Yury Nikitin - The Grail of Sir Thomas

“The cup in your bag?” Oleg asked.

“I’m not the one to carry it on my back!” Gorvel snapped.

“Sir Thomas was.”

“Did it help him?”

“You’d better not leave it in the bag!”

“There’s no use crying over spilt milk.”

The strangers who had taken their horses started to remove and untie saddle bags. Two of the men laughed, as they pointed at the furious knight on the mountain. Gorvel cursed, started coming to Oleg, looking past him. Oleg stepped aside. Gorvel ran down faster, shouting threats. The sword in his hand scattered orange lights.

Oleg bent over Thomas, put his palm on the knight’s pale sweaty forehead. “Take heart, Sir Thomas. Your life is in your hands.”

“In the hands of Holy Virgin,” Thomas reproached in whisper.

“In yours,” Oleg objected angrily. “Don’t you see? Sir God refused to take your knightly soul that soon. You haven’t delivered the Holy Grail, so don’t show white feather. Heading for the paradise, I mean. Get up. It’s not the time for eternal rest yet.”

Thomas stirred with a groan. To his own great surprise, he managed to sit up, though contorted with acute pain. “The mountain chewed me up and spat out…”

“Yeah, but it came to grief over your armor! The first time I see the use of it.” Thomas made a faint but proud smile. Oleg decided not to say that, despite the heavy armor had saved the knight’s life, without it he would have dodged on time.

They heard a shout of fury, clang of steel below. At the foot of the hill, Gorvel backed, beating off two marauders. The third one lay in a puddle of blood. Gorvel lunged, the second marauder fell down with his head slashed in two, but the next moment they heard a clatter of hooves, as several more riders, apparently marauders from the same gang, rushed out from the other side of the hill, screamed, unsheathed their sabers, and galloped on Gorvel.

Gorvel wheeled round, ran up the slope. Three marauders dismounted and rushed after him, falling on the steep, clinging at the rocks. Despite his armor. Gorvel was a fast climber. Only once had the fastest of burglars come upon him, but Gorvel heard his rattling breath, dropped at once, his sword swished low above the ground. The marauder uttered a dreadful scream: the curved blade slashed his knees.

Panting, clutching at stones and grass, Gorvel climbed up, straight to where Thomas was sitting. Oleg raised his knife and, once Gorvel was in three steps, flung it. Gorvel had no time to dodge, his eyes widened in mortal fear – but the knife swished by, almost having cut his ear off. Gorvel heard a hoarse cry behind, wheeled round, raising his sword, but the marauder who had come upon him was sinking down, his teeth bared in a silent cry, the knife hilt in his throat. Gorvel cast a sullen look at the wonderer, hesitated for a moment, tugged the knife out and hurled back to Oleg. “Thank you. I didn’t expect.”

Oleg caught the knife in the air, shoved into the cover. “We’re in the same boat so far,” he said.

Thomas winced, as if he had a pang. “I’ve always revered pilgrims for their wisdom!” Gorvel said hastily. He turned his back to Oleg as a sign of trust. Oleg drew his bow quickly, took an arrow with fingertips. The marauders were slow climbers, stumbling and falling. Oleg allowed them three score steps before he shot four men. The rest collapsed on the rocks, cursing.

“Excellent shots!” Gorvel admired. “I’ve always advocated equipping out army with bows. The civilization is to replace the dated rules of morality.”

“A dishonorable weapon!” Thomas objected. He waited for a pang to pass and forced out, “A coward can kill a brave man, a weak one can kill a strong one. The culture is against…”

Gorvel smirked but said nothing, as he glowered at the knight. Thomas started getting up. Oleg handed the sword to him. The knight leaned on its cruciform handle, rose to his feet, reeling. One of the villains looked out, intending to run into another shelter. Oleg’s bow string clicked at once. The white feather bloomed on the marauder’s chest on the left, he waved his hands, fell on his back, rolled down.

Gorvel clicked his tongue. “Splendid! The main thing is to damage the enemy. Honest or dishonest… that will be forgotten. Winner is always right. There are no foul ways while at war. All is good that brings victory. It’s the law of civilization!”

Thomas blushed, straightened up with great effort but Oleg stopped him with his palm raised. “Civilization against culture – that’s a long battle. Our great-grandchildren will see the end of it. And we have simpler matters to settle. How much water we have?”

“Two water skins of mine,” Gorvel said. “On my horse.”

Thomas curled his lip. “A pie in the sky is closer!”

They heard a cry from behind the rocks where the marauders were hiding from arrows, saw one of the villains waving a white kerchief. Oleg raised his hand to show he had no weapon in it, and the man shouted, “Hey you, noble knights! We know your habit to carry gold and jewels in your belts. Leave your arms, armor, and clothes – and you can go away. We are not Hazars. We don’t need your lives. Only your gold.”

Thomas said nothing, his loathing look all but burning holes in Gorvel’s armor. Gorvel stirred nervously, shooting glances at Thomas, the wonderer, and marauders. “How can we see,” Oleg cried loudly, “that it sufficed?”

“Sir wonderer, how can you?!” Thomas whispered indignantly.

“A stratagem, you fool!” Gorvel interrupted bluntly. “Go on, sir… what’s your name. Keep haggling!”

“You won’t stand up to our attack!” the marauder shouted. “There are twelve of us… eleven. All former soldiers of Crusade!”

“Twelve or eleven?” Oleg cried back.

“Eleven,” the marauder snapped. “We’re no lousy footpads took knives for the first time and went onto road! We fought way across Cilicia and Palestine. We took Saracen cities by storm!”

“We need to have a counsel,” Oleg replied. The marauder subsided behind the rocks. Oleg turned to Thomas and Gorvel. “What will we do?”

“Attack them,” Thomas said with dignity, in a husky manly voice. “Throw them down to the foot and shake their souls out!”

“A fitting answer!” Oleg said with admiration. “Noble and brilliant! Knighthood in all its beauty. Now I’d like to hear something different. Sir Gorvel?”

Gorvel combed his fire-red beard with his five thoughtfully, glanced back at the scatter of stones, the helmets of marauders shimmering behind it. “Only two good passages lead into this cleft. I can defend any of them against any host: they can only come by one or two. And you close another passage.”

“Less spectacular but more practical,” Oleg agreed. “But it’s noon, and all they need is to wait for the night come. They know where we are. In the dark, they will climb higher and shower us with darts and stones.”

They drank the remnants of water from Oleg’s flack. Gorvel refused proudly, though he suffered not lesser thirst than Thomas. Oleg did not insist, poured the last drops into the pale knight’s mouth. Thomas tried to take the upper part of his armor off. Oleg helped him with it, whistled at the sight of solid bruises. Thomas moaned when Oleg’s huge hands started to set his joints right, to knead his body, making the blood flow in it again. Big beads of sweat ran down the poor Angle’s face, his eyes rolled up creepily.

At last Oleg let him off. Pale as death, Thomas rose up to his feet, crouched to try his muscle. “Sir wonderer,” he said in a constrained voice, “you are the best healer that ever came into this world! My bones are burnt, as if I were in Hell that awaits for mean Sir Gorvel, but my sinful body obeys! My hand keeps the sword.”