The Mongoliad: Book One tfs-1

by Neal Stephenson

Was Percival’s vision a stalk that was soon to flower? Did it flow from his sense of honor—held dearer to him than life itself? The first few times he had spoken of this honor, she had snorted and rolled her eyes, but since then, she had seen him act under its power—several times at mortal peril.

  The memory of him pulling her from the path of the Mongols and slinging her across his saddle, defending her even when his horse fell, weighed on her. She stole a glance at him as he rode, some yards away, on a steed taken from their enemies. For all Percival’s skill in the saddle, the animal would never be as responsive or as swift and powerful as his lost Tonnerre.

  Was it honor or grief that drove him? Should she feel pity or sympathy? She looked away, unable to resolve the confusion in her head and heart. In many ways, the unforgiving and savaged terrain of Rus was easier to understand.

  When she had come west across the Great Khan’s empire, Cnán had taken care to avoid cities, except where absolutely necessary. She had seen, on more than one occasion, what was left behind by the Mongolian Horde as it swept across the plains. Like Illarion, she was prepared for there to be nothing left but the shattered remains of the crown jewel of Rus. Still, she was taken aback by the vista laid out before them when they crested a rise that brought them within view of the city’s southern walls.

  The only sign a city had once occupied the plain was the ragged outline inscribed by the remnants of the city’s defenses. Amidst the rubble and devastation, there were paths—avenues between houses that had not been entirely filled in with heaps of rubble and the charred timbers from houses—but there was little sense in the chaos that a great many people had once lived here. Some buildings still stood, edifices of stone and brick that had refused to succumb to fire and the Mongol pillage, but all that remained of their former glory was a sad struggle to remain upright, like old soldiers who, on their deathbeds, try to wear their armor and lift their swords one last time.

  Illarion pulled up his horse. “There is the south gate,” he murmured as the group paused beside him. “We called it the ‘Golden Gate,’ and in the morning light, it would be so bright. But now…” The bitterness in his voice, and the ache, was unmistakable.

  Cnán turned her eyes to where he and the Brethren stared and there caught sight of the ruined majesty of Kiev’s fabled Golden Gate. They were tall, wrought of reddish stone that caught the light of the summer sun like dull fire. The wrath of the Mongols had badly damaged the keep about the gate-house, and much of the carved stone had been savaged by the siege, but even from this distance, and through those scars, she could appreciate the beauty the craftsmen had wrought.

  They lingered for a long moment, Feronantus watching Illarion closely, but not intruding on his reverie. Cnán took the opportunity to study the city more closely as the others began to talk.

  “My wife had family here,” Illarion said. “I had thought… if they had survived, somehow, they might have been of assistance, but…” He didn’t finish.

  “On the hill,” Percival said, idly patting and stroking the neck of his mount, as if from long habit. “A church still stands, does it not?”

  Illarion pulled himself out of his reverie. “Yes, Sobor Svyatoi Sofii,” he said, and then translated the name for them. “The Cathedral of St. Sophia.”

  Roger grunted at the name, but he did not push the matter further, instead looking to Feronantus, waiting to see what he would say.

  The old leader of the Shield-Brethren sat on his horse like a judge, scrutinizing the walls, towers, and gates with the eye of a man attempting to discern the safest route across a territory he did not wish to enter to begin with.

  Caution, and concern, narrowed his eyes. After a long while, he spoke. “Illarion, what lies beneath the church?”

  The Ruthenian glanced at him and then at Percival before answering. “A monastery. Pechersk Lavra.”

  “This is your land,” Feronantus said, ignoring both Roger and Cnán’s gazes. “And though the city is a ruin, that church still stands, and its stones must have some power.” He smiled grimly. “The sort of power that would draw pilgrims, penitents who seek solace in the wake of the armies of the Great Khan. It is the sort of place a man such as yourself might go, having survived the ordeal you have been through.”

  Illarion nodded. “Yes, that is a role I can play.”

  “Take Raphael, Percival, and Roger. They are your escort,” Feronantus said, the plan decided. “We will follow at pace, after we ascertain the intelligence of our pursuer.”

  CHAPTER 24:

  THE BRAWL AT THE BRIDGE

  Hans’s deputy told them the priest was not going to visit the Shield-Brethren alone, but in the company of two Livonian Knights. Their destination lay across the river and past the battlefields where the armies of Christendom had been defeated by the Mongols—a route that, even after a few months, was not safe for a solitary priest. As they were making the trip on horseback, they would have to travel to the west—to reach the bridge that had been built over the river—before they could swing north.

  If they wanted to intercept the priest, they would do well to do so before he reached the bridge. Hans, with a smile, informed Kim that he knew a shortcut.

  Hans led Kim on an utterly confusing footrace through the seediest of the seedy places that filled the bulk of the makeshift slum: past impromptu drink houses (so denoted by patchwork roofs of canvas strung haphazardly between the remnants of ruined walls), slipping and dodging the pools of filth and waste strewn in the back; through fields of ragged tents, laid nearly atop one another; across blackened fields that were still nothing more than mud and ash, filled with piles of detritus and scrap that were the refuse of the refuse diggers.

  Kim was not surprised such routes existed through the city; all natives quickly learned the most expedient way to travel from one location to another. He knew many similar routes through Byeokrando, in fact, and had surprised a number of rough characters on several occasions by suddenly appearing in front of them when they thought they had left him behind. He followed Hans closely, trying to step where the youth stepped, matching the handholds as they clambered over piles of trash and rubble.

  Before long, Kim began to get glimpses of Pius and the two knights through the clutter of tents and lean-tos. The escorts’ mounts were less bowlegged than the mule Pius was riding. Beneath their surcoats—emblazoned with the red cross and sword they had seen on the standard—the knights wore mail shirts that extended past their waists. Their gauntlets were stiffened leather, and their helms were short cones of metal with crosspieces running across the front and extending down over their noses. They wore swords on their belts and each carried a long spear—a pole longer than his staff and topped with a pointed blade several inches long.

  Kim nudged Hans as the young man slowed down, pointing ahead of them toward where the slum thinned out. The bridge, exhibiting all the hallmarks of Mongolian engineering, was a choke point controlled by the Khan. Kim would not be surprised if there was a levy collected on all travelers who used it; Onghwe Khan knew that most travelers would submit to parting with a few coins versus fording the narrow river on their own. Such methods of taxation had become an integral part of the Great Khan’s empire. And anywhere money was collected, there would be security—at least an arban of Mongolian troops who would be much more rigorous in their duties than the lazy soldiers guarding the camp.

  If he was going to catch up with Pius, he had to do it before the priest reached the bridge.

  Hans nodded, understanding the need, and altered his route accordingly. After leaping over a foul-smelling trench of shit and piss, they skirted a copse of scraggly pine trees that ran close to the road. The road kinked slightly at the trees, and there was a small stretch of ground where the view from the bridge was partially blocked.

  Useful, just in case the conversation wasn’t entirely peaceful.

  Hans hung back, hiding among the trees, while Kim stepped into the path of the oncoming riders and planted his st
aff on the ground. “Pius,” he called. “A word, if you please.”

  The three riders were startled, and Kim noticed that the knight on his right had trouble controlling his horse. The animals were skittish, not bred for combat.

  “Ki…Kim,” Father Pius said. “I have not completed my errands.” His eyes tracked back and forth between the two knights flanking him.

  “Yes, Pius, I know,” Kim said. “When we met, I asked you to deliver my note to the men who wore the red rose.” He took a few steps closer to the trio as he used his staff to point to the knight on his left. “While that mon is red, it is not a rose. It looks not unlike that cross you wear about your own neck.”

  “They…ah…” Father Pius nervously played with the reins of his mule. “They are my escort. Not every road is safe for a man of God.”

  “I see,” Kim said. He was even closer now. If he stayed too far from the knights, they could charge him, and while the ground was open enough that he might be able to evade the thrusts of their spears, a running fight against a man on horseback was a foolish battle for a man on foot. It was much better to be in close, where the benefit of being on a horse was lessened. Especially a horse that was not trained for combat. “And when you went to these men, did you only ask for their aid, or did you discuss another matter?”

  From the way Father Pius blanched, Kim had his answer, but he gave no outward indication other than to relax his grip on his staff. The one on the left, he thought.

  Pius flapped his reins. “Out of my way,” he snorted, trying to goad his mule into motion, but the animal showed no sign of budging.

  The knight closest to Kim leaned forward and jabbed his spear at Kim, lending a martial imperative to the priest’s command. Kim whipped up his staff as he took a deep step forward, batting the tip of the spear to the outside. The knight’s arm was above Kim’s head, an unnatural and exposed position to be in during a spear fight, and Kim jabbed the tip of his staff deep into the mounted man’s exposed armpit.

  The knight recoiled, his spear flopping in his suddenly weak grip. He tried to bring the point back to bear on Kim. Kim whipped his staff to his left, smacking the knight’s arm hard, and then flipped the tip to the right—left hand forward and down, right hand drawing back—connecting solidly with the side of the knight’s head.

  The whole exchange happened so quickly that it seemed to be one fluid reaction to the knight’s thrust with his spear. Pius’s mule, still being reluctant to respond to its rider’s commands, started in surprise as the knight fell off his horse with a chingling thud. The other knight swore and kicked his own horse in the ribs, trying to get into a better position. He charged Kim, thrusting with his spear, but Kim was already moving to put the riderless horse between them.

  The knight charged off into the fallow pasture beside the road, getting enough distance from Kim that he could turn his animal safely. Far enough to generate some speed on his return, making his mount an effective weapon as well. Not a bad tactic.

  Kim picked up the fallen knight’s spear and took a moment to turn and poke Pius’s mule with the tip. Not enough to wound the animal, but enough to make it react. The mule reared, dumping Pius on the ground, and Kim turned his attention to the remaining knight.

  The knight’s horse was still skittish, and when he didn’t charge immediately, Kim glanced over at the knight he had unseated, and seeing he was conscious, he stepped over and smacked the man in the head with the butt of his spear. Stay down.

  The knight abandoned his horse. The animal was too uncontrollable, and Kim was surrounded by supine bodies and other animals. There was no advantage to charging into that mix. On the ground, at least, they would be more equally classed. He approached Kim cautiously, his spear held in a grip that positioned the weapon across his body—butt near his head, point directed at the ground. It didn’t seem that aggressive of a stance, and so Kim remained still, the tip of his spear pointed at his approaching adversary. Waiting for him to make a move.

  As the knight came closer, he raised his tip slightly, and then he came on in a rush, beating Kim’s point aside to clear the line for a thrust. Kim, moving more quickly, stepped into the man’s attack—past the lazy point that would have struck him had he remained still. He brought the butt end of his spear around in a quick smash to the man’s head. The knight pulled up short, yanking his head back, and only caught part of Kim’s butt against his helmet. His eyes widened as he realized where his face was, and he tried to pull back even farther as Kim drove the end of the spear into his nose.

  Cartilage crunched and blood spewed out of the man’s broken nose. Kim stepped back with his left leg, putting some distance between them now, and he brought the tip of his spear up and around, smacking the other man’s spear down so that the point buried itself in the ground. The man tried to hang on to his weapon. His face was a mass of blood and snot, and his teeth were bared as if he could scare Kim off with his monstrous expression.

  Kim—centered, coiled, calm—looked him in the eye and then snapped his hips forward, driving all his energy up his trunk, into his arms, and into the arc of the moving spear. The impact—high on the knight’s chest, above the red cross on his surcoat—lifted him off his feet.

  He landed in a heap and made no move to rise. Kim tossed both spears toward the cluster of trees, far enough away that no one would think of them as readily accessible, and returned to the fallen priest.

  Pius was senseless, more from nerves and shock than any obvious blow to the head, but he was still breathing. Kim didn’t waste any time trying to revive him; he had had enough of the priest’s scurrilous behavior. He rummaged through the man’s satchel and found what he was looking for. In fact, he found more than one.

  Hans was at his elbow suddenly, pulling at his sleeve. “The guards,” the young man said, pointing. A handful of Mongolians, astride their short ponies, were coming in their direction from the bridge. “We need to go.”

  Kim fumbled with the pair of small scrolls. Neither was sealed, though it looked like one had been at one time—there were still bits of wax stuck to the edge. They both seemed to start with the same letters. Kim Alcheon, Last of the Flower Knights, to Feronantus…he imagined the words read. The unsealed one appeared to have been written more hurriedly, though what it said he could not divine.

  “There is no time,” Hans said, trying to get his attention.

  Kim grabbed the young man’s shirt and thrust both scrolls at him. “The Shield-Brethren,” he said, holding Hans’s attention. Is there someone you could trust more? “Are they honorable?”

  Hans squirmed in his grip, clearly more concerned about the approaching Mongols than a conversation about honor.

  Kim held him tight. “Will they protect you?”

  Hans stopped and met Kim’s gaze. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, they will.”

  “Go, then,” Kim said, taking a quick glance at the approaching riders. “Take them these messages. One of them is true. One is not. Both may have value to them. They will understand.” They have to; my time has run out. He shoved Hans toward the trees. “Run, Hans. Run all the way.”

  One last glance over his shoulder was all Hans needed as encouragement, and he grabbed the scrolls from Kim and darted away, running like a rabbit for the security of the slum’s maze.

  Kim watched him go and then let out a long breath, letting all the tension flow from his body. He bent to pick up his staff, and as he stood, he pushed back his hood. The sun felt good against his face, and he waited until the leader of the Mongol group shouted at him before he turned around.

  When they heard the signal—the distinct weeka weeka weeka of the black-tailed godwit—Andreas and his students stopped their sparring. After the last unannounced visitor, they were more sensitive to the appearance of strangers in the wood surrounding their Brethren chapter house. Weapons in hand, they moved toward the front of the ruined monastery—not aggressively, but with a clear unfriendly disposition.

  A hooded figure emer
ged from the tree line, guiding a small figure. The sentry’s name was Eilif, a blond-haired phantom of the woods, and his captive was a scrawny lad, yet lithe and active—this boy wasn’t like the typical urchins who seemed to spring out of the ruins like weeds growing in an unplowed field. “Said he has a message for Feronantus,” Eilif said as the group of Shield-Brethren gathered around.

  “Does he now?” Andreas said, appraising the boy. It was not lost on him that the boy seemed to know a little Latin; he tried to seem bored and without a care, but his eyes tracked them too well. He was listening intently to their words. “Was he alone?” he asked Eilif.

  “Been following him since the river.”

  Andreas nodded. Eilif took that as a dismissal and faded back into the trees, vanishing once again to his phantasmal role as the chapter house’s watchful eye.

  “Boy,” Andreas said, catching the youth’s attention, “what message do you bring?”

  “For the leader of the Red Rose,” the boy said, haltingly. He pointed to the standard flying over the ruined monastery.

  “I’m their leader,” Andreas said. “You can give it to me.”

  The boy screwed up his face and shook his head. “Feronantus,” he said, holding steady to his demand.

  Andreas squatted and looked the boy squarely in the face, intrigued by the youth’s persistence. The youth didn’t know Feronantus wasn’t here, but he knew enough of the Shield-Brethren master to know that Andreas wasn’t the man he was looking for. “Who sent you?” he asked, wondering whom the boy had been talking to. Haakon? The Mongol camp continued to rebuff their inquiries about the fate of their missing Brother. It had been more than two weeks since the young fighter had gone through the Red Veil, and no one had been able to discover what had happened. The mood among the Shield-Brethren was turning more and more murderous, and Rutger had his hands full with their tempers in check.

  “Flower Knight,” the boy said, and when that name failed to produce any response from Andreas, he performed an exaggerated pantomime—whirling his hands around.