Dreamer: A Prequel to the Mongoliad (The Foreworld Saga) (2 page)

“P
ull!”

The
crier was a haggard Frisian named Edzard, a bald man with a tangled beard and a
voice that reminded Raphael of surf battering against a cliff. He limped, and
sitting on a horse pained him, but aboard a ship, he moved with a supple grace.
He stalked up and down the line of the massive raft, howling at the men.

“Don’t
stop, you miserable sons of tavern wenches,” Edzard shouted at them. “This
river hates you. The infidels hate you. God even hates you for being weak.
Pull!”

The
company — three hundred strong, a mixture of Frisian Crusaders, Templars,
Hospitallers, and Shield-Brethren — huddled beneath a canopy of waterlogged
skins, their only protection from the Greek fire hurled at them from the walls
of Damietta. Their vessel, a ponderous construct created by lashing two boats
together, moved sluggishly in the violent waters of the turbulent Nile. The
sheer size and weight of their floating siege tower was the only reason the
river had not already claimed them.

The
city of Damietta sprawled to the east of the eastern fork of the Nile. Seizing
the city was a critical goal in the conquest of Egypt — it would give the
Crusaders a much-needed stronghold in Muslim territory — but the assault was
complicated by the difficult terrain that surrounded the city. From the north,
east, and south, Damietta was protected by the sprawling saltwater lagoon of
Lake Manzala — an impenetrable maze of shallow pools and shifting mud.
Attacking from the west was the most prudent route, but any force had to cross
the Nile in order to assault the thick walls. In the past six weeks, the river
had gone from a turbid impediment to an inchoate elemental fury.

The
Crusaders were not without means. They had crossed the Mediterranean to
assemble an army on Egyptian sand, and they had a number of boats at their
disposal. The captains of the boats were loath to brave the river, though, for
not only was the channel treacherous and mercurial, but they also had to
weather a storm of stones and fire from the mangonels and trebuchets atop the
walls of Damietta.

As
a final deterrent to any crossing, the Muslims filled the river with a swarm of
their own rafts and boats and barges. This argosy was restrained by a number of
heavy chains strung from the walls of the city to the foundation stones of a
narrow tower that squatted on a spike of rock jutting from the river. The islet
stood close to the western shore, though not close enough to effect a crossing
from the western bank. The only way to reach the tower was by boat.

The
Crusaders had already lost several ships in an effort to storm the river-based
citadel. The boats were too exposed out on the treacherous river as they
struggled to maneuver into a position where they could mount an assault. The
defenders of the tower had a ready supply of Greek fire, and the catapults atop
Damietta’s walls had a seemingly endless supply of heavy rocks.

After
battering themselves against the stronghold for two months, the Crusaders had
finally devised a new solution — one that was either more catastrophically
foolhardy than their previous efforts or a stroke of divine inspiration.

The
floating siege tower had been the idea of Oliver of Paderborn — a slender man
who was more a scholar than a soldier. He had been quietly observing and
recording the previous efforts, and it was his opinion that the crux of the
Crusaders’ trouble was the upper level of the tower. When the boats off-loaded
their assault force at the base, the defenders simply poured Greek fire and a
rain of arrows on the men below. In order to give the men on the ground a
chance, the Crusaders had to take the upper floor first. Oliver’s solution was
a two-decked raft — a floating siege tower that could be grounded against the
islet. The force on the upper deck could lower a makeshift bridge and attack
the battlements directly.

“Port
oars back!” Edzard screamed, and the men on that side strained with all their
collective might to shift the boat. They were floating sideways in the river, a
wallowing pig carcass caught in the heavy rush of the Nile. They had to get the
boat turned or the bridge on the upper deck would not reach the tower. And in
order to do that, they had to hit the tiny spire of rock head-on; otherwise,
Oliver’s design would be a deathtrap. Those who weren’t burned outright by the
Muslim’s liquid fire would likely drown in the raging river.

The
last time Raphael had been in water this tempestuous had been during his
order’s initiation trial. The
Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae
, the
infamous Shield-Brethren, remembered their Grecian origins. They still held
dear the symbol of the shield and the goddess whom they protected with the
same. When the young initiates were ready to prove themselves worthy, they were
taken down into the stone caves beneath Petraathen, the order’s mountainous
fortress. Handed an aspis — the heavy shield of their forebears — and directed
to swim in a swift underground river, they were presented with a choice.

The
ones who chose swiftly and without fear became knights of the order.

Many
of those who failed to decide drowned. A stern reminder of the swift brutality
of the battlefield.

Raphael
and two dozen of his fellow Shield-Brethren had been chosen to lead the initial
assault on the top of the tower. As soon as their floating barge struck the
islet, the pair in front were to cut the ropes holding the bridge upright. The
bridge was a series of planks lashed together. Two men, crowded together, could
go abreast. They would have very little room to swing their swords. Once the
boat grounded against the islet, they would have to rush across the bridge
quickly. They had to reach the tower before the defenders could knock the
bridge away. Or burn it.

There
were gaps in the hide cover on either side of the bridge, and as the barge
turned laboriously in the river, Raphael saw the mottled stone of the tower
swing by.

The
Templar and Hospitaller commanders had argued with Calpurnius, the master of
the Shield-Brethren company, as to the membership of the team that would lead
the upper-floor assault. Calpurnius had listened calmly to both men’s arguments
and then asked one question. “There will be no horses on this boat. How will
your knights fight?”

Edzard
screamed at the men on the starboard side, threatening to throw them overboard
if they didn’t match the pace of the port team.

The
man crouching next to Raphael shivered and looked like he was about to vomit.
His name was Eptor and he was a year younger than Raphael. A farmer’s son, his
family lived less than a day’s travel from Petraathen, the stronghold of the
Shield-Brethren. He, Raphael, and a dozen others in this company had all taken
their oaths together. The Fifth Crusade was their first fielding as knights of
the order.

In
addition to the sword and shield carried by each of the Shield-Brethren, Eptor
had a flail to which he had added several extra lengths of chain, as if to
mirror the chains that spanned the river. It was a farmer’s weapon, more useful
for threshing grain than killing infidels, and Raphael was more nervous about
being struck by an errant chain than a Muslim sword. Eptor clung to it, though,
like a child hanging onto a protective totem.

The
boat swung back to port, and the stone wall of the tower hove into view once
more. The barge shuddered as the Nile lifted the heavy boat and hurled it
directly at the tower.

Calpurnius
had blessed each one of the Shield-Brethren, loudly proclaiming that God would
protect each of them from the arrows and stones of the Muslim infidels. As he
had clasped each man to his chest, he had whispered a private evocation of the
Virgin in their ears.
She will be waiting for you
, he had said.
As
she does all of those who take up arms in her name
.

The
boat quivered beneath them like a horse about to expire. Overhead, something
struck the hide roof, and the water-soaked leather hissed and steamed. A roaring
noise like the howl of angry demons made the men flinch, and long black fingers
of ash began to smear through the protective cover.

Eptor
started to moan, his face slick with sweat.

Raphael
shook his head, trying to catch the other man’s gaze. Eptor, caught up in the
shame of his terror, refused to look at Raphael.

Raphael
grabbed the chain of the other man’s maille and hauled him close. They were
going to cross the bridge together. He needed Eptor to not panic. As the hide
roof began to smoke and crumble to fiery ash, he put his mouth close to Eptor’s
ear and began to shout the Virgin’s Prayer.

The
deck lurched beneath them as the boat collided with the rocky spur that
supported the chain tower. Wood splintered far beneath them, and the tenor of
the river changed as water began rushing into the shattered hull. “Attack!”
Edzard screamed.

The
ropes holding the bridge were cut. The narrow crossing fell, bouncing as its
end collided with the rough ramparts of the tower. The men surged forward,
eager to cross the exposed bridge.

There
was no more time for prayer.

Take
up your arms, my brothers, and fight.

She
will be waiting for us.

R
aphael’s
admission of being in Egypt did little to diminish the lay brothers’
enthusiasm. Welcoming the young man as an honored guest, they practically
dragged him to the oratory, where he couldn’t escape their queries. Initially
reticent to talk of his experiences in Egypt, Raphael finally relented after
some earnest coaxing from Piro and the younger men. At first he spoke
hesitantly, clearly having trouble settling on a story, but after a few minutes
of haphazard storytelling, he fell into an oft-told tale. He spoke plainly and
easily, with a natural oratorical grace that reminded Brother Leo of a young
Brother Francis.

Brother
Leo had at first assumed Raphael to be nothing more than an itinerant student,
a minor son of a wealthy Ghibelline family from Arezzo who had joined one of
the military orders. After listening to Raphael speak, Brother Leo was struck
by the similarity between who this boy had become and who Brother Francis might
have been. Francis, eager to wear the mantle 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
.