The Mongoliad: Book Two (The Foreworld Saga) Read Online Free

preached so strenuously for nonviolent resolutions to conflict. Fighting your fellow man was bestial behavior—worse than beasts, infact, for no wolf or bear assaulted kin for the specious reasons many nobleman and king clung to as their rationale for going to war.
    He accepted a cup from Piro and swallowed a mouthful of the warm liquid, wincing at the bitterness of the young wine. “God is inexplicable,” he said, moving his tongue around his mouth in a vain effort to clear the taste. “He gives us both anger and compassion in equal portions,” he continued, trying to recall one of Brother Francis’s sermons. “Which of those two we choose to live our lives by is how we demonstrate whether we are worthy of His grace.”
    Raphael had accepted a cup from Piro as well, but he rested it on his thigh as if he were unaware of its presence. Brother Leo could not entirely blame him. A cup of wine was a rare luxury at the hermitage, but even his dull palate could tell this wine could have benefited from another season in its barrel.
    Patience was a virtue, especially among vintners.
    Brother Leo waited for Raphael to continue. The young man’s burden had been carried a long distance, and it would take him a little while to shrug it off his shoulders.
    “I killed men in Egypt,” Raphael said, finally stirring himself to speak again. “Shortly after I took my vows, we were ordered to join the Crusade to take Egypt from the Sultan, Saphadin. I went with my brothers, eager to make the right choice. I had been instructed, over and over again until it was the only thing I seemed to know, that the Virg—that God—wanted me to defend Him. I must uphold God’s law, and to do so, I must defeat those who wish to subvert His law. And that is what I did. I killed men in the name of God. Men, who, in another time and place, might have been kind to me as a child. Why were they my enemy? Because they believed that Jesus Christ was just a man and not the Son of God? Does that make them any less deserving of my compassion?”
    Brother Leo tried to think of a suitable response, but nothing came to mind.
    “I arrive at your sanctuary, and even though you do not know me, you greet me with affection. ‘May the Lord give you peace,’ is what you said.” Raphael twisted his body so that he could look at Brother Leo. “And how do I return your blessing? Your lay brothers ply me with requests to tell them of my exploits, and I agree to their request.” His voice was agitated, rising from deep within his throat. “The Crusade was a failure, and yet I am looked upon as a hero for what I did. I speak of my actions not with shame and revulsion but with pride. How can my spirit be so...so broken? How can a man suffer to live with this desire to please God—to train and take up arms in His name—and yet still live a compassionate life?”

Damietta, 1219
    Almost a year had passed since the Crusaders had taken the tower in the Nile, and still Damietta remained inviolate. The catapults on the walls hurled their deadly payloads less frequently, and most of what came tumbling out of the sky was loose rock—the stores of the alchemical fire had long been emptied. The defenders hurled rocks at the Christian war parties without much enthusiasm, as if their efforts were expected as part of the dialogue of war, but they had no heart for it any longer.
    The Crusaders had little heart left for the siege either. Over the last six months, it had become apparent to John of Brienne and the few noblemen who stood with him that Damietta held little military value. As difficult as it was for the Christians to get in, it would be equally difficult for them to get out again, especially if the Sultan’s armies filled up the flood plain behind them.
    Saphadin, the man who had been Sultan when the Crusade began, had died shortly after the tower assault. His son, Al-Kamil, who had been ruler of Egypt when the Crusade began, now held sway over the entirety of the