Neal Stephenson - The Mongoliad - Book One

“These strays…” Percival said, leaning forward to grab another slice of the thick bread. “It was our understanding that the Livonian Order was no more. Had we known…”

“You would have ridden to rescue us?”

“Of course not.” Percival shook his head, deftly avoiding the trap that lay before him. “We would have sent word.”

“If they had been more adroit, we might have let them in the gates and ended up wishing that such a warning had reached us,” Vera countered. “As it was, word of their arrogance and vainglory preceded them by several days, and so we knew what to expect. When Kristaps, their leader, presented himself at our doorstep, he spoke true to form. He offered to relieve us of the burden of defending this place and proposed to supply us with duties more befitting the weaker sex.”

“I’m sure that went over well,” Raphael snorted. Illarion, Roger, and even Percival were barely hiding their amusement.

“From the tone in which he tendered the offer,” Vera said, and here she was unable to prevent the corners of her mouth from twitching back, “it was clear he considered the terms to be astoundingly generous. He stood there awaiting our thanks and our admiration. He received neither. When he returned, he spoke less politely, enabling us to see his true nature, as if this were not already obvious.”

“Would he be the fellow with the arrow in his eye socket?” Raphael asked hopefully.

Vera shook her head. “That would be pleasing,” she said. “That fellow was a knight of lesser rank who made a nuisance of himself.” She took a bite of bread and chewed it as the statement sunk in.

She shifted in her chair, facing toward Percival, whom she had identified as the group’s leader. “You have shown courtesy,” she said, “in expressing brotherly curiosity about our situation. I have not returned it in kind. What brings you all here, and in such a condition? Pardon my frankness, but it’s obvious that you have traveled hard for a long time.”

Any of them might have answered. Raphael bated because he did not wish to blurt out the truth. Feronantus might later take the Shield-Maidens into his confidence, but it was not for any lesser member of their company to do so. Raphael had seen enough of Vera by now to feel quite certain that, if they simply told her that their errand was none of her business, she would accept it with no pouting or ill feelings.

He was searching for a polite way to say just that when Percival spoke: “It is a quest.”

Around the table, Percival’s companions were dumb-struck, wondering whether he had spoken sincerely or was making up a lie on the spur of the moment. But supposing that Percival were even capable of telling a lie, he would probably do a miserable job of it. Nothing but sincerity was visible in his face. Vera spent several moments gazing into that face. Raphael, watching her, thought he saw a slight softening, a lowering of the defenses, in her eyes.

“Can you be more specific as to what it is you are questing for?” she finally asked.

“No,” Percival responded immediately, “for I do not know.”

“Who sent you on this quest? It would have been polite for them to have given you better instructions before sending you such a great distance.”

“I hesitate to say it was God, for this would be blasphemous arrogance,” Percival said, “but I do believe that some angel or saint passed over me some weeks ago and shone his or her light into my soul and imbued me with a purpose. The nature of that purpose is not yet clear. But I believe that it has drawn me to this place. For what reason I cannot imagine.”

Roger was staring at Percival with a mixture of derision and affection that could only stem from long friendship.

Illarion met Raphael’s eye briefly, then turned to Vera and asked a question in Ruthenian.

Vera responded in kind; then she said, in Latin, “The hill below us is riddled with caves and catacombs where holy men have lived since Christians first came up this way preaching their Gospel. Any number of saints’ bones and artifacts are salted about the place. Of course, it is rumored that buried treasure is also to be found there. Whether the Livonians are here for relics or for treasure is impossible to say—I suspect the latter. But if some holy spirit has sent you to this place in pursuance of a quest, Brother Percival, then I would guess that its object is to be found beneath us.”

She nodded at the food on the table. “Once you complete this repast, I would be happy to show you the way.”

Istvan’s horse reared, pawing the air with its hooves.

More of the Livonians drew their weapons, and the sound of steel against steel was like the ringing of bells. Cnán wanted to put her hands over her ears, as if blocking out the sound would forestall what was about to happen next.

Feronantus made no motion toward his sword. “Your quarry is getting away,” he said in the hollow emptiness that followed the drawing of swords. His statement elicited confusion among both ranks until Kristaps blinked and turned his head to look up the slope of the hill.

The ragmen and their cart had reached the gate of the monastery. As they all watched, the portal creaked open enough for the two filthy men to drag their burden through, and then it rattled shut.

“How little you truly know, Feronantus,” Kristaps laughed.

“I know that, even outnumbering us thrice over, you are not sure that you can defeat us in combat,” Feronantus said quietly. “I know that my knight could put a single arrow through two of your men right now because they don’t know enough to not stand in a row. I know that some of the men on your left flank are terrified of what is going to happen when the knight behind me draws that enormous sword of his. And I know that at least one of your number is going to faint when I say that not only does this man”—he inclined his head toward Istvan—“eat human flesh, but so does his horse…”

Kristaps twitched—only slightly —when two of his men fell to the ground. The Livonian tried to hide his loss of composure with a mighty sneer, but to Cnán, his expression looked more pained than fierce. “You and your…degenerate barbarians…are not worth dirtying my steel,” he snarled.

“Nor you mine,” Feronantus answered. “Run along, Kristaps.”

“Next time—”

“Next time, you will be dead before you finish your threat,” Feronantus barked, driving Kristaps to silence with the veritable thunder of his voice.

The Livonian snapped his mouth shut, and his lips stretched across his teeth in a grimace. With a jerk of his head, he gave his men the signal to retreat. They milled about, uncertain if they should turn and flee or simply back slowly from the mounted Shield-Brethren. The two men who had fallen were left behind momentarily until Kristaps gestured angrily that they should be collected. Once the Livonians were all moving—the dazed pair being dragged by their arms—they appeared to remember how to conduct themselves and formed a more orderly procession up the slope.

Kristaps lingered, glowering at Feronantus, but when Yasper could no longer hold his amusement in check and let loose a great peal of laughter, the Livonian hurled a final curse at the company and stormed away.

Rædwulf lowered his bow and joined Yasper and Eleázar in boisterous and polyphonic revelry. Istvan stood in his stirrups and mocked the retreating knights loudly, shouting at them as if they were a herd of frightened sheep.

Feronantus did not join in the persiflage of the fleeing Livonians. He watched the retreating knights with a calm intensity, as if there were clues to some mystery that could be gleaned from their departure.