by Yury Nikitin
* * *
The guards had got accustomed long ago to the fisher boats crawling lazily within the Golden Bay. Some boats stayed on the spot for days and nights, others moved continually, sailing or rowing, as though following the fish. The guards had only to drive the boats away from the stone wall of the mooring, but hardly any of them approached it: there were bare rocks sticking out of the water. Fish have no love for such places. Only two weeks before they had an occasion to use their weapons; a fool fell asleep in his boat, the rising tide brought it close to the mooring, where the drunkard was woken up by a strong blow with the butt end of a spear on his light head.
In one of the boats, they saw a fisherman naked to his waist, his strong bronzed shoulders gleaming in the sun. His fellow was steaming in his wide cloak, even the hood pulled low over his muzzle. That one must have been sunburnt, a foreign fool, his skin under the cloak red like a boiled lobster. Now he hates the daylight, and tomorrow he will get blisters all over. For the next week, his skin will be peeling off, at his moans and groans, in big shreds, like a snake’s.
The guards sat in the shade, their backs leaned against the warm wall of the tower. One of them had a paunch bottle in a wicker basket at his knees. The sea waves lapped in two steps below, but brought very little coolness, while the sun-warmed tower emitted heat. The guards glanced wistfully at the clear blue sky, only a puny white cloud on the far edge of it, and even that one melting before their eyes, like butter on a hot pan.
In the fisher boat, decrepit and dirty, the half-naked fisherman left the rows, yawned broadly, showing his jaws to the gods, scratched his sweaty chest. His fire-red hair was matted, he felt hot and filthy, shot malicious glances at his pal who sat drowsy, his hood pulled over his eyes. The light breeze and surf were driving the boat to the coast, but it was still far from the tower, so the guards only watched it, with sneers and condescension. Poor things they who spend their life catching fish, selling it in the market to get a few coins, enough to buy bread and cheese. Thank Christ, we are no fishermen but skilled guards!
The fisherman reached for his cloaked mate, pushed him roughly. The other man gave a start, looked with surprise. The first fisherman roared, pointed angrily at the net dragged behind the boat. The second one adjusted his cloak, his shoulders shivered. The guard who had opened his mouth to cry the fishermen away couldn’t help a malicious grin. He winked to his partner who burst with laughter, as he recalled himself having got sunburnt some time ago and shivering in the torrid heat like in winter; a familiar thing!
The half-naked fisherman bellowed fiercely, his eyes goggled, as he pointed at the net. The cloaked one shivered, wrapped himself up, snapped back gloomily. The half-naked man almost broke into a shriek, spitting, and the guards felt compassion for him. Why should one drag his boat along the strait if his net is full of fish? It’s not his fault that his stupid companion has such a piglet’s skin that he gets sunburnt instead of swarthy.
The fishermen argued. The first one left his oars, shaking his fists angrily. The second one thrust him away, the half-naked man lost his feet in the rocking boat and fell on his back, his feet up in a funny way. The cloaked one stayed on the aft. When the half-naked man jumped up, swearing and shaking fists, the other one also stood up and turned out to be his height, though the half-naked fishermen looked, to the professional eyes of the guards, neither small nor weak.
They grappled near the aft. The half-naked man landed a blow that made his pal bend at the waist. He all but flew overboard, but gripped the half-naked one by the arm at the last moment. For a while, they tried to break each other. The guards saw muscles bulging on the half-naked man’s broad back, then the cloaked fisherman pushed his rival away again, stepped ahead. They stood face to face in the middle of the boat, devouring each other with their eyes, cursing, and blaming each other for their coming back without fish. Almost at the same time, both of them leaned back, their fists darted forwards. An embittered brawl began. The guards heard muffled thumps.
A fight of two strong, beastly men is always pleasant to watch: it’s exciting, like a sip of heady wine. The two men in the boat ran wild quickly: the reckless sun would make anyone mad and eager to wreak his anger on anyone. They neither yelled nor swore anymore but hurled their fists forward, trying to land a painful blow, to crush and destroy. The half-naked man got bloodied, the guards hung over the board in excitement, oblivious of their bodies being in the bitter sun, out of the salutary coolness. One guard bet two against one that the half-naked fisherman, though blooded, would overcome his cloaked mate; he had the muscle of a champion wrestler. Probably he had been a wrestler in a circus till he got fired for bargaining with the public.
The second guard hesitated. The half-naked one looks stronger, his muscle exposed, he fights like a mad beast, but his rival seems to land more accurate blows. And under his cloak, he could have a knife, at least the one for cutting fish… And in that brain-melting sun, one would stab a knife uncaringly, only to see the blood of the other, hear him squealing, then rasping…
The boat was coming sidewise to the stone mooring, waves splashed against its boards. The boat rocked and swung, driven by the wind and water, raised by the tide that had covered the prominent bare stones, so the boat passed over them easily, with probably only a light scratch of its bottom on them.
The guards neighed like horses. The cloaked fisherman had blood gushing from his smashed brow; he often swept it off with hand, spreading it over his face, swore hoarsely. The half-naked man jumped on him, and both collapsed into the boat. Fortunately, they fell on the wooden bench that cracked apart. The fishermen rolled, grappling like two furious bears, into the other bench, and it broke into splinters too.
One of the oars had floated away long ago, the other jolted blade-up in the water. When the half-naked man thrust his pal, the latter’s head crushed out the piece of wood with the oarlock, and the second oar also went floating in the waves.
The boat was driven close to the wall rising from the water. If even the guards commanded them to get away, the fishermen would not be able to do it without oars. They could swim after them, but the oarlocks were kicked out, as though by a hammer – what lusty fellows those fishermen were! – and the boat itself looked ready to go to splinters at any moment.
One of the guards sighed and pulled the rope forcefully; nobody was allowed to moor there. If the guards failed to drive them away, they were obliged to call for reinforcement. The massive door of the tower opened with a creak. A head in a gleaming helmet look out. As the guard saw the boat, the head vanished. At the next moment, he leapt out with sword and shield. After him, the next one came out, all clad in iron. He kicked the door shut behind him, leaned his back against it and fell drowsy at once, his head dropped and face twisted.
The new guards joined, with fascination, watching the fight. Both bet their weekly salary on the fighters, but one, however, reached for his crossbow without looking, set it against the ground, started to turn the winch slowly, drawing the steel bowstring. The metal pieces of the crossbow were red-hot, as well as the string, so several times he left the winch with a sigh, his eyes fixed on the fishermen.
The boat side crashed against the stone wall. The tide dragged the boat along it. Guards stretched their necks, bent over the border, one of them almost fell out, as the stone wall was rising over the water at a man’s height, even at full flow. They heard terrible rattles from the boat; the cloaked man pressed the half-naked one against the bottom, strangling him, the cloak almost covered both of them. The guards bellowed, clapped their rough hands on the stone border. Everyone was cheering the fisherman he’d bet on.
Suddenly, the cloaked man got up and made a long creepy jump from the boat straight onto the stone wall. He pushed off the boat so mightily that it flew almost to the middle of Golden Bay. The half-naked fisherman was also up at once, a bow in hands, a flash of iron arrowhead.
Startled, the guards had no time to draw swords before the fisherman cl
utched at the stone edge, pulled himself up, jumped down on their side at once. The first guard leapt forward silently, slashed with his sword. The fisherman jerked his head aside, annoyed. Surprisingly, the blade did not slice in, only ground, as though against metal, and was almost twisted out of the dumbfounded guard’s hand. However, the sword cut the cord of the cloak, which fell down, and the guard almost dropped his weapon in astonishment.
A furious crusader knight in full armor! The guard had time to see eyes, as blue as the cloudless sky, through the visor before he had to back up under a hail of terrible blows; the knight drew his huge sword in a flash. The guard felt his death close: against the knight’s two-handed weapon, his sword looked a puny twig.
Thomas slashed with all his might, attacked. The guard missed a terrible blow and fell, with bleeding head, over the border into the close waves.
Thomas turned quickly to the sea. The empty boat floated lonely on the waves, being filled with water through the cracks. Thomas’s heart froze with fear, but then he heard a splash, big hands emerged over the border, and the wonderer, soaked like a water god, jumped over it with a shout. “Why are you standing, fool? Run into the tower! One escaped!”
Thomas rushed, as though spurred, to the wide open door of the tower. On his run, he almost fell, stumbling over the crossbowman’s body with a long arrow in its throat. In the doorstep, he slipped in a puddle of blood gushing out of the body of a big guard (almost twice as broad as he was tall) and hurried up, jumping over three stairs at once, then over two.
He heard a fast tapping of boots behind. The wonderer came up with him and rushed by, like a sea whirlwind, splashing water around, his wet shoulder brushed against Thomas. The knight looked with envy at his broad bare back, trickles of blood still running down it, left by the fresh liver they’d bought at the market and used for staining each other while they fought.
The wonderer vanished ahead. Thomas hurried upstairs, muttering curses, jumping over just one stair at once. He spotted fresh drops of blood. The wonderer’s arrow had injured that guard, the fourth and last one. Oleg had to come upon him before he could climb upstairs to warn his master.
The thought of the master, the dreadful Secret One, made Thomas feel creepy inside, his legs gave way. He tried running up over two stairs at once again, but got exhausted quickly because of the steel armor he had on, and dragged himself along from one stair to another, a sword in hand, another hand clinging to the rail.
Above, on the fifth floor, there was a short noise that died away at once. When Thomas dragged himself to the spot, wide streams of blood were running to meet him, two guards lay across the stairs. Thomas stepped over them and plodded on. There was a clang above again, a muffled shout. Thomas tried to run upstairs, as the wonderer had managed to, but sweat poured over his eyes, sledge-hammers seemed to be pounding in head. He felt swung from the wall to the rail, his feet far behind, he dragged them like some cast-iron pillars.
He barely had time to hug the rail when a man in armor came rolling downstairs, head over heels, followed by another one, rolling in the same way, clad in fine Saracen mail. Thomas raised his sword, but lowered it at once and half rushed, half plodded on. He heard some shouts, clanging, and ringing above again. Much higher.
All but crying with impotent malice, he dragged himself up the damned stairs that seemed to be endless. Twice he splashed through blood puddles, stepped over guards who moaned and scratched walls and stairs.
When Thomas climbed to the very top, clinging to his knightly pride rather than the rail and the wall, he saw the world waving, as if he was sailing a Viking ship. He heard the rumble and pounding of blood vessels bursting in his ears. Coarse black snow was falling before his eyes.
The stairs ended at a wide open door. In the depth of the big room with strange furniture, the wonderer stood with bare sword. In three or four steps from him, a frail man, in a long robe and a knitted cap, sat in a deep soft armchair. He was unarmed and cornered between two blind walls.
Thomas sobbed in utter exhaustion, slipped down the doorpost onto the floor. The wonderer wheeled round abruptly, his eyes opened wide. “Sir Thomas, are you wounded?” he inquired with anxiety.
Thomas made a sluggish gesture to show he was all right, Oleg could see to the black mage, not to let him out of sight, as he, Thomas Malton of Gisland, a noble knight, disliked them who sold their souls to devil and had nothing to do with them, that rather befitted a Pagan…
“Who are you?” Oleg demanded harshly from the man in armchair. “What is your name?”
The man stretched his thin bloodless lips in a wary smirk, spoke slowly. “You seem to know who I am. Who are you, that is the question. You look like a savage barbarian. Maybe a chieftain of those? A new star on the northern heavens? The one who will shake the universe, like Attila? Do you know who Attila was?”
“I do,” Oleg replied briefly.
The man in the armchair watched him through narrowed eyes. Oleg felt the way his mighty brain worked; analyzing, calculating options with lightning speed, tenacious, missing not the slightest nuance, quick to reject wrong answers. “You are no barbarian,” the man in armchair said suddenly. “It is only a mask! But you could become not only a supreme chieftain of barbarians but also a rich man here, in Constantinople…” Suddenly his eyes widened. He tried to stand up but fell back into his armchair at once. His eyes goggled, as he gave out an astonished whisper. “Impossible! You… you are Oleg the Wise?”
“I am,” Oleg replied in a flat, lifeless voice. “You see I was the first to know you, Baruk.”
“Yes, I’m Baruk,” the man in armchair whispered. The knitted cap on his head was shaking; he laughed. “Sorry… it’s nervousness. Now I see why all the attempts to take the cup, all those… ha ha! absolutely reliable ones failed… We were informed the cup was borne by some brass-headed fool, with a beggar pilgrim plodding at his side!”
Through the noise and rumble in his ears, Thomas could barely hear half of it and understood hardly a thing, but sitting on the floor, he snapped out hoarsely, “Sir wonderer is no beggar!”
Baruk shot a derisive, disdainful glance at the knight, gave out a short laugh. “Sir wonderer? I see your sense of humor, so unnecessary for the new world… What a blunder our agents made! They showed their hair, as you Ruses put it… Yes, we had to learn much about Rus’. The Secret Seven are mostly busy with it now!”
Oleg seized the scabbard without looking, drew the huge sword in with a thud. Baruk grew more confident, and Thomas alerted, started to pull his cast-iron legs closer, breathed deeply, in a hurry to tame the blood pounding in ears.
Baruk leaned back deeper in his armchair, his sharp eyes flashed with predatory sparkles. “You do not look a giant… An intellectual giant, I mean. This kind of power can be felt in each of the Seven, in many grand masters and even masters. And you degraded… Wise? To make accurate forecasts, you need to perfect your mind and will, rather than gad along roads, playing a barbarian, a mercenary, or a merchant… I heard you once were the strongest one. Weren’t you? Well, a feeble will turns strong if trained, a weak mind gets working as well as a dozen strong ones, but strong brains fade if not used… I never had any doubts about our way, but now I see how right we are!”
“You never had any doubts? Then you are hopeless.”
“A play on words?”
“Why do you need the cup?” Oleg asked gloomily.
Baruk said nothing. He grinned, as he looked at the matted-haired barbarian standing before him. The magician leaned back in his armchair haughtily, his eyes became cruel. Thomas clenched his teeth, started to get up, clinging at the doorpost. He felt a gross insult for his friend who had to stand before the black magician, a devil’s servant, and be looked at as a common man, a puny tramp, even called a beggar!
“Why?” Oleg asked again.
“A decision of the Counsel,” Baruk replied. His eyes laughed.
“No one’s personal idea,” Oleg said thoughtfully. “I
t makes a difference…”
“It does,” Baruk agreed jeeringly. “I heard of what you did to Fagim, a former head of the Secret Seven… But will you stand up against the power of all Seven?”
Oleg was silent for a while, his face darkened. “What’s special about that cup?” he asked in the dull voice of a worn-out man.
Baruk shrugged, his eyes glittered defiantly. “The blood of Christ. Didn’t you know?”
Oleg shook his head, kept his eyes on Baruk’s face. “It’s important for my knightly companion, but not for the Counsel. The Secret Seven knew lots of prophets! They have the rod of Zarathustra, the belt of Moses, the cloak of Buddha, the hammer of Tor, the sandals of Mahomet, the club of Heracles, the spear of Gilgamesh… and many other things of heroes, prophets, and sages stored in their secret cache. You value them as a collection, some curiosities. You are practical people, free of any superstition. I don’t believe you could apply so much effort only to add a new item to that collection. I wonder how the cup could survive, in spite of you driving every emotional thing away…”
“Why?” Baruk asked innocently.
Oleg answered, as he felt something concealed behind that simple question. Shaping our own thoughts into words can help find a solution or be an eyeopener presenting itself. It may seem accidental, but in fact it’s help from the inmost soul. “Your god is Progress, Civilization,” Oleg said in an even, measured voice. “And civilization has no need of such things. Moreover, they are harmful or even dangerous to it. They only make a difference for culture.”
Baruk’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve answered your own question,” he told Oleg through gritted teeth.
“So… just to keep the cup away from me?”
“From any culture bearer. This brass-headed fool is one of them, as well as you, though he thinks of himself as a civilizer. He’s a hundred times purer than you, that’s all the difference. He has the soul of an innocent baby.”
Oleg looked fixedly at him, his voice became thoughtful. “You did not say what true value the cup has… For us! However, that’s out of your power if that was a decision of the Counsel, not your own. Hey, Baruk, you made several attempts to kill us. Would you deny it? And I have a perfect moral right to pay you back with your own coin. You see? So, if now you swear you shall never disturb us again, we leave at once, and you can resume your observation of stars. As you are the greatest expert on the heavens!”
The pounding in Thomas’s head ceased, but pain came instead, as if red-hot pig iron was tucked into his skull. His brain was boiling, filling its bone armor to the brim. Thomas got up with effort, leaned against the wall, his feet still shaking, a stitch in his side at every breath. Thomas regretted he could not stop breathing and remain alive.
“What if I shan’t?” Baruk asked. His voice remained derisive and gave no quaver. Thomas felt a chilly blow of fear.
“I’ll kill you.” Oleg sounded like a sudden blow of northern wind in that strange room piled up with thick manuscripts with Cabbalist signs on their covers.
Baruk did not stir. He watched Oleg with contempt, even with disgusted pity. “You won’t. You could do it to protect yourself… but a man sitting in peace, like me? A cripple confined to his armchair? No outlaw, but the world’s best expert on stars, a researcher of the secrets of universe?”
“But you can kill a man sitting in his chair, can’t you?” Oleg asked in a constrained voice.
“I serve civilization! Progress. While you serve mere culture. We have different laws.”
Incensed, Oleg gripped the hilt, pulled the sword out slowly. He heard the ominous scraping of metal; it was like a barely audible whistle. Baruk pressed himself into the back of the armchair. He went pale, his eyes flickered with fear, but his lips managed a smile. “Oh, stop it. A play of fury. You failed to take into account that we had a long talk, so I had time to calculate and measure you. Neither you nor this brass-headed friend of yours can kill me. Just because I’m defenseless. You are hampered by your culture, and he – by his knightly prrrinciples!”
“Are you laughing at us?”
“I can’t help it! You were the ones to disarm yourself. What you are proud of is the root of your failure. I calculated both of you for a day and night ahead. I know the Brass Head has his left heel sore. In three minutes, that one will slip and elbow a cup off the table… And you in two minutes will scratch your nose and look at the ceiling… Can you forecast that accurately?”
“I’d love to. But I can’t,” Oleg admitted.
“You are all in vague visions and prophecies, while we have exact knowledge! Hey, wasn’t it what you strove for? The past is concealed from us, new members of the Counsel, but there are rumors that in the great antiquity you were the one to rise against the dominance of magicians and magic, to uphold the knowing, knowery… I mean the research method, which now tends to be called simply science. Was it that way?”
Thomas heard everything, but understood very little of it; his head was buzzing. To avoid being an obedient fool in the damned mage’s hands, he made two steps along the wall, away from the table with a high crystal cup. Oleg glanced back at the metal sound of his feet, scratched his nose thoughtfully. There was a faint tapping above. Oleg looked up quickly. “Is anyone there?”
“They won’t come in,” Baruk dismissed. “Students.”
Hastily, Thomas backed up one more step, dumbfounded at the wonderer’s having scratched his nose and looked up exactly as the warlock had foretold. Thomas felt a stitch in his left heel, staggered on his numb legs, stumbled over his own sword (it was lying on the floor since the exhausted knight had climbed into the room) and crashed down. Furious, he got up, heard malicious laughter, gripped the sword hilt menacingly and turned round with a haughty look.
A big red apple rolled up to his feet. Thomas turned his head to the table. It lay on its side, two manuscripts sprawled on the mosaic floor. Apples had rolled away in all directions, and in the middle, there were gleaming splinters of the cup.
“All exact?” Baruk asked with triumphant laughter. “The more I see of you, the more information to predict your every word, move, deed. I already have enough for a week, a month, half a year…”
Oleg gave Thomas a quick nod. “Sir Thomas, it’s time to leave. He’s a lost man. And you, Baruk… you are making a big mistake! A man, apart from his mighty mind, has a soul too! And it’s unpredictable. It has very deep caves, hard to peep into.” He turned to the entrance.
“You miserable bastard!” Baruk shouted in fury. “Open your eyes! Nothing on earth will save you from a terrible death now! It’s clear enough even for you to see!”
Oleg stepped to the opened door, his face as dark as a thundercloud. “By chance you’ll know… what strength is hidden in the soul,” he dropped in a hollow voice, without looking back.
He went past Thomas, and Thomas stepped to the man in armchair, raised his giant sword. His arms were still heavy, and the sword seemed to have the weight of a warhorse armored for attack. Astonished Baruk goggled his eyes, wriggled into the soft back of the armchair, jerked his trembling arms up in fear, as if he could stop the heavy blade of high-class steel whetted to match the sharpest razor.
The sword cut the air with a swish. There was a squelch, a flop of wood on the floor, a gurgle, and a soft slap.
Oleg glanced back with disgust at the bloody jumble; the knight had cut Baruk apart together with his armchair! – and looked with amazement in Thomas’s face, tired and serene.
Thomas picked up the knitted cap, wiped the bloody blade clean with it. “Let’s go?” he asked briskly. “Or take something from here?”
Oleg shook his head in astonishment. “No, my innocent baby. We need nothing from this place. Let’s go.”
They went down the damned winding stairs, but it was far easier than the same way up. Thomas livened up, the high color came back to his deathly pale cheeks, as he spoke to Oleg with animation. “At last I guess the true meaning of your mysterious ‘by chanc
e!’ I got not a damned thing of what you were talking about, but I saw you twinned round with the black mage’s spells! It was scary, but I recalled the nail of the Savior’s cross in my sword hilt. I called for the Holy Virgin to help me withstand the demon, a servant to Satan! You are a Pagan, after all, nearly a relative to demons, so you feel awkward about fighting them. I would never raise a hand against my kin myself. Otherwise I’d have crushed those brothers long ago, and Krizhina would not shed her bitter tears.”
As Thomas walked, he shifted the bag from his back to belly, patted the prominence of the cup. Oleg recoiled instinctively, alerted in expectance of either a flash or thunder to strike the naive knight who had just killed a cripple. But the knight’s face was clean and calm, his honest eyes gleaming. He had destroyed a fiend that came out of Hell and went back there. It’s sinful to kill a man, but killing a demon is a feat.
Oleg sighed, accepting the new reality of the new culture, and mended his pace.