And one man in Western armor who appeared to be in a losing wrestling match with a Mongol.
Yasper.
Several Mongols turned toward Eleazar, raising their bows, and he goaded his horse, trying to eke more speed out of the animal. Trying to get close enough to bring his weapons to bear. The horse was flagging already; he had ridden it too hard. The Mongols loosed arrows, and his horse stumbled.
It had been bound to happen. Eventually, one of the Mongols would shoot an arrow at his horse instead of him; given how futile their arrows were against Western maille, he was somewhat surprised it had taken them this long to change their tactics. As his horse stumbled again, its lungs laboring, he kicked his feet out of his stirrups and jumped. The horse tripped, plowing head first into the ground, but he was no longer in the saddle.
Eleazar hit the ground, the impact jarring his sword out of his hand, and he rolled, managing to hold on to his shield. As he came out of his roll, he hurled his shield at the Mongols. It was a clumsy missile, but it caused the archers to scatter out of the way. Eleazar darted back to his dying horse, and grabbed his two-handed sword, which was strapped along the horse’s flank.
Whirling the long blade in continuous circles, he charged the archers. One managed to shoot an arrow, and he felt it strike his shoulder, the point tangling in his maille. He cut the first man in half, the second stumbled back enough that Eleazar only managed a deep slice across the front of the man’s hip, and the third one turned and ran before Eleazar’s whirling sword could cut him down.
Yasper was on the ground, trying to shove off the Mongol who was trying to bury a knife in the alchemist’s chest. Eleazar came up behind the struggling pair, and the tip of his two-handed sword caught the Mongol in the side, under the arm, and the blade sliced right through to the spine. The blade caught on bone, but the force of Eleazar’s swing was enough to lift the man bodily off the supine alchemist. Eleazar shook his sword, an expert twitch of his hands, and the blade came free of the nearly severed Mongol, who fell a short distance and then sprawled on the ground, bleeding out in a few seconds.
“Get up, runt,” Eleazar laughed. “This is no time for napping.”
Yasper scrambled to his feet. His face was dark with soot and dirt, blood from a gash across his forehead a long smear across his face. “The Khagan,” Yasper gasped. “I saw him ride past.”
“Aye,” Eleazar said. “So I have heard.” He nodded toward one of the wandering ponies. “Catch yourself a horse,” he said. “Go after him.”
“What about you?” Yasper said.
Eleazar laughed again. “Me? On one of those tiny little horses?” He shook his head, glancing around the passage out of the valley. “I will stay here for the time being,” he said. “I’ll keep the stragglers busy.” He reached over and yanked the Mongol arrow out of his maille.
They both turned as they heard a pair of horses approaching. The riders wore maille and the red rose of the Shield-Brethren. Yasper pointed in the direction the Khagan had fled, and the horsemen thundered past. Raphael and Feronantus.
“I should be going then,” Yasper said.
“Aye, you should,” Eleazar replied.
“May the Virgin watch over you.” Yasper offered his hand to the Spaniard.
“May the Virgin watch over you as well, little alchemist,” Eleazar said, clasping Yasper’s hand firmly. “It has been good to ride with you.”
“I hope we’ll do it again,” Yasper said.
“Aye. Me too,” Eleazar said. “Now, go!”
Yasper nodded and ran toward one of the wandering Mongol ponies. Eleazar turned toward the valley of the cave bear. Three of the company were going after the Khagan. It fell upon him now to make sure none of the surviving Mongols followed.
He laughed, swinging his two-handed sword as he moved into position.
They weren’t getting past him.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Father Rodrigo seemed to hear Ferenc’s desperate plea. The priest relaxed, his hands slackening on Ocyrhoe’s neck. The girl took a huge, loud draw of breath and was about to let it out when a spasm shook Father Rodrigo’s body. His hands tightened again around her throat; she fought at his grip with furious desperation. Ferenc wrenched Rodrigo’s neck more, until he felt it reach its limit.
Father Rodrigo bellowed with pain as he struggled against Ferenc’s grip, but Ferenc’s hands continued to squeeze. Ocyrhoe’s face turned purple, her tongue protruding from her mouth.
“Stop it, Rodrigo. Rodrigo Bendrito!” Ferenc begged. “Father Rodrigo Bendrito! Listen to me!” He felt tears start from his eyes.
It was unfair to have this choice forced upon him. He and the priest had survived Mohi; they had traveled together for so long. He had built fires to warm the man’s body when the warmth of the fevers had fled; he had foraged for tiny streams within rocky clefts in the high mountains for cool water to cool Father Rodrigo’s burning skin. He had brought the priest to Rome so that his message-the last shred of his faith that had kept him alive throughout their journey-could be delivered. Once in Rome, a land as foreign and strange as any he could possibly imagine, he had found someone who could communicate with him. She used the same finger language as his mother, and almost instantly, this tiny girl had become so important to him.
And now he had to choose between them.
This is what was, his mother had told him, showing him the old roots. This is what will be. She patted the soil where she had recently planted the seeds. What grows is what we remember, what we bind ourselves to.
It is the choices we make.
Father Rodrigo continued to strain in Ferenc’s grip, and from some unearthly source of dreadful strength, he began lifting Ocyrhoe’s thin body off the ground.
“Stop it!” Ferenc was screaming now, his lips against the priest’s ear. “You saved my life at Mohi; let me save yours now! Put her down! Let her go! Rodrigo!”
Father Rodrigo shouted, his voice an octave lower than his normal speaking voice; Ferenc almost expected a demon to slink out of his mouth. Ocyrhoe’s eyes began to roll up.
“Stop it! You are killing her!” Ferenc screamed. “Take the Grail and go!”
“She is the Devil; she must die, or she will follow me forever!” Rodrigo shouted, again in a demonically thundering bass.
Ferenc’s body convulsed with sobs. There was no time, no time to think this through, no time to try some other way. Muttering rapid prayers for forgiveness, he made his choice. Closing his eyes as if that somehow made a difference, he shot his left arm forward and snapped his right arm back, twisting Rodrigo’s head at an impossible angle over his right shoulder. Immediately the priest gasped and shuddered, releasing Ocyrhoe. When Ferenc relaxed his arms, Father Rodrigo made a tiny sound, almost like a sigh of relief, and collapsed at Ferenc’s feet.
Ocyrhoe’s terrified coughs and gasps were so loud and painful that Ferenc did not realize for a moment he was gasping too; he turned away and vomited into the grass, then fell to his knees beside Father Rodrigo’s now lifeless body, sobbing like an orphaned child.
A unruly mob swarmed the streets of Rome. As far as Cardinal Fieschi could tell, the mob was leaderless-agitated citizens with no clear purpose or direction. By the time his carriage reached the Vatican, he was certain the swarm of citizenry milling about the streets was simply there to delay his return. Yet another obstacle he had to endure.
His first stop had been the Orsini estate where he learned that the Senator had been summoned to the Vatican-an unwelcome piece of news for who, other than himself, would summon the Senator? The interminable ride through the crowded streets of Rome did little to dispel his apprehension.