, through the throngs of the crowds and the narrow alleys. The Mongols were not weak, but they were not in their place of strength. On some level, they were aware of their reduced capabilities, but they couldn’t do anything about it. Onghwe Khan’s degenerate obsession with blood sports kept them here; but every day they remained, their confidence waned a little more. He could see it-plainly now-in how they handled the volatile assets that were at the heart of their leader’s diversion. They’re as much a prisoner as the men they keep caged, Andreas thought, and it’s starting to become apparent to them that they’ve locked themselves inside the cage with those who have every reason to want to do them harm.

Even as this realization struck Andreas, so too did the urgency of this knowledge. While the Mongols still ran