welcomed him. He washed sweat and dust off joyfully, scratched his skin with strong nails, groaned through gritted teeth. As the dark dirt came off, a white spot got visible on his right shoulder.
“You love water, descendant of Pelop…” Oleg muttered with a strange note in his voice.
“What is Pelop?” Thomas grunted. “I’m worn out with your impious hints! And you keep dropping more and more of them.”
“Pelop,” Oleg spoke in a pompous drawl, definitely imitating someone, “was a hero, a son of Tantalus who killed his son and served to gods as the best of all courses. That was the time of such customs and such gods… But gods suddenly got angry: they stopped eating human flesh a day before… The father of Zeus would eat it but Zeus himself would not, only the flesh of animals… So the gods told Hermes to bring poor Pelop back to life. Hermes collected the meat and boiled it again in the same pot. And Pelop came out, even more beautiful, that’s the way of it… but one of his shoulders was missing. It was gobbled by Demeter, in her noble brooding and grief for her lost daughter. But Hephaestus was also a guest there, so he made a new shoulder of ivory bone. Since that, all descendants to Pelop have this white spot on their shoulder.”[26]
Thomas stopped, waist-deep in the water, listened but frowned, just in case.
“So what?” Oleg wondered. “Pelop has traveled a lot over the world.”
“Did Polovtsians live among Saracen in those times?” Thomas asked sarcastically. “I will never forget you those Kumans…”
“Hardly they did, but good customs live everywhere.”
Thomas frowned up, feeling hurt. “Paganism!” he grunted. “Some Pelop… I am Malton, no Pelop. What he did else?”
“What life made him to,” Oleg said composedly. “Became a king, but then Il, the king of Troy, all but captured him in his kingdom, Pelop had to flee him by sea. In Greece, he wooed Hippodameia, but her father made it a condition that her husband must outdistance him in chariot racing. The father either had a man’s interest in her or was foretold to die of his son-in-law… In a word, Pelop incited the king’s driver to replace by stealth the bronze linchpin with a wax one. When the chariots rushed on, the king gave a head start to his rival, as he always did, and started to come up to spear his back… To put it shorter, his chariot overturned and the king was a bulky and very heavy man, so he got hurt. To his very death! The driver came asking Pelop for what he’d promised him, including the wedding night of his bride, but Pelop pushed the fool off into the sea. While falling down, that man cursed all the posterity of Pelop.”
Thomas scratched the dirt off all the slower, listening. “I can believe in the curse. That may be why the two of us got into such scrapes. But one of my own ancestors killing a man treacherously? Even a fool? No. I am Malton.”
“As you like,” the wonderer said indifferently. “The curse haunted all of his posterity, especially Atreus and Thyestes… Haven’t you heard of them? By the way, Pelop spread his rule over all the southern Greece, or Apia, so it was re-named after him — Pelop’s Isle. Or Peloponnesus.”
Thomas pricked up his ears. “Well,” he said warily, “maybe he
“He was also the founder of Olympic games,” the wonderer added.
“What is that?”
“A sort of games.”
“Pagan games? No. Pelop was none of my ancestors.”
“A sort of knightly jousting. And he also was the first champion.”
The knight’s honest, half-washed face displayed inward struggle. Oleg put the remaining onions down for Thomas, got up. His voice was heavy. “You have enough gold coin to buy a horse in Kiev. The road ahead is relatively safe. Across countries not so wild as those we passed.”
Thomas got out hastily, pulled his knitted clothing on his wet body, climbed into his armor. Only then he looked in the wonderer’s green eyes, which now were dark like two forest lakes. “And you?”
Oleg shook his head. “I need nothing in Kiev. I’m a hermit, a cave dweller, and all the caves are on
They embraced, then the wonderer turned round and walked away hastily. In silence, Thomas watch his tall figure wear thin gradually in the moonlight. A last flash of sparkles on the polished sword hilt, and he vanished in the dark.
Thomas felt miserable, though in his nomadic life of knight errant he had parted with more than one fine friend. Some died, other settled in the bestowed lands, someone came back to his native castle, another left in the same way: after a short embrace and a wish of good luck, to recall his old friend and far lands briefly some day when he is old.
With a sigh, Thomas sat down on the edge of moorings again. He had no more hunger, so he sighed again, put the remnants of bread and meat down on the broad soft leaves, which looked like elephant’s ears.
The night was leaving slowly, the eastern edge went slightly red. The knight’s eyes, accustomed to the dark, discerned the most delicate hues.
He seemed to hear a creak of logs behind. Glad of the wonderer’s coming back for some forgotten thing, he wheeled round abruptly. A flash in eyes, then a tight loop fell down on his shoulders. Thomas seized his sword, felt a pound in head, dropped the blade and collapsed prone on the wet logs.
He came to all but at once, tried to jump up but managed only a twitch, as he was tied up firmly into a likeness of caterpillar. Some dim shapes moved over Thomas In the twilight of dawn. He discerned voices. “I’d rather kill him… Knife in back, that for his sort!” — “You afraid?” — “An’ you? No me face such man for all gold on earth!”
The sound of steps got closer. Thomas jerked up his head with effort, twisted with sharp pain in the back of it. Before his face, there were high hunting boots, a dim glitter of spurs. He turned his head, clenching his teeth not to let a moan out.
A familiar voice, strangely hissing, came from above. “Well, Sir Thomas… what would you say now?” A strange man stood over him, resting on one leg. His sight made Thomas tremble all over and froze his blood. The man had a hump, his left shoulder higher than the right one, both arms in fresh scars. Instead of left hand, he had a small red stamp with white protruding bone. His clothes were baggy, his head hid beneath a helmet completely.
“God keeps patience for long,” Thomas croaked, “but he
“He strikes best who strikes last,” Gorvel’s husky voice rustled from behind his iron mask.
“Let’s kill him
“A member of the Counsel of Secret Seven is to come,” Gorvel hissed. “To see whether he has some magic powers.”
“But it was one went away who had magic!”
“I can hear the steps of her!” Gorvel snapped in a husky angry voice. “You may kill him straight after.”
The warrior gave Thomas a kick. “At last you parted with your friend!” he said maliciously, twisting his mouth. “You, iron-bound scarecrow, don’t know he was the only match for me, Black Warrior. Once he injured me, left this scar on my face, but it was just because my foot slipped… He destroyed the Khazarian host I was leading against King Rumal… Killed ten of my brothers, lords of eastern lands. Only I and my elder brother Karganlyk survived… You were a fool to part with him!”
Through the lapping of Dnieper waves, he heard patting of feet. A small woman in a man’s cloak emerged on the moorings. The hood was pulled over her eyes, but she moved it back on her shoulders at once. She was fragile, her face pale and innocent, her eyebrows raised in surprise, an offended look in her big brown eyes. Thomas wished to shield her from danger immediately, to save her even from the morning chill and river dampness.
She cast a brief glance at him, spoke in a low husky voice, which made Thomas’s heart ache sweetly. “No need of it… but thank you, all the same. Where’s the cup, Gorvel?”
