bite me either… Though I’d have knocked all his teeth out then!”

Thomas looked at Oleg with goggled eyes. The senior monk came out of stupor and whispered — not bellowed! — a few words. Two monks dashed to their fallen comrade. Oleg watched, with compassion and concern, the injured man to be turned on his back. His arms were pulled apart, the air was blown into his mouth. At last, one of the monks cried something in a high-pitched, bird-like voice, the senior monk cast a sharp glance at Oleg, and the defeated fighter was carried at a run into the open gate.

Two monks, whose solemn faces seemed to be carved of dark stone, stepped forward. One winced malevolently, shot a fierce glance at Oleg. Another gave a terrible scream and shivered, as if in some dashing dance, his face contorted, sinews in his neck bulged like a spinal comb of a big lizard. The senior monk looked them over approvingly. “Which would you like?” he asked Oleg harshly.

“To fight, you mean?”

“To combat.”

“Well, to make it fair… Both.”

The senior monk’s eyebrows jerked up. “The two of them?” he repeated slowly, unable to believe his ears. “At the same time?”

“What’s wrong?” Oleg wondered in turn. “If no mortal combat, why not to have some fun? When I was young, we fought face-offs in groups…”

The monks started coming to him from both sides. Oleg stepped away from one, but missed the stroke of another who flew up like a hellish bat, bared his teeth, raised his hand but struck with foot: so high that the bare heel hit Oleg’s head. Oleg spat with vexation for being tricked like that. He moved to grip his ankle, as he did with the previous combatant, but failed. Meanwhile, the first monk took a running jump from the left. The violent kick of both his feet on the neck almost knocked Oleg down. He turned, raising his fist for a mighty blow, but both monks whisked under his arms and began to pound his back with fists, elbows, feet, even heads. Once Oleg wheeled round, like angered bear, both warrior monks slipped to behind him again, knocked on his back like on a wall of logs, screaming in high-pitched voices, hitting with their heads. At least they neither bite nor scratch.

After a fifth or sixth attempt, Oleg managed to snatch one of them blindly. It turned out to be his head, so Oleg took care not to squeeze it, got a better grip on his leg, whirled the monk overhead and rushed after the other one. The adversary ran away from him in circles, screaming desperately. Oleg chased him as if he were a naughty kitten, brandishing the first warrior monk overhead, roaring with joy.

Finally, the fighter stumbled, fell into the dust, shielded his head with both arms in wild fear, then pulled the hem of his robe over. “I see you give up,” Oleg understood. He took his “weapon” with both hands and laid him down on a dusty road near his brother. “Live on, lad!”

The monk whom Oleg intended to use as a club, though landed no blow with him, lay with his eyes goggled as a lobster’s. His face and neck were horrible crimson, filled with bad blood. The veins on his temples bulged in tight branchy knots.

The monks were backing in horror. Their even line broke, their goggle-eyed gazes shifted between their sprawled brothers and the smirking giant barbarian. The senior monk glanced back at his monastery walls in confusion, as if he expected some help from there. “Give me two more of yours!” Oleg suggested. “Or come with them yourself. I’ve only started to warm up. We Slavs are a nation of north, we harness slowly… It’s been ages since I romped in fisticuffs. I see no harm in pleasing myself and our gods with them!”

The senior monk glanced at Oleg and Thomas angrily, spat out few words in a high-pitched voice, like a street fishwife. One of the monks darted into the gate, the sprawled brothers were carried after him. Behind the wall, there were shouts and horse neighs.

Three warriors, in yellow jackets and strange straw hats, which looked like caps of mushrooms, with red tassels, ran out of the gate briskly. Each had a short spear in clenched fist and a thin curved saber on his belt.

“Serious guys,” Oleg admitted. He backed to his horse, where his bow and quiver lay across the saddle and his giant sword hung beside it.

Thomas drove his horse ahead, blocking the way. “Sir wonderer,” he said solemnly, “it’s a shame for me to hide behind a peaceful back of a holy hermit. I’m a noble knight after all, a professional fighter for justice. Please let me warm up now. You need time to take your sword, and I have mine in hand!”

Thomas dismounted heavily, walked ahead slowly, stopped before the three warrior monks. He looked like a glittering tower of metal, his armor gleaming so bright that it was painful to look at. Slowly, Thomas lowered his visor, unsheathed the sword. The sunlight scattered blue sparkles over the double-edged blade of Damask steel.

The senior monk backed, with his head tossed and mouth open. At last, he came to his senses, spoke in a shaky voice, “Which of my warriors will you fight, Frank?”

Thomas had spotted the weakest, in his view, one among them but looked back at Oleg, suppressed a sigh of grief and replied as haughtily as he could, “Would I, Sir Thomas Malton of Gisland, select one when my humble friend, who wouldn’t harm a fly, did fight two? Surely, I’ll fight all three.”

The senior monk wheeled round to the three warriors of his. They breathed fast, their arms quivered with strain. In that silence, one could all but hear the creak of their extremely tensed muscle. The three of them had their eyes fixed on the gleaming knight, the heads of their spears aimed at his breast.

Thomas looked back at his huge warhorse. His giant lance, as thick as a young tree, remained across the saddle, but he only waved his hand. “Dear sirs! I beg you to start with the arms we have. My lance is more fitting for a knightly joust.”

The senior monk uttered a desperate shriek, the three brave fighters rushed forward. Thomas had barely tightened his grip on the sword hilt when three spears hit his chest. He felt a violent push, white wooden chips flew up before his eyes. One of the warrior monks who came running hit the knight’s steel breast with own head. He gasped, fell down to Thomas’s feet. The rest two staggered away, their eyes malevolent and confused. The ground before the knight was strewn by splinters of broken spears. One of the monks was shaking his blooded hand.

Thomas stooped, slapped the unconscious monk sympathetically on the back of his head. “Dear sir! Get up, it’s all over.”

“A well-nursed child utters no scream!” Oleg cried out. “Don’t hit on head! You have your gauntlet on, and his head is as large as mine… er… fist.”

“I didn’t hit,” Thomas muttered in fright and took his hand away hastily. “I patted him, for Christ wanted us to love even our foes… And this one’s no foe indeed. Dear sir herald! Please call new fighters. These ones got tired, I see.”

The senior monk screeched in despair, tore his hat off, trampled on it fiercely, as if it were a jumping viper. His goggled eyes looked like owl’s, then they got bloodshot. His thin lips dropped foam. He kept glancing back at the gate impatiently. His face lit up when three more warriors ran out.

With spears at the ready and such terrible screams as if some parts of them were pinched in the door, they dashed on Thomas, their legs moved swiftly. The knight gripped his sword — and was late again. A spear hit him straight in the face, hooked his visor, two others broke on his chest. The triple blow was so crushing that Thomas couldn’t help reeling back. He even made a small step back but, as his frightened glance fell on the wonderer who watched the fight very closely, Thomas stepped forward with haste.

Two monks were staggering back, their hands pressed to their smashed, bleeding faces. The third one lay at Thomas’s feet: his arms spread out wide, his squashed nose and slashed eyebrow bleeding heavily.

Groaning with vexation, Thomas pulled out the spearhead stuck in the visor, twisted it about in his steel fingers, with disgust for the low quality of iron, and flung away. “These tired too,” he spoke loudly to no one in particular. “Can’t fight but fall asleep, like fish ashore.”

“Too nimble they are, like mice!” Oleg said with concern. “And you only gape your jaws, scratch yourself, and keep harnessing… Are you a Slav?[13] Fight, or they’ll smash their heads before you get ready, stuffed iron dummy!”

“Before I get ready?” Thomas got surprised. He looked around nervously. “I am ready! I’m shaking in my shoes as I wait for them to start using their martial arts… And all I get is their pre-fight rites!”

“Which rites?” Oleg didn’t get it.

“Pre-fight,” Thomas said again. “The ones before fight. Breaking their twigs, hitting their foreheads… I’m tired of trembling and waiting for their famous fighters to show up!”

Вы читаете The Grail of Sir Thomas
Добавить отзыв
ВСЕ ОТЗЫВЫ О КНИГЕ В ИЗБРАННОЕ

0

Вы можете отметить интересные вам фрагменты текста, которые будут доступны по уникальной ссылке в адресной строке браузера.

Отметить Добавить цитату