Yury Nikitin - The Grail of Sir Thomas

While the villains saddled and tightened girths, Thomas and Oleg took the bags of oats from their horses, untethered them. Chachar fidgeted in the saddle, peering into the dark, her eyes round with fright, but she kept silence, only glanced back at Thomas and Oleg in times.

They numbered nine when rode out of the valley: the knight and the pilgrim first, Chachar between them, and scared villains behind, shuddering and bowing at every sudden sound – a flap of wings or a crunch of brushwood.

Tired horses dragged along reluctantly. They rode in silence, even Thomas and Chachar, hearing only the gentle clatter of hooves and soft leather creaks of saddles. The moon crept behind a translucent cloud, wandered inside the gigantic air creature for a long time, in search of an exit – and found it under the shaggy tail, dropped out, shone brighter, cleaning itself, but was swallowed by a darker cloud at once. That was how they rode in the night until Oleg pointed at the fading stars for Thomas. The knight replied with a majestic bow of his iron head.

Oleg was the first to dismount, unsaddle, and water his horse from a skin carried by a remount. Oleg’s mount, worn out by the journey, almost drained it. Oleg took him to a glade with rich tall grass. The villains, seeing the knight and the pilgrim that confident, also unsaddled their horses and let them onto the glade.

Once Oleg made a fire, villains collapsed on the bare ground and fell asleep. Thomas wrinkled his nose in disgust: he despised any creatures so fast to pass from malice to absolute trust. All of them can easily be slaughtered now. Just imagine their belief in knight’s word! Once they heard a promise to help them escape Hazars, they rejoiced like children.

Though villains believed them while awake, they cried in their sleep, twitched anxiously, woke with goggled eyes and big beads of sweat on their faces. Once they made sure of being not captured by Hazars yet, they fell back like dead, snorted, twitched again, gritted their teeth.

Oleg observed the light stripe of the skyline closely. As the sky began to turn blue, the eastern edge of the earth got red, as if it were shed with blood.

Thomas walked around the fire, his bare sword gleaming, but then he got tired of it, sat down on a stump aside, took the whetstone out of his saddle bag. As villains heard the horrible swish of metal in their sleep, they flinched and groaned. Thomas whetted the blade of his huge sword painstakingly, touched it with his nail to check for razor-sharpness. The whetstone in his hand screeched again, grits sprinkled over the sleeping Black Beard’s face. The brigand writhed, cramped, howled in terror, but he was too tired to wake up.

Oleg sniffed the air, kicked the Black Beard awake mercilessly. “You are the leader? Carry the fire to that gully. And make it as small as you can.”

The Black Beard went pale. “They can attack now?” he asked in a constrained voice.

“A bit later.”

“We’ll carry it,” the Black Beard promised hastily. His suspicious eyes followed Thomas who rose and went to his stallion. “Where’s the knight going?”

“We shall ride ahead.”

The Black Beard pushed his gang awake. They grabbed their arms and surrounded Oleg and Thomas hastily. “You won’t leave without us!” the leader claimed fiercely.

“We pursue a man,” Oleg told them harshly. “It’s very important for us. And you… make your camp. And don’t hide under those trees.”

The Black Beard glanced back. “Can they creep up from there?” he asked suspiciously.

“Gods often throw lightnings in trees,” Oleg explained coldly. “Especially in a plain land. A thunderstorm is coming!”

The six villains shifted their gazes between him and the clear, cloudless sky. Aside, Thomas saddled the second horse but got thoughtful about the third one, lingered and hesitated. Chachar is a woman. But does it befit a noble knight to saddle a horse for a common men, a Pagan? Friendship shan’t mix with rules of etiquette. Even kings never step out of those…

“You won’t leave alone,” the Black Beard snapped. “I don’t know what that knight took from you but it must be valuable! Or why would you three pursue him when land invaded by Hazars? We didn’t know of those at least!”

Thomas pulled his gauntlets on, took the huge sword he’d sharpened elaborately. The ground trembled of his heavy steps. His visor was down, face hidden behind the iron grate, only his blue eyes looked through the slit, dooming and merciless. They could read in his cold eyes that he was about to show the softhearted pilgrim how a man should talk to villains.

Oleg raised his palm, holding the knight back, spoke gently, “It’s no treasure. The lord of the castle in south from here stole from our knight – that’s him and that’s his sword – a nail of Christ, their god… or prophet, other people say. And for you, nonbelievers, it’s a plain nail. You won’t get a single silver coin for it. Even in the countries where Christ is worshipped you won’t, as you can’t prove it’s truly his nail, not some fake thing. It has value only for Sir Thomas… See? The lord insulted the good sire by stealing the nail. It’s a matter of honor, not wealth!”

The villains pulled long mugs slowly. Malice and suspect were darting in their eyes, but the pilgrim’s sad face looked absolutely honest. The woman took a dagger, looked defiantly. Suddenly. Oleg said, “Would you like us to give an inviolable oath? We pursue the runaway knight for no treasure but justice and vengeance. When we kill him, we’ll take nothing but a bag of oat, a wineskin, and a copper cup to make a couple of good gulps from it!”

Thomas shifted the sword to his left hand, raised his right one to the sky. “I swear it on Holy Relics! I swear it by Christ!” he thundered through the visor.

The villains lowered their weapons impotently, exchanged spiteful glances. Thomas mounted heavily, took his lance, a red banner trembling under its wide steel blade, like a flame. Oleg gave a brigand whistle, his horse came running, obedient, shaking the bag on his snout as he galloped, reaching for the last mouthful of oat.

The Black Beard remembered he was a leader and asked anxiously, “What must we do? We’re no Saracens but strangers here.”

“Always post sentries, two of yours. Keep your horses close. Watch them. They’ll be the first to smell the horses of others. Should they snort, move their ears, knock with a hoof or neigh… But if Hazars get you, it is best for you to die fast. To take own lives. We are going to be back by night.”

“What if you don’t come?” the Black Beard called after him in a shaky voice.

“Go north,” Oleg replied. “Hills turn mountains there – a good hide. Hide your tracks if you can. The mountains are your rescue: they have more caves than cheese has holes. Look around while you go. There are caravan roads, the famous route from Vikings to Greeks ends here. Many merchants and caravans passing, many brigands around – your own sort – many marauders, Ottoman riders, but beware of the Hazars most. That’s all.”

In the bright blue sky, straight above the skyline, a cloud sprung up and started to grow rapidly. Thomas nodded at it. “That’s the storm!” he flung out with scorn. “The rain will wash our tracks off, but sir wonderer and I… we’ll find you.”

The knight’s destrier was prancing, gnawing at the bit. While he was not to show his tiredness, the pilgrim’s sly horse pretended to be dying. He sagged his back so that his belly all but touched the ground, breathed with death rattles, almost coughed. Oleg poked the stallion’s belly, he breathed out noisily. Oleg hastened to tighten the girth. The horse looked askew with an innocent eye. He didn’t seem to be sorry for his failure, as if he made very little effort to do it.