ten men. And even then…”
Gorvel wheeled round abruptly, his only eye blazed fiercely through the narrow slit. For a minute they watched each other without taking their eyes off, then Gorvel said, “You are right, rascal! I forgot how they escaped last time, how many men killed… Get them on horses, take to the waterfall. We’ll behead them there and hurl their bodies to fish. And now I shall take the cup to the master.”
Two men yanked Thomas up roughly, took the rope off his feet and looped it around his neck before making him sit ahorse. The other end of the rope was looped around Oleg’s neck: the wonderer was put on another horse. If Thomas fell down, the horse would drag him and strangle quickly, and Oleg would also be dragged off and strangled. Thomas grew cold. “Don’t you see the cup is the same?” he asked hastily.
Gorvel jerked his head. His voice was spiteful. “Do you think I looked into the bag last time? I’m not superstitious, but progressists avoid unnecessary risk. Let others check whether it can do any harm or not.”
Kite and another hireling helped Gorvel up into the saddle. Fiercely, Gorvel raised the horse to its hind legs, as though taking a revenge for his visible weakness caused by severe injury, yelled, and both vanished in the dark, with only an abrupt clatter of hooves.
“Peter, Paul,” Kite called harshly, “let’s go! Keep an eye on them. I don’t trust them even with loops on their necks.”
The two hirelings named by Kite got their horses going. The small caravan dragged itself through the night slowly. Kite would ride ahead to see the way, come back hastily, check the ropes on the hands of captives, touch the horsehair loops on their necks.
They turned left off the road and rode for a long time. Finally, Kite reined up. Thomas saw a predatory glitter of his eyes in the moonlight. “There! Look at the wide world, you knight!”
“Is it white?” Thomas asked arrogantly. “You must be blind, fool. It’s the black of night.”
Kite’s smile went broader. “I love brave men.”
They stood near the dark wall of the forest. A dull roar of waterfall was heard aside, a blow of cold coming from there. In the silvery moonlight, there was a vague outline of the rocky steep with a cloud of water spray over it.
The captives were dragged off the horses. Oleg still looked stunned. Thomas took in the place with a desperate glance, noticed a luxuriant oak grove, of old oaks with spreading branches, a birch forest on the left, and a thick hazel grove on the other side of the glade. As Thomas’s eyes got accustomed to the moonlight, he discerned ripe hazel nuts. For some strange reason, that was the bitterest stitch at his heart.
“Here’s the end of your life,” Kite explained. “A beautiful place. Even a waterfall, which is rare in this land!.. Pity you are no Pagan. Christians don’t mind such things, but Pagans like to die in beautiful places and beautiful poses. First we’ll cut off your heads, yours and you wild friend’s, then hurl them to fish. Should some piece be thrown ashore, it would be smaller than a little finger!”
“The master might see it in a different way,” another hireling, Paul, warned him.
Peter, the third one, burst with stupid laughter. Kite shook his head with regret. “They must have been a real plague… Were it you to scratch him?.. Well, never mind.” He shoved Thomas. The knight fell on his back and tied hands, numb fingers crunched painfully.
At once, Peter was over the knight, his saber bare, but his voice comforting. “We’d have finished you straight off, but the order is different. Don’t be afraid. We’ll kill you, but with no torture.”
Thomas sat up with effort. “I don’t blame you,” he said haughtily. “You are common villains. But no excuse for Sir Gorvel for mixing with you. He is a noble man, after all!”
Kite exchanged glances with his hirelings and laughed. “Noble man? We are innocent lambs before your Sir Gorvel! When he crosses a desert, snakes creep away in fear of his venom, vultures flee and jackals run: they have nothing to do where Gorvel comes! Did you see him different? Though I doubt whether he could be different… Well, knight, have your rest.”
Thomas leaned his back against a big boulder. “Thank you,” he replied arrogantly. “The Holy Virgin in her mercy created this stone beforehand, for me to sit with comfort.”
“Excellent! And you, foreign pilgrim, sit next to him,” Kite suggested merrily.
Oleg rested his back against a granite rock in three steps away. It was all prominent stones and juts. His head drooped helplessly on his chest, blood dripped slowly on his knees. As he heard Kite, he tossed his head, looked with lackluster eyes. “Thank you. I have more comfort here.”
“Which comfort?” Kite asked suspiciously.
“Don’t you see? I was up for two nights, and it keeps me awake now. If these are my last minutes, I’d like to see the world. Sir knight knows I am Pagan.”
Kite looked at Peter with inquiry. The hireling nodded. “He had no cross on!”
Kite waved his hand uncaringly. “No breath is enough before death… Well, stay where you like. Hey, Peter, Paul! Keep your eyes on them! Is it clear?”
“As clear as it can,” Peter grumbled. “We keep our
Both sat before Thomas, their swords on their knees. In times they glanced at Oleg who was all but behind them, but the barbarian looked completely exhausted, covered with blood, and the rope on his hands, which were behind him, would do to keep an elephant. Besides, Kite had recalled the three killed men and ordered to tie the barbarian’s feet up tighter.
Thomas sat, resting against the boulder, his back straightened up: he did not want them to think he’d lost heart before death. His eyes looked arrogantly over the heads of hirelings. “Kite, this iron bone is too calm,” Paul said nervously at last. “His even snuffs burn holes in my stomach! Let’s finish them off and throw into waterfall.”
“And the master?”
“Tell him truth. Or you think he won’t pay us then?”
“He’ll claim we allowed them to slip out. He seems to have been scared in no small way before.”
Paul squatted down before Thomas, waved the end of his saber before the eyes of the arrogant knight. “Stop grinning!”
“Stop trembling, you!” Kite told him harshly, with contempt. “He’s a noble knight. Blue blood! Has cold feet, but keeps his arrogance. It’s their noble way. You are a fool to take it at face value.”
Paul squirmed, glanced at Kite with suspicion. “Why to feign?”
“Dunno,” Kite replied with a venomous smile, “it’s the way of nobles. But if you quake with fear still, then watch them closely. And you, Peter!”
“I’m watching,” Peter assured gloomily. “I saw how this iron bone snatched Nitwit. Squeezed once, and no whole bone left! And his heart slid out through his throat…”
Kite and Paul exchanged nervous glances, then glared at Thomas.
Kite was sitting before him. Black eyes glittered on his flat face, as they reflected the cold stars. He kept his saber in hand. In times, he would touch the sharp point with the nail of his thumb, as Thomas had done not so long before.
Shame drove hot blood to the knight’s face again. He uttered a muffled groan, made himself toss his head arrogantly and look over the heads of contemptible hirelings. The wonderer sat in three or four steps behind Kite and Paul, his face miserable, in dark stripes of dry blood. He moved his shoulders a bit closer, raised himself with effort, started to squirm nervously, as though scratching his back against the rock. Thomas watched him with perplexity: the wonderer seemed no coward, he’d proved his boldness more than once, but he was evidently nervous now, wriggling with fear — no warrior, after all, just a very strong man who had a good luck…
Suddenly Thomas felt a new wave of hot blood rush up to his cheeks. He winked with shame, all but cried. Shame on the noble knight who thought of the courageous pilgrim in the way he did! Oleg must have chosen that bad place just because he resolved at once to try to fray through the rope on his hands!
“You are all cowards,” Thomas spoke as mysteriously as he could. “I still have a chance to destroy you.”
Kite’s fingers took a firmer grip on the saber hilt. Peter and Paul rushed to feel the rope on his feet at once, and the collision of their heads lit the night with sparks. “Which chance?” Kite demanded.
