The Grail of Sir Thomas

“Which?”

“The idea of progress. The idea of civilization.”

Gorvel scowled. His face expressed distrust, doubt, even fear, as if he were thinking the wonderer to play some game, about to reveal himself and give a sign that would make him, Sir Gorvel, obey implicitly. And he will obey, as he obeyed the night rider who showed a secret symbol and ordered to leave all the wealth acquired by hard work, to steal the cup and carry it, as fast as he can, to the indicated place. “Is it a wrong idea?” Gorvel asked in a feeling voice.

“Once Diogenes was asked: why did he praise the verse of a bad poet for all to hear. And the philosopher answered: for he was writing verse instead of robbing! In our world, every idea is better than robbery. Any idea implies order, hierarchy of values, obedience to no men but law. When an Eastern despot conquers dozens of neighbor kingdoms with sword and fire and unites them into a large empire, it is the lesser evil, ‘cause it puts an end to bloody wars between those kingdoms and roads are cleaned from villains and merchants are free to carry their goods and caravan ways turn safe and peaceful villagers are spared of sudden forays… But despotism is evil. The barbarian kingdoms of Europe, with all their roughness, give people more freedom, give feelings of pride and dignity. A better thing, as I’ve said, is to serve no king, even the noblest one, but a noble Idea… But, Sir Thomas, you have seen that the idea of civilization is only good against extreme savagery!”

Gorvel watched him warily and silently. At last, he asked uncertainly, “What is above civilization?”

“Culture,” Oleg replied — and realized he’d lost the battle for Gorvel’s soul. The face of red-bearded knight changed at once: his watchfulness replaced by a deep and blunt contempt. His shoulders relaxed, he glanced back to where the marauders were gathering behind a stone ridge, ready for the final attack.

Thomas, who was watching the wonderer with confusion, alerted at once, jumped up and moaned: he’d forgotten of his body beaten by rocks. Below, in the dusky valley, some riders were galloping from far away. Their horses rushed in wild fear, dripping with lather, the riders clung to their manes with no look back. In half a mile behind them, there was a vague mass approaching. In the dusk, it took Oleg some time to discern lots of galloping horses, their riders half-naked and beastlike, with flying black hair.

Gorvel and Thomas peered there anxiously, as they heard a menacing clatter of many unshod hooves. Marauders turned to the valley. Thomas found his voice at last. “Sir wonderer… Those are Khazars? Or Hazars, I mean?”

Not bothering to reply, Oleg unsheathed his sword and raised overhead. The blade glared in the setting sun, poured bright lights into the dark valley. Gorvel scowled at the sword in pilgrim’s hand, with astonishment and anxiety for the weapon’s size and the easiness with which the strange companion of Sir Thomas wielded it.

At the foot of the hill, the riders rushed at full tilt by the marauder guarding horses. He span round in confusion, holding the frightened horses. At last he grasped to mount, but barely had time to take reins when the screaming horde was upon him, a glitter of many narrow sabers. Several Hazars galloped on after the runaways, catching up with them: the horses of Hazars looked much lighter.

Oleg whirled his sword once more in the red light of sunset. Suddenly, the first of runaways vaulted off his horse, fell, rolled over his head, got up and started climbing the slope. Two others followed him: abandoned their horses, ran up on their fours, their arms and legs moving briskly.

In three score steps from the cleft with two knights and the pilgrim, the marauders span round in confusion, like loaches on a hot pan. The three runaways were pursued by dismounted half-naked barbarians. The marauders were on their way. Two of them made up their mind at once, leapt out of the shelter. Before Oleg dropped his sword and snatched the bow, they had dashed aside and vanished among stones, with only a clatter of pebbles beneath heavy boots. A thickset bare-breasted marauder in a feathered helmet turned to the cleft and cried, “Hey! Those devils took our horses!”

“Grudge?” Oleg said with surprise. “You stole them!”

“Took as loot,” the marauder objected. He gave a once-over to Franks, then to Hazars whose bodies glistened with sweat. There were two scores of them pursuing the runaways, the rest galloped at the foot, whooping and whistling. “Any ideas?” the marauder cried.

“Why do we need ideas?” Oleg replied arrogantly before Gorvel or Thomas could say a word. “You got between the hammer and the anvil. We’ll stay above and watch you skinned, your guts dragged out, your bones broken… You’ll have a very slow death: Hazars are skillful in it. And they love it.”

The marauder twitched his mouth in a smile. “Should we be upset for you seeing the details badly? They’ll do the same to you, won’t they?”

“I’m persuaded,” Oleg flung out carelessly. “Drag your gang here!” The marauder gave out a short cry. His men jumped up and followed their leader up the slope, hurried by the terrible beastly howling of Hazars coming from behind.

Thomas gasped with indignation, his face turned red, eyes popped out. “Sir wonderer! How dare you!.. I can tolerate you accepting this rat — he was a brave knight long ago. But these… they…”

Gorvel gave a predatory smirk. “…once were soldiers of our glorious hosts,” he jeered. “That’s all right. Look! There are some worse men running! And I swear on Holy Grail that your strange pilgrim would accept them too!”

The Black Beard and two of his gang were climbing behind the marauders, almost up with them. The villains had exhausted faces stained with mud, the last one had his hair matted and stuck up, like a comb, with dry blood. However, the three of them retained their sabers and daggers, bows and full quivers looking out from behind their shoulders.

Thomas was seething, his voice lost to fury. Gorvel looked ready for anything, his back pressed on the steep, the gleaming sword in hand — but his eyes were fixed on the pilgrim, his whole manner showed he was just an armored warrior while all the leadership and responsibility was upon this… very holy pilgrim.

The marauders were the first to run to the shelter. Oleg nodded towards the left end of the cleft. They obeyed at once, as former soldiers, stood there with bare swords and closed shields.

The villains came running, rattling, frequently collapsing on the ground. “You didn’t come,” the Black Beard cried hoarsely. “We decided to follow…”

“Guard the right end,” Oleg ordered. The Black Beard nodded, his breast heaving. The three of them put arrows on bow strings, turned to the hill foot. Hazars were running up fast, bent forward like spiders, moving their limbs briskly, stones poured down from under their feet.

“They have no bows,” Oleg said. “Let them as close as possible!” He could have shot any Hazar by that time, but the villains would also start shooting their cheap bows of village hunters then. Unfeathered, unsighting arrows. It will be good for them to hit in twenty steps. “Shoot after I do,” he warned severely.

He waited for a while, shot an arrow into the breast of a big Hazar, almost the last of climbers, fingertips took another arrow at once, it went straight into another foe’s eye, then he shot the third Hazar, the fourth, always selecting the farthest ones, as the closer would be reached by villains.

Below, there were ferocious cries, screams, shrieks, clang of steel. Five out of the twenty Hazars had run up to the crevice. The marauders jumped out to meet them with flashes of curved swords. A cut-off forearm fell to Oleg’s feet. Hazars screamed in high-pitched voices, marauders swore. Thomas and Gorvel rushed to help them but came at the moment when the last Hazar collapsed, splashing his blood around, on the dead bodies of congeners.

The marauder with naked breast bared his teeth in fierce smirk. “See the worth of soldier guard, konung?” he cried to Oleg. “My name’s Roland.”

One marauder was wounded, the rest splattered with blood of others. Oleg climbed on a stone ledge. Below, at its very foot, a huge half-naked barbarian was fidgeting on his horse. His face was painted with colored clay, a saber glittered in hand.

“Make a fire,” Oleg said softly, without looking back. “Cut green twigs off the bushes behind you.”

Gorvel raised his eyebrows in fascination. “Some magic?”

“Yes,” Oleg told him. “The most powerful one! They want to speak to us.”

The villains ran to the bushes eagerly, cut both just over their roots, while marauders made a fire deftly for all to see. When blue-grey clouds of smoke began to rise, with different intervals, above Hazar camp, Oleg covered the fire with branches, removed them, put down again for a while and flung away: the green leaves had rolled up in