Yury Nikitin - The Grail of Sir Thomas

The road stopped twisting. It seemed to dash as fast as it could to the salutary coolness of the green forest, where a stream could be found. Thomas rode up to the nearest trees. As branches shielded him from the burning sun, his shoulders squared and his back straightened. His warhorse gave a short neigh as he trotted by a narrow path among big stocky trees. Thomas recognized oaks, hornbeams, and elms. The rest were nasty Saracen plants, none of them allowed by Holy Virgin to grow in his blessed Britain.

“We’ll have a rest soon,” Thomas soothed his destrier. “This grove must have a spring. I feel coolness with all my knightly heart and soul, like a hungry lion!”

He heard a crack in the shrubs ahead. A big thickset soldier tumbled out of there, like a huge boar, clad in a shining helmet and a breastplate pulled over a dirt-colored leather jacket. He had broad shoulders and wry legs, a wide dagger on his belt, a huge battleax in hands.

The robber looked derisive and sounded stentorian: “A knight on his warhorse! Not the sort to set off without gold. Yes, good sire?”

Three more men jumped out on both sides. Thin and swarthy, clad in ragged Saracen clothes and turbans, they had resentful looks on their faces and curved narrow swords in hands. Those one-edged weapons had the local name of sabers. The three of them kept their eyes on Thomas, while he only watched the soldier. Definitely a deserter from the great Crusader army, that one was heavy, strong in arms, his splitting axe far more dangerous than light sabers.

The Saracen blurted in broken Frank language, “Silver also... good.”

The leader grunted with content. “Then we’ll fleece him. Hey, knight! You have a rare chance to leave without a fight.”

Thomas reined up in five steps before the leader who crouched with his eyes fixed on the knight’s hands. The other three set on from the sides.

“All right, go without a fight,” Thomas agreed.

The leader exposed his yellow crooked teeth in a smirk. “You go. Leave everything and go.”

“You can’t take me like that,” Thomas replied tensely. “I fought in the Holy Land, I slew hundreds of Saracens...”

“Looks like you ran from hard fists in your home Britain, huh?” the leader asked mockingly. “Or Germany? Get off your horse! Move it, or we’ll help you.”

Thomas looked over the four of them haughtily, reined up with deliberate slowness. His thoughts darted feverishly. He thanked Our Lady for preventing him from taking his armor off, despite this damned heat, which was definitely sent from the Hell by Satan himself.

“I passed the lands of Saracen,” he replied arrogantly. “I will pass here too!”

The deserter raised his axe. Thomas turned left, pulled the heavy sword out and slashed, holding it with one hand The axe staff crunched like a straw. The deserter dashed aside: too late. Thomas felt a start of sword hilt in his fingers, heard a creepy tinkle. The robber’s arm, cut away near the shoulder, plopped down on the ground, still gripping the stick.

The robber uttered a terrible shriek. Thomas turned his shield quickly to the right. A pounding strike in the center of it made his arm numb. The thieves dropped their sabers. The warhorse made two giant leaps, he saw the open road ahead, a sparkling stream...

Something pounced upon him, a strong hand gripped his throat. Thomas swayed, falling down. At the last moment he pulled his feet out of the stirrups, as he was taught to, caught the enemy’s arm, wriggled and collapsed on top of him.

Thomas weighed hundred and ninety pounds, and his armor put him at two hundred and fifty. The robber gasped, blood gushed out of his mouth. Thomas raised himself a little. He heard another tramp flee, fell aside, and a short spear crunched into the stunned robber’s chest.

Thomas rose, still a bit stunned by the fall. His helmet had slipped down on his eyes, he set it straight. He had barely heard fast breath behind when someone socked him on head. Stunned, Thomas wheeled round and saw a dim giant figure. The giant swung his arm for a new terrible blow. Thomas grasped he had no sword in hand, nor a solid heavy shield. He jumped aside, his head buzzing, his heavy armor a burden. A dreadful strike froze his shoulder, he heard a crunch of either his bone or his iron armor plate.

The robber swung for the last crushing blow. Thomas’s mind cleared. His enemy turned out to be no giant but a small Saracen, dark and very evil, with bare teeth. A sharp saber was useless against the armored knight but the Saracen had a battleax instead, or maybe a cleaver, with its blade narrow as a beak. He attacked Thomas hastily, with a hail of quick blows, allowing the knight no time to regain his senses. Thomas backed, trying to shield with forearms and elbows. His head was clearing, his strength coming back, but his armor cracked of violent blows!

Thomas was still choosing the right time when his knees were jogged by something behind. He flipped his hands, trying to keep his feet. The Saracen jumped ahead with a scream, brandished, aiming at the knight’s face. Thomas dropped on his back. He saw a scary flash of steel, heard the axe swish past him and caught it in the air. The blow was hard but Thomas held on to the weapon and rolled aside. Something tinkled under his body, his fingers found the leader’s giant axe. That one had a short staff, like Thor’s hammer.

Thomas had time to rise to his knees. The robber gave him a heavy sider, Thomas got rigid with sharp pain. The robber yelled bestially, his eyes goggled, his mouth spitting. His sharp blade aimed at Thomas’s face, with those hateful eyes looking through the narrow slit: bright blue, as though the very sky was seen through the Frank’s skull.

Thomas seized the axe with left hand, as his right arm hung helpless, stepped to meet a new blow, felt hot spreading within his side, his body contorted with pain. He blocked the axe blade with elbow. The new pain made his teeth clench, but at the same moment he struck back heavily.

The broad steel axe blade clove the Saracen’s head down to his teeth. The blood spurted out powerfully, like splashes from a huge stone thrown into a puddle colored by a sunset.

Thomas dropped his axe, staggered along the road. Stout trees wriggled around like snakes, but Thomas saw his clever stallion who was nibbling grass and fresh leaves hastily, knowing his master would not linger.

Thomas struggled to pick up his shield and sword. Those were incredibly heavy, he dragged them on. His steel armor had a crack on the side, the red oozing out of it. Thomas felt more blood spreading under the armor, soaking his knitted shirt, squelching in his boot.

The stallion stopped eating around, ready to break into a gallop, but the knight stood still, clinging to the saddle. The destrier snorted, turned his head in surprise to sniff Thomas. The knight had lost much blood, everything was going dark before his eyes. With great effort, he hung his sword on the saddle hook, then the shield. He felt too weak to clamber up the saddle but he must have managed it somehow, as later he saw, in half-oblivion, some green branches moving towards him until all the world went dark.

* * *

Cold tickling drops crept down his face. He opened his eyes and saw nothing but grey mist. He could not move. As he groaned, his voice sounded surprisingly hoarse and weak.

Some fingers touched his face. The grey curtain disappeared: it was a wet cloth, now removed from his eyes. He saw a gaunt face over him, it looked like a skull stretched around tightly with dry skin. The man was deathly pale, his massive cheekbones so protruding that they threatened to break the skin. Thomas felt creepy all over. The skull said in a rasping voice, “Gods do not call you, sir.”

Thomas looked at his bony fingers holding the wet cloth. Behind the pilgrim, Thomas saw his own sword, shield, and dagger hanging on a scaly oak, his armor a heap below it. The wind ruffled the hair on his chest, and he realized lying naked to the waist on a pile of twigs, his belly tied up with clean strips. Under them, he felt some thick twigs at his side, which was still burning, pitching, stinging with pain.