apprehensively, afraid of catching on the nails that keep the vault of heaven: their silver heads could only be seen at night…
Screwing up all of his courage, he took the risk of taking his hand off the protruding bony platen, patted caringly the bag on his belt, with a prominent side of precious cup within.
Thomas made a pinch of his fingers, going to cross furtively the back he sat on, but then hesitated. What if the creature of Devil blazes up with Hell’s fire and fells down like a torch?
He undid the knots hastily, decided not to take out the cup but put his hand into. His fingertips felt a ticklish quiver, as though the prominent side recognized him, its true knight, and got warmer of his touch.
Thomas sighed, tied the rope up tighter, hunched and put his hands into armpits. The wind was chilling to the marrow, though his armor sheltered him like in a doghouse, but the blow came into slits and his skin was not as thick as dragon’s.
All the breadth of the sky was blue: on the right and left, ahead and behind. Far to the left, a line of geese flew past but the dragon was whether oblivious of them or full up. On the right, there also emerged some strange spot. Thomas was too chilled to watch it closely, but the spot approached and he saw a long carpet, painted with all colors, very hairy. In the middle of it, there sat a stooped man in turban. He was definitely cold too: hunched, wrapping himself in his colored robe. The carpet, twitching like a fat hairy caterpillar, crept almost in the same direction but the dragon was much faster. Thomas caught a glimpse of the tired swarthy face, as the man followed them with envious hopeless eyes. For a moment Thomas had a wish to show a rope end to him, as rude seaman did when outstripping another ship, but his natural knightly nobility was against vulgar gestures. What is more, his fingers were too frozen even to make a fig and could hardly hold a rope.
The man on the carpet was flying too low: several crows, cawing with malice, went chasing him, but the man only hunched up and stooped, pulling his robe over his cold ears. After the crows saw him off their territory, they left him, started to fly in circles, like proud eagles.
The dragon kept flying on and on. Thomas got tired, cold, and hungry as a hunter. The wonderer dropped his head, his chin rested on his chest, and hung there still. He was as deathly pale as before. Thomas turned away with a sigh again. Clutching at protuberances and falling sprawled under own weight was already habitual.
Chapter 37
That was how they flew until midday. The wonderer did not came to himself, though stopped writhing. Twice Thomas corrected the dragon who, like a horse with one blind eye, persisted in trying to turn and fly in a circle, but Thomas watched the sun: fortunately, the flight was above clouds most of the time. He adjusted for the moves of sun itself: by God’s decree, it rises on the east, creeps across the vault of heaven to the west, goes into the hole there to be dragged underground all the night long by damned sinners to the eastern edge of the earth. During the summer, sinners get tired, in autumn they move slower and slower and in winter — like sleepy flies. By spring, the patience of the Underground Lord runs out, so he hurls the draggers into Gehenna and harnesses fresh ones instead.
The dragon turned his head only once. Thomas flung two slices deftly into the jaws and the third one missed: the dragon started to turn away at that moment. Thomas swore, following the heavy slice with regretful eyes. He felt a move in his stomach, a plaintive croak.
Thomas squirmed. Having a meal on the back of a flying dragon seemed rather stupid, but Thomas was really hungry and the bloody dragon’s champing made his mouth water.
He untied a sack, then a second one, found the bundle of aurochs livers. He took one of them out: quivering it was, as though still alive, and slick. He had to dig his fingers into the very bleeding middle lest he drop it. His teeth dug into the juicy flesh with a crunch, blood splashed out on his hands, but Thomas imagined himself in the native woods on the bank of Don.
He gave a start, all but dropped a slice when a hoarse voice said behind, “He’s gobbling… And the dragon?”
The wonderer raised his head. His eyes seemed reproachful, some strange sparkles glittered in them. Screaming happily, Thomas rushed up to his friend, tucked the liver into a slit on the go, lest the wind blow it away, seized him by tightly bound shoulders. “Sir wonderer! Are you… awake?”
“Did I snore?” the wonderer asked. His green eyes were clear, he looked attentively at Thomas, then at own body tied up tightly with ropes.
“Just a bit,” Thomas assured. “Though I and the dragon heard none of it.”
“Was it you to tie me?”
“Er… the dragon was busy. Flapping his wings. Our friends Seven of Secret have sent a bad dream on you, so I…”
Oleg nodded, winced. “Now their attack is gone. Untie me.”
Thomas looked with shining eyes, a load was taken off his mind, but his hands jerked away from the knots. “Are you sure… it won’t come back?”
Oleg shook his head. “Now I’m sure in nothing. But next time I will not allow to take me that sudden.”
“But you… Sir wonderer, don’t take it as offence, but how can I be sure you are not guided by them now? When demons possess a man, they can make him do what they like! Sometimes he does not even know he is possessed.”
Oleg kept his eyes, as green as usual, on Thomas. They were full of pain. “Sir Thomas, you deserve to be a leader of knightly detachment! I thought you were just a bold brass head, but you are no fool. And I am not possessed. I have no proof of it, but if you don’t untie me I will die soon of the stopping of blood. Your ropes are very tight, Sir Thomas.”
“You are too strong,” Thomas protested, feeling guilty. He hurried to undo the knots on the wonderer’s hands, and Oleg helped him to release the legs and body. Caringly, Thomas tied a thick rope around the wonderer’s waist, while the other end had been fixed beforehand on the comb. The wonderer only smirked, glancing at the knight with respectful surprise.
Wincing, Oleg rubbed his swollen arms, while Thomas kneaded his legs, blue of stopped blood. Once Thomas left it to feed the dragon. When he came back, the wonderer asked, with a mockery in his voice, “Why are you gorging on raw liver? Doesn’t your religion forbid to eat anything with blood?”
“I am Christian, no Jew,” Thomas replied with dignity. “Those are Jews to cut and throw away a slice of bread if a drop of blood from their own gums gets on it!”
“Ah, yes,” the wonderer replied tiredly, “I confused you Christians with Khazars… Sir Thomas, I’ve never seen such a bold man! Until I woke and saw you sitting on the dragon’s hump and gobbling the meat prepared for dragon!”
“I had no other thing to do,” Thomas said as his excuse. “The beast flies in right direction, you sleep. No women here, no wine, and far way to the tavern, while I am cold and scared…”
“Scared? Really?” Oleg wondered. His eyes were laughing.
“Really,” Thomas confessed, moved his shoulders with a shiver. “Those are you Pagans to see plenty of flying frogs, and I, a warrior of Christ’s host, am a stranger to this animal!”
“But you are sitting on his hump and gobbling.”
“A need will teach to pay no heed,” Thomas grumbled, “as one my friend from Scythia… er… Rus’ has once said.”
Oleg leaned back tiredly, resting his back on the broad comb, his face deathly pale still. “We have already
