The Grail of Sir Thomas

that Thomas reeled. In the dim crimson light of the torch he held overhead, they could see three high bulging rows, as though formed by lying buffalos.

“Three rows of wine barrels!” Chachar exclaimed in astonishment. “Why does he need that much?”

“I know that man!” Thomas laughed. “He deems it an offense to drink water when there’s any wine within two miles around. And now, in his own castle by the cross of caravan roads…”

Chachar looked in the knight’s laughing face, with crimson lights dancing on it, and descended into the cellar bravely. The stairs had sharp edges, not worn still, the ground below her feet smelled of untrodden freshness. Poles and boars jutted out from the rows here and there. The wine barrels formed three rows: two along the walls and one in the middle, sided by passages as wide as a man’s arms spread: such breadth is convenient for rolling out the barrel you need. The monstrous casks of thick oaken planks were towering on each other so high that Chachar shook her head in amazement. “More than one can drink in hundred years!”

“And with friends?” Thomas asked merrily.

“Well, maybe in fifty…”

“Gorvel is a brave knight but not the one to miss profit. He always had a transport of loot following him. That’s why he’s a lord here and I’m going home. He’ll sell the wine, buy something else, then sell again… We’ll hear of a new kingdom soon, Chachar!”

He stuck the torch into an iron rest. Chachar turned to him at once, her eyes glittered. She put hands on his chest, feeling a broad curved plate of muscle under her fingers. Below it, the heart, as huge as a hammer, pounded steadily, each new beat of it stronger and faster. Chachar smiled triumphantly, reached for his lips with her own… Thomas took her by shoulders.

The ringing silence, when both of them only heard his rattling breath, was suddenly broken by heavy footsteps. Thomas glanced around, slapped involuntarily his heap where the sword hilt used to be. Two broad- shouldered warriors in gleaming iron helmets were coming downstairs to the cellar. Thomas could not see their faces, but bare swords in their hands cast ominous crimson lights around. They walked alerted, as if in search for somebody, holding their curved one-edged Saracen swords a bit slantwise, as the hirelings of East are used to. Their habits gave them out as Saracens… and good fighters.

He moved Chachar behind his back and whispered, “You know them?”

“Never saw them before…”

Thomas froze behind the barrels but the warriors could not see them. The two men walked slowly, protecting each other. Oblivious, Thomas flung his hand to the heap where fingers felt only linen fabric. However, he had a short dagger on his belt!

The warriors descended from the stairs onto the ground, stood there for a while until their eyes accommodated to the faint light. One of them whispered to another, and they went forward cautiously, bending down in a predatory way.

“Chachar,” Thomas whispered. “Crouch behind this barrel! Let them pass by, then run to the stairs”

“They’ll see me!” she mouthed.

“They’ll see me, not you.”

“But you?..”

“I’ll try to keep them. And you raise an alarm when you’re out. Or run straight to Gorvel. He’s two floors above.”

She crouched, hiding in the shade. Thomas backed, his eyes fixed on the Saracens. Something crunched under his foot. Both warriors gave a start, hurried to his side with their broad blades advanced. One had his sword in right hand, another — in the left. However, they did not rush headlong. Definitely no novices at man hunt.

Thomas ran back, hiding behind the rows of barrels. The poles crunched underfoot, marking his way. Finally, both warriors saw his gliding shadow and increased their pace — but did not broke into run as Thomas hoped them to. His heart felt wrung in the fingers of fear. Will the innocent woman have time to escape the murderers? He had no doubt those were murderers. He’d seen too much of life to confuse wine with vinegar or a priest with a vagrant.

The warriors parted and ran along the edges of the passage, all but brushing against the barrels. Thomas pulled out his dagger, turned it in hand angrily, feeling it tiny and toy-like as against a huge two-handed sword. The two of them have smaller swords, curved Arabian ones, but real swords, no toys like this.

They slowed down their pace, started coming from both sides, as far as the walls of barrels allowed, their tenacious eyes caught every move of the cornered knight. Thomas weighed the dagger in hand, recalled his friend wielding this strange weapon artfully — and hurled it into the warrior in four steps. The dagger hit his chest forcefully, rebounded, fell on the earthen floor and bounced under the barrels. The warrior recoiled. Thomas could not see his face in the shade but heard him croaking of suppressed laughter. “Bad luck?.. You should have learnt!”

His sword cut the air abruptly. The second man dashed to at once, raising his sword. Thomas pushed off strongly, jumped up on the barrel and to another one. There was a loud crack behind, a splash on his legs. The assassin cursed in Arabic, as he pulled his sword out of the cut barrel.

His companion cried, “Keep him there! I’ll bar the door. He won’t escape!”

Thomas measured by eye the distance to the one who remained beneath. The assassin smiled malevolently, waved his free hand in an invitation to come and try to take him while he was alone. He held his sword loosely, but Thomas could tell the one whose failures had added to his experience apart from a greenhorn. If only he had not thrown the dagger that stupid…

He climbed, like a monkey, on dump wooden barrels, his cheeks blushed with shame and humiliation. At four steps! By flat side! A miss would have been better than that… He wished Chachar had time to slip out while they were driving him on the very top…

He heard a clang of the door barred by the second warrior. They started to come from both sides. Thomas climbed on the topmost cask but he had barely jerked his leg away when its lower edge was cut off by blade. He jumped to save his feet, fell down, his hands found the next barrel. Another sword flashed into the cask from beneath, all but chopped off his fingers.

Thomas swore, fell, rolled over the barrel, stopped in a hollow between round sides. He heard them laughing below. One started climbing carefully, another stared at Thomas without a blink, his sword ready. The first man struck, Thomas jumped on the next barrel. The blade crunched through the wooden side, the warrior pulled it out, brandished again. Thomas crouched, ready to jump. The murderer waited, brandished several times, trying to reach him. His last blow was brisk and treacherous. Thomas flew up. He was saved by their swords being heavy, no light sabers, so he had time to evade the crushes of their sharp steel. All the same, he felt cold in his chest. The cat-and-mouse game has a single end: a mouse unable to hit back…

They were surrounding. Thomas jumping along the row, from one barrel to another, as if they were backs of giant turtles. Everything in the damp cellar was moldy or covered with slime. His legs ached of effort to keep himself from falling down.

There were three barrels ahead, then the row ended. Driven skillfully to his inescapable end, Thomas saw his death, heard his wings flapping overhead. Gathering the last of his strength, he jumped suddenly from the middle row to another. The assassin’s late strike slashed the sole of his boot. Thomas didn’t make the jump, his chest hit against the wooden edge, but he jerked his legs up instantly, got onto the barrel and rolled away. He heard a crack, then curses and gurgling, the smell of wine grew stronger. They shouted angrily and swore behind.

Thomas ran along the row, his shoulder brushing against the wall, jumped down on the ground. Limping, he rushed for the door. He heard footfall behind, but the door was already close. He seized the iron cramps, flung the bar away with a crash, seized the second one… The footsteps got so close that he, having removed the second bar and pulled the door open, was forced to dart headfirst down the stairs. A steel clanged loudly on steel, a sword swished through his hair and barely cut his ear off.

He fell, his forehead hit against the cask bottom. The door banged closed, the bars clanged again. He saw a familiar glitter on the ground between barrels, grabbed the thing before he realized what it was, heard footsteps and made, with inscrutable speed, his way onto the top of the cask wall. In surprise, Thomas gazed at his clenched fist: the hilt of his dagger was in it.