Neal Stephenson - The Mongoliad - Book One

He was dead, but she hit him on the head anyway. Just to be sure.

The howling monk came next, the flaming skull-crowned staff roaring before him, and Finn hauled Cnán back, blocking the clumsy swing of the flaming staff with the steel tip of his spear. Sweat sprang on his brow and arms, coating him against the heat of the fiery ram skull. The monk swung the staff to and fro, forcing Finn back; he started chanting in time with his swings, an obscene liturgy.

Cnán stumbled down the hall, fleeing the fiery beast on the end of the pole. The tunnel filled with boiling orange light, and the heat—the waves of it, rolling over her—were too much, too much like…

And she was back in the burning house again, eight years old. The fire monster had her mother in its burning clutch, and it snapped and snarled at Cnán as she tugged and pulled at her mother’s heavy hand. Her skin blistered as it snorted fire, and her tears sizzled to steam on her face, burning her eyes as she shed them. Wake up , she cried, wake up.

The monster roared closer. Stark horns protruded from its fiery flesh, and its eyes were a maelstrom of black and red flame. Its mouth yawned open, fire gushing from its empty throat, and she remembered screaming, as if the violence of her cry could force the beast away. But the monster only howled with glee as it devoured her mother, its fiery tongues licking the skin from her face and arms, leaving nothing but black ash.

A shadow interposed itself between her and the flame beast, a phantom that shattered her memory. She came back to the present and found herself sprawled on her ass in the subterranean tunnel. Finn, his hand grabbing at her clothing, was dragging her away from the ragman priest and his fiery stick.

They passed Yasper, who—as soon as they were behind him—threw the fat jug he had scavenged from the ruins. The crazed monk shrieked and waved his flaming skull-crowned stick at them, and he paid no mind to the tumbling jug. It struck the stone floor in front of him and shattered.

The hallway erupted with blue flame, and a concussive wave of superheated air filled the tunnel. Yasper flung himself down on Cnán and Finn, or maybe he was bodily thrown by the wave of force—she wasn’t sure of anything after the explosion of light and sound. Fingers of heat crawled across her skin, stroking her cheeks and eyebrows. She didn’t dare open her mouth, for fear those hot tendrils would fling themselves into her throat and chest.

And then the tiny sun went out, leaving smoke and shadow and tiny strands of blue and yellow flame in its wake. The stench of burned meat filled the tunnel, and somewhere in the near distance, a pitiful creature mewled and whimpered.

Coughing, Yasper dragged himself off Cnán and leaned against the tunnel wall. His face was streaked with ash and sweat. “Such a waste of good aqua ardens ,” he sighed.

Finn snarled something in his native tongue, and Yasper only nodded absently as he shoved himself upright. “But I didn’t kill us,” he replied, indicating the burned and smoking heaps in the hall. “The Virgin protects the truly clever. ” He stamped out several tiny fingers of flame that were dancing on the floor.

The staff with the ram skull lay on the floor, its horned crown still afire, but the flames guttered and shivered as if they were slowing dying. Using his scarf, Yasper beat out the scattered rings of fire that wreathed the pole. Protecting his hands, he lifted the staff and, with its light, illuminated the passage beyond Cnán and Finn.

“ Et facta est lux .” He grinned. “We’d best hurry before the rest of them find their courage again.”

ERIC BEAR

Thanks to my family, to my friends, and to everyone who’s fought alongside me on this book, both metaphorically and literally. Thanks to all the other writers, especially Mark, for working harder than any one person should. Thanks to my dad and my grandpa, for guiding me down the path of writing.

GREG BEAR

It’s been terrific working with all of these fine writers, clashing steel in the mornings under Neal’s guidance, then quaffing coffee and breakfasting out of pink boxes of muffins while plotting at a mad pace…watching Mark outline and organize chapters on our blackboard while Joe and Cooper paced and swung and flashed their blades, shooting ideas back and forth with Neal across our writers’ table, talking across the continent with E.D. (and wickedly offering her virtual muffins), collaborating with son Erik on both fight strategies and chapters…while we all ventured on foot and horse through untold carnage and across wide plains of rippling grass, straight into the fabulous territories of Harold Lamb, Talbot Mundy, and Robert E. Howard… Thanks to all for the amazing experience!

E.D. DE BIRMINGHAM

E.D. would like to thank the brilliantly talented Nicole Galland for her brief but magnificent contribution to this project and the opportunity to pick up where she left off, and also Agent Extraordinaire Liz Darhansoff, for making it all possible.

JOSEPH BRASSEY

To Neal Stephenson, who gave me my shot—I hope I’ve made you proud. To Mark Teppo, who beat my prose with a stick until it was pretty. To Greg, Erik, Cooper, E.D., and everyone else at Subutai. To Tinker, who taught me to always add violence and put my feet on the path. To Ken and Rob at Fort Lewis, for opening my mind to new possibilities. To my lovely wife and my patient parents who always supported me. To my little sister and every friend I’ve had along the way who believed this could happen. Dreams come true. This is for you.

COOPER MOO

Heartfelt thanks to my family for their support: my wife, Mary; our children, Keagan, Connor, and Haven; and my parents, Jan and Greg Moo. A debt of gratitude is owed every member of the writing team, particularly Neal for his leadership and Mark for his editorial guidance. I raise a bowl of airag to you all!

NEAL STEPHENSON

Thanks to Mark Teppo, the centripetal force.

MARK TEPPO

This project began when someone asked that eternal question that every storyteller loves to hear: “So what happened next?” I don’t think any of us imagined where the answer would take us, but I am exceptionally grateful to have had this creative team—Erik, Greg, Cooper, E.D., Joseph, and Neal—during this journey. I’d also like to thank Karen Laur, Jason Norgaar, and Neal Von Flue for the character portraits they provided, as well as the entire Mongoliad.com community who ventured into the shiny future with us. Jeremy Bornstein and Lenny Raymond took care of us in that eternally unrecognized way that infrastructure people do; thank you, gentlemen. Fleetwood Robbins provided a keen editorial eye, offering a great perspective on the final arrangement of these words. Also, a nod to Emm, whose constant and unflagging support matters. So very much.

As mentioned in the dedication, Tinker Pierce, Gus Trim, and Guy Windsor provided a great deal of useful insight and instruction as to the Western martial arts. Additionally, Ellis Amdur and Aaron Fields offered fantastic commentary on all matters relating to the martial arts of thirteenth-century Japan. These five gentlemen are true scholars in their fields, and any creative license taken with the arts they study is entirely our own.

Neal Stephenson is primarily a fiction author and has received several awards for his works in speculative fiction. His more popular books include Snow Crash , The Diamond Age , Cryptonomicon , The Baroque Cycle , and Anathem .