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

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, hisson 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 west. “I wish to speak with your master, Calpurnius.”
    “He is—” Raphael stopped and