Yury Nikitin - The Grail of Sir Thomas

Oleg jerked his head with irritation, passed along the whole row quickly. Thomas hobbled after him, moaning. “Sir wonderer!” he begged in a shaky voice near the last chest. “Just a look in!”

“Locked,” Oleg barked out without slowing his pace. “I don’t think ants could put charms there and lock!”

“We’ll find charms!” Thomas assured ardently. “But I’m so fascinated to see what the ancients put there! Just with half an eye!”

Oleg stopped near the last chest: the smallest one, it did not reach even to Thomas’s belt. The massive lid was so close that not a single hair could pass into the slit, and the thick cramps were joined reliably with a paunchy padlock. Thomas turned it in excitement, got sweated and, finally, begged in despair, “I know holy pilgrims are taught none of such things, but you are a Pagan pilgrim…”

Oleg took a grass blade out of his pocket, smoothed it carefully, tucked into the dark keyhole. There was a click, the cramp suddenly got longer, hung released in the hinges, while the heavy padlock fell down on Thomas’s foot. The knight gave a shriek of pain and surprise, goggled his eyes. “How you did it?”

“Not me,” Oleg muttered. “Breaking grass! It’s Pagan.”

Thomas hesitated whether to accept help from Pagan magic potion for just a moment until his hands, as though they had own will, gripped the lid, his feet took a firmer stand, and the bronze slab was lifted with no screech.

Thomas rose on tiptoe, the orange reflection from inside the chest fell on his face. The knight’s eyes widened, brows flew up. “Impossible…” he said in astonishment. “Who could gather that much?”

Oleg scooped a handful of gold coins. Their edges were uneven, he could only see a stern hook-nosed profile on the face side and a big svarga on the reverse. Other coins had a three-headed mountain, which resembled a trident, on them. Oleg recognized it, though with effort. The only mountain in Atlantis. It could be seen by sailors from far away, with the signal fires lit on its top at night and in bad weather. On the reverse, there were strange signs: prototypes of lines and cuts used in Rus’ up to the coming of Christianity…

Oleg went dark. He felt a heartache at recalling the men in black clothes who burnt books and writings on birch bark, destroyed the manuscripts written in lines and cuts, rubbed the local script and local culture off the face of Slavic lands in a hurry to set the other culture instead… “Saw enough of it?” Oleg asked harshly. “Let’s go!” Without waiting for the knight, he went to the exit of the cave quickly.

Thomas opened his mouth to protest, but the wonderer’s back was seen at the other end of the cave and something about his pace, his raised shoulders gave the knight a hint that if he did not hurry he’d have to search the way out by himself. Oleg was furious, as he happened to be very seldom. Whether Thomas was guilty or not, it was better for him to keep off the heat of the moment.

At breakneck pace, Thomas dashed after his friend, without even slamming the lid shut. Oleg had vanished from sight. Thomas hurried, his soul pounded with fear. He swore not to let Satan entice him with either gold or gems, as it is shame for a Christian to yield where a benighted Pagan resisted… However, the Pagan may simply not know the true worth of treasures.

The great hall opened at once: Thomas had just darted from under the arch. His legs gave way. He felt crushed by the magnificence. The cave shone with green malachite. One of the walls was vertical, a great radiant throne towered near it. Three marble stairs led to the throne, and a huge golden svarga was glaring above it!

Thomas walked by the wonderer’s side, half a step behind. His heart thumped very fast. His feet stepped on the dented stairs, time-worn and scratched by sharp claws of all the ants who ran there for thousands of years.

The closer they came to the throne, the bigger it seemed. It must have been made for a man twenty or thirty feet tall if human at all. Thomas gasped, nudged Oleg gently. On the right of the throne, a broad sword, three times as tall as a man, hung on a wall hook. The pendants on its wide handle were the size of a knight’s shield, the smallest of gems were as large as Thomas’s fist. “Were they giants,” Thomas asked, for some strange reason, in a whisper, “or heroes?”

Oleg looked around vacantly, waved aside. “Forget it. We need charms, no golden trinkets!”

Suddenly. Thomas saw huge logs at the other end of the hall. It took him some time to grasp those were clean-picked bones: human – if any man could be that tall – bones and skulls, as though the last guards of the underground palace stayed remained forever! “Were that ants?” Thomas whispered even more apprehensively. “They gobbled them?”

“Sir Thomas, stop getting rubbish in your head!” Oleg replied with annoyance. “Killed by ants, by each other, or something else – why should we care? We need charms !”

“I see, I see,” Thomas said hastily and nodded with such ardor that it caused a dangerous crunch in his neck. “Once I got my finger trapped in the door. At that moment, I didn’t care if all the world goes to ruin…”

Oleg darted past the throne, into the dark passage that definitely had once been secret. Thomas rushed after him.

Chapter 35

Thomas lost count of caves, passages, slopes, as well as bruises, when Oleg suddenly increased his pace, muttered something, turned into a side tunnel at once. Thomas followed, like a she-goat on a short tie, as the tunnel turned often, other holes crossed it and the wonderer, carried away, was unlikely to look back if even Thomas yelled at the top of his voice or howled like a wolf.

Suddenly the wonderer broke into run. “Charms!” he cried hoarsely. “I feel charms!”

Thomas clenched his teeth, felt his gums bleeding, ran, darted into a colossal cave. The wonderer was barely visible far ahead. Cursing, Thomas rushed after him, jumped over the scattered breastplates and pieces of armor of strange forms. Many had human bones sticking out of them, skulls cracked and crumbled to dust under Thomas’s iron heels. He could see no floor under the heaps of weapons that belonged to all times and nations, shields, even some catapults, fierce curves of swords, strange spears that also combined axes and even cleavers in themselves.

The wonderer was already climbing up a pile of treasures, arms, broken fragments of golden chariots, statues of precious metals, broken chests and trunks, decayed saddle bags with gold coins pouring out of their holes at every touch. At last, the wonderer gave a triumphant roar and all but fell down, along with the unsteady top of treasure heap. Thomas’s heart froze in fright: among the chests and chariots below, there were some darts and swords pointed up. The wonderer held out by miracle, pointed to the side where the ill-fated necklace could barely be seen. “That’s it! That’s where they took it, underground devils!”

He ran down, jumping deftly on breastplates, shields, and trunks. His face shone. On his go, he put the charms on his neck.

Thomas yelled at the top of his voice. “Look out, fool!”

Oleg leapt aside, all but cut himself on the long sickle looking out from under the wheels of strange chariot. A heavy mass of chests and shields thundered down past him. One trunk burst, gold coins poured out with ringing sound. Thomas sighed: the coins covered all the immense cave up to his ankles.

The wonderer jumped down to him. “That’s all! Had a rest in cool place, now get in the sun again.”

“Do you really think I want to stay?”

“Why are you sitting then? Let’s go. I’ve found charms. There still are gods on earth!”