The Grail of Sir Thomas

When the tribe was left far behind and the horses took a slow pace, Thomas pounded his thigh with his metal fist several times, while speaking in a tone of persuasion. “There are men in this world! There are. Even in the bloody and treacherous Pagan world. There are!”

Oleg smirked. “Have you doubted it? Your god didn’t sacrifice his life in vain, did he? He must have also thought there were men in the world. Though everyone was Pagan then!”

Thomas said nothing, unwilling to keep the conversation up. This Pagan’s words often smelled of mockery even when he spoke very seriously.

Oleg was frowning. He would often glance at the sand under the horse hooves or look around. For some reason, he made a semicircle and, once the sand dunes hid him from view, whipped his horse and dashed on like a whirlwind. Astonished, Thomas could barely keep up. But the wonderer did nothing in vain, so Thomas drew out his sword.

They saw three mounted men who rode hastily, watching the tracks on the sand. Thomas saw the hoof prints of their horses from a distance. His fury boiled up, like water in a bowl on red-hot coals. “Damn it!” he said fiercely. “Would we ever get rid of spies?”

Before the wonderer could give a signal, Thomas gripped his sword and, with a terrible yell, dashed onto the riders. They were too busy with the tracks buried quickly by sand and wind, so they failed to hear the knight’s furious shout at once. When they looked back, shrieked and started to urge their horses, it was too late. A destrier can develop a colossal speed within a short distance. He came up with the back horse, hit it with own body, toppling the rider into the sand. The second rider was reached by Thomas’s sword: a flat side of it, but the blow sent the man flying like a useless old pot thrown away.

The third one spurred his horse. He would have escaped, but Thomas heard helplessly a ringing blow of iron on iron. The rider jerked his hands up, jumped in his saddle and collapsed on the ground. His helmet, knocked down by the arrow, fell on the other side of the horse.

“We got you, crows!” Thomas yelled with gloat. He saw a dark shadow, some likeness of a ghostly bat, sweeping over one man. Thomas was sure that was a devil taking the soul of the sinner, as the man had been slashed by sword from the back of his head to the middle of spine.

They tied up the rest two, flung them into the circle of the grass trampled by horses. Oleg lit the fire at once, started to gather wood. He was sullen and thoughtful, red hair falling on his forehead, inhuman green eyes looking with enmity.

Thomas smiled contentedly. There’s no honor in defeating the weak, but their captives look strong warriors. One has malevolent sparkles in his eyes, his hands twitch, as he tests the rope for strength. Another lies still like a snake in hide, before it jumps. He seems capable of keeping silence even if tortured.

Oleg brought an armful of twigs and muttered. Thomas could not hear the words, but the twitching captive asked anxiously, “What this savage wants?”

Thomas shrugged. “He asked whether it’s time to eat you. I answered it’s too early.”

The captive let out a squeak and passed out. The other one, who had been silent and motionless, begged in a shaky voice, “Good sire, you are Christian… Please protect us!”

“No need,” Thomas comforted him. “He’s forbidden by his Pagan faith to eat people under the rays of all- seeing sun. He’s a fire worshipper!”

The captive went trembling all over, his head tossed in fright. The great orange ball had passed zenith and was rolling down with relief. The captive gave such a start that made him bob. His face turned grey. “That means… we are safe till evening only?”

“You are,” Thomas assured. He yawned and stretched himself with joy, feeling his joints turn and crunch faintly. “If only the sky is not covered with clouds… but that’s rare in this land.”

The captive looked with terror over the knight’s head, where a small cloud, as white and fluffy as a kitten, sprang up and started to grow.

Oleg made the fire blaze up, fetched more twigs. The captives saw him asking the knight of something and the knight looking warily at the close hedge of thick bushes. “What he wants now?” the captive asked hastily.

“He’s impatient. Says the cloud is too slow. Asks me to help him to make a shelter of branches, so that he could drag you there himself.”

The captive trembled. “I’m sure you won’t help him.”

Thomas knitted his brows menacingly. “Do you mean I’m an idler?”

“No, I don’t,” the man babbled in panics, almost weeping, “but this savage…”

“He is my friend at arms,” Thomas replied proudly. He got up with dignity. “Though a savage, he saved my life more than once! You’ve shamed me when you pointed at my self-love and laziness that don’t befit a noble knight. Certainly I should help my companion… do him this small favor. After that, I shall spend a couple of hours fishing at the bank. They say fish is tender and delicious here! I’ll show you… Oh, I see. Well, it’s the final destination of everyone.”

* * *

After that, nothing hampered their way to the coast of Black Sea. The Greeks called it Pontus Euxine, which meant “the hospitable sea”, or the inhospitable sea in other times. Many other nations inhabiting its shores named it simply “the Russian sea”, for its waves being crowded with Russian ships long since. Ruses traded and robbed, carried goods and people by sea, made plundering raids on the opposite coast, where local tribes, nations, and states changed often. Russian pirates, forders, free daredevils, Cossacks, and other brigand men gave their forays oversea an ironic name of “going for winter coats.”

All the way Thomas neighed, as he recalled the captives vying with each other in crying out everything they knew, selling and betraying their masters, promising to be good slaves, only to avoid their entrails being pulled out and devoured for them to see… The wonderer rode silent and thoughtful: the captives had told nothing worthy.

Easily, they found Gelong, the shipmaster. He was fierce with hangover, shaggy and violent, his crew avoided him. At first, he went barging on Thomas, being filled with bad blood, a happy beast in presentiment of a good fight, but Oleg hurried to interfere. He told Gelong they had come from Samoth, his blood, as his best friends and comrades who’d been drinking with him the day before — and the savage beast of a shipmaster changed to a beaming, happy man who embraced both of them, clapped on shoulders. Then he wheeled round to the trembling cook who was looking out from behind a bundle of ropes, roared in a stentorian voice, “Wine to the bottom cabin! Lots of wine!”

Thomas heaved a sigh. “We’ll be going along the shore,” Oleg cheered him up. “If we get drunk, we’ll feel less of the rolling, as our heads swing and our bellies gurgle…”

They had to sell the horses. There was hardly enough space aboard for two men, and that they owed to Gelong’s cordiality. Oleg praised Thomas for his wise deed, advised him to keep saving all maidens from beasts, as all of his great predecessors had done: Targitai, Perseus, Ivasik, Beowulf, Sigurd… “They also used to receive a good reward. Sometimes a double one if the girl contributed to it.” Thomas scowled and snarled. He was sad of parting with his destrier, whom he’d stormed the Tower of David and climbed the walls of Jerusalem with.

With bags on their backs, they came aboard. At once, the sailors raised a fore-and-aft sail that was strange to Thomas. In the northern seas, a sail is seldom in use. Rowing is more relied upon, and if even they raise the sail, it is a straight and square one. But the oars of Gelong’s ship were in disorder, and her crew started drinking straight off. To be more exact, they resumed doing it. Only three or four men kept a lazy eye on the ship.

The wind was even, fresh and steady. In case of need, sailors would turn the sail deftly: a skill not known to Vikings. The master informed they would arrive to Constantinople, the capital of Roman Empire, in a week. Thomas puffed up like a little owl, ready to argue that Rome was the capital, but Oleg intruded and took the conversation away from a slippery road. In fact, the Great Roman Empire used to have two capitals, both Rome and Constantinople, for a long time, and its sigil, the proud eagle, was portrayed with two heads to transmit the idea of Empire having a single body and two heads that would not live without each another. The Western and the Eastern Roman emperors (the latter often named basileus) did not make any difference, but the fact that the single Christian Church had divided into the western and the eastern branch did. That difference was still tiny but Oleg had seen much of the world. He’d seen peoples who split amicably but began terrible bloody wars two or three generations later.

Once, in a vague dream sent by either gods or his soul who managed a look into the distant future, Oleg saw