three of them brought down a whole rockslide.
Crawling on his fours, Thomas tossed his head, glanced at Oleg, then looked up again, advanced his hands involuntarily. The rockslide was coming down at him. Stones bounced, fell down with force, knocking down another mossy boulders.
Cursing, Thomas dashed aside. Oleg felt a hit on shoulder, curled up under the ledge. Rocks crashed overhead, bouncing down from it. The dust rose. Big boulders flew above and by but pebbles, grits, clods of earth, and broken stone fragments rained down his back and head.
When the thundering sounds descended, Oleg straightened up, throwing a layer of earth and pebbles off his back. The rockslide had rushed by, the stones scattered within scores of steps at the mountain foot. Horses had run aside, terrified by the crash.
The earth was bare where the rockslide had passed. Thomas was seen nowhere. Cold with fear, Oleg dragged his feet down the slope. His right arm hung loose, numb of the strike by stone. The ground was sagging beneath his feet, bare and friable.
After he made two score steps down, he saw a scatter of stones, a flash of metal beneath them. He hurried down there, flung some rocks aside. A crumpled, filthy iron shoulder turned out to be hidden beneath. The cleft was filled with stones and the knight had been thrown there too, the mass of rocks rolled over and trampled his metal body deeper into the crack.
Oleg hurled the boulders away, his back prickling, right arm still aching and unable to move. He released the knight’s helmet, then turned Thomas on his back, tugged his visor but the crumpled grate stalled. Scraping his fingers and making an awful grind, Oleg raised the visor — and recoiled. The knight’s face was pallid, its right side covered with red blood, his lips foaming with bloody saliva. “Sir Thomas,” Oleg called insistently. “Sir Thomas!”
Thomas’s eyelids were closed tightly, the eyeballs beneath them motionless as if made of wax. Oleg rolled away the last rocks angrily. The knight’s armor, once gleaming, was dark and dented. However hard Oleg tried to pull Thomas out of the iron shell, he failed to do it with his one hand: no clasp wished to be undone. He felt the first shiver down his right arm, the fingers on it started to move again.
He undid the flack, splashed the water from it on the knight’s pallid face. Thomas’s eyelids fluttered, rose slowly. He stared into the space, his smashed lips moved. Oleg heard a rattle. “Sir wonderer… Are we still in this world?”
“It’s the only world where we can be together. Can you get up?”
Thomas strained but his body remained as motionless as the cleft he lay in. “My road ends here,” he whispered in a dull voice.
Oleg heard a rustle above followed by heavy hasty steps. It was Gorvel hurrying down to them, hopping on stones. He was clad in armor: not full armor, as the one Thomas had on, but a light mail riveted with steel plates on most vulnerable places. The mail reached his knees. He wore light boots and a gleaming Saracen helmet topped with a feather, a green cloth winded in rows around its base. Gorvel had a curved dagger on his belt and a curved heavy sword, a strange mixture of a knightly sword and a saber, in hand. “You’ve had a long run after me!” he cried. “But I’m no deer to flee a hunter! And even a deer can hit with antlers, can’t he?”
Oleg stood up, his fingers seized the knife handle.
The red-bearded knight smirked at him. “Why in left hand?”
“I’m a left-hander,” Oleg replied. Gorvel looked him over and smirked maliciously.
“…with a scabbard on your right? You are
Oleg bent down a little, the knife pointed at himself, in Scythian way. His grass-green eyes were fixed on Gorvel’s sullen, angry face. “I’ll stay with him.”
Gorvel muttered a curse, made a small step ahead, his sword started whirling in semicircles. Oleg recoiled swiftly to the right, then moved left, checking his bruised body.
Gorvel’s eyes widened. He stopped and grumbled, “I hate knives… Hey, pilgrim! You are a very dark horse. Why do you care of this knight? I have scores to settle with him.”
“I rode with him.”
“And I was at war with him!”
Thomas moved his lips. Oleg heard a faint whisper. “Sir wonderer… Leave. It’s my fault, my mistake!.. Leave…”
“We’ll win more wars,” Oleg comforted Thomas, keeping his eyes on Gorvel. “The Gate of Heaven is still closed to us!”
“Leave… Then… if you like… come back and kill… Holy vengeance…”
Gorvel heard him and nodded. “Quite so! Come back later and…”
“I’d rather kill you now,” Oleg objected. He prepared to throw a knife, swinging on his half-bent knees, looking for Gorvel’s vulnerable places.
The red-bearded knight glanced back angrily. His face was unhappy, as if he were bound to do what he hated. “I hate knives… Especially throwing ones. But I’m not afraid of them!”
He stepped forward, raising his sword. His eyes met Oleg’s. Two steps remained between them. Gorvel bared his teeth, went pale, as he drove himself into rage. His forehead bulged with sinews, his sword became a part of his glittering steel body.
Chapter 12
Suddenly they heard a clatter of hooves below. Five riders galloped, raising dust, to the foot of the hill, surrounded the horses of Oleg and Thomas. Two of them dismounted at once, untethered horses, grabbed the reins. Gorvel saw it over Oleg’s head, bellowed in fury, “Blizzard! They stole my Blizzard!”
Oleg glanced back, rocked aside at once, in case of Gorvel taking the chance to hit. At a glance, Oleg saw among the riders a horse with ornate harnesses, empty saddle and a big swollen bag behind it. Gorvel watched the strangers in fury, making no attempt to attack Oleg. The burglars rode slim short-legged horses, so the stallions of Franks stood out by their might and height.
“The cup in your bag?” Oleg asked.
“I’m not the one to carry it on my back!” Gorvel snapped.
“Sir Thomas was.”
“Did it help him?”
“You’d better not leave it in the bag!”
“There’s no use crying over spilt milk.”
The strangers who had taken their horses started to remove and untie saddle bags. Two of the men laughed, as they pointed at the furious knight on the mountain. Gorvel cursed, started coming to Oleg, looking past him. Oleg stepped aside. Gorvel ran down faster, shouting threats. The sword in his hand scattered orange lights.
Oleg bent over Thomas, put his palm on the knight’s pale sweaty forehead. “Take heart, Sir Thomas. Your life is in your hands.”
“In the hands of Holy Virgin,” Thomas reproached in whisper.
“In yours,” Oleg objected angrily. “Don’t you see? Sir God refused to take your knightly soul that soon. You haven’t delivered the Holy Grail, so don’t show white feather. Heading for the paradise, I mean. Get up. It’s not the time for eternal rest yet.”
Thomas stirred with a groan. To his own great surprise, he managed to sit up, though contorted with acute pain. “The mountain chewed me up and spat out…”
“Yeah, but it came to grief over your armor! The first time I see the use of it.” Thomas made a faint but proud smile. Oleg decided not to say that, despite the heavy armor had saved the knight’s life, without it he would have dodged on time.
