Yury Nikitin - The Grail of Sir Thomas

“Leave others to me,” he said harshly. “And you may go. We are enemies but, strangely, I feel no hostility. You witnessed the grandeur of Khazar Kaganat, its glory! That’s why I don’t want to kill you.”

“Well,” Oleg agreed. He watched Karganlyk’s motionless face closely. “I leave them all. May I choose the horse and things for myself?”

Karganlyk nodded, his eyes were full of great astonishment, then he checked himself and added, “Not everything. You can take all the horses and things… save one small cup.”

“It’s no gold,” Oleg spoke slowly, his eyes fixed on Karganlyk’s face. “Neither silver… Why do you want it?”

Karganlyk moved his enormous shoulders heavily. “And you?”

“It’s important for my friend. A sacred thing of his faith. But your faith is different.”

“I strengthen it by throwing down the gods of others!” Karganlyk said sharply.

“I’ve heard much of that… When you defile the shrines of others, you throw mud into the face of your god. You flung down the gods of Slavs, Normans, Bagdad, and Byzantium… but destroyed only a god in yourself.”

“I’ll keep the cup,” Karganlyk snapped. “Take all the rest if you like!”

Oleg nodded, his eyes were sad. “I see. Tell me: who set you on two lone travelers? We are entrapped. You can speak bluntly.”

Karganlyk gazed at his old enemy. His painted face twitched, his lips stretched into thin lines, his sharp wolfish teeth flashed. He looked eager to say the dreadful truth, to fling it into his eyes, to see fear in the Old Sorcerer’s face – but Karganlyk might have recalled Oleg escaping in spite of bounds, or he was restrained by some other reason, but he only growled, “A dog is set on. And I’m a great chieftain! My life is guarded by gods.”

“Yes,” Oleg agreed with no hint of jeer, “you’re a great chieftain. Of a great tribe. Though not numerous, is it? Do you have hundred men? Ten years ago, you had thousand. And twenty years ago – ten thousand. How many will you have next year?”

Karganlyk clenched his stone jaws. He had barely retained from a strike, his fingers fumbling about his belt. “One hero is enough to give birth to a new nation,” he said in a dull voice. “You know it.”

“I know,” Oleg agreed. “A hero. Not a beast.”

Karganlyk’s eyes flashed. “Whilst I live, the people of Khazar lives!” he snarled.

“Even gods die,” Oleg told him.

Chapter 13

Karganlyk straightened up, his eyes blazing. Oleg put his hand on the sword hilt. For a while, they tried to crack each other with eyes, then Karganlyk turned away and ran down, jumping among the rocks sprightly. Down in the valley, Hazars stirred, rushing to meet him. Oleg hurried up the slope, saving his distance to Hazars, poor archers. No Khazars anymore. Those were splendid riders and marksmen, dangerous enemies. These are just a bestial gang: unable to build anything, and even out of their skill to destroy.

The northern end of the cleft was guarded by marauders, the southern – by villains. The helmets of two knights glittered over the middle of the ridge. Mortal enemies, they, however, felt more in common with each other than with other men, brigands and deserters. Chachar bustled among the three groups like a messenger among warring hosts. She was the only one welcome anywhere. Her cheeks flushed with happiness. That’s her paradise – only men around .

“How’s your trade?” Gorvel cried to Oleg, while Thomas breathed out with relief..

“As usual: no swindle, no sale. He offered us to leave the cup and get away.”

Ronald uttered a loud hem. “We need agree!” he expressed the common opinion of his comrades and also villains. “Even if cup is golden, our lives are golder!”

Gorvel and Thomas said nothing. Chachar grasped Oleg by hand, her eyes glittered with tears. “You refused? Why?”

“After he takes a cup, he will take us.”

“What’s the point for him to lose his men?” Gorvel said warily. “We’ll kill much of his, and he’ll gain only the same thing he hopes to get for nothing!”

“He doesn’t need the cup,” Oleg replied. “He needs us. He was told that Sir Gorvel carries all the family jewels with him. They cost enough to hire a small army or build a medium-sized fortress. Sir Gorvel, you may find it hard to believe that your masters have set him on you, but it’s in the spirit of progress. Hazars can’t be commanded in the way you were, but these base creatures are easy to be manipulated by playing on their greed, envy, and malice!”

Gorvel turned pale, his hand darted to the sword hilt. At once, Thomas and Roland, the leader of marauders, drew their swords and covered the wonderer. “And the cup…” Oleg continued. “Karganlyk will give it to those who pointed at the rich prey, as a gratitude for their hint. Who needs that plain cup, Sir Gorvel?”

Gorvel sheathed his sword with a thud, turned away. The marauders and villains exchanged suspicious, unbelieving glances. Kings, basileuses, and sultans were legendary creatures. Just as gods, demons, and peries. None of those is to be encountered by ordinary men, so forget them and only rely upon your own strength, fortune, and lucky star!

“What will we do?” Roland inquired. He stepped out of the group of marauders. “Holy father, we see you definitely have met these devils before. And those meetings might have been hard, as you know their military habits. That horned devil was talking to you respectfully, we all saw. And he’s the kind of demon to escape no censer but a hard fist. And he kept glancing, other men say if I lie, at your fists, not your charms!”

Oleg fingered absent-mindedly the charms on his breast. “We’ll have to wait. We can’t leave without horses. The mountain must have been surrounded, but they won’t attack at night. I know it.”

“We ran short of water,” Roland reminded. He licked his dry lips. “And they’ll pour it over selves in the morning! A spring half a mile from here.”

Oleg shook his head sadly. “We have no other choice. The roads are busy here. The forces of Barons and Saracens often ride through this valley. If any of them comes, the wild Hazars will be driven away. They are hated by everyone.”

Roland stepped back but his eyes were doubtful. The marauders took a quiet counsel, and the Black Beard, who had kept silent up to that moment, roared, “If! Your ‘if’ brought death to all of mine! Let the pilgrim have his ways, and we’ll have ours. Once it’s dark, we try to break through. Some of us die, but others live. Or we all die with this fool!”

Thomas blushed, his hand darted to the sword hilt. Gorvel puffed up, stepped closer to him. Oleg flung his fist swiftly. There was a muffled tinkle of helmet. For a moment, the Black Beard stood with goggled eyes, then his knees bent, he collapsed face first. The dumfounded villains watched his iron helmet, which had fell to the ground, and a dent in it, then shifted their gazes to the bare fist of peaceful pilgrim.

“You… killed him?” Gorvel asked.

“It would have pleased Hazars. He’ll soon come to.”

Gorvel breathed out with relief. “I’m glad that you are our sultan, sheikh, and king! If I were you, I couldn’t help killing that churl!”

Thomas bent his head and said nothing: he’d also have killed the villain with great pleasure. The Black Beard groaned, turned on his back with effort. A marauder who was smirking malevolently from ear to ear kicked the empty helmet to him, left it in the position for the dent to be well seen.

The Black Beard’s hair on the left side of the head was matted with blood. He moaned and sat up, resting both hands on the ground. “Take your cut-throats,” Oleg told him mildly. “The watch before midnight is yours. Then these brave soldiers of imperial guard change you.”