The Mongoliad: Book Three tfs-3

by Neal Stephenson

  “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 t
his knowledge. While the Mongols still ran the Circus, their control was less absolute. Order in Hunern was precarious now, and the tiniest nudge was probably all that was required to make it slip, to let chaos in, and then devastation would visit Hunern again.

  If I’ve noticed this, then others must have as well. Moving quickly through the crowd, Andreas forced his way out of the stands, Styg at his side. He had shown himself at the arena, letting the people take note of his presence, and he had witnessed for himself the type of fighters that the Khan had at his disposal, and now it was time to report back to Rutger.

  To say that the situation had ever truly been under control was to lie, but the calm that had settled over Hunern in the wake of this seeming return to routine was a sham. Violence simmered beneath the surface of the city, waiting for the slightest provocation. Waiting to erupt.

  “That man,” Styg said, “was amazing. Call it luck, or call it fortune, but I’ve never seen such odds so quickly reversed.”

  “He wanted to live,” Andreas said as they reached the stairs and began to descend into the dim tunnel beneath the stands. “The Livonian didn’t understand what happens when you corner a wild beast, no matter how strong his advantage might have seemed.” He paused, and with a touch, brought Styg to a halt as well. “Remember that, Styg. There are few advantages that can’t be tipped when your opponent wants victory more than you do.”

  Styg nodded. The implications seemed to chill him.

  Arvid and Sakse were waiting with the horses, and with the eagerness of unblooded youth, they wanted to hear about the fight. Andreas let Styg tell the tale, falling slightly behind the three men as they rode out of town. He prayed-fervently and silently-that the Virgin would hold back the waiting deluge of violence just a little longer. Once it started, it would not be controlled or stopped. At best, it could be channeled; if they were lucky, they might be able to turn it in the right direction.

  Otherwise, he feared, the Shield-Brethren would be its first victims.

  Dietrich punished the pell until the rope suspending the wooden block from the rafters snapped. The wood thudded to the earthen floor, and Dietrich stared at it for a long moment, furious that it had the audacity to lie down on him. Breathing more heavily than his pride wanted to acknowledge, he sheathed his sword and glanced around for something to quench his overwhelming thirst. Something to drown the fury still within him.

  His man should have won the fight today. The Khan’s man should have been the one bleeding out in the sand, not his knight. Yet another embarrassing incident for the Livonian order. His knight had been better armed and had worn maille that protected him from the other man’s inferior weapons. But it hadn’t been enough. It hadn’t been nearly enough.

  To make matters worse, the fight came on the heels of the meetings with the other militant orders-meetings that had ranged from frostily standoffish to downright disastrous. The other Grandmasters had, as a whole, been indifferent to his charges and his concerns. They all had been circumspect in their language and demeanor, but Dietrich had spent enough time at royal courts to read the unspoken distain and dismissal in their carriages.

  No wonder they think I am a fool, he thought. The best man I can field for the arena turns out to be an incompetent corpse.

  He had seen the fight from his usual place at the top of the stands, watching his man stumble instead of seizing opportunities. The hatchet in the back should have ended the fight, but instead the heathen bastard had plucked the weapon free and used it against his Livonian opponent. His man had given the enemy his weapon! The whole fight could have only been more embarrassing if the knight had fallen on his weapon and killed himself.

  Moreover, he had seen the two Shield-Brethren knights in the audience, and with a creeping, seething certainly, he knew the audience was imagining how the fight would have gone if one of them had been down on the sand. The knights of Petraathen would have been victorious.

  The rotting timbers of the old barn did little to keep out the noise of the Livonian compound, and he could hear the din of his soldiers doing their drills. Gritting his teeth, he cursed his current accommodations and how they denied him the slightest solitude. The echo of steel against steel sounded so timorous that each clash fouled his mood even more.

  He cast about for the wineskin he had brought along. Drinking hadn’t cured his mood, and he had thought that some physical activity might assuage his temper, but the rope had failed him-like so much of this godforsaken place, he thought-and it was time to return to the solace of the wine. There were times when he envied the common man and the ease of his vices. The callings of the just and the righteous could make taking one’s pleasures far more complicated than it needed to be, especially when one was a man of position, tenuous though that might be.

  He found the skin and took a long swallow. Staring absently at the far wall, he tried to put aside his frustration and concentrate on what he could accomplish.

  An isolated thud interrupted his musing, and he glanced about, listening. The din of training had lessened, and there was a hum of voices growing nearer. One pleaded, and the other responded in clipped tones, swatting the first man’s words aside like they were nothing more than an annoying fly. Dietrich smiled, the wineskin suddenly forgotten in his hands, as recognition of that second voice took hold of him swiftly, pulling his attention away from his frustrated ruminations and into the here and now.

  The door to the barn banged open, and two men walked through. One, the pleader, was a new recruit, his spurs freshly earned and his courage not proven. The pale fuzz of his young beard didn’t quite hide the lack of a chin, and his voice grated on Dietrich’s ears even as he profusely apologized.

  “Forgive me, Heermeister,” the young knight babbled. “I told him that you were busy at your drills, and that he should take a moment to eat or drink after his lengthy ride-”

  The other man brushed aside the complaints with a dismissive cut of his hand that struck the pleader across the mouth. Dietrich knew this one well, and much of his exhaustion and dismal mood were swept away by the sight of those cold and merciless blue eyes.

  “Apologies, Heermeister,” Kristaps said. “As this knave says, I have ridden long, but my news is of greater import than the needs of my belly.” He was soaked through, his maille damaged and his tabard stained with blood. He could easily be mistaken for a battlefield wretch, a man-at-arms who had miraculously survived an enemy’s charge by hiding beneath the fallen bodies of his comrades, but one only had to stare at those eyes for a moment to realize that such craven behavior would be incomprehensible to this man.

  God has heard my prayers, Dietrich thought. In my hour of need, he grants me salvation.

  Sir Kristaps of Steiermark, the First Sword of Fellin. Known to his enemies as Kristaps Red-Hilt and as Volquin’s Dragon. One of the few who survived Schaulen; had it not been for Kristaps, none of them would have lived.

  “It is a long ride from Rus,” Dietrich said, coming out of his shock and remembering where Kristaps had been. “You came alone?”

  Kristaps nodded, his face suffusing with an intense anger. “Overall, our errand was a success,” he said in a tightly controlled voice. “Later, I will report of what we learned of the land’s defenses. It was in the matter of the Lavra that our efforts were blunted by an ambush on the part of the Shield-Brethren.” His eyes flashed. “Feronantus was there, Heermeister.” He spat the name, and those that followed. “As well as Percival, Raphael, and Eleazar, and several others. Twelve all told, I think. Many of their finest.”

  Suddenly, it all made sense to Dietrich. The Shield-Brethren had broken their oath to the Pope: their best were not at the Circus of Swords, minding their duty. Instead, Feronantus had taken a party of his best knights on some errand that had them crossing paths with his own scouts in Rus. What were they doing out there? Did they know what the Livonian order was planning? Were they after some secret of their own? Why had they abandoned Christendom?

  There were to
o many questions, and they tumbled noisily in his head, banging against a gleeful thought that threatened to crush them entirely-a way in which his honor, his order’s honor-could be restored.

  He held up his hand, more to silence his own flurry of thinking than to cut Kristaps off. There was nothing he could do about the Shield-Brethren’s betrayal at the moment. There was a more critical opportunity that needed to be seized.

  “We have both endured sufferings at the hands of the Shield-Brethren, sufferings that have as yet been unavenged,” he said. “I will hear more of your mission in the Rus, and what you know of these scurrilous Shield-Brethren, but first, I must ask: can you fight?”

  Kristaps stared at him, his eyes even colder than before, and for a second Dietrich wondered if he had mistakenly spoken too plainly. It was, ultimately, a foolish question to ask Kristaps; if the man could breathe, he could fight. To question that dedication was rather impolitic of the Heermeister of the order to whom Kristaps had sworn his life and his sword.

  Kristaps’s face lost some of its ruddy color, and the hint of a smile curled his cruel mouth. “Of course, Heermeister,” he said. “I slew one of their number with my dagger, and God did not strike me down. In fact, He spared me so that I could return and perform more work for Him.”

  There was the fervor and the passion that his current company of men lacked. If Dietrich could have had even fifty men like Kristaps, Schaulen would never have happened, and the pagans of the north would still know their place. He flicked a hand at the foppish knight who had tried to prevent Kristaps’s entrance. “Food and wine,” he commanded.

  As the younger warrior scurried away, Dietrich offered his wineskin to Kristaps. “Oh, yes,” he said. “God has a plan, and I think you will find it very satisfying.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Stone Ring