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

of chivalrous knighthood, had taken up arms along with many other sons of Assisi against Perugia. When the battle had been lost at Collestrada, Francis had been captured and held for ransom—a captivity that was to last a year.
If God had not chosen Francis, would he have become like this man?
Brother Leo wondered.
    “This fire you speak of,” Brother Cotsa asked. “Greek fire. What is it?”
    “It is an alchemical mystery,” Raphael explained. “It is water that burns. It was the Byzantines, I believe, who mastered it first. They used it against the Persian Empire, and since then their alchemists have been attempting to create their own version.
Naft
, they call it. They put the liquid in a flask and wrap the flask in leather and cloth, which they set alight. The mangonel hurls these flaming flasks with enough force that they shatter upon impact, spreading a large wave of burning liquid.” He held up his hands as if he were cradling a skull. “Something not much larger than this—” He spread his arms, indicating the sparse space of the oratory, “—and...” He faltered, suddenly at a loss for words. Realizing what he was implying with his gesture.
    This entire room
, Brother Leo realized,
filled with fire
. “Let us speak no more of these atrocities of war,” he interjected quickly. He fumbled for the wooden cross attached to the loose strands of cord around his neck.
    He said this more for the benefit of the others, but it was clear that his words broke through whatever spell had come over the young man in the telling of his tale. “I am sorry,” Raphael stuttered suddenly. “I...That is not why I came here.” His eyes widened as he seemed to realize how small the oratory was, how hemmed in he was by the others.
The frightened face of a trapped animal
.
    Brother Leo shoved his way through the crowd and inserted himself between Raphael and the lay brothers. “Enough,” he said. “We have been neglectful in our hospitality. Did our guests not bring victuals? We should investigate as to the possibility of a bottle of wine. And some cheeses perhaps. Those would be a proper cause for celebration, especially in this house of God.” He glared at Cotsa and Mante, the two who had been most vocal in their desire to hear the young knight’s stories.
    Brother Mante was already fleeing for the door, Piro at his heels, eager to retrieve the forgotten satchels. The other lay brothers nervously made the sign of the cross as they tried to make themselves less noticeable to Brother Leo’s baleful eye. He was not without fault, he knew. He too had been caught up by the young knight’s tale.
    He turned and sat down heavily next to Raphael on the rough-hewn bench that served as the room’s pulpit. “I have been a
Fratricelli
, a lesser brother, for many years,” he said, “and I have lived here since this oratory was first built. I should be more accustomed to the life I have chosen for myself—for the devotion I have given myself over to.” He smiled at the contrite man sitting next to him, a fatherly smile meant to reassure and comfort. “But, as God continues to remind me—to remind each of us—we remain fallible, easily led astray. We crave the company of others. We delight in stories of outrageous adventure.” He shook his head. “We forget the burden laid upon those who tell such stories.”
    Raphael said nothing. His hands fumbled over each other, and more than once his right hand strayed toward the hilt of his sword.
    What atrocities has this young man experienced?
Brother Leo wondered. Brother Francis had railed many times about the lack of faith in those who sent young men to die in the Crusades.
Are we not shepherds of a flock?
Francis had preached more than once since returning from the Levant.
And does this flock not seek guidance and humility and sanctuary from us?
This young man had been trained for war, and he had survived a Crusade known for its brutality.
What was left?
Brother Leo