by Yury Nikitin
Chapter 30
The sun sank behind the horizon by half when their road brought them up a hill, from where they could see a high, massive castle towering on the hill that had evidently been erected for that very purpose, surrounded by a stone rampart and encircled with a moat of water. A broad drawbridge was thrown across the moat; its thick iron chains glittered in the light of sunset.
“Are you sure,” Thomas asked nervously, “the cup was taken there?”
“No other castle nearby,” Oleg replied without much conviction. “And my charms say your cup is there.”
Thomas glanced slantwise at the wonderer. Ragged, bashed, and worn out, he managed to keep his charms. Though Kite’s hirelings had touched them (Thomas saw it), they were not tempted by a wooden necklace, especially this one; carved roughly, without proper skill.
The horses, wheezing and dripping with foam, brought them up to the gate. By that time the plain was striped with reddish-black shadows. Only a crimson edge still stuck over the skyline, then it sank too, and the dusk fell.
A head in glittering helmet rose over the castle gate. The man was sullen, his face irritated, his eyes under swollen eyelids looked with malice.
Thomas, still ahorse, knocked on the iron-riveted logs of the gate. “Hey, over there! Open!”
“Who you are?” the guard inquired in a voice viscous like old syrup.
Thomas glanced at Oleg’s rags, at his own torn remnants of clothing that hung on him like on a scarecrow. The iron shackles glittered dimly on his hands and legs, the fragments of the chains rang. “Don’t you see, numbskull? Godly travelers! Pilgrims! Open it, now.”
The guard leaned forward to have a better look at the godly travelers who yelled and swore like robbers. “Oh, I see how godly! Wait till morning. Steward comes an’ sorts you out.”
“Till morning?” Thomas cried in a scared voice. “It’s not even night now!”
“Soon it be morning,” the guard explained in a more friendly tone. “Night and day to while away. Have to while a day, and night… we won’t see it, thank God. Our place quiet, what they want here? Can’t stay at home. Roam, roam…” He scratched himself noisily, gave a wolfish, howling yawn.
Thomas gasped with fury. Oleg dismounted, with his face mournful. “Brother Thomas,” he said gently, “please hold my horse. That’s the world created by Rod; people would rather obey strength than truth. Take the horses back, and I’ll knock out the gate of this vile pigsty.”
The guard above burst with resonant laughter, his ill yellow face turned crimson. “Knock out? Ha ha! The Saracen tried it with a ram! An’ had hard time, like bears near fish.”
Oleg backed up three steps, puffed up, held his breath. The guard neighed merrily, but Oleg rushed on the gate suddenly, hit against the tightly knocked-together logs. Thomas shuddered with the terrible crash, thunder, the screech of iron strips torn apart. The horses jumped, trying to break off the bridge into the moat, Thomas held them with iron hand. When he looked at the gate again, he could not believe his eyes. It seemed to be smashed with a rock from a giant catapult. Huge bars kept the wings from flying open, but the whole gate had been broken out; it lay in the yard twenty feet from the breach. The walls of the stone arch had gaps from torn-out rods, the crumble of bricks rained down.
The wonderer lay, sprawled like a frog, on the gate; he looked like having slid there on ice. Thomas barely had time to turn the horses when Oleg rose, beating the brick dust and small crumbles loudly off his clothes and swearing as only a pilgrim can who has seen a lot of the world, passed Crimea and Rome, spent a night under the priest’s pear tree, not to mention Jerusalem where every Tom, Dick and Harry had been to.
Thomas rode through the breach proudly, leading the wonderer’s horse by the reins. The surviving guard was hanging above, shrieking shrilly. He was no more crimson but white, his feet scratched the air helplessly.
Other guards ran out of the building near the gate, stunned by the thunder. Their eyes popped out as they saw, in place of their indestructible gate, a gaping forest, far and dark, with a sickly wind blowing in. Massive hooks and hinges that had once held the heavy gate wings stuck out from the walls on both sides.
Thomas stopped the second horse near Oleg who was still beating small pebbles off his rags with disgust. Thomas pointed at the empty saddle, Oleg waved him away sullenly. “Mounting, dismounting… What a monotonous life! ”
He walked across the yard to the main building. Some warriors ran down the porch, clanging with steel. Thomas kept snatching his hip; no sword there anymore.
They were surrounded, but Oleg, with no look at the warriors at all, went straight upstairs. Thomas vaulted off, threw the reins arrogantly into the face of the closest clot with an axe in his hands, and followed the wonderer. He heard a shriek behind; as the clot was grabbing the reins, he dropped the axe on his foot and went yelling, hopping along, gripping the injured foot with both hands, while the horses, still trembling with fear, bustled about the yard.
The stone stairs were not pressed into the ground by their feet, as Thomas had supposed they would, not a single one even cracked. With relief, he realized that, despite all the monstrous strength, his weight was the same, as the bunches of overcome grass weighed less than a dead mouse.
Thomas and Oleg came into the entrance hall, which was all lit by the crimson light of a huge blazing fireplace near the far wall. Two armored men dried some cloths by the fire, their waders dried on the iron fender. There was a smell of fish pluck. Both men glanced over with surprise at the strange ragged newcomers who were followed, at a respectful distance, by three apprehensive soldiers with bare swords.
Oleg got tired of the clanging sounds behind. He wheeled round suddenly, made a horrific grimace, and stamped his feet. The three soldiers were blown away at once, as though by a hurricane. They collided at the door, a dropped sword rang, then a heavy body was heard to be rolling downstairs, crackling, crunching, and rattling. Thomas made a move to come back for the sword, which lay on the threshold and shimmered like a toadstool in the moonlight, but Oleg clutched his hand tightly. “Sir monk, do arms befit us?”
Thomas released himself with caution, his face grew white, his eyes suffering. “Sir wonderer, one should eat overcome grass, not gorge on it like a horse!”
Oleg replied in a grieving voice. “Grasses are to be found nowhere in our land in winter! Unlike these lands, where they have only summer. We hyperboreans have a habit of getting full up at once.”
They passed the hall. A guard jumped away from the ornate inner door; something warned him not to stop the strange vagrants. Thomas kicked the door open before Oleg could do it. The wings flew open with a crack, the door bar, wrenched out roughly, flopped on the floor, debris rained down from the ceiling.
The great hall was decorated with swords, axes, maces, and knightly shields over the carpets on the walls. In the middle two tables were surrounded by benches made of split oak halves. Oleg nodded to Thomas, explaining silently that it was a measure against brawlers who could, in full swing of a feast, lift a bench and brandish it, crushing others.
Both tables were formed by thick marble slabs rested on grey, square blocks of stone. There were blazing fireplaces on two opposite walls, a good smell of fragrant smoke and burnt hair. The floor was made of huge slabs, the same as the walls of that gloomy castle, the cracks stuck with grey clay. However, the heavy blocks were fitted so tight that an ant could hardly pass between any of them.
Thomas sat down at the table and spoke haughtily, addressing no one in particular. “Hey, lord! Run for him, you bow-legged! I’ll have all of you flogged!”
Heads, some in horned helmets and some without, peeped into the door the friends had come through. Thomas’s menacing roar made the heads vanish. After a while, they came back, but not all of them.
Oleg walked along the walls, examined the arms. His heart pounded resonantly, about to get smashed up against the rib cage. Should he approach the door, the heads vanished and fast thum
ping was heard from the stairs, as though some scattered peas rolled down to the cellar.
They heard a heavy ringing sound from the far door. A tall man emerged there; clad in iron armor all over, he looked so like a metal statue that Oleg turned his head involuntarily to check whether Thomas was in place. Thomas, all ragged, his hands and feet bare, pulled an understanding smirk on.
The other knight was covered with gleaming steel from head to feet, but his raised visor allowed them to see a narrow weather-beaten face, a red face burnt mercilessly by the southern sun. When he stepped in, warriors appeared behind him, with a glitter of swords and heavy axes in their hands.
One of the warriors held a blazing torch, but the knight’s face was in the shadows.
“Who are you?” the knight roared, his hand on the hilt of huge sword. He sounded like a lion and his voice, however closely Oleg listened to it, had no hint of confusion or fear, which are so often concealed by a mighty roar – only surprise and curiosity.
Oleg was silent, collecting his thoughts. Thomas glanced slantwise at him, replied in a deliberately meek voice, mimicking his friend. “We… humble pilgrims… Go from the Holy Sepulcher to Rus’. Live like songbirds; walking roads, pecking dung… Singin’ praises to the Holy Virgin… Wearin’ fetters…” He raised his hands to demonstrate the steel shackles that had rubbed his flesh away to the bone. The chain fragments gave a tinkle.
The knight came, at a slow pace, up to the table where Thomas sat. His armor rang at every step, which made Thomas flinch with jealousy. The warriors came in after him but they dispersed along the walls. Every second man had a shiny broad-headed Saracen spear.
The knight stopped two steps from Thomas, peered at him. “Humble pilgrims, eh? Since when has Thomas Malton of Gisland-on-Don become a humble vagrant? You used to go to sleep with no wench but with your sword!”
Thomas gave a start but kept his seat, replied in a slow controlled voice. “As you see, Sir Burlan, I have no sword now.”
“Neither a wench,” the knight spoke in an unpleasant voice, in which one could hear a jeer. “Only a pilgrim friend instead… ahem. In this land, one picks up a fever, another picks up vile habits. Have you lost your sword?”
Thomas blushed, blood rushed up to his cheeks at once, but with a visible effort he made his shoulders relax, replied in an even voice. “With the help of Our Lady, we get what we want without a sword. This land only has base folk, and I bare my noble sword only for noble foes. For example, the one who stole the Holy Grail earned his death at my bare hand… No, was killed like a dog – by the stone I hurled at him. And now I have come for the Holy Grail!”
Burlan’s eyes were the color of water running over river boulders. His eyelids all but closed, as he narrowed his eyes in a predatory way. “If you come without armor, like a bird without feathers… like a plucked crow, as we knights put it, you shall be treated with as much honor as a common tramp. If you don’t please us, we’ll crucify you at the gate!”
The warriors began to stir, exchanged glances, then started to approach in cautious short steps, their spearheads aimed at Thomas’s chest. Thomas was slow to respond, and Oleg (he stood by the wall) asked Burlan innocently, “The old gate or the new one?”
Burlan did not seem to get it. A warrior jumped up to him, whispered obsequiously in his ear. Burlan started, stepped quickly to the window, looked outside for a while, unable to believe his eyes, then went pallid, clutched the windowsill with the fingers of both hands. There were still faint screams, shouts, a clang of steel coming from the yard. “What’s wrong with our gate?” Burlan demanded in a constrained voice.
“Rotten through,” Oleg replied uncaringly. “A blow and a spit reduced it to pieces. You’ll need a new one to crucify a man on! Surely, times are hard…”
Thomas slapped the table impatiently. “Sir Burlan! I want back the cup that was stolen from me. Immediately!”
The warriors along the walls exchanged glances. Burlan turned away from the window. His voice was still constrained, as though an invisible hand held his throat. “The cup was left for me to store. I have no idea why there is so much fuss about it; my chests are full of silver and golden cups, while this one is plain copper. But I was asked to keep it in my place. Asked by a noble man. And I will comply his request.”
“Where’s the cup?” Thomas demanded.
Burlan glanced over at the warriors who crowded the door, blocking it. He gave a malevolent smile, his voice grew louder. “Right behind this wall. On the shelf near the lamp. Take it if you can.”
The warriors gripped their swords, scowling at the two unarmed travelers from under their helmets pulled over their brows. Behind them, spearheads and the spikes of helmets could be seen.
Thomas started to rise, red with fury. Oleg intruded quickly. “Your Grace, I have a lower rank… I’ll fetch it!”
As he stood near the wall pointed out by Burlan, he bumped against it. There was a crash, deep cracks ran along the wall, huge blocks thundered out. Oleg stepped after them, leaving a cloud of dust in the breach.
Thomas gave a start but made himself stay at the table and adopt an air of boredom. Burlan grew as white as snow, his jaw dropped, his eyes goggled and glassy. Two of his warriors dropped their spears and ran away, shrieking.
They heard shouts and a clang on the other side of the breach, then a hunched figure emerged there in the crimson light of the fireplace. Oleg kicked aside a block of stone, as large as a bull’s head, his sneeze raised a small cloud of dust. He carried a copper cup, pressing it against his chest, shielding it from the rain of small stones with his palm. With a humble bow, he put the cup in front of Thomas and bowed again. “Your Superiority, that’s your chalice.”
Thomas touched the salient side of the cup, greenish with age, with fingertips, said into the space, “What ways in this pigsty! Aren’t you going to feed your humble guests? We are not likely to have another feast soon.”
Oleg dusted off noisily, slapping clouds of dust out of his rags. He heard a sad note in Thomas’s apparently cheerful voice but said nothing; no one has ever come back from the other world to tell what foods are served there. Small stones glittered in his hair. The block he had kicked away was lying on the other side of the hall. Warriors glanced at it with fear; hardly any of them could even move it.
Burlan turned his head with a screech. “Bring food for these… pilgrims… guests,” he said in a hoarse voice.
Carefully, Oleg sat down on the bench near Thomas. He moved slowly, like a clever horse among fragile dishes, even felt the bench before sitting. Burlan stood by the window but did not look outside anymore; his wide eyes were glued to the breach in the wall, through which a man riding a horse could pass.
Oleg made an inviting gesture. “Sir lord… Burlan or Burdan… or Buridan… would you mind having dinner with us?”
Burlan gave a start, took his eyes with effort off the gaping breach. Oleg waved at him welcomingly, and Burlan came, his steps wooden, and sat down on the bench facing Thomas. As their eyes met, the last blood rushed away from Burlan’s face; the eyes of ragged knight errant shone like two stars of Bethlehem, bright red roses flashed and faded on his cheeks.
Behind Thomas, there was a breach where men rushed about, shouted, dragged someone from under the stones then carried him away. The fallen torches smoked on the floor. A servant in a greasy, soiled apron came through the gap, stepping over huge stone blocks that lay all around the hall. The tray quivered in his hands. When he put it in the middle of the table, Thomas winced; the meat was cold and the bread so hard that they could use it to break another wall.
“A fast day, eh?” Oleg sympathized. “It should be fish, grass…”
Thomas, who had just stuck his teeth into the first slice of meat, recoiled. “Sir lay brother,” he said with vexation, “all your reminders are either too early or too late!”
The servant hurried to take the meat away. Thomas followed him with hungry eyes.
Oleg crie
d after him, “Bring him fish! Fish! I saw a big fish here – it scratched itself against the fence when we passed… er… through the gate. Scratched and grunted!”
Burlan shifted his stunned gaze between Thomas and Oleg. Both had very serious hungry faces.
Oleg sniffed. “A good host would have something to wet our whistles,” he said with a jeer. “But you see, sir abbot, these people are starving!”
Burlan blushed with insult and blurted out. “I have five barrels of Cyprus wine three halls from here! And in my cellar, I have twelve barrels of Madeira, Cahors wine, and northern moonshine!”
“Thank you for the information,” Oleg replied politely.
Burlan had barely bit his tongue, as he realized his mistake, when the strange vagrant bumped, like a blind man, into the wall pointed to by the master, broke through with a terrible crash, made a breach from the ceiling to the floor. Huge blocks, each would do to smash a bear, rained on his head and shoulders, rolled down his back. He sneezed at the dust and vanished.
Burlan sat yellow like a dead man. Blue veins twitched on the temples of his head, his face fell, his nose sharpened. Soon there was some more thunder, an irritated roar, crash of rolling stones, heavy steps, then a terrible crash and thunder again, sounds of falling stones, frightened screams, a plaintive cry.
Fresh roast meat was brought in. Thomas gorged on it, as he suffered a beastly hunger. His fingers scratched an empty tray before he knew it. The servants vanished. At once, there was the “fish” that used to scratch itself against the fence and grunt, and also the “fish” flapping its wings in the reeds. Actually, Thomas could have real meat with no remorse; a traveler may lose both the count of days and the calendar, but the wonderer reminded him of the fast inopportunely… Thomas’s hand stopped, he felt a surge of fury. What if he was just teasing? A bloody Pagan, he could hardly know fast days. Perhaps he wanted more meat left to him?
He felt the empty tray again, glanced at the servants with annoyance. They went rushing about faster, serving roast swans, geese, ducks, quail, a roast boar, a couple of baked turkeys with apples, some venison… When, finally, they brought some crucians fished in the pond, Thomas waved that away sluggishly; he was full up, and his friend would have to start on a roast bear or, at least, an ox.
At times thunder came into the hall, broken with short periods of silence. As Thomas ate, he did not listen much, but then felt a vague surprise. Burlan had said the wine was just across three halls, hadn’t he? Then Oleg should have broken through only three walls… Or four? But there was much more crashing, anyway. Could the poor wonderer get lost in this labyrinth of castle halls and passages, so unusual to a Pagan? Now he walks around, breaking through walls, demolishing stairs and passages, his breath choked with dust… And he, Thomas Malton, sits here and pigs out while his hungry friend roams a strange castle?
Thomas spat the bones out onto the middle of the table, started to rise, with strong intention to walk to the distant noise (or walking in the opposite direction would do better if the wonderer had gone far?), when a scary crack ran down the opposite wall. There was a thunder, huge boulders crashed into the hall, rolled about it, and the hunched figure of the wonderer appeared in the breach. With a forty-basket barrel on his back, he looked like Atlas.
The barrel’s edge got stuck in the gap. The wonderer gave an angry roar, kicked out the protruding stones below, elbowed away the boulder that bulged out on a level with his shoulder. A big stone fell down on his foot, and the wonderer spoke ill of Christ, the Virgin and her knight who sat gobbling and snapping his jaws, instead of helping his friend in the Christian way before he sets to drinking in the knightly way – gorging on.
Oleg tried to get through again. Thomas yelled to warn him. “The barrel will break!”
His terrible shout made torches drop from the walls and the helmet of the warrior who stood steadfastly in the doorway fly away. Reluctantly, the wonderer set the barrel down on the scattered stone blocks, went over all the possible pedigree of the Virgin with his own insets. Hell burn this Pagan! Roaring, Oleg brought down all but the whole wall, grappled the barrel and brought it to the table. The blocks of heavy stone had rolled about the hall, one stopped at the table. With joy, Thomas put his foot on that stone and rested his elbow on his knee.
Carefully, Oleg put the barrel down near the table, knocked out the bottom with a spat. The befuddling smell hit their nostrils. Thomas gasped, grabbed the biggest scoop eagerly. Burlan’s face showed despair.
Oleg looked at the lord and nodded. “I don’t like the wine of Cyprus, it can’t be helped. I reached it, tasted… ‘No!’ I thought. I’ve always loved sweet things. The Cahors wine would do! I went to get it but lost my way… I hope you had no urgent need of those paintings stolen from Jerusalem? They were ruined when those marble statues, stolen either in Mesopotamia or Babylon, fell on them… They would not fall, but I slipped on the spilled precious rose attar when I caught on those barrels by accident – mistook them blindly for some wall design…”
Thomas drank much and enjoyed it. His head was strangely light and empty. Sounds grew louder, then quietened again. Even the hall seemed to narrow at one moment and broaden at another, torches first went pale, then blazed up so bright that his eyes screwed up at once. He reached for the meat, but his fingers stretched for scores of feet and the plate turned out to be on the other end of the table. He burst with drunken laughter, snatched a big slice, almost dropped it down but caught it in the air, sank his teeth into it with a roar.
Only three warriors remained in the hall. They clustered at the door, ready to rush away at any moment. When Thomas dropped his meat, they exchanged glances, one backed up and ran downstairs on the sly. If the two strangers got drunk, they’d smash the castle up like a doghouse. Either its walls were made of sand or those two guests came from Hell for the lord’s soul…
Oleg gobbled meat, washed it down with the wine, scooping it. Burlan quivered, not daring to rise from the table. He gestured to his servants to serve new courses as frequently as possible, and the pilgrims gulped down piles of hazel-hens, hocks of deer, fillets of beef, washing it all down with waterfalls of wine. Thomas got red, his cheeks glistened, his eyes roved. Suddenly he began to yowl the marching song of Roncesvalles. Dishes began to dance, the ceiling rained thick dust with small stones, and the third wall gave a dry crackle as a winding crack ran down it, from the vault to the floor.
Thomas made an encouraging gesture to Burlan, and the lord began to sing in a shaky voice. It sounded like an old goat’s bleating. Thomas frowned; he recalled Burlan’s voice to be different. Could the host be mocking at him? Could he mimic his guests, which was simply inadmissible for any European, even uneducated one, not to say anything of a civilized man whom a noble knight of Christ’s army should be…
Just two warriors remained at the door, backing away, jerking their heads up in fright to look at the crackling vault. Thomas was silent for a moment, taking a breath, and a trample of feet running away came from the corridor. With ardor in his heart, Thomas sang about the last battle of Roland, in which he slew the Saracen with his beloved sword, wishing no mercy from them. A new, broader crack ran across the first one. Small stones rained down.
Oleg clapped Thomas on the shoulder, pointed at the crack, and stood up. “Thank you for your hospitality, lord. That’s our way; everything for guests! But we mustn’t outstay our welcome. Sir Thomas, take the cup. We must go.”
Pale Burlan managed to raise himself up to his feeble feet. His armor clanged like dishes in a cart pulled by a galloping horse along a forest road, over stumps and logs.
“And I want to paint the town red!” Thomas declared stubbornly. “A death I’d love is to drown in a barrel of wine!” He gave a loud hiccup, scooped some wine hastily and drained it.
Oleg clapped on his shoulder. “Sir Thomas!” he said in a warning tone. “The last time we painted the town red we ruined all of it… That’s no good!”
“And here�
� hic! We r-r-r-ruin…” The scoop in his hand was crumpled like a burdock leaf. Thomas threw it away indignantly, groped about the table, felt the plate where the roast boar had been very short time before.
“No good,” Oleg repeated with reproach. “That time you were punished by forty bows and two days’ fasting without wine and I, as a Pagan, was told to sacrifice to Peroun two sheep, one goat and three Christians! If they tell me the same now, where will I find sheep and goats in this place? Though it’s good with Christians…”
He stared with dim eyes at the last brave warrior who held the door steadfastly, though there were terrible holes in both walls, each large enough for two men to ride through in a row. And that warrior went pale, gave a sob. He seemed to be blown away by the wind. They heard only a fast tapping of heels, then a door slammed below.
“And you,” Oleg went on persuading, “you’d rather burn in hell than live two days without wine! Let’s go.”
As Thomas, in his tragic absent-mindedness, thought over the wonderer’s words, he rolled the iron dish into a pipe, smoothed it again carefully, like a crumpled parchment, and rolled again. His eyes were dim. Oleg raised him by the shoulders. Thomas, in his last gleam of consciousness, grabbed the cup, pressed it against his chest with both hands.
Oleg turned to Burlan. “Tell them to drive up quickly two remounts! With blankets and food for a week. And give our clothes back to us. Do it quickly, or he’ll smash the place all over! As he’s destroyed the Temple of Solomon, the Gardens of Semiramis… and the Tower of Babylon – the second, smaller one…”
With his help, Thomas was clad in full knight’s armor. Oleg hurried to lead the knight outdoors. The floor was rocking like sea waves. Shadows darted ahead, heads stuck out and vanished. All the doors were wide open, neighs and frightened screams coming from the yard.
Oleg led Thomas down the porch, embracing him by his waist. People bustled about in the dark night and red torchlight, carried sacks and saddle-bags. Two saddled horses were jumping, frightened of the shouts and torches, trying to pull their reins free. The bravest men took the risk of leading them up to the porch.
Oleg helped Thomas into the saddle, tucked the reins in his hand. Thomas went drowsy at once. In terror, Oleg felt his own body getting heavier quickly. His legs seemed to turn to cast-iron, his mouth dry, his tongue scratched his throat. “Hail,” he muttered, “ssssee us off not…”
Once mounted, he took the reins from Thomas’s hand, drove the horses to the breach at a slow pace. The scattered blocks had been removed but the gate still lay in the middle of the yard. In the torchlight, smiths and carpenters tore iron cramps and stripes off, dragged heavy logs away. As they saw the travelers who had knocked out the gate coming again, they dropped their crowbars and ran away.
Losing his strength quickly, Oleg glanced at Thomas with fear. The knight reeled, then lay down on the horse’s mane. At the breach, there was a clatter of axes and hammers. Oleg thought sluggishly that the valiant knight and himself were too weak to beat off sparrows.
Suddenly the clatter stopped abruptly, shadows darted away and vanished in the dark. The horses galloped out briskly, as they sensed freedom, from under the stone vault into the night. The cold air chilled them to the marrow. Oleg curled up, feeling as though skinned. He took a firmer grip on the reins, as heavy as soaked logs, with his fingers going numb, and used his last strength to kick the horse with his heels.
The road glimmered dimly in the ghastly starlight; no moon. The earth looked scarily dark, only the tops of knolls, stumps, and boulders were silvered a bit.
Giant trees dashed past, on both sides of the road. The horses galloped on, as though along a narrow valley, the faint starlight silvered the path slightly. The deathly cold was creeping deeper into Oleg’s stiffened body, with all of its vitality spent already, his heart beat slower and quieter. Finally, trees came closer and branches intertwined overhead, screening the sky off.
The horses stopped in complete darkness, blacker than pitch or tar.
That was the last thing Oleg could recall.