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

Raphael said. “After your mission.”
    “So I heard,” Brother Francis said. His upper body twitched as if he were adjusting the immense load borne by his bowed shoulders. “Pelagius refused to open his heart to God, didn’t he?”
    “Yes. Damietta wasn’t enough. After your departure from Egypt, the legate began to talk of marching on Cairo. Sir John and a number of the other lords abandoned the cause, but the legate kept many with him—held them captive with promises of God’s eternal reward. And then he discovered the prophecy. A lost book of the Bible, supposedly written by a man named Clement. It spoke of a great Crusader victory in Egypt. He held it up as proof that their mission was God’s plan. But it was a lie, a heinous fabrication, and the march on Cairo was an utter disaster. Al-Kamil took pity on the Christians after they floundered for several days in the Nile valley. Many thought he would slay them all. Pelagius too; I think he hoped for martyrdom.”
    Brother Francis snorted. He rubbed one hand over the other, and Raphael noticed black streaks across the backs of both of the monk’s hands. Shadows of char that did not smear under BrotherFrancis’s ministrations. “The fool knows nothing of martyrdom,” he muttered. “He knows nothing at all.”
    Realizing he had spoken aloud, he visibly brightened and changed the subject. “Here we are,” he announced, indicating the end of the path. “The closest you can get to God and still have your feet upon the ground.”
    Brother Leo had warned Raphael that Brother Francis’s tiny cell was precariously constructed, but in Raphael’s opinion, Brother Leo had failed in his estimation of the true danger. The structure was not much more than a lean-to built from scraps of wood. Open at two sides, it sat on the very edge of an immense drop-off. One step too many, and a man would plunge a very long way to a rather unpleasant death. Fluffy clouds drifted close by, not more than a hand’s width or two above the peak of the shack, which was oriented in such a way that it never received direct sunlight.
    His eyes
, Raphael realized.
The light pains him. How hard must it be for him to pray here, so close to Heaven, when the darkness of a cave would be so much more comfortable?
    Brother Francis ducked into the misshapen shack, folding his legs beneath him. He knocked his walking stick about, rattling it off the walls and off the sides of a squat chest shoved in one corner. Once he was comfortable, he patted the bare ground next to him. “Don’t stand,” he said to Raphael. “It makes me nervous. God would not bring you so far and then have you stumble.”
    Raphael didn’t need further prompting, and he stripped off his baldric in a smooth motion, holding his scabbarded sword in his hand as he tucked himself under the overhang. He arranged himself on the ground, his sword an impediment that he was tempted to throw over the cliff’s edge.
    “There,” Brother Francis said once they were both settled. “Peaceful, isn’t it?” He cocked his head as if he were listening.
    Raphael did the same, and heard nothing but the gentle sigh of the wind as it caressed the clouds drifting overhead. “It is very peaceful,” he said.
    “I have been working on a new draft of my Rule,” Brother Francis said. He rubbed the backs of his hands again. “I feel my time is running out, and there is so much I want to say yet. So much I wanted to accomplish.” He turned his head toward Raphael. “Does the idea of an untimely death frighten you?”
    “Of course,” Raphael replied.
    “You have fought on the field of battle. More than once.”
    “I have.”
    “Do you not feel death close at hand every time you draw your sword?”
    Raphael shifted awkwardly. “It is...my training that gives me the necessary courage,” he said.
    “What about God? Does He not give you courage too?”
    Raphael did not answer.
    “Hmm,” Brother Francis said, returning his gaze to the