He could see cracks in the vessel, and even with all this light and warmth, the cracks could not be healed…
Father Rodrigo struggled in Ferenc’s grip. “What are you doing, boy?” the priest screamed. His eyes were wild and his face was pale with blotches of red-the same sort of coloration that Ferenc had seen during more than one of the priest’s feverish fits. “She wants to steal the Grail. She’s a child of Satan.”
He didn’t believe what Father Rodrigo was saying-he couldn’t-and he felt more strongly the fear he had been trying to push away. He had seen the priest become lost in his fever fogs before, but never like this. Never with such little warning.
Without taking his eyes off Father Rodrigo, Ferenc listened to the sounds of movement behind him: Ocyrhoe’s ragged breathing; her hands and knees moving across the rough ground; the sound of cloth scraping against the same. Father Rodrigo thrust out an arm, pointing over Ferenc’s shoulder, and he heard Ocyrhoe’s horse spook with a deep snort.
“Stop her!” Father Rodrigo shrieked.
“Father,” Ferenc said, gently taking the priest’s outstretched hand with both of his and pulling it toward his heart. “Look away. Calm yourself. I beg you. She is not your enemy. She only wants to help. I want to help.” He squeezed the priest’s fingers.
Father Rodrigo shoved Ferenc sharply, and he staggered backward and barely caught himself from falling. “Open your eyes, boy! Domine, oculos habet, et non videbut.” His eyes were frighteningly bright and large, and he pulled his hand free of Ferenc’s grip. Shivering with rage, he grabbed Ferenc’s shoulders and spun the boy around. “I have seen her in my visions, and she is all that stands between me and our salvation. Look!”
Ocyrhoe dashed across the road, her legs at awkward angles as if each wanted to flee in a different direction. She clutched both the cup and the priest’s satchel against her chest.
With a roar, Father Rodrigo released Ferenc and threw himself at the fleeing girl, his hands grasping and clawing. Ferenc saw her, in her confusion and terror, grab the satchel even tighter to herself rather than attempt to avoid his outstretched hands. Father Rodrigo grabbed Ocyrhoe by the hair, yanking her to a stop. She cried out, struggling in his grip, and Ferenc flinched as she wrenched herself free, leaving a fistful of hair in Father Rodrigo’s grip.
Ferenc shook himself free of the fear that was paralyzing him and sprang after Father Rodrigo. The priest heard him coming this time, shook him off as he tried to wrap his arms around the mad priest. Father Rodrigo threw an elbow back, catching Ferenc on the bridge of the nose, and Ferenc tried to blink away the flood of tears that sprang into his eyes.
The priest lunged after Ocyrhoe again, grabbing at her neck and shoulders this time. As he found his grip, he squeezed and lifted her so that she was poised on her toes. Her face was very red, and her hands flew to her throat, trying to pry loose his grip.
“Father, stop,” Ferenc hissed. He grabbed Father Rodrigo’s arm and pulled, but it was like trying to pull a full-grown tree out of the ground. He slapped Father Rodrigo, but the priest ignored him. Ocyrhoe sputtered and choked. She had dropped both the satchel and the cup, and her tiny hands beat ineffectively at Father Rodrigo’s arms.
Ferenc looked at Father Rodrigo’s eyes and saw no sign of the priest he once knew.
He stood on his toes, and wrapped his right arm around the priest’s head and face. “I have to do this,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.” With his left arm folding in against his own chest, he grabbed Father Rodrigo’s right ear in his left hand.
The priest’s body tightened against his, dumbly realizing something was amiss. His hands stopped tightening, but he did not release Ocyrhoe.
Having gotten the man’s attention, Ferenc carefully pulled a little with his right arm as he pushed with his left, forcing Father Rodrigo’s head deosil enough to be uncomfortable. A nervous cry slipped from the priest’s mouth, almost as loud as Ocyrhoe’s rasping gasps for air, and Ferenc found himself almost unable to maintain his grip. He had heard the sound before when Father Rodrigo had moments of lucidity during his bouts of fever madness.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ferenc saw Ocyrhoe’s frightened face and her mouth, opening and closing like that of a fish pulled out of the water. He felt the muscles in his arms tremble, and he tightened his embrace. He had to be strong.
“Release her,” he said, his arms firm. “She is an innocent girl. When you wake from this madness, you will know yourself again. You will never forgive yourself if you do not let her go.” His heart hammered in his chest, and he silently prayed that the part of Father Rodrigo that he had just heard cry out could hear him.
When he had hunted in the woods outside of Buda, he had, on occasion, needed to mercifully end the life of a wounded animal.
Don’t make me do this, he pleaded silently.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Pursuit
Raphael caught the Mongol’s sword on his shield, and as his horse thundered past, he pushed his shield down and swung his sword in a heavy chopping motion. It bit through leather and flesh, tugging as it caught on bone, and then his opponent was behind him. Another Mongol rider was galloping past on his right, and he angled his horse after the man. He passed behind the other’s horse, and the Mongol twisted adroitly in his saddle, loosing an arrow at close range. He pulled his upper body down toward his gut, tightening in his saddle in an effort to hide behind his shield. The arrow smacked hard into his shield, breaching its surface and protruding a few inches out the other side. He rose out of his crouch, swinging his sword, and the Mongol spun away, blood rising in a plume.
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 Eleazar-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 confu
sion. Yasper was going to have some competition for a steed.
Eleazar 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. Eleazar 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 Eleazar 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, Eleazar 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 Eleazar to pay attention to him, so that he wouldn’t notice the other rider coming. Eleazar 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. Eleazar 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 Eleazar 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 Eleazar’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. Eleazar 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. Eleazar 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 Eleazar, 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.
Eleazar 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. Eleazar 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 Eleazar only managed a deep slice across the front of the man’s hip, and the third one turned and ran before Eleazar’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. Eleazar 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 Eleazar’s swing was enough to lift the man bodily off the supine alchemist. Eleazar 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,” Eleazar 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 long smear across his face. “The Khagan,” Yasper gasped. “I saw him ride past.”
“Aye,” Eleazar 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.
Eleazar 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,” Eleazar replied.
“May the Virgin watch over you.” Yasper offered his hand to the Spaniard.
“May the Virgin watch over you as well, little alchemist,” Eleazar 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,” Eleazar said. “Now, go!”
Yasper nodded and ran toward one of the wandering Mongol ponies. Eleazar 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.
The Mongoliad: Book Three tfs-3 Page 62