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 Eleázar—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 floor of the valley. If he could catch one, he could go find the others. Maybe even lend a hand.
He drew up several paces short of the valley floor as he heard the sound of a horse approaching. As he crouched beside a flattened rock, the horse came into view, burdened by a pair of riders. He recognized the one wearing the fanciful outfit, and as he watched, they leaped off their weary horse. He couldn’t help but marvel at how quickly and effortlessly they caught two of the other horses, leaped into their saddles, and galloped off again.
Yasper stared after the fleeing pair, realizing he had just let the Khagan slip through his fingers.
Scrambling to his feet, he started toward the other horses and stopped as he realized he was about to run through a wide smear of gore. Gulping back his queasy stomach, he diverted his course, skirting the glistening patch of blood and body parts.
Some of the other Mongols were moving toward the horses too. The sight of the Khagan had broken their confusion. Yasper was going to have some competition for a steed.
Eleázar saw the huge Mongol unhorse Feronantus, and he mentally clucked his tongue at the elder warrior’s clumsiness. The Mongol had battered the Shield-Brethren with the horsehair lance he carried, the sort of clumsy buffeting employed by an initiate who knew little about fighting from horseback, and Feronantus should have been able to stay in the saddle. Eleázar squeezed his horse with his knees, guiding the animal toward the fallen Shield-Brethren master.
A mounted Mongol warrior charged toward him, bow drawn, and Eleázar raised his shield to block the horseman’s arrow. He felt the arrow hit his shield, and then the Mongol rider was behind him. Twisting in his saddle, Eleázar caught the second arrow in his shield too. The Mongols were really good at shooting their bows from horseback, and he had seen them twist their bodies and shoot arrows behind them.
He swept his shield around, in time to intercept a Mongol sword. He had seen the second rider coming, and knew the pair had been setting him up for a trap. The archer had wanted Eleázar to pay attention to him, so that he wouldn’t notice the other rider coming. Eleázar wasn’t that sort of fool, and he shoved his shield hard at the oncoming rider, bashing the warrior right out of his saddle.
He circled Feronantus, putting himself between the unhorsed knight and a trio of approaching Mongols. “Get on your horse, old man,” he shouted.
Feronantus shouted something in return, but his words were lost in the battlefield noise. Eleázar took several more arrows in his shield, and kneed his horse toward the three archers. They felt they were far enough away for another volley, and Eleázar grinned as he spotted Percival coming from their rear. We know how to distract our enemies too, he thought, holding his shield ready as if he were trying to hide behind it as he charged. Percival broke through them, catching one in the back of the skull with his mace and slicing the throat of another with a backhanded swing of his sword.
The third, distracted by the sudden death of his companions, released his arrow too early and it flew harmlessly past Eleázar’s head. He thrust with his sword as his horse galloped past, feeling the blade slide up the man’s leather armor and catch momentarily on the archer’s jaw. And then it kept moving, opening up the man’s throat.
“The Khagan has fled,” Percival shouted at him. “Waste no more time on this field.” He pointed toward the end of the valley. Eleázar wheeled his horse around and slapped the flat of his blade against his horse’s rump. The animal started, recovering quickly and running hard toward the end of the valley. There were still scattered groups of Mongols, but they looked unorganized. Percival and Vera could take care of them.
As he rode, body moving in concert with his horse’s steady gallop, the occasional Mongol arrow would come his way. Most of them fell short, but a few struck his maille, failing to do much more than get tangled in the chain. Eleázar had lived through a barrage of Mongol arrows before, at the river crossing battle. He laughed. That had been a battle, he thought.
He approached the narrow vale where the alchemist had planned his ambush, and he spotted the wreckage of broken stone and—his stomach tightened at the sight of the carnage wreaked by Yasper’s incendiaries. The route narrowed, and on the left side of the cleft, he spotted a number of unclaimed ponies and a few scattered Mongols.
And one man in Western armor who appeared to be in a losing wrestling match with a Mongol.
Yasper.
Several Mongols turned toward Eleázar, raising their bows, and he goaded his horse, trying to eke more speed out of the animal. Trying to get close enough to bring his weapons to bear. The horse was flagging already; he had ridden it too hard. The Mongols loosed arrows, and his horse stumbled.
It had been bound to happen. Eventually, one of the Mongols would shoot an arrow at his horse instead of him; given how futile their arrows were against Western maille, he was somewhat surprised it had taken them this long to change their tactics. As his horse stumbled again, its lungs laboring, he kicked his feet out of his stirrups and jumped. The horse tripped, plowing head first into the ground, but he was no longer in the saddle.
Eleázar hit the ground, the impact jarring his sword out of his hand, and he rolled, managing to hold on to his shield. As he came out of his roll, he hurled his shield at the Mongols. It was a clumsy missile, but it caused the archers to scatter out of the way. Eleázar darted back to his dying horse, and grabbed his two-handed sword, which was strapped along the horse’s flank.
Whirling the long blade in continuous circles, he charged the archers. One managed to shoot an arrow, and he felt it strike his shoulder, the point tangling in his maille. He cut the first man in half, the second stumbled back enough that Eleázar only managed a deep slice across the front of the man’s hip, and the third one turned and ran before Eleázar’s whirling sword could cut him down.
Yasper was on the ground, trying to shove off the Mongol who was trying to bury a knife in the alchemist’s chest. Eleázar came up behind the struggling pair, and the tip of his two-handed sword caught the Mongol in the side, under the arm, and the blade sliced right through to the spine. The blade caught on bone, but the force of Eleázar’s swing was enough to lift the man bodily off the supine alchemist. Eleázar shook his sword, an expert twitch of his hands, and the blade came free of the nearly severed Mongol, who fell a short distance and then sprawled on the ground, bleeding out in a few seconds.
“Get up, runt,” Eleázar laughed. “This is no time for napping.”
Yasper scrambled to his feet. His face was dark with soot and dirt, blood from a gash across his forehead a lo
ng smear across his face. “The Khagan,” Yasper gasped. “I saw him ride past.”
“Aye,” Eleázar said. “So I have heard.” He nodded toward one of the wandering ponies. “Catch yourself a horse,” he said. “Go after him.”
“What about you?” Yasper said.
Eleázar laughed again. “Me? On one of those tiny little horses?” He shook his head, glancing around the passage out of the valley. “I will stay here for the time being,” he said. “I’ll keep the stragglers busy.” He reached over and yanked the Mongol arrow out of his maille.
They both turned as they heard a pair of horses approaching. The riders wore maille and the red rose of the Shield-Brethren. Yasper pointed in the direction the Khagan had fled, and the horsemen thundered past. Raphael and Feronantus.
“I should be going then,” Yasper said.
“Aye, you should,” Eleázar replied.
“May the Virgin watch over you.” Yasper offered his hand to the Spaniard.
“May the Virgin watch over you as well, little alchemist,” Eleázar said, clasping Yasper’s hand firmly. “It has been good to ride with you.”
“I hope we’ll do it again,” Yasper said.
“Aye. Me too,” Eleázar said. “Now, go!”
Yasper nodded and ran toward one of the wandering Mongol ponies. Eleázar turned toward the valley of the cave bear. Three of the company were going after the Khagan. It fell upon him now to make sure none of the surviving Mongols followed.
He laughed, swinging his two-handed sword as he moved into position.
They weren’t getting past him.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Cast Out
Father Rodrigo seemed to hear Ferenc’s desperate plea. The priest relaxed, his hands slackening on Ocyrhoe’s neck. The girl took a huge, loud draw of breath and was about to let it out when a spasm shook Father Rodrigo’s body. His hands tightened again around her throat; she fought at his grip with furious desperation. Ferenc wrenched Rodrigo’s neck more, until he felt it reach its limit.
Father Rodrigo bellowed with pain as he struggled against Ferenc’s grip, but Ferenc’s hands continued to squeeze. Ocyrhoe’s face turned purple, her tongue protruding from her mouth.
“Stop it, Rodrigo. Rodrigo Bendrito!” Ferenc begged. “Father Rodrigo Bendrito! Listen to me!” He felt tears start from his eyes.
It was unfair to have this choice forced upon him. He and the priest had survived Mohi; they had traveled together for so long. He had built fires to warm the man’s body when the warmth of the fevers had fled; he had foraged for tiny streams within rocky clefts in the high mountains for cool water to cool Father Rodrigo’s burning skin. He had brought the priest to Rome so that his message—the last shred of his faith that had kept him alive throughout their journey—could be delivered. Once in Rome, a land as foreign and strange as any he could possibly imagine, he had found someone who could communicate with him. She used the same finger language as his mother, and almost instantly, this tiny girl had become so important to him.
And now he had to choose between them.
This is what was, his mother had told him, showing him the old roots. This is what will be. She patted the soil where she had recently planted the seeds. What grows is what we remember, what we bind ourselves to.
It is the choices we make.
Father Rodrigo continued to strain in Ferenc’s grip, and from some unearthly source of dreadful strength, he began lifting Ocyrhoe’s thin body off the ground.
“Stop it!” Ferenc was screaming now, his lips against the priest’s ear. “You saved my life at Mohi; let me save yours now! Put her down! Let her go! Rodrigo!”
Father Rodrigo shouted, his voice an octave lower than his normal speaking voice; Ferenc almost expected a demon to slink out of his mouth. Ocyrhoe’s eyes began to roll up.
“Stop it! You are killing her!” Ferenc screamed. “Take the Grail and go!”
“She is the Devil; she must die, or she will follow me forever!” Rodrigo shouted, again in a demonically thundering bass.
Ferenc’s body convulsed with sobs. There was no time, no time to think this through, no time to try some other way. Muttering rapid prayers for forgiveness, he made his choice. Closing his eyes as if that somehow made a difference, he shot his left arm forward and snapped his right arm back, twisting Rodrigo’s head at an impossible angle over his right shoulder. Immediately the priest gasped and shuddered, releasing Ocyrhoe. When Ferenc relaxed his arms, Father Rodrigo made a tiny sound, almost like a sigh of relief, and collapsed at Ferenc’s feet.
Ocyrhoe’s terrified coughs and gasps were so loud and painful that Ferenc did not realize for a moment he was gasping too; he turned away and vomited into the grass, then fell to his knees beside Father Rodrigo’s now lifeless body, sobbing like an orphaned child.
A unruly mob swarmed the streets of Rome. As far as Cardinal Fieschi could tell, the mob was leaderless—agitated citizens with no clear purpose or direction. By the time his carriage reached the Vatican, he was certain the swarm of citizenry milling about the streets was simply there to delay his return. Yet another obstacle he had to endure.
His first stop had been the Orsini estate where he learned that the Senator had been summoned to the Vatican—an unwelcome piece of news for who, other than himself, would summon the Senator? The interminable ride through the crowded streets of Rome did little to dispel his apprehension.
He dismounted quickly from the carriage, angrily rejecting the ostiarius’s offer of a helpful hand. “Senator Orsini,” he snapped. “Is he still here?”
“I believe so,” the porter replied. “He asked to be taken to the main receiving chamber.”
“And the other Cardinals?”
“They are preparing to announce the new Pope,” the ostiarius said.
“And who is the new Pope?” Fieschi asked, secretly fearing that some other reversal had occurred in the time he had been absent.
“Celestine IV,” a woman’s voice provided.
Léna, the Binder from Frederick’s camp, stood on the broad steps. She descended to his level and offered him a respectful bow. “Cardinal Fieschi,” she said. “I had hoped to meet you before I departed.”
“What do you want?” Fieschi snarled.
“How was your visit with the Holy Roman Emperor?” Léna asked, oblivious to his agitation. “I don’t see the girl with you. Were you able to successfully negotiate the return of your missing priest?”
Fieschi grabbed the front of Léna’s cloak and drew her to him. “I know you are working with the Emperor, Binder, in a way that violates your precepts.”
Léna remained unruffled. Up close, he could see there was no fear in her eyes. Only a steadiness of resolve that gave him pause. “You know nothing about me or my sisters, Cardinal Fieschi,” she said quietly. Her eyes flicked down at his clenched fists. “Your hands, Your Eminence,” she pointed out. “Are you sure you want to dirty them again? So soon after the last time?”
Fieschi released her, a very un-Cardinal-like oath threatening to spill out of his mouth. “You are not welcome here,” he said, forcing the profane words aside. “You and your sisters. If I see any of you or hear word that you are in my city, you will be marked as spies and treated accordingly.”
“Your city?” Léna noted.
“Yes,” Fieschi snapped. “My city.” He gestured at the buildings around them, especially the rounded dome of St. Peter’s Basilica. “My church.”
“Of course it is,” Léna said, a mixture of admiration and revulsion in her voice. “I will be sure to tell my sisters they are no longer welcome here. When they are released from wherever the Senator has them imprisoned, that is.” She offered the Cardinal a hard smile. “It would be disappointing if we were not allowed the freedom to meet your demand that the Binders quit Rome.”
“Take them,” Fieschi said. “Take all of them with you. I left one with the Emperor already.”
“Yes,” Léna said. “Good. I apprecia
te you taking her to Frederick. That was very helpful.”
“Helpful?” Fieschi choked, instantly disliking the idea that he had been, in any way, helpful to this woman.
Léna reached up and extracted a tiny chain from beneath her cloak. She closed her hand over whatever was suspended from the end of the silver loop and broke the chain with a sharp jerk of her hand. She laid her still-closed hand over her heart. “Cardinal Sinibaldo Fieschi, I am bound to you with a message.”
“What nonsense is this?” Fieschi sputtered.
“A message from Pope Gregory IX,” she finished. She opened her hand and held it out to him. Resting on her palm was a small gold ring. A Greek letter, broken in half, was stamped on its surface. “He wanted this ring delivered to his successor.”
His heart pounding, Fieschi reached for the ring, but Léna closed her hand suddenly.
“Thus delivered of my message, I am like the fox,” she said, “unbound here and everywhere. Do you agree, Cardinal Fieschi? I will deliver your late Pope’s message because that is what a Binder does, but in doing so, I am freed. Unencumbered by all.”
“Yes,” Cardinal Fieschi said. “Yes. Give it to me.”
Léna closed her eyes briefly and then opened her hand. “And so it is done,” she said softly. The ring fell into Fieschi’s outstretched hand, and he closed his fingers quickly, before she changed her mind.
“Ho, porter,” she called to the ostiarius standing nearby. “Is that carriage available?”
“My apologies, Lady,” the priest said. “It belongs to the Church.”
“Of course it does,” she said. “But I am sure the Church would put it at my disposal, wouldn’t it, Cardinal Fieschi?”
He started at the sound of her voice. The ring was heavy in his hand, and he wanted to look at it. He wanted to put it on.
The Mongoliad: Book Three Page 63