The Grail of Sir Thomas

captivity, nearly leaked down all into some folds and cracks of his soul.

He grabbed Baron’s naked shoulder, squeezed it with gauntleted hand. “Get up! The Hell’s tired waiting.”

Chapter 4

Baron turned his head quickly, took in the room in a tenacious glance. Thomas swayed his sword ominously, throwing crimson lights into Baron’s eyes. On the wall behind Thomas, there hung a huge axe with fanciful hooks on butt. The old man raked billets in the burning fireplace. He was shaking, despite sitting near the fire. He paid no attention to Thomas, nor to his master.

Thomas caught Baron’s sight and nodded. “Take it!”

Baron stood upright: dark, massive, covered with hair like a forest animal. Thomas noticed something odd again, his heart wrung with alarm. Baron’s legs were too short, his arms huge and muscular, a strange head seated straight on his sloping shoulders… “And the rest?” Baron bellowed.

Thomas cast a glance around. Baron’s armor must be in another room. Send him for it — and he brings a dozen of guards! “No,” Thomas said and raised his sword.

Baron roared, tried to run away through the smashed door, but Thomas brandished his sword and nearly slashed the enemy’s side open. With a creepy howl, Baron snatched the axe from the wall, wheeled round abruptly to the armored knight.

He hold the axe with both hands at the knee level, his eyes fixed on the unexpected foe. Thomas suddenly felt weak: Baron’s eyes had no pupils, no irises, but they were not all white as a blind man’s — they were fiery red! Their blood-colored light was going brighter, blazing up as if the Hell’s fire, from which this monster had emerged, shone through his skull.

“You die!” Baron roared with a creepy move of his jaw: it was getting heavier before Thomas’s eyes, transforming, covering with a bone shell.

“All men die,” Thomas replied as firmly as he could: his voice tried to break into a frightened squeak. “But you — now.”

He brandished the sword. Baron raised his axe, parried a blow. The sword blade hit the axe handle. Thomas expected the sword to cut it as a twig, to slash the beast down to the waist, but the blade bounced off. Thomas’s hands were burnt with sharp pain. He heard a roaring laughter — the axe handle had only the looks of wood — and fell on his back to dodge a blow.

In the host of Duke Gottfried, Thomas was the only knight who could in his full armor fall on his back, roll over his head, and get up to his feet. This skill saved his life again. The dreadful axe blade cut the air so close to his face that Thomas felt the wind. Baron stepped forward in a haste to finish his enemy off while he was down. If he knew Thomas, he could have done it in time — but he didn’t, and Thomas stood upright, breathing heavily. His shield remained on the floor, and Thomas kicked it aside, gripped the long sword hilt with both hands. His eyes, also burning, were fixed on Baron.

Their eyes met in a fierce duel: bright blue, burning with the bitter cold of icy North, against red inhuman… Baron’s body was transforming: his shoulders got even broader and stronger, his mouth turned into dreadful jaws. They opened, four hideous fangs came out. The monster breathed heavily, as if he, not Thomas, had been running in heavy armor. Thomas heard ferocious shouts from the yard, steel clanking and clanging, horses neighing.

“Die,” the turnskin croaked. He went to Thomas, shifting his axe between hands. It had a long sharp double hook on the butt, a jagged spear blade on its back. They clashed. Thomas shuddered: the troll’s face, covered with black hair, was close, with its wide wrenched nostrils and crimson eyes under the thick bone cornice. The turnskin’s sharp-toothed jaws opened wide. Thomas shrunk back and that saved him: huge teeth clanged near his visor, all but snapped at it. Thomas pushed away with the handle, felt muscle hard as wood under the troll’s thick hair.

Troll brought his axe down, aiming at the shiny helmet. Thomas parried, but his arms went numb of a terrible blow, he barely kept his feet. The woman sat up on the bed, her eyes wide open in silent astonishment, her gaze shifting between the armored knight and the troll, as though choosing the one to stake on. Thomas retreated, struggling to parry the violent blows, each one almost knocking the sword out of numb fingers. The troll howled, breathed heavily, his sharp-pointed ears moved like an animal’s.

The flames in the fireplace blazed up. The old man poked them, almost falling face first into the fire. Trembling, he shoved his hands now in his bosom, now straight into the fire. His flabby neck got covered with goose bumps. He never looked back, though Thomas and the troll all but stumbled over his hunched figure, cast mighty clanging hand-numbing blows just over his head.

Thomas clenched his teeth — it was shameful and dangerous to retreat — and lunged. The troll parried only half of the unexpected blow. The sword point stabbed his face near the eyebrow, slashed his cheek down in two. Blood gushed out forcefully, the troll started back, apparently stunned: the sword had slashed his thick eyebrow bone. The huge hand jerked up to wipe the blood. Hastily, Thomas struck twice. The troll staggered but blunted his attacks, the axe handle in both hands. Thomas slashed quickly, with all his strength, giving time to recover — but the foe was recovering. The crimson blaze in his eyes turned acid yellow.

The troll snarled hoarsely, his breath stinky and husky, his enormous fangs glittering. Suddenly he gripped the blunt end of the axe with both hands. The flash of steel seemed to have lit the whole room. The blow was dreadful, irresistible. Thomas did not try to parry: he simply stepped to the left at the last moment. With a smack, the blade hacked handle-deep into the oaken floor. Thomas cast a mighty blow with the sword in both hands like a spear. The sword point pierced the troll’s skin, as thick as a double-leather armor, the blade went two palms deep into the flesh.

The castle shuddered of the terrible roar. A shield dropped from the wall, huge antlers fell besides. The flames clung to the coals in fear, the woman stood straight. The troll bent with pain, the sword handle was pulled out from Thomas’s hands.

Thomas backed hastily, glanced around but saw nothing to use as a weapon nearby. The troll’s yellow eyes, blazing with fury, were fixed on him. The sword was stuck in his side as though in wood! The troll pulled the axe handle and twisted: it had stuck too deeply. He pulled with all his might. The thick black blood finally gushed from his wound, fizzing, foaming, falling his thick hair as a wind falls trees. The axe was still there. The troll set his foot firmly, gave a dreadful roar. Monstrous muscles bulged on his back, the blade screeched, coming out from the thick wood, and the axe was in the troll’s hands!

Thomas backed until his back touched the wall. He was shaking. The dreadful troll was coming on him, raising his axe for the final blow. The sword, still stuck in his side, leaned to the floor, barely keeping in, blood gushed over the handle and down by the blade. A trail of bloody inhuman footprints was left behind.

His dreadful eyes looked at Thomas, blazing with terrible white fire. Monstrous arms lifted the heavy ax overhead. Thomas sprawled on the wall. He could not take his eyes off the monster’s ones — and those suddenly darkened, red sparkles disseminating quickly in the black. The axe slipped off, hit the troll’s head with its butt, and thundered down on the stone. The troll reeled forward. Thomas had barely moved away when the huge bestial body collapsed on the wall. The troll’s claws scratched deep furrows in the stone, he slid down to the floor.

Thomas seized the sword handle briskly, his palm felt hot and sticky. He set his foot against the massive body and pulled. The sword came out easily as if pushed away by a hot spurt of blood. Thomas wiped the blade on the hairy back as clean as he could. The troll was still twitching, all four paws scratched the stone floor with a creepy sound.

Thomas heard an astonished voice. “I would have never believed it!”

The woman jumped off the bed, a white kerchief with a golden monogram fluttering in hand, like a scared butterfly. Thomas stood like a statue, with the blooded sword. She shoved the kerchief into his trembling hands, threw her arms around his head, snuggled up to him, frightened, tender like a morning breeze, like a light cloud. Thomas dropped his sword, stood there like a fool, not daring to stain the kerchief, though she gave it for him to wipe the blood off his fingers. He felt a keen regret that his iron armor was between their bodies.

Shivering, she clung to him so forcefully that she could have knocked Thomas down if he was not pressed to the wall. Hating his armor, Thomas muttered with embarrassment, “You are free, my lady!”

“Yes, yes, thank you very much indeed, my miraculous rescuer!”