Yury Nikitin - The Grail of Sir Thomas

“Your death will be neither Christian nor worthy of a warrior,” Gorvel objected. “You don’t see what’s behind you!”

Thomas wheeled round – and saw empty mountain slope, all dark. He heard Chachar squeal in fright, started turning back to Gorvel but a violent header came down on him. With a flash of white fire before eyes, he fell silently on the ground, rolled few steps down into the cleft. Gorvel raised his axe to descend there and cleave the knight’s head, but the marauders and villains had vanished from sight: he could only hear their heavy breath, clang of arms, and trample of feet. He swore and ran after them, sent the crying Chachar flying off his way.

Weeping loudly, Chachar collapsed on the cold iron body. Thomas did not stir, and when she managed to raise his visor a bit, her fingers found something wet, hot, and sticky.

A red stripe emerged on the east, but the knight’s unblinking eyes were fixed on the fading stars.

Chapter 14

They ran past the first belt of stones, then the second one – and clashed suddenly with Hazars, only two of them. A villain fell with his head cleaved but the Hazars were slashed, and the party rushed down, stamping their boots. There was no point trying to conceal themselves anymore: before the barbarians died, they’d screamed, and a scream answered from below.

Twice they were caught up by Hazar parties gathered in a hurry. Gorvel and marauders passed through both of them and lost no men. Only the last of brigands, the Black Beard, fell down, transfixed with two arrows. Dying, he broke the neck of a screaming sturdy Hazar who was tattooed all over.

For the third time – they had already changed from run to walk, almost sure they’d thrown Hazars off – a big party came upon them. A fierce battle struck up, and no one ran away. A savage beast awoke in every man. Hazars screamed, scratched, bit, and even spat, but marauders also went bestial: if they lost their swords, they gnawed at enemies.

When the fight was over, only three men stood on their feet among many bloodshed corpses: Gorvel, Roland, and one of his soldiers. The three of them bared their teeth, breathing heavily, too exhausted to move or speak. The valley was silent.

Gorvel raised his sword. “We have to get away,” he said in a hoarse voice. “We broke through but there are lots of devils back in the camp. And that horned monster!”

The eastern edge of the sky was going lighter. Gorvel could see the tired faces of his random companions. The stars were fading gradually. In the twilight of the dawn, some dark half-ruined rocks were seen here and there. The three men, making no common plan, hurried into the same conglomeration of stones. Once the sun rises, the Hazars will pursue us ahorse.

The clouds in the sky blazed red, as if they were splattered with blood, the air became clear and transparent – when the ground was knocked away from under their feet at once. Gorvel and marauders were so sure they’d left Hazars behind that they had no time to draw swords when half-naked bodies seemed to emerge out of thin air. A huge boulder flew up. Gorvel only had time to see that it was actually a shield, deliberately caked in mud, and glimpse Karganlyk’s ferocious face under it.

Gorvel gripped the sword hilt. A massive hulk fell on him, blocking his breath. He moaned and saw a glitter of evil joy in small malevolent eyes. He clenched his teeth, struggled away, but Karganlyk squeezed his body with more force. Gorvel’s bones cracked, a groan burst out with his breath. He tasted hot and salty. “To the valley!” Karganlyk ordered Hazars. “These ones will be dying a very long time, for our gods to rejoice!”

Gorvel was tied up to a stout pole. Four Hazars shouldered it, hastened down to the valley. Roland was carried behind. Gorvel heard curses and grasped that the third of their party had also been taken alive. He roared and swore dirtily but stopped in the middle of a sentence, Gorvel heard a muffled thud, as if a stone were hit by a thick stick.

The radiant edge of sun appeared over the horizon when the captives were eventually brought to the camp. Hazars tore clothes off them, threw Gorvel’s armor down in a heap, then pulled it on a wooden block. Roland clenched his teeth, gloomy and enduring, but another marauder, as he came to, reviled the torturers again: threated, mocked, and spat at them. Hazars went furious but no one, in fear of their formidable leader, dared to finish the captive off, which he obviously strove for. They spat on the three captives in return, flung clods of mud at them.

They were stretched face up on the ground, their limbs tied to dug-in stakes. Gorvel gritted his teeth, trying not to let a moan out, as his joints cracked, his sinews all but burst at the strain. He saw nothing but the sky and, in times, the laughing mugs of enemies. Ugly and tattooed, they jumped, grimaced, screamed. Many of them used the opportunity to water the sprawled enemies. Soon Gorvel was bathed in stinky urine. His head remained free, he could shake it sideways. Hazars laughed and slapped on their bare knees when the proud knight closed his eyes tight. Some ready-witted one fetched a wooden funnel, thrust it into the knight’s jaws, and watered into it, screaming happily and jumping, while Gorvel coughed desperately and choked. The mob around roared with laughter

Karganlyk appeared suddenly, furious. He kicked Gorvel, the knight heard the crunch of own broken ribs. “Where’s the Old Sorcerer? One with green eyes?”

Gorvel winced with pain in his broken ribs, but his lips curled in a malevolent smirk. “You haven’t got him?”

“I would if only I met him face to face! But he killed nine my best warriors! I will torture him for long, very long!”

“Catch him at first,” Gorvel croaked, feeling evil strength still in him. “Nine under your very nose? This wolf will kill all of yours, like sheep. He only plays a pious man… When devil is old, he shall take monkhood…”

Karganlyk kicked him again. That time he smashed the knight’s cheekbone to bleeding with joy. “Hey you, at the fire! Irons ready? Let’s see how tough he is.”

Hazars went darting eagerly around the fire. There was a crackle, a smell of iron burnt hot. Roland, crucified on Gorvel’s right, cried to cheer him up, “Hold on, sir! Let’s show these monsters how a European dies!”

“Show the infidels how the soldiers of imperial guard die!” another marauder shouted, interspersing it with curses.

“I need no encouragement from scum like you,” Gorvel told them angrily. “Shut up! Everyone dies alone.”

Karganlyk snatched a rod from the Hazar who came running. Its crimson end emitted dry heat. “When you trample on the faith of others”, he roared wildly, “you confirm your own! It’s the behest of our forefathers.” His eyes glittered with madness, yellow saliva foamed in the corners of his mouth. Looking in Gorvel’s face, he started bringing the red-hot rod to the knight’s eyes.

Gorvel tried not to wink. He looked straight at the rod, despite his face burnt with heat and his eyebrows crackling. He smelled burnt hair.

Karganlyk touched Gorvel’s nostrils slightly with the red-hot end, then took it away, watched the knight grimace helplessly, suppressing a cry. As he started bringing the rod down again, he promised, “You’ll be screaming for very long…”

Suddenly, he shuddered from head to feet, straightened up convulsively, his back bent in such a way as if the small of it were hit by a log. His mouth opened for a silent cry. A wooden shaft topped with a white feather was in his left socket. The arrowhead had broken through his skull and gone out from the back of the head, dripping with blood. In spite of terror and disgust, Gorvel spotted that the arrowhead looked no iron but a strange silvery metal shimmering like moonlight!