Yury Nikitin - The Grail of Sir Thomas

Gorvel was sitting aside, scowling from under his bushy eyebrows. His eyes flashed with a strange expression, which Oleg would call a compassion. “Timely. You’ll need it soon,” Gorvel told Thomas in a flat voice.

“We’ll grind the marauders into dust,” Thomas promised. “And then I’ll kill you, a foul thief who disgraced the knighthood!” Gorvel gave him an ironical bow but kept his sword in hand.

The sun was sinking, the marauders peeped out from behind the rocks. Two of them sharpened their swords demonstratively, talking to each other. Only one villain remained at the foot, not to mention two wounded men. The rest were climbing up unhurriedly to attack in the dark.

Thomas snuffled angrily, piercing Gorvel with fiery looks. His fingers went white, as he gripped the sword hilt. Gorvel alerted, tucked his legs under him, ready to jump up at any time.

Oleg raised his hand and spoke slowly, “Perhaps we’ll all die soon. A good moment for truth, isn’t it? Sir Gorvel, you have startled everyone, I would say. The king made a gift to you: vast lands in your use forever, lots of villages and hamlets with their small folk. Your castle, faithful vassals, your beautiful wife who was about to bring your heir… Your abandoned all of it suddenly! And became an outlaw. You ran away from your own castle. Why? What for?” Gorvel replied with a gloomy smirk, silent and mysterious. “What rank?” Oleg asked suddenly.

Gorvel shot a glance at him and said nothing. Oleg drew a figure of eight upside down in the air. Gorvel’s eyes widened. Oleg drew another sign, his eyes fixed on Gorvel’s face. The knight twitched, hardened his sword grip. Oleg drew a line and encircled it. Gorvel went pale and jumped up. “That… That’s impossible!”

Thomas shifted his startled gaze from the red-bearded knight to the wonderer.

Oleg smiled malevolently. “Oh, I see. You are just an apprentice… But for the Holy Grail, they would have raised you to a master? Hum. They could move you straight into…” He stopped in the middle of a sentence, drew a complicated symbol.

“Who are you?” Gorvel asked in a stunned whisper. “How do you know our secret signs?”

Oleg drew a new symbol. “And this?” he asked quickly.

Gorvel’s voice gave a quaver. “A symbol of upper ranks. I’m not allowed… Are you a Grand Master?”

Oleg shook his head slowly. “I could have deceived you. As I know the rites and secret symbols, I could make you obey blindly… Sir Thomas, this man is a member of the secret society that has more power than any king or emperor. It has the most loyal servants: the ones who serve not their king or seignior, not any man but Idea!”

“Which?”

“The idea of progress. The idea of civilization.”

Gorvel scowled. His face expressed distrust, doubt, even fear, as if he were thinking the wonderer to play some game, about to reveal himself and give a sign that would make him, Sir Gorvel, obey implicitly. And he will obey, as he obeyed the night rider who showed a secret symbol and ordered to leave all the wealth acquired by hard work, to steal the cup and carry it, as fast as he can, to the indicated place. “Is it a wrong idea?” Gorvel asked in a feeling voice.

“Once Diogenes was asked: why did he praise the verse of a bad poet for all to hear. And the philosopher answered: for he was writing verse instead of robbing! In our world, every idea is better than robbery. Any idea implies order, hierarchy of values, obedience to no men but law. When an Eastern despot conquers dozens of neighbor kingdoms with sword and fire and unites them into a large empire, it is the lesser evil, ‘cause it puts an end to bloody wars between those kingdoms and roads are cleaned from villains and merchants are free to carry their goods and caravan ways turn safe and peaceful villagers are spared of sudden forays… But despotism is evil. The barbarian kingdoms of Europe, with all their roughness, give people more freedom, give feelings of pride and dignity. A better thing, as I’ve said, is to serve no king, even the noblest one, but a noble Idea… But, Sir Thomas, you have seen that the idea of civilization is only good against extreme savagery!”

Gorvel watched him warily and silently. At last, he asked uncertainly, “What is above civilization?”

“Culture,” Oleg replied – and realized he’d lost the battle for Gorvel’s soul. The face of red-bearded knight changed at once: his watchfulness replaced by a deep and blunt contempt. His shoulders relaxed, he glanced back to where the marauders were gathering behind a stone ridge, ready for the final attack.

Thomas, who was watching the wonderer with confusion, alerted at once, jumped up and moaned: he’d forgotten of his body beaten by rocks. Below, in the dusky valley, some riders were galloping from far away. Their horses rushed in wild fear, dripping with lather, the riders clung to their manes with no look back. In half a mile behind them, there was a vague mass approaching. In the dusk, it took Oleg some time to discern lots of galloping horses, their riders half-naked and beastlike, with flying black hair.

Gorvel and Thomas peered there anxiously, as they heard a menacing clatter of many unshod hooves. Marauders turned to the valley. Thomas found his voice at last. “Sir wonderer… Those are Khazars? Or Hazars, I mean?”

Not bothering to reply, Oleg unsheathed his sword and raised overhead. The blade glared in the setting sun, poured bright lights into the dark valley. Gorvel scowled at the sword in pilgrim’s hand, with astonishment and anxiety for the weapon’s size and the easiness with which the strange companion of Sir Thomas wielded it.

At the foot of the hill, the riders rushed at full tilt by the marauder guarding horses. He span round in confusion, holding the frightened horses. At last he grasped to mount, but barely had time to take reins when the screaming horde was upon him, a glitter of many narrow sabers. Several Hazars galloped on after the runaways, catching up with them: the horses of Hazars looked much lighter.

Oleg whirled his sword once more in the red light of sunset. Suddenly, the first of runaways vaulted off his horse, fell, rolled over his head, got up and started climbing the slope. Two others followed him: abandoned their horses, ran up on their fours, their arms and legs moving briskly.

In three score steps from the cleft with two knights and the pilgrim, the marauders span round in confusion, like loaches on a hot pan. The three runaways were pursued by dismounted half-naked barbarians. The marauders were on their way. Two of them made up their mind at once, leapt out of the shelter. Before Oleg dropped his sword and snatched the bow, they had dashed aside and vanished among stones, with only a clatter of pebbles beneath heavy boots. A thickset bare-breasted marauder in a feathered helmet turned to the cleft and cried, “Hey! Those devils took our horses!”

“Grudge?” Oleg said with surprise. “You stole them!”

“Took as loot,” the marauder objected. He gave a once-over to Franks, then to Hazars whose bodies glistened with sweat. There were two scores of them pursuing the runaways, the rest galloped at the foot, whooping and whistling. “Any ideas?” the marauder cried.

“Why do we need ideas?” Oleg replied arrogantly before Gorvel or Thomas could say a word. “You got between the hammer and the anvil. We’ll stay above and watch you skinned, your guts dragged out, your bones broken… You’ll have a very slow death: Hazars are skillful in it. And they love it.”

The marauder twitched his mouth in a smile. “Should we be upset for you seeing the details badly? They’ll do the same to you, won’t they?”

“I’m persuaded,” Oleg flung out carelessly. “Drag your gang here!” The marauder gave out a short cry. His men jumped up and followed their leader up the slope, hurried by the terrible beastly howling of Hazars coming from behind.