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

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 waswell 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 asif the Crusaders might prevail, but the Muslims had only been waiting for them to get close enough. Fire and rocks destroyed most of their ladders, and