Yury Nikitin - The Grail of Sir Thomas

Thomas disemboweled the hares, threw one into the boiling water and resolved to roast another one on coals, which he, to tell truth, had prepared for that matter, as he knew the wonderer. “And you?”

“There are whole herds grazing in the steppes.”

They had their meal in silence, tired, though all the day long they did nothing but sat on the flying dragon. Thomas was first to hear the dry thuds of unshod hooves, threw his spoon aside, gripped his sword. Oleg finished the soup hastily, got up too. The bow and arrows were on his back, his sheathed sword by the fire.

Some mounted men rode out onto the glade: short, neatly built, with black hair and black eyes. Each one has a bow behind, a strange felt hat on his head. Their horses are rather small but look hardy and evil. Thomas counted twelve of them, and a dense wall of riders that could be discerned at a distance…

The men raised their hands, cried something out in guttural voices. One of them dismounted, walked forward slowly, advancing his palms. Oleg nodded Thomas to stay in place, walked slowly to meet the man. Thomas, with his hand on the hilt of huge sword, watched Oleg tensely. The latter came up fearlessly to the black-haired man who was all but a head shorter, they spoke in low voices. The black-haired man pointed at the riders, even moved his hand in the direction of those behind the trees, told Oleg something in a fast guttural voice, with several nods at the dragon: he slept at the other end of the glade, his mighty breath bending the trees before, their leaves had fallen down of his loud snoring.

Oleg glanced back and shouted. “Sir Thomas! Have your rest. I’ll go round to the nomad camp. Get to know news. I haven’t been to Rus’ for a long time, and they ride just from there.”

“Are you safe?” Thomas cried anxiously. “Aren’t they Polovtsians?”

“They are,” Oleg replied. “Kumans! Those Polovtsians who become our friends get the name of Kumans. When I am back, I’ll tell you more.”

A horse in ornate harness, in a colored horsecloth with gold embroidery, was led up to Oleg. The black-haired man pointed at Thomas with finger, Oleg shook his head negatively. He jumped into the saddle with no touch to stirrups. “When are you back?” Thomas cried in fear.

“In the morning,” Oleg replied. “You sleep!” He urged his horse, the riders galloped to meet the long shadows. Evening came fast: before the sun sank beyond the horizon completely, the glittering moon was followed by first stars. The sky went dark, studded with stars from end to end: not that bright as those in Jerusalem, but sharp and prickly. We need to fly with care tomorrow, not get too high, lest we get our backs cut on those sticking nails.

He woke as though pushed. There were distant voices, anxious horse snorting. Thomas snatched the sword from under his head. Half-awake, he took a fighting posture, as he’d just dreamed of the attacking chivalry of Saracen.

In the pale light of dawn, some scores of men were bustling about the edge of the glade. Thomas smelled fresh blood. One of them was distinctive by his stature and broad shoulders. When he turned, Thomas recognized the wonderer.

Oleg waved his hand. “Good morning… Sir Thomas…” His voice was feeble, he staggered, but the others riders seemed to be treating him with friendly respect/ Thomas lowered his sword. Soon after, all of them save the wonderer jumped on their horses and galloped away, while the wonderer dragged himself to the dying fire, by which the noble knight had taken his firm stand.

Thomas gasped. The wonderer looked exhausted, hardly able to drag his feet. His face had become yellow, his eyes glassy, his lips dry. He trudged up to the fire and collapsed. He obviously felt frozen. Hurriedly, Thomas threw some dark twigs on the dark crimson coals, blew on them, bulging his cheeks. A whole cloud of ashes flew up, sprinkled the knight all over, but the coals flared with bright orange flames, which leaked the twigs and the fire blazed up.

Oleg jerked his shoulders, his eyes seemed to be closing by themselves. “I’m getting too old for such things… But nothing to be helped. I’m Pagan. A man of that old, cruel world…”

“What,” Thomas cried in fear, “did those animals do to you?”

Oleg moved his hand, spoke in a lifeless voice. “There’s meat of young cows. A present… Drag it up – I can’t even stir my finger.” His head dropped, he fell asleep while seated. Thomas, trembling with both pity and fury, ran up to the presents and checked them: forty sacks of juicy meat, five that number they took with them the last time. And some bunches, sweet-scented herbs. The meat is also interlaid with fragrant leaves and whitish roots.

Clenching his teeth, he fed the dragon quickly: first threw the biggest slices into hungry jaws, then forced the smaller ones into the mouth until the dragon growled and covered his snout with paws. Thomas dragged the rest thirty-nine sacks onto the back of replete dragon, tied them doubly tight to the comb along it, stretched two rows of ropes to walk. or at least crawl, along, put the rest of the fire down quickly, packed the kettle into empty sack.

The wonderer was sitting in the same pose, his chin rested on the chest. In times he gave a snort or a start. Keen over the tormented man, Thomas lifted him up, shouldered and carried carefully to the dragon who was also sleeping, full up.

When he was tying the wonderer as tight as possible, lest he be blown off at flying up, Oleg came to himself and muttered, “Thank you, Sir Thomas… You are true friend… And me too…”

“What was it there?” Thomas asked quickly.

The wonderer’s lips made a sluggish move. “Wild people, you see? They have wild customs… But I’m no Christian to recognize only the customs of my own. When in Rome, I do as Romans do…” He tried to get asleep.

“Were you tortured?” Thomas asked, ready to tear the wild Polovtsians with his bare hands for their satanic deeds.

“Oh yes, I was… I said I’m getting old for such rites… All the night long – only naked girls! Singing, dancing, snuggling… I lost the count of them after the first two scores. This is the land where Targitai managed his thirteenth feat! Their chieftain wanted to say girls to you, I hardly reasoned him out… They don’t know, wild men, that you are Christian and made a vow of fidelity to beautiful Krizhina…”

“What custom is that?” Thomas asked, dumbfounded.

“They are wild, I say… Bring their most beautiful virgins for night to those considered heroes. To improve the breed!.. And now we come flying on a dragon… So they made every effort! Once I’ve thought it was over with girls but then saw them dragging new ones from the camp, in such a hurry! When they grasped I was capable of nothing more, the chieftain wanted to send them to you again… I all but scuffled with him. Fool, he knows no principles of Christianity… And I had to accept those ones myself too…”

Thomas darkened, said through gritted teeth in a strange voice, “Thank you, sir wonderer! I’ll never forget this service.”

“Always… for friend…” Oleg went snoring, hung in the ropes like a cheap doll with its sawdust out. Furious, Thomas even forgot he did not knew how to raise the dragon into air. Cursing the Kumans and his noble friend, he woke the dragon, made him take a run, and once the dragon jumped up Thomas turned him northwest.

The wonderer woke up for a moment, mumbled with his eyes closed. “Sir Thomas, you here?.. Don’t forget to feed Skylark… or he gobbles us both. I’ll have a little sleep, well? Don’t forget to scratch: the fresh scar on the left of his withers is itching. And tap him between ears with butt – he loves it… If I don’t wake till noon, you awake me…”