The Grail of Sir Thomas

  Chapter 21

  When the sky began to go dark, fires were lit even outside the defensive ring of carts. Camels and horses were grazed and guarded on the other side of the stream, while people had a poor but merry feast in the middle of the camp.

  Thomas and Oleg pleaded tiredness and went into the tent allocated to them. Thomas took off his armor with relief, wanted to put his two-handed sword into a corner, but there were no corners, so he put it in the head of the bed, following the wonderer’s example. Oleg stripped off, lay down with enjoyment. “A ship tomorrow! I love the sea. Though my people know mostly steppes, as they previously knew woods… Or maybe the sea laps in the blood of Slavs?”

  “There’s only wine that laps in my head,” Thomas moaned. “How would they mount camels?”

  “You can grip at the camel’s humps. But if you fall, the way down is longer!”

  Thomas collapsed on the bed, tossed and turned for a while. He started to snore when the curtain was removed silently and Samoth entered the tent. The chieftain’s face was confused, he fiddled with his shirt, torn at the breast. “Excuse me, dear guests, for I bother you, but we have news. Riders came from the Great Sultan.”

  Thomas alerted, felt the bag with the cup at the head of his bed. Oleg said nothing, looked at the chieftain searchingly.

  “They say two extremely dangerous outlaws have managed an escape from his prison.”

  “Come on,” Thomas hurried him up.

  “They described the appearance and distinctive marks of… Of the two of you.”

  Thomas tensed and pulled his sword closer. “What did you tell them?” Oleg asked.

  “What I could? But one of mine told them at once that both men whose marks fit are in our camp. As our guests. And the riders demanded us to give you up!”

  “Come,” Thomas urged him on.

  Samoth put his hand in his bosom, scratched himself there, caught something and squeezed it in his strong nails. “I don’t think they came from the Sultan,” he said in a dull voice.

  “Why?” Thomas asked quickly.

  “Sultan would not demand of those who are not his subjects. Neither his tributaries. Uryupins submit to no one! We are a free nation.” He burst with laughter, threw out his thin chest proudly. Thomas kept his hand on the sword hilt, glanced around, listened, looking sidelong at Oleg. “I exposed them at once. And they had to confess they came from afar but not from the Sultan. They said you were condemned to be quartered in Persia, burnt in India, buried alive in Moesia, lapidated in Judea, crucified in Constantinople… And to something in other places I don’t recall. Guilty of corruption of minors, sacrilege, incest, destruction of the temple of Silul…”

  Thomas shook his head. “I’d need more than one life to do all of it! Maybe the wonderer did? He’s older and has been everywhere.”

  Oleg thought for a while, scratched the back of his head warily. “Have I ever destroyed the temple of Silul? At that time, I was on the other end of Lanka!”

  The chieftain nodded with relief. “I knew they were exaggerating. Besides, preventing men from leading the life they want is none of our concern. We never interfere with the rites of others. Our gods put it clearly: you shall not hinder!”

  “Did they leave?” Thomas asked in a constrained voice. He kept his sword.

  “They told us the reward for your heads. Stated in rupees, dinars, guldens, golden rings, ostrich feathers, ivory bone, even in some kunas… A sack of gold for each of you, to put it bluntly.”

  They felt a cold blow in the close hot air within the tent. A man would kill easily for a coin, not even a gold one. And here were two sacks of gold flung out lightly by some powerful one who wanted the job done with utmost care and complaisance.

  “The Seven?” Thomas said, gasping for air. Oleg nodded. “What did you decide?” Thomas asked Samoth in a heavy voice.

  The chieftain looked aside, his face embarrassed. “Such important matters… when all the tribe is concerned… I should discuss with the elder. Even with all of my people.” He backed out from the tent.

  Thomas jumped, straight from the bed, to a small window in the canvas. It was filmed with yellow ox bladder. He saw adult Uryupins crowded at the far end of the camp, arguing lively. The sky was dark, studded with stars, but the Uryupins were lit by crimson flames, which made their faces look even more sulky and cruel. Men disappeared to come back with weapons. Due to some strange custom (or simply poverty), they wore swords and daggers unsheathed. The bare steel blades looked particularly ominous in the red light of the fires.

  “A sack of gold…” the wonderer drawled thoughtfully. “May we come out to them?”

  Suddenly, Thomas gasped, his face went white. He looked through the dim film with terror, as though he saw a ghost. Oleg seized the sword, jumped up to his side.

  Two well-clad warriors came out from a far tent and walked up to the cluster of arguing ragged men. One was broad-shouldered, remarkable by nothing but moving like a professional soldier. Another was… Gorvel! He was emaciated, his face maimed, a gaping wound in place of his left eye. Thomas did not recognize the other knight at once; his fire red beard had gone grey all over! Gorvel moved in the same brisk, predatory way, looked over the crowd vigilantly with his one remaining eye. He was clad in light armor, a thin coat of mail down to his knees, his chest and back covered with plates of best Damask steel – and belted with a Khazar sword.

  There were shouts in the crowd, but Thomas could not hear the words. After the false envoys of the Sultan (and true ones of Secret Seven), Samoth the chieftain came out of the tent. He raised his arms to calm the men down, cried at the top of his voice and lungs, bending his chest forward, red with overstrain, “Men of the free nation of Uryupins! You know our guests, the envoys of the Sultan, came a long way. With only the purpose to make us rich! Two sacks of gold for two heads of strangers! We can buy a herd of camels for each Uryupin man, luxurious tents and the best food, slaves and carpets! A sack of gold means the best sabers of Damask, rich shops in any city and lands for us to buy… Think it over!”

  “What will they do to them?” someone in the back rows cried out.

  Gorvel bowed and stepped forward, raised his hand. He was almost a head taller than most Uryupins, and his strong voice, the only thing that had not changed about him, sounded imperious and stentorian. “We shall tie them up, for they are dangerous outlaws, then tie them to the legs of our camels and drag them behind as we ride. There’s sand everywhere, so they won’t get smashed up. If they even gorge with hot sand on the way and die, we don’t care! The Sultan told us to bring them, no matter dead or alive.”

  The chieftain lifted his hands. “The envoy of Sultan, you’ve put it very plain!” he approved.

  Thomas came back to the bed, started to put his armor on hastily, clicking the clasps and rustling with belts. In those minutes, he grew more pinched than after fighting the bear. It is hard to fight men after you have enjoyed their hospitality!

  The far voice of the chieftain seemed to have reached his ears. “Men of the tribe, now you know what to do…”

  In a hurry, Thomas slapped his helmet on, tightened the belt. Far from the tent, there was a happy roar of hundreds of mighty throats, approaching and growing louder, mixed with the trample of feet, merry squeals, clang of steel, as if someone was hitting his shield feelingly with the sword hilt.

  Oleg stood by the window, his face strange. His lips stretched, as though to whistle. “Oh dear… Sir Thomas, just look at it!”

  Thomas snatched the sword and rushed up, feeling the beastly strength come back to his tired body. The sword seemed stuck to his palm, his heart thumped with all its might, forcing up fury for a fight.

  Through the window, he saw a huge excited mob coming towards their tent. Uryupins thrust clenched fists overhead, raised swords, sabers, and plain sticks; two or three men swung ropes. In the very middle of the crowd, there were Gorvel and his assistant; stripped of their armor and helmets, tied up tightly, their
clothes torn. People spat and flung clods of mud at them as they walked. Gorvel’s face was covered with blood, his grey beard matted into a puny goatee, his front teeth missing. His assistant had large swollen bruises under his eyes.

  They were dragged past the tent, in which Thomas and Oleg stayed put. One of the carts was removed to throw the captives outside the camp. Men came running up with two fast, annoyed camels. The mob yelled, bustled, and hooted. The captives were flung down on the ground, tied with long ropes to the camels. In a hurry, the broad-shouldered soldier was tied to both camels at once: his left leg to one and his right to another. The mob roared with laughter and cheers. In the turmoil, someone hit the camels with a stick. The animals gave a hollow roar, raised their hind legs and ran, dragging the captives. There was a tree in a hundred steps ahead. With disgust and horror, Thomas saw the camels running apart to pass on both sides of the tree!

  He turned away at the very last moment, gritted his teeth, closed his eyes tightly. Gorvel was dragged by a single camel, but the way was rocks, snags, and dry clods of earth, and the humpbacked runner kept accelerating his speed, in fright of his master who was running with shrill screams.

  Thomas gave a jump when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. The wonderer forced the knight to turn his back, started to unclasp his armor. Oleg’s face looked made of stone. “They offered it themselves!”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Who comes for wool is at risk of getting shorn. Strip off, quickly! When the chieftain comes, you’ll burn with shame.”

  “I am burning!”

  “To be honest, I also have, as Christians put it, sinned in my mind.”

  Thomas dropped the pieces of armor in haste, listening to the far shouts and rustling sounds of feet. Through the window, they could see a dusty cloud moving away after the running camels. Now Thomas knew what a fast speed race-camels could gather. “Every man would be dead in two hundred steps… In two miles the last!”

  “I hope he would,” Oleg said, frowning. “Last time I left him to death but allowed a chance… A tiny one! But he used it! Or… someone helped him.”

  Thomas recalled Gorvel’s maimed face, empty socket, grey beard. “The Secret Seven?”

  “Someone of their kind.”

  “Do they have magic?” Thomas asked suddenly.

  “Many things can be done without it,” Oleg evaded.

  Thomas’s face turned to stone. “I see,” he said slowly, as though rolling heavy stones at the same time. “But if they have magic, why don’t they simply take the cup from us? What am I against magic?”

  Oleg was silent for a long while, with his head down. Suddenly it seemed to Thomas that the wonderer’s motionless face livened up a bit, his tired wrinkles smoothed. He sounded exhausted but strong. “Once they wanted to lead the world by the way of magic… And fought apostates: the knowers. Fought them fiercely, ruthlessly, but their strength was fading. When the supreme magician, the head of the Secret Seven, the great Fagim perished in a fight with… er… one of the apostate knowers, the remaining Secret Ones turned to knowing. Since that time, knowing is often called science.”

  “They gave up magic?!” Thomas exclaimed with delight.

  Oleg smirked unkindly, feasting his eyes on the beautiful knight with his sky blue eyes. “Gave up… for others. For mankind! That was what I strove for. But they retained magic for their own use.”

  Thomas felt his skin creep, as he noticed the strange slip. He shivered. “Will they… use it?”

  “To take the cup? Yes, if other ways to get it fail them,” Oleg replied thoughtfully. “If they have an urgent need to do it. Urgent! That will make them break their own rules. But I can’t fathom, why do they need it?”

  He peered intently at the side where the dust cloud had vanished in the night. His fists were clenched, knuckles white. Thomas did not dare to ask what exactly the wonderer had striven for and why he spoke in such a way as though he’d fought the invincible Secret Ones before.

  Early in the next morning, they parted with the hospitable Uryupins. Thomas couldn’t help confessing and begging pardon for the sin he’d committed in his mind.

  The chieftain smirked, made a broad gesture, as if to embrace all of his people. “Why do you think we are that poor? Just because we are honest! But all the gold on earth is no match for the magic gold my people have in their souls. Why would we sell honor and conscience for two sacks of plain gold?”

  They embraced at parting. Thomas whipped his stallion hastily; he could not bear to see the accusing brown eyes of Iguanda. If he saved her, he should have taken her. She would rather be eaten by the bear than by sorrow for the mysterious knight from the far North…

  When the tribe was left far behind and the horses took a slow pace, Thomas pounded his thigh with his metal fist several times, speaking in a persuasive tone. “There are men in this world! There are. Even in the bloody and treacherous Pagan world. There are!”

  Oleg smirked. “Have you doubted it? Your god didn’t sacrifice his life in vain, did he? He must have also thought there were men in the world. Though everyone was Pagan then!”

  Thomas said nothing, unwilling to keep the conversation up. This Pagan’s words often smelled of mockery even when he spoke very seriously.

  Oleg was frowning. He would often glance at the sand under the horse hooves or look around. For some reason, he made a semicircle and, once the sand dunes hid him from view, whipped his horse and dashed on like a whirlwind. Astonished, Thomas could barely keep up. But the wonderer did nothing in vain, so Thomas drew out his sword.

  They saw three mounted men who rode hastily, watching the tracks on the sand. Thomas saw the hoof prints of their horses from a distance. His fury boiled up, like water in a bowl on red-hot coals. “Damn it!” he said fiercely. “Will we ever get rid of spies?”

  Before the wonderer could give a signal, Thomas gripped his sword and, with a terrible yell, dashed onto the riders. They were too busy with the tracks buried quickly by sand and wind, so they failed to hear the knight’s furious shout straight away. When they looked back, shrieked and started to urge their horses, it was too late. A destrier can develop a colossal speed within a short distance. He came up with the back horse, hit it with his own body, toppling the rider into the sand. The second rider was reached by Thomas’s sword, the flat side of it, but the blow sent the man flying like a useless old pot thrown away.

  The third one spurred his horse. He would have escaped, but Thomas heard helplessly the ringing blow of iron on iron. The rider jerked his hands up, jumped in his saddle and collapsed on the ground. His helmet, knocked down by the arrow, fell on the other side of the horse.

  “We got you, crows!” Thomas yelled in gloating. He saw a dark shadow, some likeness of a ghostly bat, sweeping over one man. Thomas was sure that it was a devil taking the soul of the sinner, as the man had been slashed by sword from the back of his head to the middle of his spine.

  They tied up the other two, flung them into the circle of grass trampled by the horses. Oleg lit the fire at once, started to gather wood. He was sullen and thoughtful, red hair falling on his forehead, inhuman green eyes looking with enmity.

  Thomas smiled contentedly. There’s no honor in defeating the weak, but their captives look strong warriors. One has malevolent sparkles in his eyes, his hands twitch, as he tests the rope for strength. Another lies still like a snake in hiding, before it jumps. He seems capable of keeping silence even if tortured.

  Oleg brought an armful of twigs and muttered. Thomas could not hear the words, but the twitching captive asked anxiously, “What does this savage want?”

  Thomas shrugged. “He asked whether it’s time to eat you. I answered it’s too early.”

  The captive let out a squeak and passed out. The other one, who had been silent and motionless, begged in a shaky voice, “Good sire, you are Christian… Please protect us!”

  “No need,” Thomas comforted him. “He’s forbidden by his Pagan faith to eat
people under the rays of the all-seeing sun. He’s a fire worshipper!”

  The captive trembled all over, tossed his head in fright. The great orange ball had passed zenith and was rolling down with relief. The captive gave such a start that made him bob. His face turned grey. “That means… we are safe till evening only?”

  “You are,” Thomas assured. He yawned and stretched himself with joy, feeling his joints turn and crunch faintly. “If only the sky is not covered with clouds… but that’s rare in this land.”

  The captive looked with terror over the knight’s head, where a small cloud, as white and fluffy as a kitten, sprang up and began to grow.

  Oleg made the fire blaze up, fetched more twigs. The captives saw him asking the knight something and the knight looking warily at the close hedge of thick bushes. “What does he want now?” the captive asked hastily.

  “He’s impatient. Says the cloud is too slow. Asks me to help him make a shelter of branches, so that he could drag you there himself.”

  The captive trembled. “I’m sure you won’t help him.”

  Thomas knitted his brows menacingly. “Do you mean I’m an idler?”

  “No, I don’t,” the man babbled in panic, almost weeping, “but this savage…”

  “He is my friend at arms,” Thomas replied proudly. He got up with dignity. “Though a savage, he saved my life more than once! You’ve shamed me when you pointed at my self-love and laziness that don’t befit a noble knight. Certainly I must help my companion… do him this small favor. After that, I shall spend a couple of hours fishing at the bank. They say fish is tender and delicious here! I’ll show you… Oh, I see. Well, that’s the final destination of everyone.”