Chapter 18

They had barely set off before the sun hung straight overhead. Oleg was dripping with sweat, and Thomas had even harder time: in his iron armor, he felt like a fish boiled on a blazing fire. No wind, not a single cloud!

“What was our food there?” Thomas said tensely. “Sir wonderer, would I disturb your pious reflections if I… rend the air on this immense space a bit?”

Oleg waved his hand uncaringly. “Do it.”

He heard a loud rumble. The knight breathed out with relief. His shoulders lowered, he looked back at the vanishing walls of the yellow monastery where the blast wave had gone to. “It’s the best time of my journey! As we rode to this monastery, I was, to tell the truth, all of a tremble! I even – would you believe it, dear sir wonderer? – was going to make a turn.”

“Fear takes molehills for mountains,” Oleg agreed. “There’s nothing worse than shaking too much before it begins. A pity to discover it didn’t deserve that… But our life is treacherous. In a place that looks peaceful, we can be ambushed by some terrible thing worse than our nightmares! In that grove, for instance…”

Thomas alerted, flung his hand onto the sword hilt with a clang of steel.

“It was just an example!” Oleg comforted. “Actually, there may be nothing. But, on the other hand, there can be a thing far more terrible than I said or imagined…”

Thomas went pale. His hand drew the sword out by a half, his voice gave a quaver. “You offer strange comfort, holy father! May we better bypass it? Just in bloody case?”

“We can bypass a grove but not the life. You had your meal and rest, now be ready for everything. The Secret Seven have lost us but… will find again.”

“We can’t bypass a life,” Thomas admitted, “but the grove… May I rend the air once more?”

“No, no,” Oleg said hastily and drove his horse aside.

“Is the smell strong?” Thomas asked guiltily.

“Not at all,” Oleg reassured. “Just irritates my eyes. Turn to the grove. There we’ll find shade and – I see it by crowns of trees! – a spring from the depth of earth. Its water will put out the fire in your stomach.”

Thomas was getting tense. He stiffened, with his eyes fixed on the approaching trees, then unsheathed his sword, rode on with bare steel across his saddle.

Oleg came under the green shelter first. At once, he felt as if a burden fell off his shoulders. His chest straightened out, inhaling the cool air deeply. Trees ahead were parting until he saw a big glade surrounded by mighty forest giants with stocky trunks and tangled branches.

In the middle of the glade, green and studded with flowers, there was a huge boulder of dark red and a lake, so tiny that Thomas’s shield would have covered it all. A small spout of water raised golden grinds that whirled and fell down. The boulder had a hollow that contained a small mug made skillfully and elaborately from clean pieces of bark.

Oleg vaulted off, took the mug. His horse pushed him with his warm side, reaching for water. Oleg hastened to lead the stallion away to the trees and tether. A lusty fellow but doesn’t know where to stop. Drinking much cold water while being hot makes a cripple at once.

The mug was made not only efficiently, in no hurry, but also painted with wonderful flowers, birds, and ornaments. There was the upper sky with its waters, the middle and even the lower one, but no underground at all, though enough space for it at the bottom. Oleg realized that the painter was Pagan. The Hell is the imagination of Christians.

The water burnt his mouth, made his teeth ache. It seemed to be running straight from the highest mountains covered with eternal, never melting white snows.

Thomas took the full mug of spring water from the wonderer’s hands. He gulped for a long time, watered the horses after they’d got cool. When the unsaddled stallions went to graze, he took the fragile mug with both hands again, twisted it before his eyes, as if he could not believe in such a miracle. “There is still in this damned world, full of treachery and blood, violence and perfidy… there is still beauty and love! The stranger could spit into this clear spring, spoil or foul… but instead he cleaned the hollow, dragged the stone closer – see the old furrow where he pulled it? – and made this fragile beauty of linden bark! There are men in this world, sir wonderer!”

Oleg’s face twisted in a sulky smirk. “Except the two of us? A third man, I see.”

The light fragile mug looked like a newborn butterfly on a huge gauntlet, as Thomas sat on the boulder with the thing in his palm, unwilling to part with it. His blue eyes that in a fit of temper would turn cold, cruel, and merciless, like ice, now looked as clean and unprotected as a child’s. “May Our Lady help you in all your affairs, noble man,” he said piously.

The wonderer laughed. “What if he’s no noble?”

Thomas was surprised. “How can he? Everyone who does a good deed is noble… and helped by Our Lady!”

The wonderer was luxuriating in the shade. He looked skeptical, and Thomas got angry. “Don’t you believe me?”

“Not that much,” Oleg replied evasively. “A young girl with a babe in arms… What help of her? It’s not like appealing to those sturdy lads: George the Victorious, Michael, or the Forty Martyrs…”

“Sir wonderer,” Thomas said with great dignity. “Be it known to you that Holy Virgin has sometimes helped even knights! I can tell you of the case I witnessed. It happened when we gathered for the annual tourney in honor of Saint Boromir. The bravest of the brave were coming from all the ends of Britain. The knights taught their horses and servants new tricks, while their ladies prepared their dresses. In two days before the tourney, we were all in place, looking forward to the arrival of our friend: valiant Aragorn, a heir to an ancient house whose roots go into remote antiquity… But the day went after day, and the brave Aragorn was still not there when the heralds announced the beginning of the tournament!”

“Probably he went whoring,” Oleg supposed coolly. “A long way… He could spend a night at some widow’s.”

“Sir wonderer! What happened to Aragorn was a marvel indeed. He set out three days before the tourney, like all of us. But as he rode through a small town, he saw a black smoke ahead and heard shouts. He spurred his trusty steed and, fast as a whirlwind, burst onto the square where a terrible sight opened to his eyes! A chapel of Holy Virgin was on fire. He heard women crying inside.

“Sir Aragorn, without hesitation, as it befits a knight, lowered his visor and galloped straight to the barred door, with smoke and flames bursting from beneath it! The door shattered of the knight’s blow. Sir Aragorn stormed into the hell of burning walls and church plate. In the fire and smoke, he managed to find a poor young woman: she got so mad with terror that she resisted him picking her into the saddle. Sir Aragorn took her out of the fire and left to the care of townspeople. He also left his destrier, lest his luxuriant mane be burnt, and rushed back into the fire! He was not seen for a long time. The townspeople on the square started to cry with pity for the young knight when he came out of the blazing church: staggering, burnt all over, but clasping to his breast the icon of Holy Virgin he’d saved!”

“Was it worth the risk?” the wonderer muttered, though he listened with interest. “Icons are the same wood as spades, aren’t they?”

“Oh, sir wonderer! Surely, he’d swallowed so much smoke that he collapsed like dead. They needed a long time to bring him to, and he was weak as a nestling. The best doctors nursed the brave hero back to health, as the woman whom he’d saved was a daughter of a grand seignior, and the icon was a gift from His Holiness of Rome. Two days passed before Sir Aragorn was able to mount. At once, he hurried to the tourney in Gisland…”

“Surely, he got late,” Oleg said skeptically.

“Sir wonderer, you have evil wits. As Sir Aragorn approached the jousting field, he heard the silver trumpets heralding the end of the tourney…”

“Late as a crow,” the wonderer grunted.

“And when he came to the gate, woebegone, some dressed-up knights rode out to meet him. They dashed up to him and started to congratulate, to admire his mighty blows, his knightly art, his unfathomable skill to drive his horse by knees only, with no touch to reins…”

The wonderer hemmed but kept looking with interest. Thomas went on with ardor. “Sir Aragorn was astonished to hear that he had come to the tourney at the very last hour, challenged the strongest knights and threw them off, one by one, with a single lance! He won an easy victory even over the powerful Black Bull whom the strongest knights of Britain could never make lurch in his saddle!

“Sir Aragorn offered a prayer to Our Lady and told his friends everything of it. And all of us – I was also there – thanked the Holy Virgin heartily, for she had assumed the aspect of Sir Aragorn and took a horse and a lance to ride instead of him into the jousting of the strongest knights! A noble deed wins an award, sir wonderer!”

Oleg thought it over for a while. “But who was babysitting for her?” he asked then innocently. “On the icons, she has such a small child! With no eye on, he can burn down the house or make such a mess…”

“It’s her business,” Thomas snapped angrily. “But you don’t doubt the fact of her help?”

“Why would I?” Oleg wondered. “In our land, we had dime a dozen female warriors. We also called them Amazons. They drove a horse without reins, shot at a tilt… They would love to throw a strong man off! I believe it. But who did she leave her child with? Our girls only romped that way until they married…”

They left the grove after a brief rest but Thomas for a long time kept looking back with pity at its peaceful greenery. The trees were big, thick, ancient, their interweaved green crowns sheltered the young grass from the scorching sun. Unhurried moles dug their burrows underground, songbirds built their nests in thick branches, and squirrels rushed merrily along the branches and trunks.

Thomas and Oleg rode in a big arc, moving to the north gradually, heading for the shore where they could take a ship to Constantinople. They avoided any settlements, even detoured around big caravans or groups of pilgrims, as those could remember the strange couple.

Only on the fifth day of the journey did they turn into a small village. They had run out of their bread and oats and salt. Without the latter, no one could survive in such a hot desert this land was to both of them.

The local smith examined the horseshoes, fixed something in Thomas’s armor with his thundering hammer. “A strange couple you are. Heading for Merefa?”

Thomas said nothing. “Is it the nearest city?” Oleg wondered.

“Yes, straight by the road. If you have some gold, I’d advise you to visit Piven, a great magician.”

“What’s he good at?” Oleg asked.

“He knows future. Tells you what happens tomorrow and the day after it and next year! It always comes true. We, local dwellers, know.”

Thomas, already mounted, gave a roar of merry laughter. “If he’s a magician, why should we pay in gold? He must know the spells to make gold of fallen leaves!”

The smith shrugged. “As you like. I only gave an advice, as a good man to good people. Every magician can make gold coins of leaves but they turn leaves again at touch of iron!”

Oleg mounted and said a warm goodbye. Thomas burst out with laughter again. “That’s why he dropped our golden coin on his anvil first!”

When they got out onto the road, Thomas was thoughtful. For a long time, he rode silent, then said firmly, “We must visit that Piven.”

“Sir Thomas…” Oleg began.

Thomas interrupted decisively. “Sir wonderer! You have your vows, and I have mine. You serve the Truth, and I serve love! I must find out how’s my Krizhina. Whether she waits for me, whether her brothers oppress… And I swear I’ll know it! No force will stop me!”

Oleg advanced his palms, as though sweeping the knight’s anger away. “All right then! Find it out, I don’t care. I thought you wanted to know our way…”

“And ride all that way trembling? No, thank you! I’m no fool to wish to know my future. I don’t want to undertake what belongs to God. But to know about Krizhina…”

He kept urging his horse on. Oleg watched him with surprise: Thomas looked glowing: he leaned forward in the saddle, as though ready to fly up and ahead of his galloping stallion. At that moment, he seemed to have forgotten even about the cup in his saddle bag.

The tall white walls of Merefa were visible from afar but only half a day later did the meandering road lead the travelers to the city gate. Thomas gawked at the walls of white stone. He could see the stripes on the gate when their folds flung open to the full, some riders in waving red cloaks darted out, one by one, on lathery snorting horses, with a dim shimmer of blooded swords and sabers in hands.

Thomas counted twenty of them. Five could barely sit in their saddles, almost each one had his armor cut and blood-stained. All the group swept by them like a whirlwind, along the other road, heading for the green hills.

Thomas and Oleg made their horses shift from gallop to cautious pace. Thomas gripped his lance tightly. Oleg moved his shoulder blades habitually to check the place of the bow.

There were sounds approaching from the city: clatter of hooves, beastly roar, clang of steel, and loud blows of war trumpets. A new group of riders on fast horses burst out of the gate: all squealing shrilly, in furry caps, bloody sabers in hands. They brandished fiercely, scattering drops of blood around. Their horses flew like birds, as they were coming upon the first group. The first rider in the second group snatched from his saddle hook a bow with drawn string, put an arrow on, aimed, lingering, as he needed to consider the skips of his galloping horse. Finally, he let the bowstring off abruptly, his arm bent in a shape of hook. Thomas and Oleg saw a flash of white teeth, as the man grinned.

The last rider in the first group was a young boy on a tired horse, his face white and childish. He had neither beard nor moustache but his shoulder and breast were stained with blood. The arrow hit him on the back, just under the neck. The boy gave no cry: he fell silently onto the horse’s neck, embraced it convulsively, with the arrow feather stuck in his back. The rider in furry cup squeaked, pulled the next arrow out of the quiver.

Thomas swore, shook his lance. The riders in red cloaks dashed past them in three score steps. Thomas and Oleg had time to discern young faces, rich blood-stained clothes. The first were two warriors on milky-white horses, flanking and covering with own big bodies the third rider: a young girl with golden hair coming out from under a light shawl. Amazed, Thomas saw a small golden crown on her head. After the golden-haired princess or queen, the rest of warriors galloped: a live screen of dozen and a half riders between her and the pursuers. The last of her defenders jerked his hands up suddenly, fell out of the saddle like a sack: an arrow was in his back. The horse dragged his body on, his arms trailed helplessly in the dust.

Thomas wheeled round to Oleg. “Shoot!” he roared in fury. “Shoot, you!”

“This is not our war,” Oleg snapped.

“Those are enemies!”

“How do you know which side is right?”

“A knight’s duty is to protect the weak! It’s noble to be always on the weaker side!”

Oleg said nothing. “Hail Britain!” Thomas bellowed in a thunderous voice. “If I don’t deliver the Holy Grail, please understand and forgive me, Our Lady!” He spurred his horse, drove to intercept the galloping riders in furry caps. Oleg swore helplessly, snatched his bow.

Thomas galloped with a breakneck speed. Two score steps remained between him and the beastly riders when the first of them was pierced by an arrow. He had barely snatched at his wound when the next one jumped up in his saddle, dropped his reins, and the third rider fell down at full tilt, head first, as though he plunged into a river.

Oleg’s horse stood motionless as a mountain but Oleg swore furiously, shooting much slower than he’d like to. Every Rusich should have six arrows in the air before the seventh one hit the pumpkin in hundred steps. Oleg could shoot eight before the ninth (or, more precisely, the first) one brought down a wedding ring suspended on a silk thread, but the riders were galloping at full tilt and Oleg shot, clenching his teeth, in fear of injuring Thomas who was in the thick of the fight.

Thomas pierced a foe with his lance, seized his sword, struck the second one and slashed the third before he discovered that, just a moment before, all the three had been killed with arrows shot so forcefully that they went into flesh up to their white-feathered ends. Thomas yelled with offense and insult, galloped on his mighty stallion through the party, throwing aside the foes, both alive and shot down, until he clashed with the back ones, unattainable for the arrows of damned wonderer. A composed murderer. He knows no joy of the honest combat face to face, eyes to eyes, courage to courage!

Roaring, Thomas brought his menacing sword on the nearest rider, slashed him down to the waist in his armor, tugged the sword free with effort, as it got stuck in bones and sinews, brandished at the next foe. One of enemies waved his saber briefly and briskly to land a sider on the knight’s neck, another rose on his stirrups, gave out a terrible howl, struck on the sudden opponent’s head with his glittering Damask saber. Thomas bellowed like a furious bear, dropped his shield, gripped the sword hilt with both hands.

The left rider kept holding the broken handle in fist. He could not believe his eyes, shifting his gaze between it and his foe’s gleaming helmet. The long sword cut him unprotected, his head and his arm, the one chopped away near the shoulder, flew up with a dull sound. The other rider still tried to cleave the knight’s neck, denting the blade of expensive saber and annoying Thomas with clanging. The two-handed sword halved him down to the waist.

Oleg shot the remaining arrows quickly. The road was littered with corpses and wounded men creeping under the hooves of mad horses, but Thomas was attacked by the five survivors. Fortunately, other horses dashed about, bumped into each other, neighed with fear, three dragged the riders entangled in the stirrups. In such a mess, the five men could not gather and attack altogether. Thomas spun round in his saddle like a loach, slashed with his giant sword, bellowed threats.

Oleg wanted to stay aside until the fight was over, but the two foes of Thomas cried something to each other, then both sheathed their sabers and took heavy axes from hooks. Both started to approach Thomas from behind: that made Oleg sent his horse into a heavy gallop.

One rider had stolen into the thick of the fight, raised his axe, but Oleg caught up and him seized by hand. The rider looked back, white with pain: Oleg squeezed his hand until bones crushed, only then he let the poor man out. The rider cried in a guttural voice, snatched a knife from his belt by another hand. Reluctantly, Oleg hit him in the face. Blood gushed out, the rider collapsed silently to the hooves of his horse.

Thomas slayed two more foes. The fourth had run into Oleg who waved away with sorrow: he had no wish to take a human life though had to do it, so the last foe was left to Thomas. The knight breathed heavily, his giant sword rose slowly, his armor belched with steam.

Suddenly they heard a distant clatter of hooves. Oleg and the rider in furry cap wheeled round together, and Thomas saw, over their heads, it were the red-cloaked riders coming back. He landed the last triumphant blow. The dead man, halved down to the saddle, slipped off the horse and plopped heavily on the road, which was already flooded with blood, strewn with corpses and moaning wounded men.

The red-cloaked riders stopped in ten steps, looking over the place of battle with distrust. Between them and the city they’d left, there were at least twenty dead enemies lying on the trodden road. Eight more men were crawling away into the thick ripe wheat, dragging their guts, left red traces behind. One of the red cloaks, an elderly man with malevolent face, vaulted off, rushed along the tracks into the wheat, unsheathing his saber on the run.

Thomas sheathed his sword, waved his empty hand as a greeting. “Good sires! We, my friend and I, thank you for the opportunity to have a fight!”

They watched him with goggled eyes. “Have… a fight?” one repeated in perplexity.

“Yes, I mean it. We rode for three days, and no one to cross weapons with!”

The riders parted, giving way to the golden-haired beauty with the crown on top of her head. He sat majestically on a splendid white horse, but her rich clothing was stained with soot. The rider on her right glanced at Thomas angrily, spat on the dusty road. “My princess,” the rider on her left told her loudly, “they are no true men! Wandering brawlers. They don’t care whom they fight.”

“Mercenaries?” the princess asked softly. Her musical young voice, a bit husky with excitement, made Thomas’s heart jump up to the throne of the Lord and fell down into the fire. He found no words to answer her, he could only look in her eyes, of the same blue as his own.

The rider on her right replied instead of Thomas, with disgust in his hoarse voice, “Worse. They fight even if not paid, just for joy. Beasts of North!”

Oleg dismounted, gathered his arrows hastily, took the quiver of the furry-capped man who’d shot the young boy. He listened to the conversation from distance. “As I told you!” he cried to Thomas. “They can have other values here!”

Thomas blushed, spoke in a tone of gross insult. “We came to the aid of the weaker side! This is how noble men do on my North, that’s true. I hope someday nobility will come here too… even if it comes at our sword points.”

“Who are you?” the golden-haired princess asked. The horse under her pawed the ground with its slim chiseled legs, proud of such a beautiful rider. The crown on her golden hair was scattering the sparkles of diamonds, sapphires, even amber, the rare gem from northern lands.

Her men watched Thomas and Oleg with a mixture of fear and hope. Three more of them dismounted and walked around with knives in hands, turning the bodies of enemies, cutting throats, gathering weapons. Five riders were trying to catch the empty horses.

“A knight crusader,” Thomas replied proudly. “Sir Thomas Malton of Gisland. I’ve slain giants, killed Saracen, fought a dragon, ate the roast liver of the lion I killed with my own hands. Now I’m coming back to my northern homeland. The one who rides with me is my friend, a noble sir wonderer from Scythian Rus’… or Rossian Scythia… from Hyperborea, in a word. He’s a great warrior and greater ascetic and hermit. His posture and words are full of dignity and speak out his noble origin, though he denies it in every possible way.”

The princess cast a glance at Oleg and forgot him at once, as she spoke to Thomas with passion and great entreaty, “Enemies broke into my city, my beautiful peaceful Merefa! You need to leave: they spare no one. I think it’s better for you to ride away with us.”

“Who are your enemies?” Thomas asked arrogantly.

“I’m a queen,” the golden-haired maiden told him. “Isosnowd, a daughter to Kryg. The enemies came by stealth into the city, into the palace! They were led by the royal treasurer. He knew the underground passage. My father trusted that man like himself, and he… when Father died, he wanted to marry me and become a new king! I refused him, and he gave our treasury to barbarian chieftains to buy their warriors. Now they are making slaughter in my city!”

“It seems we’ll have to make our way round Merefa!” Oleg told Thomas while walking to the horse.

Thomas blushed to the roots of his hair. He sounded sharp as his sword. “A slaughter or Beltane dances, I don’t care. I must see Piven!” He drove his horse ahead by the road to the city. Oleg glanced back at the motionless warriors, mounted with a heavy sigh.

Thomas reined up near the open gate, shot a commanding look back, as though Oleg had no choice but to follow him. Oleg trotted after him, feeling the hilts of throwing knives and the sword hilt. Then he felt the ends of arrows and discovered the ones he’d taken from dead furry-capped riders to be three fingers shorter.

As Oleg came up to the gate, he heard a clatter of hooves behind. He and Thomas were caught up by two sullen warriors: he’d seen them beside the beautiful queen. “We’ll ride with you,” one of them grunted. “You don’t know the city.”

Thomas grinned and winked to Oleg.

The four of them burst into the wide open gate, dashed along the main street. Shouts and malicious laughter were everywhere, as the furry-capped warriors broke into houses, shattered the doors and windows of shops, flung things, clothing, and furniture out through the smashed windows into the street. Straight in the street, two women were raped. A naked old man was crucified on the door of his house, while women and children cried and squealed around.

The battle on the main square, in front of the palace, was burning out: about a hundred soldiers in red cloaks stood in a circle, covering with shields and repelling sluggish assaults. Pressed to the palace, they held there firmly, bristling with swords and spears, while their foes glanced back with envy at those who dragged the loot, stripped women naked, tore earrings out of their ears, broke their fingers to get precious rings. The barbarian chieftain, huge and stout, also in a furry cap, bellowed fiercely, commanding attack, but most of his preferred to plunder the captured city rather than to fight its last defenders.

The four riders galloped by the edge of the square, passed by a very old man bound to a pillar. Two furry caps were prodding him with blazing torches, the old man shrieked, the warriors yelled. Oleg heard, “Money! 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?”

“You have nothing to do here,” Thomas replied politely. “All foes left for robbery. Those on the square are no warriors but shepherds. They can only see to Att’s men staying in place!”

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 were a help, but he was flattered by the young beauty’s being anxious about the life of her unknown savior, the mysterious knight from a strange northern land!

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.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 471