Yury Nikitin - The Grail of Sir Thomas

Four Hazars were stamping on the soft ground around the cross dug into, driving stones and wedges under its base. Dark blood was streaming down the cross. The villain’s feet were set against the ground, otherwise the nails couldn’t have kept his body. Hazars had not only cut belts of him: they maimed the bottom of his belly, pulled out his male parts.

Noiselessly, Oleg took his bow off, emptied the arrows on the ground. He hesitated for a while and laid down a throwing knife too, though it was hard to shoot an arrow while lying and throwing a knife was even worse.

He loosed the first arrow after a thorough aim-taking. Then he’d snatch the next one by feather hastily, draw in a flash, shoot and grasp another arrow at once. The first Hazar was shot in throat, two more – in heads before they could cry, but the fourth one had time to see the glitter of arrowhead in the dark. He jumped aside, a saber flashed in hand.

Oleg threw the knife with force. The Hazar fell, the hilt stuck out of his left eye socket. Oleg caught the body, flinched at the blood pouring over him, put it noiselessly on the ground.

From the Hazar camp, he heard common sounds of any nomad camp where half of men are awake, whetting their swords, putting heads on their arrows and spears, while the sentinels mostly watch the bonfires and meat on spits.

He wiped the throwing knife clean, tucked it in place. While he ran around the cross and gathered his arrows, he kept listening to the sounds of noisy Hazar camp. He approached cautiously, flinching at every chirr of grasshoppers. There was no suspicious noise, no signs of alarm, and Oleg breathed out with great relief. At the blaze of farther bonfires, he saw many Hazars drinking heavily the befuddling soma, chewing death caps. Their faces twitched, contorted, froze in awful grimaces.

He was looking out for Karganlyk when someone pushed him on back. “Why ramble in dark?” an angry voice said in the spoiled tongue of Eastern Khazars who had turned Hazars. “Carry the wood–”

Oleg wheeled round, pulling out his knife. Two Hazars glared at him, the third one behind them was dragging a dry log with effort. Oleg kicked the first Hazar in groin. At the same time, the knife vanished from hand to appear as a hilt stuck in the throat of the second enemy. Oleg jumped on the third Hazar who dropped the log and goggled his eyes in fear. He let out a terrible yell that stopped abruptly with a shrill sob.

Oleg dashed aside, fell, rolled over his head and stopped dead, sprawling on the ground, his ear pressed on it. He heard screams at the camp, a loud clatter of hooves. Someone darted across the fire, scattering hot coals. The sleeping Hazars were jumping up with dreadful yells, in burning clothes. Only those befuddled by soma and death caps did not stir.

Oleg cast anxious glances at the dark sky. The light spot of moon vanished in fast running clouds in time, but another time it shone through them too brightly, threatening to fall out into the clear sky. He would be exposed then!

He ran off a bit, crouched, watching and listening to know who was where, how many of them, where they headed. Karganlyk did not show up, though Oleg heard his stentorian roar twice. He started to sneak there but soon heard the leader’s voice from another side, as if Karganlyk had felt the danger and was hiding or trying to decoy Oleg into ambush.

The turmoil went on. They found the bodies and are combing the valley through! Oleg started a quiet retreat to the mountain. Warned by the trample of hooves or feet beforehand, he fell on the ground each time, merged into its hummocks, pretended to be a boulder. One Hazar was too fast to come upon him, no time to dodge. Oleg had to punch him on head to stun.

Thomas and Gorvel were awake, peering at the far bonfires. In two steps, the Black Beard was scuffing with concentration, as he whetted his curved sword, checked it carefully with his nail, as thick as a hoof, and moved the rough whetstone lovingly on the blade again.

“You friend is a man of great courage,” Gorvel remarked at last. “A civilized man would never take such a risk, but he’s a Pagan, as those wild Hazars are. He’s a match for them.”

“He has enough civilization and enough culture,” Thomas snapped. “He knows the Holy Writ, though he doesn’t appreciate it. Sometimes it seems to me he has met all the great prophets in person: so profound his knowledge of their words and their ideas!”

“Then his soul belongs to Satan,” Gorvel told him with confidence. “Are you sure he’s not Satan himself? Or one of his servants? Not the least of them! Some things he does… I wonder whether they are possible for any man.”

Thomas pondered over it, then his face lit. “He held the Holy Grail in hands! And it can’t be touched by one with foul intents. By the way… Can you take it?”

Gorvel turned away. He stared into the dark for a long time. The reply he gave afterwards sounded steady and confident, as if he felt great powers behind. “I treat the cup of Christ’s blood with too much respect to lay dirty fingers on it. Once I’m back to my castle… either old or new one… a priest will absolve me of all my sins, however small. Then I’ll take it.”

“That will be a long confession,” Thomas said. “You’ll get old before you finish it!”

Chachar tossed anxiously in her sleep under Thomas’s cloak, whispered something. Thomas walked aside not to wake her, glad at the opportunity to move away from despicable Gorvel: the veil creature who robbed his guest of the Holy Grail and then tried to kill him treacherously, throwing heavy stones down at him… And this monster doesn’t burn of shame. He speaks to me as if nothing happened! He could keep closer to villains, men of his own sort, but instead he’s hanging around me, an honest man.

Suddenly, they heard screams from the dark valley below. The closest bonfire blazed up. Thomas saw tiny figures of men rushing around it, then some riders galloping past like ghosts. Then other bonfires blazed up too. There was a glitter of blades, furious shouts grew louder.

“They captured him!” Gorvel cried with obvious vexation.

“At least he managed to kill some of them!” Thomas replied angrily. “Unlike us. We’ll die without any glory.”

“They wouldn’t make such ado for nothing,” Gorvel agreed.

The Black Beard woke another villain up, cursing furiously. Together with the marauders who had jumped up, they peered with fear and anxiety at the far bonfires and darting figures. Then the Black Beard climbed out of the cleft. “We can get out!” he cried excitedly. “They have pilgrim, all their attention on him. I don’t know whose holy relics he worshipped, but I beat he’s killed at least one of theirs! And they forgot us!”

“And the devils that guard us?” another villain asked him.

“They must have run down. And if some remained… you’ve served in the imperial guard, haven’t you?”

The marauders exchanged glances, started to climb out of the cleft. Swords and daggers glittered in their hands. Chachar jumped up, wrapping herself in Thomas’s cloak with cold, and clung to the knight.

Gorvel hesitated, his eyes shifted from villains and marauders in their leave to Thomas and shivering Chachar. “Sir Thomas, we’ll have to join this scum for a while. Even if they die all, two of us, the strongest knights, will break through! And then we settle our dispute in combat. Agreed?”

“No,” Thomas snapped resolutely. “My friend is captured by enemies. I’m bound to save him. Or die trying to save him.”

“Bound!” Gorvel jeered. “What about our duel?”

“My sword will find you, scoundrel,” Thomas told him with loathing. “But first I’ll try to rescue sir wonderer. If I perish, it will be a death of Christian warrior.”