by Yury Nikitin
Chapter 11
The air grew scorching, streaming like sand. As Thomas rode, his armor all but melted. Looking at the half-naked wonderer, the knight stripped it off, but that brought only a little relief.
In the torrid heat, it was their horses who suffered most, so Thomas recalled what he knew of the ways of local nomads and offered, “We can ride at night! The road is even, it’s neither forest nor mountains. Even if you ride with eyes closed, you won’t bump into a tree. The nights are bright, the moon is full. It’s as large as half the sky! I thought the moon was the same in Britain as here, but now I see it isn’t. Even the stars here are different: bigger and brighter!”
Oleg did not argue, and Chachar screamed with delight. She was suffering not from the heat only: dripping with sweat, as everyone was, she would sniff herself over with revulsion, rush ahead of the men to every stream they encountered, wash her clothes at every occasion, stuffed her belt with bunches of grass meant to overcome, or at least absorb, the odors of a steamed body.
Oleg smirked and said nothing.
In the dead of the night, he put the fire out and woke both companions ruthlessly. “You wanted it!” They got up, cursing the hard-hearted pilgrim, saddled, and rode out into the chill of the night. A huge dark dome with dense markers of stars was over their heads.
The big moon shone like a lantern of oilpaper. They could see each of the smallest pebbles and grass blades on the ground. Thomas was surprised to see they were not the first to hit upon it: lizards darted about the night steppes, turtles walked pompously and nibbled the grass. A column of big black ants crossed the way. Carefully, taking advantage of the chill, they were carrying tender pupae, as white as milk: their children wrapped in their finest silks. The scorching sun would definitely have burnt their unprotected bodies.
Thomas reined up to let them pass. Oleg watched him with surprise, as if he saw the knight for the first time. In his gleaming armor, Thomas looked like a giant ant, while the ants looked like tiny knights.
“You’ll get tired waiting,” Oleg said softly. “They’ll be marching to their Jerusalem all the night long.”
Thomas made his horse back up and jump, as if the two of them were a whole. One hoof hit the ground close to the black column but the small knights kept their formation.
They rode at a slow pace to save the strength of horses. In the ghostly moonlight, the lands around seemed even more wild. The remnants of ancient walls, ruins of temples, half-buried canals, thick olive groves where robbers could nestle… The country is rich but garrisoned only in castles and cities with solid walls, while the roads are lorded by marauders and robbers: those sprung out in countless numbers after the bloody and strange war when mounted knights had come from the cold west, clad in their indestructible steel, swept the light Arab hosts away, started to raise thick-walled castles and spread the Christian faith around with fire and sword…
The Franks were not ones for making slaves and plundering: at least, they were not that blatant in it as all the conquerors before. They swore they only came to rescue the Holy Sepulcher, but once the war ended, the victorious knightly hosts came apart. Some soldiers left for their northern homelands, others became lucky robbers and marauders in this rich country, and all the ancient realm became a boiling pot of noble knights, scholar monks, highborn Saracens, assassins, astrologers, and half-savage princelings – almost any sort of man could be found here. The blossoming valleys were swept over by waves of nomads never seen there before, who performed rites so cruel and repulsive that their sight made even the toughest northern warriors blanch. As the castles and cities were ruled by Franks, while Saracens held the numerous villages, the conquerors rushed to raise high walls, strengthen their gates, make grain houses and cellars big enough to endure a sacking.
The horses mended their pace, urged by the chill of the night, but did not break into trot. Following Oleg’s example, Thomas listened for danger. He heard wolves and jackals calling to each other. An eagle-owl flew past them silently, its dark shadow obscured the stars for a moment. Bats darted by frequently, the flaps of their leathery wings silent too, their prominent eyes a frightful blaze of red coals, their sharp white teeth shimmering like sugar.
The three of them descended slowly from a gently sloping hill into a flat valley, almost intact save for a few ravines. Thomas was the first to notice a sparkle ahead and became alert. They rode on for a long time, peering there tensely, stopping to listen, till the sparkle turned to a reddish spot, quivering and shape-shifting.
They drove on straight to the fire. It vanished at times, hidden by trees. Finally, they came to a low, steep stone wall shielding a bonfire. Six sullen men were warming themselves around it: filthy and ragged, their faces angry and irritated. Two men leaned their backs on the stone, sharpening their curved swords on the rough boulders. Two others lay beneath motley blankets, the rest raked coals and spoke in hushed voices.
One of the men heard a clatter of hooves and cried idly, “Tagran? You?”
Silently, Thomas and the wonderer rode into the lit circle, Chachar at their heels. The six robbers were up at once. One lingered a bit and was kicked. Thomas found himself surrounded by gleaming spearheads. Oleg dismounted unhurriedly, Thomas followed suit. They unsaddled and tethered their horses, tied them with bags of oats.
The six robbers stood around, looking at each other. One stepped back, vanished in the dark. He must have gone to check for crossbow bolts pointed at the gang, for strong lads with strong bows who had surrounded them.
Finally, a black-bearded, abruptly-moving robber demanded, “Who are you? Why have you come?”
Chachar was scared. Thomas helped her to dismount, while Oleg sat down by the fire, squirmed to make himself comfortable. “Don’t you know?” he said derisively. “Who left those three fools in ambush then?”
The robbers exchanged glances. “Did you kill them?” the black-bearded man asked harshly.
Thomas seated Chachar near the wonderer. She cuddled up to him with her trembling shoulder, quiet as a cornered mouse. “Definitely we would have killed them!” Thomas replied haughtily.
The robbers were shifting their feet. Two sharp spearheads all but touched the wonderer’s neck, three more were pressed on Thomas’s breast.
Oleg glanced back. “You may sit down,” he said with annoyance.
The robbers exchanged glances again. The Black Beard said in an abrupt, angry voice, “We can stand. And you tell us quickly and bluntly: what happened to our three friends who… fell behind?”
Thomas and Oleg looked at each another. The spears pointed at them were held by strong hands but at that moment the spearheads started quivering.
“They will not come mounted,” Thomas said solemnly, then had a second thought and added, “Never.”
“Neither on foot,” Oleg told them reluctantly.
“And they won’t crawl on all fours,” Chachar squealed, her voice broken with desperate braveness. “Nor on their bellies!”
The Black Beard jerked his shoulder. They heard a quiver in his malicious voice. “You couldn’t have seen them! They’re skilled hunters. Grab a saiga by horns before it smells them! They lay in good wait, you just couldn’t have…”
“Their wait ended before we came,” Thomas replied proudly.
Oleg, in that habit of hermits and preachers to explain and make everyone see, spoke in a humble voice, “Are jackals never attacked by wolves? Before we found your friends, they had met Hazars. It’s a savage tribe, if you know: Khazars who went wild. A hundred years ago, Prince Svyatoslav wiped the great Khazar Kaganat off the face of earth. The few Khazars who survived were disseminated among Pechenegs and Polovtsians. But the most savage gang is still roaming about. They skin everyone they capture, slash bellies open to see a man crawling around for a long time, dragging his guts behind, with his belly stuffed with stones…”11
The even line of spears around them broke. Thomas heard a heavy breath overhead, but did not look there. He was warming
his chilled palms by the fire, its dry heat making him squint with pleasure. At last, he heard a constrained voice nearby. “Can they… get on our tracks?” Other robbers started to breath faster at once. Thomas understood that the speaker had only said what everyone else was trembling about. He saw Oleg smirking at the silly question and made a wider smirk himself. Robbers deserve nothing but contempt.
Spears began to vanish from sight. The wonderer tossed some twigs into the fire, paying no heed to the robbers who argued just over his head. They hissed at each other, all but spitting, but habitual malice in their voices was replaced by terror.
“But there are Frank garrisons!” a man screamed.
Oleg shook his head silently. Thomas replied competently, “Franks? Invincible in the battle of cavalries, but not able to cope with light Saracen parties. They fall upon you suddenly to rob and scatter at once, then gather again at a nook. They leave their horses unshod to enable a faster gallop. And Khazars… or Hazars… that’s the first time I hear of them but if they are wild nomads, the heavy Frankish cavalry can offer no protection. I’m a knight myself. I shall kill a hundred of them in attack but shan’t catch up to even a single one!”
The robbers were coming to the fire one by one. The sharp spears were now pointed at the sky. “Hazars will take you, as they took your friends,” Oleg said in a peaceful voice. “Alive, for sure! Ill-fated, they wreak their anger on captives. I’d rather not recall what I saw there!”
They heard a moan in the dark. A different robber held his breath as if he were punched in the gut. As Oleg raked the coals with a twig, he felt the very air impregnated with fear. The pale long faces with startled eyes were pitiful and nasty to look at.
The Black Beard spoke abruptly, but his voice quavered. “We’ll have to ride seek refuge in the nearest fortress. It’s just a two days’ ride from here!”
“They’ll attack you at once. From behind.”
“What if we find a shelter? We have two bows and lots of arrows. In a cave with a narrow entrance, we can hold out for a long time!”
“…with them sitting in sight, gobbling, drinking, and dancing for you to see. You’ll run out of your food soon, and sooner – of your water. And see them pouring water on the ground or each other. When they get you, half-dead with thirst, they won’t let you die quickly. Or easy.”
“We’ll be sacrificed to their gods?” the Black Beard asked in a droopy voice.
“Their God,” Oleg corrected. “Once they put their gods aside for a foreign one. The only one. Khan Obadiah adopted the new faith in the eight hundred and fifth. That was the beginning of the collapse of Kaganat. Khazars were punished by their old gods for apostasy and not protected by the new one. That new god had no shape, his appearance always hidden, so he was called hideous. Judging by his behests, that hideous god was brutal and blood-thirsty. We, the good sir and I, don’t mind whether you live or die. You are robbers yourself, so get paid by your own coin. I’d never object to Hazars giving you a good Christian death, though I’m no Christian. But we, with good sire and highborn lady… Chachar, don’t fall, that’s a fire!.. we are against the savage torments that await you. That’s why we’ll give you a chance to save your bacon.”
“What must we do?” a robber asked in a desperate voice. “What to do?”
“Saddle your horses and leave. Now. They are just about to find this fire. And then… Old Hazars would rather bring you to their camp, take you with their bare hands for all the tribe to see. They are skillful in it… But the young daredevils can attack at once!”
The robbers jumped up and rushed about, snatching their strewn things, knocking each other down. Oleg was looking thoughtfully into the dancing flames. Thomas winced with contempt: he could forgive cowardice in unarmed farmers, but not in men who chose a risky life at will! Lions among sheep!
While the robbers saddled and tightened girths, Thomas and Oleg took the bags of oats from their horses, untethered them. Chachar fidgeted in the saddle, peering into the dark, her eyes round with fright, but she kept silence, only glanced back at Thomas and Oleg at times.
They numbered nine when they rode out of the valley: the knight and the pilgrim first, Chachar between them, and scared robbers behind, shuddering and bowing at every sudden sound – a flap of wings or a crunch of brushwood.
Tired horses dragged along reluctantly. They rode in silence, even Thomas and Chachar, hearing only the gentle clatter of hooves and soft leather creak of saddles. The moon crept behind a translucent cloud, wandered inside the gigantic air creature for a long time, in search of an exit – and found it under the shaggy tail, dropped out, shone brighter, cleaning itself, but was swallowed by a darker cloud at once. That was how they rode in the night till Oleg pointed out the fading stars to Thomas. The knight replied with a majestic bow of his iron head.
Oleg was the first to dismount, unsaddle, and water his horse from a skin carried by a remount. Oleg’s mount, worn out by the journey, almost drained it. Oleg took him to a glade with rich tall grass. The robbers, seeing the knight and the pilgrim that confident, also unsaddled their horses and let them onto the glade.
Once Oleg made a fire, the robbers collapsed on the bare ground and fell asleep. Thomas wrinkled his nose in disgust: he despised any creatures so fast to pass from malice to absolute trust. All of them can easily be slaughtered now. Just imagine their belief in a knight’s word! Once they heard a promise to help them escape Hazars, they rejoiced like children.
Though the robbers believed them while awake, they cried in their sleep, twitched anxiously, woke with wide eyes and big beads of sweat on their faces. Once they had made sure they’d not been captured by Hazars yet, they fell back like the dead, snorted, twitched again, gritted their teeth.
Oleg observed the light stripe of the skyline closely. As the sky began to turn blue, the eastern edge of the earth got red, as if it were shedding blood.
Thomas walked around the fire, his bare sword gleaming, but then he got tired of it, sat down on a stump, took a whetstone out of his saddle bag. As the robbers heard the horrible swish of metal in their sleep, they flinched and groaned. Thomas whetted the blade of his huge sword painstakingly, touched it with his nail to check for razor-sharpness. The whetstone in his hand screeched again, grit sprinkled over the sleeping Black Beard’s face. The brigand writhed, cramped, howled in terror, but he was too tired to wake up.
Oleg sniffed the air, kicked the Black Beard awake mercilessly. “You are the leader? Carry the fire to that gully. And make it as small as you can.”
The Black Beard went pale. “They can attack now?” he asked in a tense voice.
“A bit later.”
“We’ll carry it,” the Black Beard promised hastily. His suspicious eyes followed Thomas, who rose and went to his stallion. “Where’s the knight going?”
“We shall ride ahead.”
The Black Beard pushed his gang awake. They grabbed their arms and surrounded Oleg and Thomas hastily. “You won’t leave without us!” the leader claimed fiercely.
“We pursue a man,” Oleg told them harshly. “It’s very important for us. And you… make your camp. And don’t hide under those trees.”
The Black Beard glanced back. “Can they creep up from there?” he asked suspiciously.
“Gods often throw lightning in trees,” Oleg explained coldly. “Especially in a plain land. A thunderstorm is coming!”
The six robbers shifted their gazes between him and the clear, cloudless sky. Aside, Thomas saddled the second horse but became thoughtful about the third one, lingered and hesitated. Chachar is a woman. But does it befit a noble knight to saddle a horse for a common man, a Pagan? Friendship is one thing, and the rules of etiquette, which even kings never dare to break, is another..
“You won’t leave alone,” the Black Beard snapped. “I don’t know what that knight took from you but it must be valuable! Or why would you three pursue him through the land invaded by Hazars? We didn’t know of them at least!�
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Thomas pulled his gauntlets on, took the huge sword he’d sharpened elaborately. The ground trembled under his heavy steps. His visor was down, face hidden behind the iron grate, only his blue eyes looked through the slit, dooming and merciless. They could read in his cold eyes that he was about to show the softhearted pilgrim how a man should talk to robbers.
Oleg raised his palm, holding the knight back, spoke gently, “It’s no treasure. The lord of the castle south from here stole from our knight – that’s him and that’s his sword – a nail of Christ, their god… or prophet, other people say. And for you, nonbelievers, it’s a plain nail. You won’t get a single silver coin for it. Even in the countries where Christ is worshipped you won’t, as you can’t prove it’s truly his nail, not some fake thing. It has value only for Sir Thomas… See? The lord insulted the good sire by stealing the nail. It’s a matter of honor, not wealth!”
The robbers pulled at long mugs slowly. Malice and suspicion were darting in their eyes, but the pilgrim’s sad face looked absolutely honest. The woman took a dagger, looked defiant. Suddenly. Oleg said, “Would you like us to give an inviolable oath? We pursue the runaway knight for no treasure, but justice and vengeance. When we kill him, we’ll take nothing but a bag of oat, a wineskin, and a copper cup to make a couple of good gulps from it!”
Thomas shifted the sword to his left hand, raised his right one to the sky. “I swear it on Holy Relics! I swear it by Christ!” he thundered through the visor.
The robbers lowered their weapons impotently, exchanged spiteful glances. Thomas mounted heavily, took his lance, a red banner trembling under its wide steel blade like a flame. Oleg gave a brigand whistle, his horse came running, obedient, shaking the bag on his snout as he galloped, reaching for the last mouthful of oat.
The Black Beard remembered he was a leader and asked anxiously, “What must we do? We’re no Saracens but strangers here.”
“Always post sentries, two of yours. Keep your horses close. Watch them. They’ll be the first to smell the horses of others. Should they snort, move their ears, knock with a hoof or neigh… But if Hazars get you, it is best for you to die fast. To take your own lives. We are going to be back by night.”
“What if you don’t come?” the Black Beard called after him in a shaky voice.
“Go north,” Oleg replied. “Hills turn to mountains there – a good hiding place. Hide your tracks if you can. The mountains are your rescue: they have more caves than cheese has holes. Look around while you go. There are caravan roads, the famous route of the Vikings to the Greeks ends here. Many merchants and caravans passing, many brigands around – your own sort – many marauders, Ottoman riders, but beware of the Hazars most. That’s all.”
In the bright blue sky, straight above the skyline, a cloud sprung up and started to grow rapidly. Thomas nodded at it. “The storm’s coming!” he dropped with scorn. “The rain will wash our tracks off, but sir wonderer and I… we’ll find you.”
The knight’s destrier was prancing, gnawing at the bit. While he was not one to show his tiredness, the pilgrim’s sly horse pretended to be dying. He sagged his back so that his belly all but touched the ground, breathed with death rattles, almost coughed. Oleg poked the stallion’s belly, he breathed out noisily. Oleg hastened to tighten the girth. The horse looked askance with an innocent eye. He didn’t seem to be sorry for his failure, as if he made very little effort to do it.
Oleg mounted and they galloped, heading into the strengthening wind. The cloud was spreading out and concentrating. Once as white and curly as a sheep, it went dingy grey, then coal-black, heavy, flashing with brief, evil lightning. The heavy menacing storm cloud moved onto them like an avalanche: thundering, spark-emitting, crushing down the blue of the sky and getting bigger at every moment. Its dark belly was illuminated continually by flashes of white light.
The road went down, between rocky walls. The wind grew stronger and howled, squeezing through the narrow canyon. Then the walls came apart and became lower but the path kept winding. Oleg glanced at the dark sky, urged his horse on. The rain was about to pour down and the tracks of Gorvel’s horse were fresh. If they hadn’t lingered with robbers, they could have come upon him at this very spot!
Horses trotted along a tall sheer wall when Thomas cried in excitement, “I see fire!”
In three or four hundred steps ahead, a faint smoke was rising from a slope. They could not see the fire: it was hidden artfully behind rocks. Thomas vaulted off and craned his neck, peering towards it. Oleg held his horse in. He felt anxious but could not detect the threat.
Thomas threw a rope hastily round the stallion’s forelegs. “You go with me?” he called to Oleg.
Oleg dismounted slowly, shifted his bow from the saddle to his shoulder. Thomas adjusted his sword baldric and started up the steep slope. In his gleaming armor, he looked like a metal statue. Stones cracked under his iron body, burst, crumbled. Oleg barely had time to dodge boulders falling from under the knight’s feet.
They could see the fire burning out, its burnt crimson coals, when there was a thunder of stones above. Oleg grasped it at once, bellowed for Thomas to look out and jumped away, under the shelter of a stone ledge.
A colossal boulder was rolling down. On the go, it bounced and kicked down two more huge stones. The three of them brought down a whole rockslide.
Crawling on his fours, Thomas tossed his head, glanced at Oleg, then looked up again, advanced his hands involuntarily. The rockslide was coming down at him. Stones bounced, fell down with force, knocking down another mossy boulders.
Cursing, Thomas dashed aside. Oleg felt a hit on his shoulder, curled up under the ledge. Rocks crashed overhead, bouncing down. The dust rose. Big boulders flew above and past, but pebbles, grit, clods of earth and broken stone fragments rained down on his back and head.
When the thundering sounds shifted down, Oleg straightened up, throwing a layer of earth and pebbles off his back. The rockslide had rushed by, the stones scattered at the mountain foot. The horses had run aside, terrified by the crashing.
The earth was bare where the rockslide had passed. Thomas was nowhere to be seen. Cold with fear, Oleg dragged his feet down the slope. His right arm hung loose, numb from the strike of the stone. The ground was sagging beneath his feet, bare and friable.
After he made two score steps down, he saw a scatter of stones, a flash of metal beneath them. He hurried down there, flung some rocks aside. A crumpled, filthy iron shoulder turned out to be hidden beneath. The cleft was filled with stones and the knight had been thrown there too, the mass of rocks rolled over and trampled his metal body deeper into the crack.
Oleg hurled the boulders away, his back prickling, right arm still aching and unable to move. He released the knight’s helmet, then turned Thomas on his back, tugged at his visor but the crumpled grate stalled. Scraping his fingers and making an awful grind, Oleg raised the visor – and recoiled. The knight’s face was pallid, its right side covered with red blood, his lips foaming with bloody saliva. “Sir Thomas,” Oleg called insistently. “Sir Thomas!”
Thomas’s eyelids were closed tightly, the eyeballs beneath them motionless as if made of wax. Oleg rolled away the last rocks angrily. The knight’s armor, once gleaming, was dark and dented. However hard Oleg tried to pull Thomas out of the iron shell, he could not do it with one hand: no clasp wished to be undone. He felt the first shiver down his right arm, the fingers on it started to move again.
He undid a flask, splashed the water from it on the knight’s pale face. Thomas’s eyelids fluttered, rose slowly. He stared into space, his smashed lips moved. Oleg heard a rattle. “Sir wonderer… Are we still in this world?”
“It’s the only world where we can be together. Can you get up?”
Thomas strained but his body remained as motionless as the cleft he lay in. “My road ends here,” he whispered in a dead voice.
Oleg heard a rustle above followed by heavy, hasty steps. It was Gorvel hurry
ing down to them, hopping on stones. He was clad in armor: not full armor, like the kind Thomas had on, but a light mail riveted with steel plates on most vulnerable places. The mail reached his knees. He wore light boots and a gleaming Saracen helmet topped with a feather, a green cloth wound in rows around its base. Gorvel had a curved dagger on his belt and a curved heavy sword, a strange mixture of a knightly sword and a saber, in hand. “You’ve had a long run after me!” he cried. “But I’m no deer to flee a hunter! And even a deer can hit with antlers, can’t he?”
Oleg stood up, his fingers seized his knife handle. No time to shoot. Gorvel in three steps.
The red-bearded knight smirked at him. “Why in your left hand?”
“I’m a left-hander,” Oleg replied. Gorvel looked him over and smirked maliciously.
“…with a scabbard on your right? You are a both-hander, any fool can see that. But now you have one hand and a knife whilst I have two and a sword. See it? You can return to your horses. Ride away and never look back.”
Oleg bent down a little, the knife pointed at himself, in the Scythian way. His grass-green eyes were fixed on Gorvel’s sullen, angry face. “I’ll stay with him.”
Gorvel muttered a curse, made a small step ahead, his sword started whirling in semicircles. Oleg recoiled swiftly to the right, then moved left, checking his bruised body.
Gorvel’s eyes widened. He stopped and grumbled, “I hate knives… Hey, pilgrim! You are a very dark horse. Why do you care for this knight? I have scores to settle with him.”
“I rode with him.”
“And I was at war with him!”
Thomas moved his lips. Oleg heard a faint whisper. “Sir wonderer… Leave. It’s my fault, my mistake! Leave…”
“We’ll win more wars,” Oleg comforted Thomas, keeping his eyes on Gorvel. “The Gate of Heaven is still closed to us!”
“Leave… Then… if you like… come back and kill… Holy vengeance…”
Gorvel heard him and nodded. “Quite so! Come back later and…”
“I’d rather kill you now,” Oleg objected. He prepared to throw a knife, swinging on his half-bent knees, looking for Gorvel’s vulnerable places.
The red-bearded knight glanced back angrily. His face was unhappy, as if he were bound to do what he hated. “I hate knives… Especially throwing ones. But I’m not afraid of them!”
He stepped forward, raising his sword. His eyes met Oleg’s. Two steps remained between them. Gorvel bared his teeth, went pale, as he drove himself into rage. His forehead bulged with sinew, his sword became a part of his glittering steel body.