Yury Nikitin - The Grail of Sir Thomas

“And you protected her with all your might?”

“Er… It was before I found the cup! I killed three…”

The wonderer winced. “Wasn’t that a haste?”

“I slashed the third, then saw displeasure in her face and doubted… Where are horses?”

“Castle is butchered and plundered all over. Some crossbowmen barricaded themselves in a tower, shooting everyone. If we run across the yard, we’ll get set with their bolts as hedgehogs with spines. Can you climb down the wall in your steel?”

“Better than a monkey!” Thomas assured and ran after the wonderer. Oleg rushed along the corridors, upstairs, and across the rooms briskly as if he knew the castle well.

Slaves tore expensive curtains, crushed furniture with axes. Once the wonderer rushed across the burning floor, vanished in the smoke for a moment. Thomas speeded up in fear to get lost. When they ran out onto the wall top, the sky was shining blue, a lone small cloud blazing with orange, but the yard was lit by the crimson light of great fires burning the furniture and rich clothes thrown from inside. The servants squealed terribly, as the blood-mad slaves butchered them for being well-fed, sleeping near warm caldrons in kitchens, spared of the draining work in the stone pit.

A rope fixed between the merlons hung down from the wall. Two horses stood tethered to a tree near the castle. Some half-naked men were running to them, attracted by the dense smoke and shouts from the castle.

Thomas swore, pushed the wonderer aside and started to descend. He caught hold of the rope deftly with his gauntlets and legs, slipped down quickly, slowed his slide before the very ground. When Oleg descended after him – slower, lest he scrap his hands – the knight was rushing to the horses, shouting and brandishing his sword.

The common men stopped, took a fast council and rounded the dangerous knight, making their way to the castle gate. Thomas turned to the wonderer and pointed at the rope. “We’d rather take it. A useful thing in journey.”

“A thrifty man,” said Oleg with surprise. “Come on, I’ve fetched two. If you need one to hang yourself, let me know.”

Thomas untethered his horse. The stallion sniffed him and snorted happily. Thomas seemed to see the sparkles of pride in the horse’s eyes when he smelled blood on his armor. His destrier preferred the blow of war trumpets to the sounds of lute. The blow for attack, for a heavy mass of armored chivalry to gallop forward, stirrup by stirrup, crushing all in its way!

Oleg jumped on the horseback easily. Thomas made a notch in memory: to find out where the wonderer had learnt to mount that way, touching neither the stirrup nor the rein. And where, in which cave or desert, what holy spirits taught him to throw a knife that accurate, to wield a huge two-handed sword? He did wield it, not simply brandished like a furious cook brandishes a knife. It took Thomas, a professional warrior, just a glance to tell a skilled fighter apart from… others.

The knight galloped, heavy and still, the lance in his right hand, as usual, his visor up. He looked askew at the wonderer who drove the horse with legs, as wild Scythians do, with no touch to the reins. He did not bend down to hide from the wind, his face motionless, his look vacant. Was he still searching for the Truth? Thinking of the high? Anyway, he had not forgotten to take both the lance for the knight and a fine lamellate bow for himself. Though the bow of English yeoman is no worse, it is tall as a man or even taller. And this lamellate bow can be shot from horseback – by the one who’s strong enough to draw it. That requires great strength indeed.

On the left of his saddle, the wonderer had a wide quiver stuffed with long white-feathered arrows, its silk laces shining in the sun. The covered axe hung near it. His boots held in the wide stirrups as though poured into.

“Sir wonderer,” Thomas said. He reined the warhorse up, making him take a slower pace. “What can you do else?”

The wonderer looked confused. Thomas hurried to correct himself, “In the war craft, I mean. I see you’re thinking about the high, but the noble art of war is also ranked high in our world!”

“The world is cruel and stupid, alas. It still is.”

“What do minstrels sing about if not feats of arms?” Thomas cried in surprise. “If not battle and fight? What are heroes born to if not fight and die with glory?”

The wonderer shook his head and gave no reply. His stallion was as huge as the one under Thomas but the knight remembered the great effort it took him to break the horse in, while the wonderer’s destrier walked as meek as a lamb. He only looked at his rider askew with fear. I heard Scythians can squeeze with their knees so forcefully that a horse falls dead with broken ribs. Can those rumors be true?

“The Hellenes,” Thomas began, trying to get the wonderer talking, “knew only chariots. The first time they saw men ahorse, they took those people, Tauric Slavs, for fairy creatures – half a man, half a horse. And gave them a name of centaurs, or riding Taurs… Those were said to be good shooters at full tilt!”

The wonderer gave him a sidelong look. “Is there any food in your bag?” he asked.

“Nothing but the cup,” Thomas replied, upset. “So what?”

The wonderer seized the bow from his shoulder instantly. The white feathering flashed. At once, Thomas heard a ringing click. The wonderer hung the bow back without expression. Only then did petrified Thomas look where the arrow had darted to.

In forty steps ahead on the roadside, a big hare was thrashing, its body pierced through. Still not believing his eyes, Thomas overrode the wonderer, picked the hare up with the lance point. The wonderer, with the same still face, stretched his arm. Thomas pulled the arrow out briskly, wiped it clean from blood and handed to him respectfully. “I’ll skin it myself at the halt, holy father! Er… sir wonderer! Christian faith is certainly the truest one, but Paganism seems to have some good things too…”

The wonderer smirked out of the corner of his mouth and said nothing.

Chapter 5

By noon, they entered a small village. The wonderer rode up to a remote house reeking of soot, burnt iron and rust. A strong, sturdy man came out to meet them, his leather apron in burnt holes. Oleg, staying in his saddle, asked, “Can you shoe a horse and unclench two iron rings?”

The man glowered at him. “I’ll have to make fire again…”

“That’s a pity,” Oleg said sincerely. “I thought you’d make use of two gold coins…”

The man wheeled round to the house, bellowed so loud that horses laid back their ears in fright: “Varnak, Boldyr! Warm the forge up, fast! Sharpen some nails!”

Oleg jumped off the horse. Thomas smirked understandingly, dismounted and gave the reins to the children that came running. The village smith had many children: some of them made the fire, others unsaddled and watered the horses, while his wife hastened to pluck a goose

The blacksmith’s eyes widened when he saw the collar on the noble knight’s neck, but he said nothing. Wielding his chisel and tongs quickly and skillfully, he unclenched the damned rings and threw them on burning coals to melt. No trace of us if Baron’s overseers come to question. Oleg tossed two gold coins in his palm. The smith thanked and dropped them on the sooty anvil. It looked accidental. Then he smiled, put coins into his purse accurately.

Oleg smirked. “Different things happen?”

The smith shook his head in distress. “You won’t believe it, good man! Each summer I got foisted twice or trice: gold or silver turns dry leaves the next day! That was until I knew no magic can stand iron and began to drop coins on my anvil… I’ve already caught a fraud. That fool swore he was duped himself. Maybe that wasn’t a lie. If he was a wizard, why he did nothing when I… er… taught him a lesson?”