Yury Nikitin - The Grail of Sir Thomas

Oleg nodded at the other men’s backs that glistened with sweat.

Thomas waved away angrily. “They’ve died out. But not you! I feel a glimmer in you…”

Oleg looked indifferent. He was driving his crowbar in a narrow slit, crushing the stone. Thomas breathed heavily. His muscular arms raised the pick over his head frequently, his blows cracked rocks like rip nuts. The chain on his ankles clanked miserably.

“You’ll burn out,” Oleg said.

“What?” Thomas wondered.

“Overstrain. Run out of your strength soon.”

“I shan’t linger! If no way out, I… swear on the Heaven and Holy Communion, I’ll smash my head!”

His breath rattled, as he had swallowed much stone dust. His neck was squeezed by the collar, his burnt blisters rubbed till they bled. The glitter in his eyes could belong to a small animal at bay, his fingers trembled. Oleg realized clearly that the handsome knight was not long for this world. At least, for the part of the world where Baron Otset’s castle stood.

“How will you get out?” Oleg asked without interest.

“I don’t know,” Thomas said desperately. “But here I shan’t live till Sunday. I know it. And no one to trust! Slaves… They’re slaves after all! It’s only you I know. You cured me, and I once saved you from dogs!”

The wonderer raised his arms evenly and strongly, bringing the sharp end of the heavy crowbar down into the crack between boulders. Thomas could almost see other boulders that moved unhurriedly in Oleg’s head, casting a dim glimmer into his impenetrable green eyes.

“But,” the wonderer spoke gently, “people should not be forced, even to their good. If they can’t forget their flesh here, if they’re unhappy because of its suffering… they must be released.”

Thomas jerked his shoulder impatiently. “Damn your wise words! Who will release them?”

“We,” the wonderer replied in the same humble voice.

In the evening Thomas was brought to the common slave barn. None of the exhausted, work-disemboweled men paid any attention to the novice. Thomas made his way to the corner where Oleg was sitting. “You’ve travelled a lot,” he whispered with excitement. “Might have seen more of such pits than I. Do you see a way to escape?”

“There’s always a way,” Oleg replied softly. “But our collars will give us away… and our rags. We’ll be stopped in the nearest village and handed back. No one would like to quarrel with Baron.”

Thomas nodded. “I think so. And I can’t leave without… some things. I hate to part with my warhorse, my armor and sword, but let the damned Baron have it! But in my saddle bag there’s an old copper cup…” He stopped, gave Oleg a searching look.

“Yes, I’ve seen it,” the pilgrim said quietly. “In search of something to dress your wound… Why is it so important?”

“It’s holy,” Thomas whispered. “A sacred thing.”

“Ah,” Oleg said, “ritual. I see. Every our sorcerer used to have a cup on his belt. Back in the times of Targitai, the golden plow, yoke, and cup fell from the sky…”

Thomas hissed angrily, “Don’t you liken holy Christian relics to some Pagan things!”

“Well, well. On the way out, we’ll need the armory first. You put your iron pot on, we take horses and gallop away.”

“I have to smash Baron’s head before!”

“Then we’ll be seized. Speed is our only rescue.”

“But the cup must be in his bedroom! He’s no fool to keep it elsewhere. I’d rather die than leave it!”

The wonderer watched him with a strange expression, then sighed, tossed and thrashed heavily in the stone corner. “Man is reckless… Isn’t that a simple Truth?”

“Ho-ly won-de-rer!” Thomas spoke in measured tones. He choked with fury, veins in his neck bulged, the metal collar strangling him like Baron’s iron fingers. “Will you help me?”

The wonderer had big, mild, all-forgiving eyes. Those could belong to an icon, a righteous man close to Christ, one of his twelve paladins. “Off chance I shan’t abandon my search of Truth despite… In Great Reclusion, do as others do.”

“Will you help?” Thomas moaned.

“A little,” Oleg replied in a quiet voice. “Don’t expect much.”

Chapter 3

All the next day Thomas stood in the full blaze of the sun, tied to a post in the middle of the yard. His clothes were torn off. The servants laughed, threw leftovers at him. The burning Saracen sun was driving him mad. Bugs and flies swarmed his bleeding wounds, his eyes, nostrils and ears, fresh wales on his back. Thomas swore, then roared like a bull until his voice got hoarse and his head dropped on the chest. He could only moan then. His legs gave way, so he hung on the bounds that cut into his flesh tightly and made it blue.

Oleg hoped Thomas would be brought back to the barn, but the night came and the poor knight was still not there. Tired stone-breakers gobbled their meal. Twice they fought near the food caldron for a slice of meat, then everyone collapsed on pitches of rotten hay. Soon Oleg heard snoring, rattling breath, painful groans.

He listened to the sounds outside, approached the gate. Behind those oaken folds banded with thick iron, two soldiers had to watch all the night long. Baron is severe, but are both of them actually there?

Without looking at the chink between folds, through which the iron bar could be seen, Oleg grabbed the edge with his left hand, his right one set against the crossbeam. He strained and began to lift the fold, his knuckles scraped against the stone gatepost. The massive hinges creaked faintly, the gate bar moved with a grind.

With gritted teeth, he bent every effort to lift the massive fold, his eyes fixed on the glittering pole coming out slowly of the rusty hinges. The wooden edge almost touched the stone vault.

Suddenly, the pole slid out. Oleg hardly kept the fold in hands. Holding his breath, he put it down carefully and listened. The yard was quiet as the barn was: the heavy sleep had overcome exhausted slaves. As a breath of fresh night air came in through the wide slit, some of them tossed uneasily and groaned.

Oleg squeezed himself quietly between the stone wall and the fold taken off hinges. The broad courtyard looked empty. He heard horses snort in distant stables, their hooves knock on the wooden fence. In the moonlight he saw a tethering post in the middle of the yard.

The castle had its lights on. He caught a glimpse of a man’s figure, big and round-headed, against the curtain in the fourth, topmost floor. In the next window, a woman’s head was seen for a moment, her golden hair lit by a torch from behind looked ominously red, until some long dark hands seized her by white shoulders and pulled away. The silk curtains were drawn at once.

Oleg sneaked in the shadow along the wall. For a moment, it seemed to him that once he had been sneaking the same way, in the same rags, emaciated…

He waved unnecessary thoughts away, picked a stone, tossed it up to feel its weight, sides, roughness. The warden’s stone hut was dark ahead, a drowsy guard sitting on the threshold. Oleg passed by him tip-toe and climbed the wall, clutching at the juts of rough stones.

On the top of the wall, he lay down, lest they see him against the stars, listened. Finally, he heard a faint rustle, as if a leather sole shuffled on top of the wall in three or four steps. The sound did not repeat but Oleg had detected the shadowed guard by it. He took the stone out, weighed it in hand. He had never missed a mark in five steps before.

He ran tip-toe, making no more noise than a moon ray, and saw the guard better: big, broad-shouldered and young, in a glittering helmet and a mail with shimmering iron plates. He leaned on the wall drowsily, with half-closed eyes, but if he raised his head a bit his eyes would have met Oleg’s.