The Grail of Sir Thomas

by Yury Nikitin

Chapter 14

  They ran past the first belt of stones, then the second one and clashed suddenly with Hazars; only two of them. A robber 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 the 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 the 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 the marauders also went bestial: if they lost their swords, they gnawed at their enemies.

  When the fight was over, only three men stood on their feet among the bloodshed and 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 becoming 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 – and the ground was knocked away from under their feet at once. Gorvel and the 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 his sword hilt. A massive hulk fell on him, blocking his breath. He moaned and saw a glitter of evil joy in the 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 the Hazars. “These ones will be dying a very long time, for our gods to rejoice!”

  Gorvel was tied to a stout pole. Four Hazars shouldered it, hastened down to the valley. Roland was carried behind. Gorvel heard curses and knew 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. The 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 the other marauder, as he came to, reviled the torturers again: threatened, mocked, and spat at them. The Hazars were 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, at 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 his 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 of my best warriors! I will torture him for long, very long!”

  “Catch him at first,” Gorvel rasped, feeling evil strength still in him. “Nine under your very nose? This wolf will kill all of yours, like sheep. He just plays a pious man. When devil grows old, he turns hermit.”

  Karganlyk kicked him again. This 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 the 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 blink. 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, as if the small of it were hit by a log. His mouth opened in 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 his terror and disgust, Gorvel spotted that the arrowhead looked not like iron, but a strange silvery metal shimmering like moonlight!

  Karganlyk sobbed, raised his hands, as though to grip the injured place. His fingers unclenched, the red-hot rod dropped on Gorvel’s bare chest. Karganlyk swung back and forth, hanging over the sprawled Gorvel, then collapsed slowly onto his back. The hard heavy body hit the ground with a force that made it tremble and lurch.

  Disbelieving, the Hazars watched their invincible leader whose face was now covered with dark blood; red bubbles rose from the gurgling mass in place of his socket. Immortal Karganlyk, the awe and demigod of their tribe, the hope of rebirth for their bygone glory… lay in dust, as dead as a road stone!

  Someone screamed in terror, turned and ran away. Others backed away, their widened eyes fixed on the ruin of their leader. A dreadful shriek burst out from them before they wheeled round and fled without choosing their way. The tread of bare feet was everywhere, along with the dust raised by them, the clatter of stones. Mad Hazars were climbing up the slope, having abandoned their horses, things, camp, and captives.

  Roland and his man stopped cursing, turned their heads after the runaways. Gorvel groaned through gritted teeth; the damned Hazar had dropped the red-hot rod on his naked body and before it got cold, a furrow was branded in his flesh! The knight smelled his own burnt flesh as he breathed.

  When the footfall died away, the strange pilgrim, the friend of Sir Thomas, showed up. He walked unhurriedly, without looking around, th
e bow and quiver of arrows jutted out over his shoulder. On his way through, he drew a knife, cut Roland’s hands free in two easy moves.

  The leader of marauders goggled his eyes. “Why they took such flight? Three score men!”

  “Karganlyk was a live god to them,” Oleg explained. “Without him, they are nothing.”

  Another marauder, still stretched on the stakes, swore. “You know how to treat them, holy father!” he said with a malevolent smirk. “You know… The arrowhead is no iron – it’s silver! I have keen eye for such things.”

  Wincing, Roland kneaded his swollen wrists. His back was numb, he bent forward with effort to untie his feet. “Barbarians! We, soldiers of the imperial guard, would have fought to the last man. Whether the Emperor was alive or dead, we are personalities! No wild mob.”

  Oleg nodded. “Look here, personality. See a hundred Hazar horses over there? No, twice that number. Unsaddled, but that’s how they do it. Such horses are a fortune for you, aren’t they?”

  Roland bared his big teeth. “Holy father! May your Pagan gods reward you for your kindness. This is our Christian God, and all the saints and martyrs, who speak with your mouth now. Two poor former soldiers of the imperial guard do have a great need of two Hazar horses. Of four, if you count spare ones!”

  He tossed the rope off his feet, got up. A saber abandoned by a Hazar glittered aside. He took it, cut the limbs of his comrade free. Supporting each other, they plodded to the horses that grazed in the thick green grass. As they walked, they picked up things left by the Hazars: weapons, clothes, boots. Roland’s comrade glanced back at Oleg thievishly, as he grabbed Gorvel’s thin coat of mail and expensive sword of Damask steel. Oleg nodded as a sign that Gorvel had no further need of those. Smirking openly, the marauders caught horses and rode away. Each of them had taken two remounts.

  Behind Oleg, Gorvel rasped with his dry throat, “It’s time to unbind me too!”

  Oleg turned to him with a still face. “Faithful Christians are saved by angels, as your legends say. Are you a Christian? No, because you serve the Secret Seven.”

  “Damn you! What do you want?”

  “Nothing,” Oleg replied sadly. “Before I came here, I’d been to our cleft. Yes, I found Sir Thomas.” He turned his back to Gorvel, made a couple of steps away, turning the scattered Hazar things with the toe of his boot.

  Gorvel twitched helplessly, being stretched in the sturdy ropes, cried after Oleg in a strained voice, “You are worse than Hazars! That’s a war! One of us had to die. I had to kill him, and I killed…”

  Oleg picked a bag up, thrust his forearm inside, searching. Suddenly, his motionless face lit with a condescending smirk. He pulled out the familiar cup with greenish edges, looked it over, tossed it back into the bag and then told Gorvel with a slight surprise, “Why do you think you’d killed? Thomas is a knight, not a thinker. His weak point is his heart, not head.”

  He shouldered the bag and made his way to the foot of the mountain. Gorvel groaned, as he had nobody to conceal his despair from. Dark points sprang up in the blue cloudless sky. They expanded slowly, moving in uneven circles. Bathed in his own sweat and the urine of others, Gorvel suddenly felt cold under the scorching rays of the southern sun. He did not know who was first to come to the battlefield in these lands: crows, griffons, eagles, vultures, or jackals, but he had no doubt that soon he would know it.

  He closed his eyes convulsively, almost feeling a strong beak pecking on his eyeballs.