Thomas jumped, straight from the bed, to a small window in canvas. It was filmed with yellow ox bladder. He saw adult Uryupins crowded at the far end of the camp, arguing lively. The sky was dark, studded with stars, but the Uryupins were lit by crimson flames, which made their faces look even more sulky and cruel. Men disappeared to come back with weapons. Due to some strange custom (or simply poverty), they wore swords and daggers unsheathed. Bare steel blades looked particularly ominous in the red light of fires.
“A sack of gold…” the wonderer drawled thoughtfully. “May we come out to them?”
Suddenly, Thomas gasped, his face went white. He looked through the dim film with terror, as though he saw a ghost. Oleg seized the sword, jumped up to his side.
Two well-clad warriors came out from a far tent and walked up to the cluster of arguing ragged men. One was broad-shouldered, remarkable by nothing but moving like a professional soldier. Another was… Gorvel! He was emaciated, his face maimed, a gaping wound in place of his left eye. Thomas did not recognize the other knight at once: his fire red beard had gone grey all over! Gorvel moved in the same brisk, predatory way, looked over the crowd vigilantly with his one remaining eye. He was clad in light armor: thin coat of mail down to his knees, his chest and back covered with plates of best Damask steel — and belted with a Khazar sword.
There were shouts in the crowd, but Thomas could not hear the words. After the false envoys of Sultan (and true ones of Secret Seven), Samoth the chieftain came out of the tent. He raised his arms to calm the men down, cried at the top of his voice and lungs, bending his chest forward, red with overstrain, “Men of the free nation of Uryupins! You know our guests, the envoys of Sultan, made a long way. With the only purpose to make us rich! Two sacks of gold for two heads of strangers! We can buy a herd of camels for each Uryupin man, luxurious tents and best food, slaves and carpets! A sack of gold means the best sabers of Damask, rich shops in any city and lands for us to buy… Think it over!”
“What will they do to them?” someone in the back rows cried out.
Gorvel bowed and stepped forward, raised his hand. He was almost a head taller than most Uryupins, and his strong voice, the only thing that had not changed about him, sounded imperious and stentorian. “We shall tie them up, for they are dangerous outlaws, then tie them to the legs of our camels and drag them behind as we ride. There’s sand everywhere, so they won’t get smashed up. If they even gorge with hot sand on the way and die, we don’t care! The Sultan told us to bring them, no matter dead or alive.”
The chieftain lifted his hands. “The envoy of Sultan, you’ve put it very understandable!” he approved.
Thomas came back to the bed, started to put his armor on hastily, clicking with clasps and rustling with belts. In those minutes, he grew more pinched than after fighting the bear.
A far voice of chieftain seemed to have reached his ears. “Men of the tribe, now you know what to do…”
In a hurry, Thomas slapped his helmet on, tightened the belt. Far from the tent, there was a happy roar of hundreds of mighty throats, approaching and growing louder, mixed with the trample of feet, merry squeals, clang of steel, as if someone was hitting his shield feelingly by the sword hilt.
Oleg stood by the window, his face strange. His lips stretched, as though to whistle. “Oh dear… Sir Thomas, just look at it!”
Thomas snatched the sword and rushed up, feeling the beastly strength back to his tired body. The sword seemed stuck to his palm, his heart thumped with all its might, forcing up fury for a fight.
Through the window, he saw a huge excited mob coming towards their tent. Uryupins thrust clenched fists overhead, raised swords, sabers, and plain sticks, two or three men swung ropes. In the very middle of the crowd, there were Gorvel and his assistant: stripped off their armor and helmets, tied up tightly, their clothes torn. People spat and flung clods of mud at the them as they walked. Gorvel’s face was covered with blood, his grey beard matted into a puny goatee, his front teeth missing. His assistant had large swollen bruises under his eyes.
They were dragged past the tent, in which Thomas and Oleg stayed put. One of the carts was removed to throw the captives outside the camp. Men came running up with two fast annoyed camels. The mob yelled, bustled, and hooted. The captives were flung down on the ground, tied with long ropes to the camels. In a hurry, the broad-shouldered soldier was tied to both camels at once: his left leg to one and his right to another. The mob roared with laughter and cheers. In the turmoil, someone fetched the camels a stick. The animals gave a hollow roar, raised their hind legs and ran, dragging the captives. There was a tree in hundred steps ahead. With disgust and horror, Thomas saw the camels running apart to pass on both sides of the tree!
He turned away at the very last moment, gritted his teeth, closed his eyes tightly. Gorvel was dragged by a single camel, but the way was rocks, snags, and dry clods of earth, and the humpbacked runner kept accelerating his speed, in fright of his master who was running with shrill screams.
Thomas gave a jump when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. The wonderer forced the knight to turn his back, started to unclasp his armor. Oleg’s face looked made of stone. “
“Yes, but…”
“Who comes for wool is at risk of getting shorn. Strip off, quickly! When the chieftain comes, you’ll burn with shame.”
“I
“To be honest, I also have, as Christians put it, sinned in my mind.”
Thomas dropped the pieces of armor in a haste, listening to the far shouts and rustling sounds of feet. Through the window, they could see a dusty cloud moving away after the running camels. Now Thomas knew what a fast speed racecamels could gather. “Every man would be dead in two hundred steps… In two miles the last!”
“I hope he would,” Oleg said, frowning. “Last time I left him to death but allowed a chance… A tiny one! But he used it! Or… someone helped him.”
Thomas recalled Gorvel’s maimed face, empty socket, grey beard. “The Secret Seven?”
“Someone of their nearest.”
“Do they have magic?” Thomas asked suddenly.
“Many things can be done without it,” Oleg evaded.
Thomas’s face turned stone. “I see,” he said slowly, as though rolling heavy stones at the same time. “But if they have magic, why don’t they simply take the cup from us? What am I against magic?”
Oleg was silent for a long while, with his head down. Suddenly it seemed to Thomas that the wonderer’s motionless face livened up a bit, his tired wrinkles smoothed. He sounded exhausted but strong. “Once they wanted to lead the world by the way of magic… And fought apostates: the knowers. Fought them fiercely, ruthlessly, but their strength was fading. When the supreme magician, the head of Secret Seven, great Fagim perished in fight with… er… one of the apostate knowers, the remaining Secret Ones turned to knowing. Since that time, knowing is often called science…”
“They gave up magic?!” Thomas exclaimed with delight.
Oleg smirked unkindly, feasting his eyes on the beautiful knight with his sky blue eyes. “Gave up… for others. For the mankind! That was what I strove for. But they retained magic for own use.”
Thomas felt creepy, as he noticed the strange slip. He shivered. “Will they… use it?”
“To take the cup? Yes, if other ways to get it fail them,” Oleg replied thoughtfully. “If they have an urgent need to do it.
He peered intently in the side where the dust cloud had vanished in the night. His fists were clenched, knuckles white. Thomas did not dare to ask what exactly the wonderer had striven for and why he spoke in such a way as though he’d fought the invincible Secret Ones before.
Early in the next morning, they parted with the hospitable Uryupins. Thomas couldn’t help confessing and begging pardon for the sin he’d committed in his mind.
The chieftain smirked, made a broad gesture, as if to embrace all of his people. “Why do you think we are that poor? Just because we are honest! But all the gold on earth is no match for the magic gold my people have in their souls. Why would we sell honor and conscience for two sacks of plain gold?”
They embraced at parting. Thomas whipped his stallion hastily: he could not bear to see the accusing brown eyes of Iguanda. If now he saved her, he should have taken her. She would rather be eaten by the bear than by sorrow for the mysterious knight from the far North…
