The Mongoliad: Book Three

Brethren.

In the weeks since, Cnan had noticed how the weight of that saying-the burden of their journey-was starting to show on the old veteran from Tyrshammar. He may have traveled to the far edges of Christendom, but the steppe was much broader than he could have imagined, and occasionally Cnan could read a crumbling despair in Feronantus’s eyes when he stared at the distant horizon. What had, in the beginning, seemed like a simple plan- ride east, passing over the Land of the Skulls and into the heartland of the Mongol Empire, and kill the Great Khan-was becoming such an extended odyssey that he was beginning to doubt they would reach their goal in time to save the West.

“That one over there is Khan Tengri,” Cnan said as the rest of the company reached the overlook, pointing to the white peak, blazing in the afternoon sun. “We are close to the Zuungar Gap.” The mountain floated above a layer of blue and gray clouds, a slab of flying marble like the mystical and unreachable home of foreboding gods. “When the sun sets,” Cnan finished, “the snow turns red.”

Istvan hawked and spat, and Cnan wasn’t sure if the Hungarian’s reaction was one of disbelief or if he was engaged in some manner of warding ritual. More and more, she had begun to see the Hungarian as a deeply superstitious man, one who was both haunted and hunted by some spirits only he could perceive. He hadn’t been completely taken by the influence of the freebutton mushrooms for many weeks, but she suspected he still had a secret cache of them on his person and that he would, from time to time, chew one.

“Tengri,” Yasper mused. “Isn’t that the name of the Mongol god?” The light from the distant mountain peak seemed to be reflecting from his face. “Does he live up there?”

Cnan shook her head. “No, the Mongols aren’t like that. They believe in spirits. Everything has a spirit-the rocks, the trees, all the animals-and these spirits are all part of the world that flowed from Tengri.”

“That is not dissimilar to the Christian view of the soul,” Raphael pointed out.

“Ah, but the Christian soul is unique and distinct,” Yasper countered. “Your soul inhabits your body, and when your body perishes, your soul goes to Heaven. It is still your soul. I suspect-and correct me if I am wrong, Cnan-when something dies, the Mongols believe its spirit flows back to Tengri where it is reabsorbed into the great expanse that is their god.”

Cnan shrugged, indicating that this conversation was already well beyond her.

“You are separate from God, good Raphael,” Yasper continued, “I suspect the Mongols and their world are not. In fact, I am sure we will find a shrine near the top of the gap that is dedicated to the rocks and the trees that manage to thrive at this height, so close to the realm of the Sky God.” Yasper seemed genuinely thrilled by the idea.

“I’m sure the Church will be delighted to send missionaries to endlessly debate this distinction,” Feronantus observed dryly.

“We could let these two debate it now,” R?dwulf said. “We have many days left in our journey.”

Feronantus smiled at the longbowman’s enthusiasm. “I am a fighting man,” he said. “Not a theologian or a philosopher. All of this talk is well beyond my simple understanding, and I fear such discourse will be meaningless to me.”

“I think your understanding is far from simple,” Raphael noted dryly.

“Perhaps,” Feronantus said. “But it is my understanding.” The old veteran tapped his horse with his reins, nudging it back to the sloping path. The others, sensing the time was over for scenic viewing and rhetorical discourse, followed until only Cnan and Raphael remained.

“There,” she said, pointing. “Do you see it?”

Raphael nodded. There were winds blowing at the top of the mountain, and a gauzy curtain of white mist fluttered at the tip as if it were caught upon that high spire. Below the slope of the mountain was changing color- gold to crimson.

“I have heard stories about the Shield-Brethren, though I have little faith they contain but the merest morsel of truth to them. They are like many fanciful tales one hears along the trade routes,” Cnan said as the others moved out of earshot. “You pretend to fight for the Christian God, but you swear your oaths to someone else, don’t you?”

“Does it matter?” Raphael countered. “If the oath I am swearing is to protect people like you and other innocents?”

“Do you all swear the same oath?” she asked.

“We do,” Raphael said.

“But it means something different to some of you, doesn’t it?” she pressed.

“Aye,” he said softly. “I fear that it might.”

Ahead of them, Khan Tengri became drenched with blood.

The wind howled so vociferously and with such zeal that, for the rest of the day after they breached the gap and began their rapid descent down the other side, Raphael’s ears were blocked. His head was filled with the shrieking echo of Boreas, the angry north wind that had attempted to drive them back with the sheer volume of its outrage.

But they had doggedly kept moving, hauling their horses by the reins when the beasts balked at going any farther. He had taken part in the crusade in Egypt, and the disastrous march on Cairo had tested him vigorously; others in the company had been in similar campaigns, and they knew their wills were stronger than any temporary pain. They knew the only way to complete any journey was to focus on the ground in front of them. Place one foot, and then the next. Do not look at the unmoving horizon or the immobile sun. One step at a time. The Shield- Brethren can always take one more step.

The Gap was a narrow slit, as if God-or Tengri-had cut a notch in the shoulder of the mountain, and the wind shrieked with near physical violence as they dragged their terrified horses through the rocky defile. On the eastern side of the gap, the land dropped away rapidly. By nightfall, which came so quickly that Raphael wondered if God had snuffed out the sun as soon as it had passed beyond the notch of the gap, they were already below the snow line.

The route descended into an endless forest filled with tall and narrow trees, unlike any evergreen that Raphael had seen before. The needles were like the trees in the West, long and pointed, but the trees held their branches close to their trunks. In the West, the evergreens spread their branches wide, as if they were offering shelter to any weary traveler; the trees on the eastern slopes of the Tien Shan struck him as being wary of strangers.

He felt as if he was constantly being watched as the company made their way down into the long valley. This land knew they were invaders and regarded them with a great deal of suspicion.

He slept poorly that night.

Shortly before midday, the evergreens began to thin out, invaded by squat, broad-crowned leafy trees. R? dwulf recognized them as walnut trees, and he and Yasper dismounted from their horses to fill several bags with the hard-shelled nuts. Istvan enjoyed cracking the nuts with his bare hands.

Raphael suspected the walnuts signified the presence of water, and an hour later, the company discovered a crystalline tarn nestled in the basin of the valley. A rocky moraine at the southern end formed a natural dam, and the water was bluer than the pale, cloud-dappled sky.

And much colder.

Feronantus called a halt and announced they would overnight on the bank of the lake. They had been traveling hard for several weeks, and the strain of the journey was clearly etched on everyone’s face. The sun was warm on the rocks, there was little wind (especially in comparison to the howling gale of the gap), and there was food and water in ready supply. It was a good camp.

Yasper broached the lake first. With some effort, he pried his stiff clothing off. Venting a shrill battle cry, he dashed for the water. His voice became more agitated as his pale legs entered the lake, and his words turned blasphemous. But he kept going, and eventually his head disappeared beneath the surface. He reemerged almost immediately-shuddering, his lips blue and teeth chattering-but his mood was irrepressibly jubilant. “It’s warmer than it looks,” he shouted to the rest of the company, all of whom wore doubtful expressions. He splashed water at Istvan, who danced back from the spray as if it were hot coals.

“You first,” Vera said to Raphael in response to his raised eyebrow. Her expression brooked no argument.