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

west. “I wish to speak with your master,
Calpurnius.”
    “He
is…” Raphael stopped and turned, glancing toward the large tent that served as
the Shield-Brethren chapter house. Calpurnius should have been with the others,
engaged in the exercise with the Templars, but he suddenly recalled seeing the
Shield-Brethren master not long after the other members of the company had
departed. He had thought nothing of it at the time. Men came and went at all
hours within the camp, and the endless cycle of drilling and fighting and
waiting had become tedious. “I suspect he is waiting for you,” Raphael amended.
    Sir
John offered him a slight smile. “I suspect he is,” he said.
    “A
convenient distraction offered by today’s exercise,” Raphael noted.
    “Yes,”
Sir John agreed. “Sometimes it helps to be the one who can arrange such
things.” Looking past Raphael, he caught sight of Eptor. “Is that the boy who
converses with the dead?”
    “It
is. His name is Eptor.”
    “Are
you his keeper?”
    Raphael
shrugged. “Sometimes he keeps me. Today, for example. I am missing an
opportunity to train, yet again, with our Templar brothers. I fear I might miss
some brilliant new stratagem that is being concocted on the field.”
    “I
suspect not,” Sir John said. “Join me, if you would. What I have to discuss
with your master may benefit from your insight.”
    “Mine?”
    Sir
John clapped Raphael on the shoulder as he started to walk toward the main
tent. “Yes. You pretend to be nothing more than your brother’s keeper, but your
exploits are known to me, Raphael of Acre. I hear the men call you ‘The
Thresher.’”
    Raphael
blushed. “It is an unwarranted title, Sir John,” he said.
    “All
titles are unwarranted, Raphael,” Sir John said. “Whether or not we live up to
them is what matters.”
    Sir
John gestured that Raphael should follow him. After a passing glance over at
Eptor — ensuring that the simpleminded lad was well ensconced in the minute
work of repairing maille — Raphael followed the King of Jerusalem into the
large Shield-Brethren tent.
    Calpurnius
was seated behind a rough-hewn desk that had been crafted from driftwood
rescued from the Nile. A large map of the Egyptian territory was laid across
it. Small chips of charred wood were arranged to indicate the physical terrain,
and clusters of colored beads stood in for troops. Calpurnius set aside the
tome he had been studying and stood as the two men entered the tent. “Sir
John,” he said, striding around the table to clasp Sir John’s outstretched arm.
It was the old style of greeting, one that had its origins in ancient Greece,
but was used among the Shield-Brethren as a way to indicate brotherhood.
Grasping the forearm allowed one to feel the initiation scars of another.
    The
Shield-Brethren were quite strict in who they accepted into the order — the
initiates could not have any other ties that might compromise their vows to the
order — but they also took the sons of kings and lords under their tutelage. In
a flash, and feeling quite foolish for not having recognized it earlier,
Raphael realized Sir John had been one of those students.
    “Old
friend,” Sir John said. “Our diversion with your men and the Templars will
afford us a welcome opportunity to talk freely. I am surrounded by sycophants
of the legate’s. They cannot think for themselves, and all they do is echo back
to me the ridiculous drivel spewing from Pelagius’s mouth.”
    “He
still insists on taking Damietta, does he?” Calpurnius asked. He glanced at
Raphael briefly and seemed unconcerned about the young knight’s presence.
    “Even
after our disastrous attempt at the beginning of the month,” Sir John sighed.
    The
previous attempt to storm the city had involved a quartet of freshly arrived
boats from Christendom and an audacious plan to fill in the moat along the
southern wall. For a few hours, it seemed as if the Crusaders might prevail,
but the Muslims