Dreamer: A Prequel to the Mongoliad (The Foreworld Saga) Read Online Free Page A

who had been ruler of Egypt when the Crusade
began, now held sway over the entirety of the Muslim domain. While his father
remembered some of the atrocities of the previous Crusade and never relented in
his desire to drive the Christians out of the Levant, his son appeared to have
a different perspective. He had offered, more than once, terms of peace that
seemed too good to be true.
    The
legate from Rome, Pelagius, believed this offer of peace was a lie, facile
words offered by a heathen who could not be trusted. Rome wanted Damietta, he
insisted, and Rome would have the city.
    Of
the original company of Shield-Brethren who had joined the Crusade at Acre,
only eighteen remained. Of those, four could still carry arms — and would do so
at a moment’s notice — but they would not ride to meet the enemy. The enemy
would have to come to them.
    Eptor,
the farmer’s son who had charged across the narrow bridge with Raphael, was one
of those four. The wounds still plaguing him were not physical. His body had
healed and his spirit remained resolute, but his mind was dimmed by the
presence of a shadow. At first he had merely been prone to fevers, but as the
winter passed, his bouts of night sweats gave way to more disturbing signs.
Eptor began to speak of their dead brothers as if they were still alive.
    Raphael,
with whom the stricken farmer’s son had formed an unshakeable bond, was tasked
with keeping his ailing comrade within the clutch of Shield-Brethren tents.
While the Shield-Brethren did not abandon one of their own, regardless of his
mental condition, there would be others in the Christian camp who would not be
as tolerant of their brother’s disturbed speech. The last thing this
morale-stricken camp needs is a rumor of witchcraft and demonic possession ,
Calpurnius had instructed Raphael. Keep him — and us — safe .
    The
task had been fairly simple at first, in that Eptor was more than happy to
follow Raphael like a faithful dog. And then the priest — Francis of Assisi,
the founder of the Ordo Fratrum Minorum — arrived, and his revolutionary
exhortation for peace changed everything.

    It
was not uncommon to see John of Brienne walking through the Christian camp.
Though he was King of Jerusalem, he had never sat in its throne. His marriage
to Maria of Montferrat had been one of political expediency, and his dowry had
been the privilege of leading the Christian Crusaders in their vain effort to
retake the Holy Land. Sir John governed from the ranks: listening to complaints
of the men-at-arms; attending to the needs of the landed nobility who made up
the bulk of the Christian cavalry; sitting and discussing tactics with the
noble lords from France, Frisia, and England; and strategizing the best use of
the diminishing number of knights from the three military orders. The Crusaders
all knew him by sight, and while he allowed them to show some deference, he
insisted on no title other than the one warranted by his numerous feats of
arms.
    It
was curious then for him to present himself anonymously at the Shield-Brethren
camp, wrapped in a nondescript cloak and hood. Most of the Shield-Brethren were
drilling with the Templars, a mock display of martial readiness meant to
confuse any Muslim scouts that might be observing the Christian camp from the
south. Raphael and Eptor were engaged in the tedious but necessary task of
repairing maille when the mysterious figure approached. Setting aside his
tools, Raphael rose to greet the visitor and was shocked to recognize the face
peering out from within the shadows of the hood.
    “I
am but a poor penitent,” Sir John admonished him in a low voice. “A nameless
wanderer, seeking to bless your company.”
    “Of
course,” Raphael recovered smoothly. He made the sign of the cross toward John.
    Sir
John was a dark-haired man, quick to laugh and slow to anger. He would make a
good king, Raphael surmised, if they were ever successful in their efforts in
Egypt and to the north and