Where’s your gold?”. On the other side of the square, a score of red-cloaked soldiers were cornered by a huge spider, as large as a fat camel. They beat off desperately, but the spider was deft and quick in making its web and throwing it, with a wave of forelegs that looked like ceiling beams, on the victim. The man tried to slash the silver rope with a sword but it got stuck fast, and the spider was dragging him, screaming, quickly into its awful jaws.
Thomas bellowed in fury when he saw the spider’s enormous jaws closing on the poor man’s head: the blood gushed in all directions, splattering stone. The two queen’s warriors flanked the monster, slashed it with all their might, but the spider’s thick hair endured the blows. Its monstrous legs gripped the other man, brought him to the greedy open mandibles dripping with human blood.
“Our Lady!” Thomas cried. “Forbid the desecration of man by insect!” He advanced his lance, leaned to the horse neck. The spider heard the menacing pace of a heavy horse, span round at once, raising its legs with threat. Two big unblinking eyes were fixed on the galloping knight, the rest six, smaller ones, watched coldly the red- cloaked soldiers stiffened with perplexity and utter exhaustion.
Thomas fell upon, like a mighty rockslide from a mountain. The long broad steel head of the lance crunched into the monster’s wide chest. The spider stretched its hairy legs, its claws almost reached the knight. The warhorse squealed in wild fear, like a strangled pig, and pranced, thrashing with hooves. Thomas released his lance, reined the horse back.
The spider made a quick silent step after the knight, but the lance, with its thick end rested on the ground, hampered it. As the monster reached out for its retreating prey, so fragile, the lance was going deeper into the body, Thomas heard the crash. The forelegs had all but touched Thomas’s face when other legs of the spider suddenly gave way and the whole hairy body sank heavily. The red-cloaked soldiers, panting, with their swords and shields dropped down, watched their sudden savior in steel armor.
Two grim warriors who accompanied Thomas and Oleg rode forward. “Tilak?” one cried happily. “Tilak, the queen is safe! Go through the eastern gate.”
The front soldier, spattered with blood and the spider’s yellow saliva, asked briskly, “Who is this hero?”
The sulky man replied after a pause, his eyes still unfriendly. “A traveler… and his friend. That one in wolfskin who looks like a forest animal. They want Piven, the magician. Is he there?”
“I saw him in the tower,” Tilak said. “But he sealed it with a spell, for no one to come in!”
The soldiers started to get out of the back street where the spider had driven them into. One of them listened to the distant noise and shouts, then cried, “There’s still a fight at the square!”
“Att’s men,” the gloomy guard said in a sullen voice. “At least one out of three survived.”
Tilak wheeled round to his men. “Should we leave the city or help Att? Will we forget the enmity between clans in front of the common foe?” The warriors thrust their swords up. Tilak rushed to Thomas, taking hardly any notice of Oleg. “Will you help?”
“
He whipped his horse and rushed to the tower on which Tilak had pointed. It was seen on the other end of the city. At first, Thomas only heard the clatter of hooves of his destrier, then the horseshoes of the wonderer’s stallion rang heavily behind. Thomas glanced back: two grim warriors were explaining something fierily to Tilak’s men until they dashed to the square. Then both sullen bodyguards of the golden-haired queen darted, whipping their horses, after the northern warriors.
Thomas smirked victoriously. He had no need of those two warriors, though their swords
They darted along narrow streets, sometimes trampling robbers with hooves, almost never using their weapons. The tower was growing ahead slowly, shifting to the right or to the left. Thomas could already make out its grey bricks and the round platform on its top.
The first grim warrior came up with Thomas. “No way in,” he said sullenly. “The magician seals his tower with a spell.”
“Is he blind to what’s going on here?” Thomas exclaimed.
“He doesn’t care,” the sullen warrior replied. “Whoever sits on the throne, he’ll make gifts to the magician, give him slaves and servants.”
The tower was squat and ancient, its dented stones looked like untidy grey curds. On the right, there was a massive iron door, with strange signs and figures painted in green on it.
Both grim warriors glanced back at the knight awaiting for his decision: the door had neither bars nor locks, only magic. Impeded Thomas turned to the silent sir wonderer, a hermit and great ascetic of noble origin. Oleg, staying in the saddle, rummaged in a bag with medicinal and other herbs for a while, fished out a half-dried blade of grass, leaned to the door and tucked the leaf into a slit in iron.
They heard a loud click. The door flung open, as though kicked with great force. The gloomy warriors gaped on it, and Thomas acted as if the wonderer had been opening doors for him with the famous Slavic break-grass for lifetime. He touched the reins impatiently, and his stallion moved into the doorway. Thomas bowed, lest his head hit against the low ceiling. Others caught only a glimpse of the tail of his destrier.
Oleg followed the knight, bending even lower. “Great warriors!” a hasty voice called from behind. “The magician lets no one in… and you are ahorse!”
Oleg said nothing and soon heard hooves behind. Both guards, with pale twitched faces, rode after them steadfastly, though keeping a respectful distance. Oleg looked around with surprise: he did not think there was enough room even for two riders but the fourth one came in before the door clanged back to its place.
Chapter 19
The spacious hall where they came to be in went dark for a moment before some lamps lit up. From the upper floor, by narrow stairs covered with an expensive carpet, a small hunched old man, in a long oriental robe painted with comets and Cabalist sigils, ran down to them hastily. He could barely keep up his head under the burden of enormous green turban, with an ominous bloody-red light of a big ruby over his forehead and a quivering peacock feather of incredible size. “Who?” the old man shouted as he ran. “Who are you?.. Hey, servants!”
There was a fast footfall. Past the old man, some brawny warriors with dark brown bodies ran down. Pieces of armor were fastened with belts on their naked bodies. The warriors moved in a strange way, keeping their eyes on their master.
Thomas turned his horse aside, for the great magician to have a better view of his big half-unsheathed sword. “Wait a bit, great magician and oracle,” he said with dignity. “You’ll need your servants later. But if they make one more step, you’ll have to wash up and sweep the floor yourself! I swear it on the hooves of my destrier who I stormed the Tower of David with!”
He heard a nervous clatter of hooves behind. The queen’s grim bodyguards backed their horses to the door in fear but found the folds closed tightly.
Disregarding the threats of ignorant knight, the magician breathed in, raised his hands. His sharp eyes fell on the motionless barbarian in animal skin. The barbarian replied with a direct stare. For several long moments, they were in a duel invisible to others, then the magician lowered his hands slowly. “Who are you?” he said as though in sleep. “What you want?”
Thomas heard the queen’s bodyguards gasp with one voice at the door. He straightened up in the saddle, replied firmly. “I’m a knight crusader. Even a fool can tell it by my cloak. My friend is a pilgrim from Scythian Rus’… hell’s bells, Rossian Scythia… In a word, he’s a Scyth, descendant to the extinct ancient Ruses! He’s highborn. We have an urgent need to know what’s happening now in one noble family in Britain, far away… We have gold to pay you!”
The magician shot a glance at the motionless barbarian of Hyperborea, definitely trying to fathom his strange interest in the faraway family in Britain, thought over possibilities and consequences for a while. His reply was abrupt and bitter. “Get out of my tower!”
Thomas’s hand darted to the sword hilt but unclenched helplessly the next moment. The magician bared his
