Yury Nikitin - The Grail of Sir Thomas

As Thomas recalled his helpless friend, he glanced back, crossed him hastily. Oleg’s head hung helplessly, his chin rested on his chest, ropes had dug deeply into his mighty body. He was pale, flinching in times, groaning through gritted teeth.

“Be patient a bit,” Thomas said, choking with pity. “Once this winged frog stops turning head over heels… I’ll say a prayer for exorcism of devil. Or at least of demons. If only I recall it…”

One can hardly recall what one never knew. In terror, Thomas thought of a priest whom he needed to find as soon as possible: a priest to sprinkle the possessed with holy water, say a prayer, wave a censer of labdanum and incense, which Christ replaced the human sacrifice with. Well, I’ll see the church from a distance. But how to make dragon land before the priest’s house? He will definitely object to it. He belongs to impious pre-Christian world and can bear no sight of the Cross!

The dragon glanced back for a moment, then flew straight for a while, paying no heed to his riders. When he glanced back again, Thomas had crawled back and was undoing in hurry, breaking his nails, the knot on the closest sack of aurochs skin. “What an eater!” he said with loathing when the open mouth reached for him. “Too much food ruins your guts, as the wonderer says! I’d like you as a hermit.”

He flung three big slices in, one after another, and when he reached for the fourth one, the dragon turned away, screwing up his eyes with content. His jaws grinded the juicy boneless meat with a crunch, his lips foamed with blood, the wind tore it away and threw at the knight. Thomas wiped the sticky saliva off with disgust. moved away, closer to the wonderer. As he got tired of doing and undoing his ropes, he left only the thickest one around his waist. “Sir wonderer!” he called sadly. “Oh, sir wonderer…”

He hunched to save the last warmth, glanced at the wonderer with a heavy sigh, and went crawling, a dagger in hand that time, from the dragon’s withers to the neck. The long blade slid in between the scales, as thick as a fist, touched the stout skin. Thomas thrust it with more force, the skin tensed, the blade was thrown up. He recalled the wonderer, clenched his teeth, and leaned on the dagger with all his weight. The skin caved in a bit but endured. Thomas called the Virgin for help, cursed, hit the hilt with his iron fist.

The dagger went in for a palm deep, the dragon gave a shudder, his wings stirred a bit. Thomas clutched at the bony protuberances, ready for a fall, a dance in the air, but the dragon kept soaring in the same sleepy way, his broad wings spread wide. He warmed himself, catching sunrays with those huge dark sails. Even closed his eyes with joy, a brute.

Thomas clenched his jaws, banged the dagger hilt with all his force. There was a jerk beneath, Thomas would have flown off and down if not the rope. The dragon gave a hoarse cry, beat his wings frequently, turned around in a slanting arch, flapped his wings again. “That is it,” Thomas said exhaustedly, through gritted teeth. His breath was fast and sobbing, his teeth clanged, his hands shook like a hen thief’s. “They raced on dragons! And jousted, you see…”

The sun warmed his left cheek, but the dragon rocked in the flows of air more often, making Thomas clutch convulsively at bony ledges. He turned his eyes away in fright from the brim but could not forget the terrific void, which was straight under the dragon’s belly. He tried not to take his hands off. At every stir, he would clench his fingers and press his cheek on the crackling bony slab – one of those moving under him, rubbing, sliding apart. Once the dragon scratched himself as he flew: Thomas’s blood turned ice when, quite near him, the claws as large as Saracen swords scratched the side noisily, shaving the bony armor on it.

Thomas pulled out his sword in fear, started to prickle the dragon. The loathsome beast screwed up sweetly, stretched his neck. In fact, the knight was scratching him like a fat pampered boar. The sword blade made a tin screech on hard scales, each the size of a palm,

When the dragon flapped his wings suddenly – and he always did that all of a sudden – his body sank abruptly into the abyss, Thomas dropped his sword, gladly it was tied to his hand, and clutched at the bony back, like a mite, His heart and stomach climbed up to his throat, his eyes got covered with mortal agony, then a forceful flap of wings made him sprawl on the dragon back, like a frog filled with lid. He could not move even his smallest finger, his eyes all but burst with the rush of heavy blood.

Gradually, the dragon bore right. Cursing, Thomas made himself crawl up to the neck, drive the dagger in with force. The dragon gave a caw and turned, flapping his leather sails fussily.

Thomas crept back, keeping his eyes on the widening bone plates: the dragon’s neck was no thicker than a hundred-year-old oak, the fathomless void on both sides. Sitting on the broad withers, Thomas took a breath, tried to tame the shiver in his limbs.

Suddenly the dragon started moving his wings frequently, for no ascend but a rush forward, so swift that Thomas was all but blown off by the head wind, the ropes stretched and trembled. Pounding the air with dark sails, the dragon was coming upon a flock of white swans that flapped evenly their wings, huge and snow white. The last swan had no time to look over before the dragon opened his jaws and the swans were pulled into, one by one, no less than two score in total. Only the leader flying at the head of his flock managed to duck down, breaking away straight from the teeth, dropped a couple of tail feathers.

The dragon stretched his wings, soared happily, and followed the fleeing swan with hardly a glance: a lion pays that much heed to stupid goats when they literally step on the drowsy king of beasts after he had a hearty dinner. Thomas estimated the total weight of the flock. Obviously, the dragon had overeaten in hunting excitement, even his breath got heavy. No feeding for at least an hour.

He took a breath and, for the first time, dared to take his eyes off the scary horned snout. On both sides of the flying dragon, dense clouds slipped past. When sometimes the winged beast got higher, Thomas watched in astonishment the white field below, which looked like snowy. Sometimes the glutton of a dragon forgot to flap its wings, descended slowly, the wisps of mist went up on his sides. In times the mist was thick enough to hide the wings completely. Once Thomas glanced back and could not see the tail. The mist concealed even the dragon’s head, which was dangerously close: Thomas hurried to take a slice of meat out and held it in his outstretched arm. If he snaps, he’ll have my fingers, not all of me.

Dragon fell down from the clouds. Thomas could see valleys, sparse woods, silvery snakes of meandering rivers below. He felt a vague surprise at the Lord’s having set hills and dales and drawn rivers in such a fanciful way. Soon good mapping will cease , he thought anxiously. Dragons die out, stop breeding, and how’s a precise map is to be made if not from dragonback?

In times the dragon forgot to flap his wings at all. The ground came closer, Thomas crawled onto his neck and stabbed the dagger. Then the dragon would give a start, as though awaking, and flap his leathery wings in panics, like a hen flying from one fence onto another.

The ground went down swiftly, Thomas got sprawled. He was not trembling anymore, the seeds of admiration sprouted in his terror-stricken soul. A Christian, he got into Pagan world, which was only to be cleaned with sword and fire of witches, magic, dragons, brownies, trolls… And now this horned evil creature is likely to hit on the firmament, flatten the warrior of Christ into a wet spot on it. Thomas glanced above apprehensively, afraid of catching on the nails that keep the vault of heaven: their silver heads could only be seen at night…