Yury Nikitin - The Grail of Sir Thomas

A sullen ferryman was leaning on the rope to have some rest. He gave a surprised look to Oleg and the knight in gleaming armor, as they led their horses upon the wooden planks of the ferry. “Franks? Where to? Monks don’t like strangers.”

Thomas gulped down, his voice suddenly got hoarse. “We only need a passage across these lands! We have own food and oats. We won’t offend or disturb anyone. We are no enemies!”

The ferryman spat into the yellow water bursting noisily from beneath the ferry, turned away. “If you tired of wearing your heads…”

Some carts had their wheels coupled on the gangplank. The ferryman bellowed, his helpers dashed there with raised poles, thrashed both horses and their masters. Soon the matter was settled down, the carts pulled apart and placed properly.

Several scores of hands seized the rope, helping to move the ferry. Thomas and Oleg stood aside with their horses. From time to time, Thomas felt the cup through the bag and shot suspicious glances around.

The river lapped on the ferry, spraying it with water. Thomas pulled a long face, his eyes turned scared. Oleg followed his eyes to a poorly clad villager. “I saw myself,” he told other men, waving his hands. “Them tried stop him on road, with spear heads advanced, sharp an’ gleaming. He tore shirt in rage, barged on them with bare chest! An’ them set spears on him, one on his very throat, but no scratch on him! He went an’ thought o’ the High, and spears bent…”

“Five?” one of the listeners asked with a flash of interest. “I saw three of ‘em bend.”

“All five of ‘em!” the storyteller swore it with such pride as if it were his chest blunting the needle-sharp spearheads. “But them brave, seasoned warriors! No one dropped spear until it bent like yoke… an’ pulled out sharp swords! But what sword against a monk martial art?” His listeners shrugged. Thomas’s face was going more and more miserable. “He laid all five of ‘em. Faster than one of us claps hands!”

Oleg saw Thomas moving his iron palms apart and together quickly. The knight went pallid, with dark circles under his eyes. He was fingering the cup anxiously through the thick leather of the bag.

“All five of ‘em dead,” the storyteller specified. “Each at just one touch!” The rest nodded silently, their thoughts written clearly on their faces. It’s clear he only hit once, that’s how the masters of fisticuffs do. Who would bother a second strike if the first one is enough to send anyone flying into the dust, with their necks and spines broken?

The gloomy bank was approaching fast. The men started to stir, to elbow their way to the border, striving to be the first walker off. The ferryman’s helpers pushed them away, swearing. The ferry hit heavily against the thick logs. The two lads jumped on the mooring, fastened the ropes quickly to fix the ferry, covered the slit with the trampled gangplank. The crowd streamed ashore after them: hurrying, elbowing, pushing the ferrymen aside.

Oleg and Thomas waited until everyone, including the carts, got off the ferry, then led their horses onto the wooden mooring, mounted with an air of doom. The crowd broke apart, heading to the left and to the right – and they drove their horses straight ahead, where the yellow-walled cloister of warrior monks could be seen over distant hills.

On the way, they met strange oxcarts: with huge wheels, higher than their wooden sides, loaded with firewood and hays of fragrant stack, pulled by strange furry bulls, which were called yaks there. The villagers, dozy on the stacks, glanced at the knight in his gleaming steel with slack interest and gave the tanned barbarian in his wolfskin jack only a brief once-over: everyone had own business to mind, and the knight and the barbarian rode without a stop, severe and frowning.

At the road turn, Thomas reined up. The walls of the monastery towered in half a mile ahead. Some green branches and bunches of grass were dried on its flat roofs. The road went past the gate. No way to turn off: a scatter of stones on the right will break the legs of horses. On the left, there’s a crop field, but we are not in Britain to ride across a field that belongs to others.

Over the monastery roofs, yellow banners with grinning dragons, lions, and tigers quivered at the light breeze. A two-wheeled oxcart rolled through the distant gate, the drowsy driver urging his slow-paced yaks on. The gate was flanked by men in long orange robes. They stood motionless, their clean-shaven heads gleaming at the sunshine.

Oleg made a move to ride on, but Thomas stopped him with his arm stretched. “Just look what they do!”

From the top of the hill where they stood, they had a good view of the green field behind the monastery wall. Three scores of men in the same clothing jumped, somersaulted, brandished long poles. The tall wall around prevented any stranger from spotting their fighting ways from a close distance. and from the hill, one could barely make out their tiny figures. A monk, definitely one of those great warriors of whom that man on the ferry spoke with terror and awe, jumped up to a stout tree, started thrashing it with his bare hands. Pieces of bark flew sideways.

Thomas breathed out with a heavy groan, his stallion trotted down along the road sadly. Oleg moved his shoulders to adjust the quiver. Thomas rode with no look back, straightened and staring ahead. The monastery approached slowly. Its walls kept being seen as a whole, instead of breaking apart into huge stone slabs, and Oleg realized they were made of yellow clay mixed with straw.

Their horses were in half a hundred steps from the gate when a score and a half of men came out of it to block their way: all shave-headed, in the same orange robes, all sturdy, lean, and muscular. All the monks were much smaller than Oleg and Thomas but sinewy, and their posture and accurate moves could only belong to skilled fighters.

The monk who stood in the middle raised his hand imperatively. Thomas and Oleg pulled up. Thomas checked anxiously whether the sword hilt was in place, his fingers tightened their grip on the lance, his left elbow with a shield on it moved slightly to cover half of his breast.

“Stop!” the senior monk cried in a thin, clear voice, which would have sounded childish if not the ringing of metal in it. “Who are you?”

“Sir Thomas Malton of Gisland,” Thomas replied, trying to keep his voice firm. “Coming home after the triumphant conquer of the Holy Land. This is Oleg, a peaceful pilgrim. He comes from the land of Hyperborean, also known as the Great Scythia.”

“Why are you crossing our lands?”

“It’s the shortest way,” Thomas explained. He cast a warning look at the wonderer. “The host marched around your country in a wide arc, but we know that no harm is to come from two peaceful riders!”

The senior monk watched them suspiciously. “Peaceful? Why do you have a lance and a long sword then? And your companion, a peaceful pilgrim, has a battle bow and arrows!”

“The roads are dangerous. Villains, robbers, night murderers…”

The monk glanced back at his silent companions. “If you tried to cross our lands without arms, you’d have a chance. Though a little one… We tolerate no strangers. And kill they who come armed.” He sounded stern and dooming. Other monks did not stir, but their muscles bulged and stiffened. “You’ll have to fight!” the senior monk said with a malevolent smirk.

Thomas glanced back at the silent wonderer. “We’d rather not fight…” the knight begged. His voice gave a quaver.

Ghosts of smiles appeared on the still faces of monks. “If you win – ride on!” the senior said coldly. “If you lose…” His slanting eyes glittered coldly, his face remained stony.