The Secret of Stonehenge

Chapter 1

With the first peal, all the four gates of Kiev began to creak. Bearded guards, sleepy and angry, dug the heels of their metal-tipped boots into the ground and groaned with strain, applying themselves to the strong wooden wings. The Great City was opening to the world.

The powerful sound of bells, as thick as frozen oatmeal kissel, slowly drifted along the paved city streets, squeezing into the closed shutters, waking people up.

From the city center to the western gate, with a ringing clatter of hooves on the paving, two riders came on tall warhorses. They looked like two mounted towers. The first one was clad in steel armor from head to heel, according to the tradition of noble Franks. The second one could have been taken for a squire or servant if he were dressed better. No knight would tolerate a servant in a wolfskin jerkin, with a simple bow on his back and a rough club jutting out of his saddle bag instead of a proper weapon!

The guards greeted the knight, their voices hoarse after a sleepless night spent drinking with him at a local inn. The foreign guest had been paying, so they’d called wantons and had fun with them, roared songs, played for money, arms and boots (by morning no one could remember what he owed others, so everyone just took their own things). But what fun can be there without a good scuffle? So they scuffled much and willingly, enjoyed themselves so that one now had his eye swollen, another his lips thick as flapjacks, and the third one was unable to get out of the sentry box. But that was good fun!

Oleg gave a slack nod, though no one bellowed greetings to him. People were a little bit afraid of him. A silent one, unhurried and reserved. Never carousing, never drinking, he still looked able to stand for himself. His exorbitant strength could only be missed by a child or a blind man, and the guards on the gate were neither.

Thomas held his horse, alerted. The way through the gate is blocked by three stocky, beastly-looking common men. All watch him closely, with searching eyes. They don’t look like warriors, but their moves show great strength, they resemble mighty bulls reared in the open. One muttered something and went straight for Thomas.

Don’t strike right off! the wonderer whispered. Let’s find out what they want.

The man stopped in front of Thomas, and the knight felt uneasy. The common man has broad shoulders, his body seems hard as rock, his arms strong enough to crush the knight’s armor like the bark of a rotten stump. His sharp eyes under the overhanging superciliary arches, heavy like mountain ridges, look in some aiming, demanding way.

Two other men came slowly to flank Thomas. They smelled strongly of beer and home brew. All the three looked like woodcutters or stonemasons, of the kind that break tree trunks and stone blocks alike with bare hands.

Thomas cast anxious glances around. The wonderer kept the sullen look on his face, a mysterious glitter in his green eyes, his red hair kept to his forehead with an iron hoop. He also looked like a wild woodcutter or stonemason, but he was by Thomas’s side. Not blocking his way.

The common man asked in a deep strong voice that sounded like a roar of an old bear woken up, Are you… from overseas?

You guessed right, Thomas answered in a constrained voice.

If from overseas, the common man roared, his eyes fixed on Thomas, you’ve seen more than those who stay at home.

Who would argue? Thomas said in a guarded way. As one wise traveler said, he who took a walk around his house is wiser than he who never came outdoors.

The common man made a nervous swallow, his stentorian voice broke, a begging note appeared in it. Yes, that’s just what I’m talking about. Please tell us, dear guest, give your advice… How to put Rus’ in order?

Thomas wanted to spit down to the other man’s feet. His legs were still trembling so that they made his horse sway, his heart pounding like a hare’s, but there was such grief and anguish in the common man’s voice that Thomas only grumbled, "Sir wonderer, let’s get out of this mad land. Can’t they see they are living here, not I? I’d give them pretty good advice!"

Rude, you, Oleg complained. Though a noble!

They left the gate behind, their horses walked briskly on the morning dew. The sky was clean as a shelled egg and blue as baby’s eyes, the air fresh as it usually is in the mornings. The day is going to be warm, though the trees along the road have already dressed in autumn gold and purple.

The knight, Sir Thomas Malton of Gisland, listened to the church bells piously, crossed himself slowly, with diligence. Oleg frowned, his green eyes became dark. A strange faith, made for the slaves of Rome, is growing stronger and stronger in the once-free nation. Though through fire and blood, a hundred villages burnt, sorcerers being killed and crucified, along with those who refused to name themselves servants of a foreign lord, even the Lord of Heaven.

Rus’ has had no slaves before, no tradition of slavery, but, just imagine, only few dare to protest openly now. The bravest men lurk in the villages where the Old Faith remains, and sorcerers only make their heathen temples in the thick of woods. Looks like our souls have much timidity if a man makes no attempt to knife the one insulting him to his face: You are a servant of the Heavenly Lord…

Oleg’s horse, having had a good sleep and meal in Kiev, was eager to break into gallop. The rider had to hold it, looking back at Thomas. The knightly stallion is not fit for galloping: too heavy, and his rider is like a tower of steel. He would only make fifty sazhens¹ at a gallop, then halt – just stand and slash. That’s enough to cleave enemy ranks, like with an axe. And the breach is penetrated by foots who always follow a knight in crowds, like dogs follow a furious bear.

The strong fresh wind hit their faces. The sorcerer’s red hair flickered like a blazing torch held in gallop. Thomas’s white cloak, the color of swan’s wing, blew up and stretched behind, quivering. The huge red cross on the white cloth heralded proudly that the knight belonged to the Christ’s host that had freed the Holy Sepulcher valiantly from the impious Saracens.

On the way again, Thomas said in a fine manly voice. What is a man born for if not journeys?

Oleg looked asquint at the knight’s proud face. In his long life, he’d heard this question many times before. And many answers to it. All convincing, but all different. Haven’t you swapped the cup for drink?

Thomas felt his bag hastily. The cup’s roundish side escaped his fingers for a while, his heart missed a beat. Sir wonderer, he said with displeasure, "Not only haven’t I swapped it for drink, but haven’t lost it at dice either! Though I’ve seen noble knights… yes, the ones of the highest birth, lose at dice not just money, horses and weapons but their wives and castles! They even lost more than castles – their own names! That’s the power of Satan, his skill to entrap weak souls."

But you played, Oleg teased him. Though all games, according to your doctrine, were invented by Satan. They say it was why your god threw him down – Satan used to win each game.

Thomas said with dignity, Sir wonderer, I don’t think Sir God would have won not a single game if he really sat down to play with the vile devil. But I think He would not even sit down near that one in the latrine. Sir Satan might have been cheating. Though no, it’s too… As it was, when Sir Satan used to sit on Our Lord’s right side and was not yet the sort he became here on earth.

He crossed himself piously. Oleg laughed. Oh yes. He’s lived on earth among people for a while, and one who lies down with dogs, gets up with fleas.

Thomas looked puzzled. Do you mean to say Satan became that vile after he rubbed elbows with people? Though… why not? Man is no angel but he’s craving for light, and the devil, in his malice, was getting lower and lower till he became worse than man. Then he also began to provoke man into becoming worse.

Exactly. And games remained his domain.

So I clashed with him! As befits a valiant knight, in my opponent’s field, and I also left the choice of weapons to him. I played that impious game, won, swapped my prize for drink, as it’s dishonorable to buy any good thing with that money, played again and won again! So I drank those men under the table. That was how I put the devil to shame.

Oleg twisted his head with delight. Great! This doctrine… or faith, will go far if it allows such an interpretation of knightly revels that outstrip even those of sailors on the loose. Have you bought a horse with the money you won?

A horse is allowed, the knight replied sternly.

Why?

From the height of his saddle, I’m strengthening the true faith. Such a horse can’t be a devil’s instrument. Just look how handsome he is! Sir wonderer, are you sure we’ll have to cross a forest?

All Europe is covered with dark forest. As well as your Britain. It’s not the Saracen deserts you’ve got used to. Here wherever you ride, you’ll have to ride in wild woods. But it’s autumn now, the roads are already trodden. In spring there’s no way to walk, nor to ride.

Trodden by whom?

First by tramps like us, all sorts of beggars, knight-errants, outcasts and madmen, then by plain tradesfolk.

Thomas crossed himself. "Let it be forest then. I simply don’t like those shaggy men with knives, just like you, who jump out of shrubs. It makes me flinch, and that’s unworthy of a knight. Unworthy of me, for I have stormed the Tower of David and fought on the walls of Jerusalem."

The forest was growing ahead – thick, wild, impassable. The path ducked under the low branches and vanished at once, as though in a badger’s barrow. One could feel coolness within a hundred sazhens from the wall of trees. Their mighty trunks were dark, squat, gloomy. Even their dense crowns looked darker than usual.

***

They rode all the day long, only at noon allowed their horses a brief rest and had a snack themselves without making a fire.

What’s the name of this country? Thomas wondered.

Oleg was surprised. What’s wrong with your memory? I’ve told you: Rus’.

I see that, Thomas dismissed, but it was Rus’ yesterday and even the day before. And whose lands are we crossing today?

Oleg hemmed. You’ll get your tongue sore of asking that. You may ride a horse, crawl a snail, or fly a bird – anyway it will be Rus’ tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, and the day after that. And princedoms… All of them belong to Rurikids. One brother has this one, another has that, the third one has the third. All taken together, they make Rus’. The Rus’ of Rurikids.

Thomas was silent, looking incredulous. At last he spoke with doubt. Marvelous are the works of God… In our host there was a force of valiant Sir Rodoslav, a brave warrior and merry knight. His men were known for strength, discipline, martial skill. Everyone marveled at them standing any hardships without a grumble. Now I recall: they’ve had the same arms and armor I see here. Does it mean they came from this land?

"Probably even from this very city. Vyatichi², for instance, also took part in those campaigns, but they use other kinds of equipment."

Thomas was astonished. "Do Vyatichi come from here too? I’d have never thought so. I thought they were Vikings. They stood to the Duke of Tuleb’s left, covering the flank of King Henry Bluetooth. Brave and fierce warriors too! Your works are marvelous indeed, O Lord!"

While saddling the horses, Thomas imagined the way far ahead, all those woods, marshes, cities and villages they had to cross, sighed and said vexedly, "That’s what I can’t fathom: you are a wizard of considerable power and you don’t use it! Except when pushed to the wall. And even then you’d often rather die than use magic. For me, it looks like having two fast horses and walking on foot in their dust! You already are doomed to Hell’s fire! What more is there to be afraid of?"

He expected no reply from the wonderer who used to avoid such talks, but now the sorcerer was in good spirits. He laughed. I could say that’s my vow. It would explain everything to you, wouldn’t it?

Er…

Well, it’s really a kind of vow. Though not to demons: forget that. It’s a promise I made to myself.

But why?

How shall I put it? Just imagine: I also want to reach the kingdom of heaven. And I am going the right way. But each use of magic throws me back into the darkness. Magic is impious… not quite in the way you see it, but you grasp the general meaning of it. Magic is based on implicit faith, and I hate implicit faith. Magic is not less slavish than Christianity. Every time I save my bacon with magic, I feel disgraced. You are right: sometimes it is better to die than be rescued by those whom you struggle against.

Thomas looked with wide-open eyes. Then you have more knighthood than any paladin of the Round Table!

Thomas, actually I would endure any shame or disgrace, as I’ve endured many things before, but the use of magic is trampling on more than life. It’s trampling with dirty hooves on the very purpose of my being! On what I live for.

It was like the sky opening over Thomas. The wonderer appeared to bear his own cross that he, a knight and Christ’s warrior, could barely imagine! He had only seen and felt the very edge of it and still was dumbfounded. A dangerous man was riding with him. Really dangerous.

By evening the breeze dropped, the fragrances of late herbs and fallen leaves hung in the still air. The huge crimson ball was subsiding slowly to the edge of the earth. Coal-black shadows moved on the dark-red ground ahead of the riders, grew longer, merged with the shadows of rocks, stones, and trees. The world was wild and unknown: only the two of them and their horses seemed alive in it.

The sky darkened gradually. At first there came a barely visible crescent, then a star flashed on, and another one. Now Thomas and Oleg rode under the deep-blue cup, its lip rested on the brinks of the earth.

By night, in a sparse birch forest, they bumped into some merchants. They had put their loaded carts in a circle, kindled a fire, fetched the brushwood. A thorough preparation for night, to avoid any surprise…

There was a big cauldron gurgling and ringing its lid on a tripod, and some dark broad slices roasted over the hot coals on the barked twigs. The smell of roast meat with exotic spices stung their nostrils. Thomas gulped saliva down noisily, and his stallion mended a pace at once as if he wanted to eat the meat before his master did. Greetings to you, noble sires, Thomas proclaimed into the space; he obviously did not know how to address merchants. Pax vobis. God bless you!

The merchants watched them with interest. One stood up. The same to you, if you mean it. I’ve never seen a priest in steel before! It’s night, so you may stay with us. We’ll protect you.

Thomas went crimson and began to puff up, but Oleg said meekly, Thank you, good people. We’ll spend the night with you.

Have you come a long way?

Very long.

The merchants asked no more questions. If a man can’t or doesn’t want to speak, he should not be forced. One must not count money in the pockets of others as many like to do. Neither should one pump others for what he wants to know. They will tell you if they like.

Thomas took some lard and a head of cheese out of his bags: it doesn’t befit to eat only the food of others and hide what you have. The merchants found a skin of brew, and it went from hand to hand around the fire. After the meal, they started a cautious conversation about who the travelers were and where they were heading.

Questions were asked in a way that allowed them to evade easily. You never know whom you may meet in the woods, so you’d better hurt no one. It’s the time of trouble: princes lay hands on everything, foreign missionaries scour around, some trying to win people over to another faith, others persuading princes into close unions with either Kazimir or the Polovtsians³, or whatever other dark and far-going aims they have. Merchants could not always see their benefit at once, so they preferred to offend no one but watch, listen, and sniff for whatever they could gain from all that stuff.

When the skin was half empty, they began a sedate and wise talk about how to make Rus’ better, how to live right, how to bring peace and order at last to the lands that had always been in disorder, where the order was only promised, to where they had even called Germans long ago, in the hope they would make order, but even the Germans failed – it was Rus’, no Deutschland of theirs.

The wonderer squirmed, then asked, Germans? Was Rurik a German?

A Kraut, the merchant confirmed, then thought for a while, scratched his head. Or a Yid. No way to know for sure.

At the height of the revelry, when Thomas was going to try his luck at a game, as play and way is where people show their true colors, in play and bath everyone is equal, playing is not stealing – there was a sudden rustle among the tree tops. The air began to tremble, some blue sparks flashed and died out at once. Branches broke with a crunch, as a bough… not, a whole log went falling onto the ground.

The log tumbled down and appeared to be hollow inside. Before anyone could say knife, a lean and tiny old woman got out, like a giant bark beetle. Her face was wrinkled like a baked apple, she had no teeth, but her eyes were sharp. She dusted off hastily. Wooden crumbs had got stuck in her shaggy grey hair as if she were really gnawing at the wood. Hail to everyone, she said quickly. Don’t be afraid, I shan’t hurt you. For some reason, I feel really sated today. I’ll only warm by the fire if you don’t mind.

The eldest merchant made a hiccup, forced out, We don’t… We don’t mind at all. Not at all!

The old woman came closer. She was clad in rags hanging from her body like the wings of an old bat used to sleeping among cobwebs. Her pin-sharp eyes measured the motionless figures of Thomas and Oleg at once. Thomas kept his hand alerted on the hilt of his two-handed knightly sword. There was a nail from Christ’s cross in it, hammered deeply. The nail sprinkled with the noblest blood in the world had the power to protect against any crafty designs by the devil and his servants. Surely, it would only protect those devoted in their faith. The chaplain had promised that. But, God damn, it was another sword!

The news of the two of you has spread over all the lands.

Oleg, finishing the stale slice of cheese, objected with his mouth full, Hardly all!

All of ours, the old woman specified.

Sit down, warm your bones. A knowing woman?

Now they call me witch. People know nothing about the old knowledge and those of us who keep it. Neither they want to know.

Oleg clenched his jaw. Again, like many times before, ignorance comes into the world with triumph. In the past, literacy could be promoted by force, but this new faith of the weak and poor in spirit proclaims those weak, dirty, and ignorant the most pleasing to the new god, while literacy comes from the devil. Beat and burn the literate!

Thomas looked with disgust. He didn’t cross himself (it did not befit a man to be afraid of a woman, even a witch) but sat aside, in order not to touch her by accident with his iron elbow and get his armor rusty.

The witch lifted her hands. A rustle in the tree tops again, the crunch and fall of boughs. The merchants darted sideways. A patterned tablecloth spread on the green grass. Some narrow-necked jugs, the likes of which Oleg had only seen in Hellas, tumbled on the ground. Two colossal winebowls, one of home brew, another of heady mead, emerged silently, small scoops plopped down, and in the middle of the tablecloth, moving other things aside, a roast boar appeared with an apple in its mouth.

Paganism! Thomas said with disgust. Devil’s work!

Don’t eat it then, Oleg suggested.

What next, Thomas was insulted. The devil might think I’m afraid of his servants! He was the first to take out a dagger (narrow and very sharp, the only fit thing to finish off a knocked-down knight by thrusting the blade into his visor slit), stabbed the boar with joy, as though taking a Saracen’s life. There came a smell of fragrant meat. The boar was young and juicy. It seemed to be no forest animal but the one fattened in the warm and care, with milk and fresh bread.

Oleg, laughing up his sleeve, snatched the slices of roast meat from the fire. The merchants exchanged glances and reached for scoops. The eldest one pushed his cross deeper into his collar, immediately scooped the brew and took a slice of meat from Oleg, tasted the brew, listened to himself. A contented smile appeared on his face.

The merchants ate and drank the witch’s treats with caution at first, but when the brew got into their heads, there were born Pagans drinking and bellowing songs by the fire. One even raised the hag to dance, and when some yellow eyes, definitely not wolfish, gleamed from behind the trees in the night, no one clutched at his cross. The eldest one even made an inviting gesture. The tablecloth would feed everyone if the hag spoke truth, and in the night woods we are all brothers.

While the embracing merchants bellowed obscene songs, the witch turned to Oleg and Thomas. Her voice fell to a whisper. What have you done?

And what have you heard? Oleg asked back.

The witch took no notice. Her small sharp eyes were piercing Thomas. What do you bear… with you or in you, that you are spoken of even in the High mountains?

Thomas hesitated, glanced at sir wonderer. Oleg said in a louder voice, What does it matter to you? Eavesdropping is bad.

The witch eyed him with disdain. Tell me… Are you with him?

I am. What did you hear?

The witch turned her piercing eyes on the knight again. They are rather afraid of something. Bad sound, but I grasped they were sending someone to stop you…

They came to stop me, Thomas grumbled.

And what?

Now they will come to no other place. Unless devils drag them there.

The witch examined him with growing interest. She ignored the knight’s irritation, Oleg understood why. An ignorant angel. Just a child, however big and strong in looks. A capricious, quick-tempered child of the new world. Not the better one – it’s still a long time before we can see what this world is truly worth. As for now it’s just new. How can one be angry with a child?

Very proud words. And you are not one who cringes. That’s laudable.

"He cringes, Oleg said venomously. Before no dragon but before the cross, bones, splinters, a footprint in stone. He also spits over his shoulder, often crosses himself, whispers, crooks his fingers behind, being scared by something like a hare."

So superstitious? the witch wondered.

"He also believes in dreams and sneeze, in a black cat, a woman with empty buckets, a priest on the way⁴ and Friday, the thirteenth."

Thomas snuffed angrily. He feared no visible enemy – God was his witness, as well as the Saracens he had defeated. But the Faith told to be afraid of the invisible enemy, the Archfiend!

The witch snapped her fingers, raised her hands. Two big broad cups fell from above, the witch caught them deftly, lest they touch the ground. The brims of those cups were a dim shimmer in the firelight. Thomas detected that both were bound with old silver.

Oleg took a cup from her, smirked, glanced at Thomas. He looked at the cup again, shook his head when his eyes met the witch’s. She waved him aside negligently: drink, don’t make difficulties! Look at your friend who doesn’t mind anything…

Meanwhile, Thomas drained his cup and poured some rough wine from the jug: the boar had been sprinkled with eastern spices, so the knight’s mouth was burning. He tossed it back then tasted some mead (he’d got to know its taste and charm in Kiev), gulped it down with some more wine, filled the cup again straight away.

Oleg had no wish to speak in front of the merchants. They are listening, glancing at each other. In their trade one may drink, even get drunk, but for the one who loses his head, his first trip as a merchant will be his last. And those were tough, experienced trade wolves. Even too tough for such a simple market trip from one princedom into another.

Anticipating the witch’s new question, Oleg asked them respectfully, "Oh, you have come a really long way! You’ve seen countries far away and people overseas! You’ve beheld with your own eyes what we only know from songs, which the new faith orders to name byliny. Please tell us about the wonderful things you’ve seen in your last voyage!"

Flattery makes even the wisest one stupid. For some reason Rod⁵ let it be a human’s vulnerable place, one of many. The merchant’s sharp eyes went oily and dull at once. Stroking his luxurious beard, the eldest one said grandly, We’ve seen tall towers of Bagdad and the sea as blue as sky. We’ve seen sands and strange animals. We’ve beheld the world where winter brings no snow, where people are black like tar or coal! We’ve seen mighty tribes in which even chieftains walk around naked and eat humans…

The witch shook her head. How awful! You must be lying! Where can such monsters live?

Far away. But the greatest miracle happened on our way back, across the scorching sands. Our party was few, as we’d sold everything save three horses, not to mention two carts with gifts for our families. The road was said to be safe and empty, so we let our guards go. There were just a couple of versts to the city, and we rode, happy with coming back home soon…

He sighed, wiped his forehead. A ghost of fear flickered in his eyes, as if he was going through some scary thing once again. And when we could already see the city walls, some robbers came upon us out of the blue. Two dozen of them against the three of us. Each of us can stand up to two, or even three if he gets angry, and that’s not a boast, but the third of us was ill then. We carried him in a cart, and with two we could not–

Come on!

The merchant said with delight, That would have been our end if not for the marvelous warrior who came at the very last moment! He was like menacing lightning in God’s hand. His stallion was black, with mane and tail flying in the wind. The sword in his hand shone like the brightest star in the sky of Bagdad. When he dashed on the robbers, the ground moaned and a flock of black crows soared behind.

Which crows? Thomas didn’t get it.

The lumps of earth kicked off by his stallion’s hooves! The warrior uttered a scary shout. Many robbers collapsed, and the rest had their legs turned to water. And when the warrior came on them with his sword raised, only five dared to attack.

Come on, Thomas asked impatiently.

The merchant took a breath. His chest straightened proudly, as if it were him fighting those robbers. He threw all five down with three strikes! I don’t know how he managed it, but I saw three terrible blows, which splashed the grass ten sazhens around with blood and lay the robbers slashed like ram carcasses. The hero did not bother to dismount. Just smiled, wiped his sword, and turned his horse. In vain we cried after him, eager to pay homage, offering money and rich gifts for our miraculous rescue! He did not even tell us his name. Fortunately, one of us had seen him before and knew him!

Thomas asked with respect, So who was that marvelous warrior, as much modest as he is valiant? The world has few knights endowed with such wonderful virtues. I thought all of them used to sit at the Round Table.

The merchant said solemnly, It was Michael Uryupinets himself!

The wonderer gave an understanding nod. He seemed to have heard of this valiant hero. The merchant crossed himself piously, Thomas did the same. Both looked at each other with patronizing negligence: what could one expect from a fool?

Actually, each of them looked like a boor from the point of view of another – one made a cross from his right shoulder while another from his left. They did not know yet that the first one would later be called an Orthodox and the other a Catholic.

***

With drunken surprise, the merchants peeped into the winebowls that never grew lighter. Finally, the youngest man turned one over. A scanty splash of brew came out and vanished before it could reach the ground. At once the winebowl became empty, even dry, as if it had been held over the fire. The ill-starred merchant failed to shake out even a single drop. They let him have it, and the second winebowl was now handled with care; they all but bowed to it.

The boar managed to sate everyone, so fast it was getting new meat on, juicy and odorous, already roast, larded with garlic and onions. The eldest man turned out to be the most enduring – he ate and drank for twelve, loosened his belt, then took it off. His friends leaned back one by one, falling into drunken sleep, one began to snore with a bone still in hand. The witch took the bone out carefully, put it into the bag on her belt. Oleg saw it and nodded. She slipped up. Left out of her account that they are not that toothless. Her yellow stubs of teeth would only take off small fibers of meat, but the men’s strong teeth, in search of marrow, had ground what the boar could not be resurrected without. She’ll have to look for a stronger spell, as getting a new pig is more difficult. And she may fail in it. The ancient skill of witchcraft is dying out, never to return.

When the eldest merchant gave up, fell on his back and began to snore, only Thomas and Oleg remained at the magic tablecloth. The witch ate almost nothing, while the knight and the wonderer satiated themselves in a manly way, unhurried and sedate, with the skill of getting their fill in advance, like old wolves do.

The witch looked sideways: no strange ears, just merchants in their heavy sleep. So who is watching you?

They were, Thomas corrected proudly. Now devils watch them, tossing firewood under their pots.

Tossing it where? the witch asked.

Oleg explained condescendingly, It’s from their doctrine of the afterlife. Never mind.

Oh, the witch drawled. Yet another new faith? Well, there were lots of them. I hope this one won’t last either. You’ve crushed some foes, but what about others?

No others, Thomas replied angrily, wounded by what the witch had said about Christ’s most holy faith. We’ve destroyed those godless robbers.

In fact they were Christians, Oleg did not fail to sting.

"Destroyed all?" the witch disbelieved.

Killed the chiefs. And their flock, if any, will scatter. Who would dare fight us now that we’ve defeated the strongest?

The witch watched the young knight with regret: proud and happy he was, in raptures about his victory. He advanced his chest and squared his shoulders as if he were already welcomed by the king and showered with royal bounties. He did not know yet that nature abhors a vacuum.

Chapter 2

In a tavern, one of those which Kiev had a hundred at least, two men sat down at a remote table. One, swarthy and black-moustached, looked like a Berendey⁶. Over the light clothing of a steppe dweller, he wore a mail and a curved saber. The other one was taller, more big-boned, his skin white, his fair greying hair falling loose on his shoulders. The icy blue of his eyes gave him away as a native of the North. He wore leather armor, the hilt of a giant two-handed sword jutted over his shoulder.

Do they accept gold here? the one in steppe clothing asked. His voice was high, guttural, with an eagle’s predatory screaming. His bulging eyes looked like those of a big fierce bird.

"As well as copper, kunas⁷, and blows to the jaw," the Northman replied unhurriedly. He moved with lazy grace, sounded thick and resonant as though speaking from a deep hollow. One could sense power in the way he moved, though his face and open chest were covered in scars – one literally cut through his right shoulder, though it did not seem to fetter his movements.

The Northman peered at the swarthy face with sloe-black predatory eyes. The Steppenman bared his snow-white teeth in a smirk. True. Now tell me: what kind of ring does Slymak have on his little finger?

The Northman alerted, his hand reached overhead to the hilt of his scary sword. Slymak has no little finger on his left hand. And the right one is not for rings.

The Steppenman smiled broader. Then you are Rolan the Furious. My name, as you’ve probably been told, is Badri. What would you drink?

The Northman relaxed. He looked around in a different way, appraising with no fear. What do they drink here? Brew, infusion of death caps?

You’re from afar, observed the Steppenman who called himself Badri. Here they favor mead. A heady thing. And as for food… They eat everything. And drink everything too.

A silent woman put deep bowls of boiled buckwheat and roast meat before them and walked away without a noise. They ate slowly, glancing askance at each other. When there came cups of heady wine, they drank slowly as well, watching each other. One could tell that Badri was younger – his moves quick, his eyes shining with intelligence and amusement. Rolan is heavier, with a Viking’s big body, big bones, unhurried. Small wrinkles had been folded around his eyes not by age (such people look young, or at least youthful, till they are old) – rather by constant peering either into flames or at the expanses of snow sparkling in the sun.

At last Rolan spoke slowly, It hadn’t been happening for a long time this way… Why didn’t they send the word by wind?

It could fall into a strange ear, Badri answered. His pitch-black brows knitted anxiously. And the matter is very serious. Do you happen to know Slymak?

The Knight Commander of the North-East? He was known by everyone.

Now he would surely not be wearing any rings.

Rolan leaned back from the table as if he had spotted a snake in his plate. Blue eyes clung to the Steppenman’s face. Who removed him?

Badri shook his head. Removed? Yes, you may say he was removed. Two wild men came and did it. Splattered all four walls with his brain. And his guard – you know what kind of guard such people have – was also removed. Shifted to the job of doormats. To improve the wiping of feet.

Rolan watched him with disbelief. But the Steppenman’s face was serious.

That… cannot… be! Slymak… No one could overcome him!

Someone could, you see. Or someone was bloody lucky. But then they’d been bloody lucky even before. In Constantinople where they slew Baruk! Haven’t you heard?

Rolan shook his head. He had not heard about Baruk but, judging by the Steppenman’s voice, it had caused a stir in the secret halls of power. What do the Secret Ones tell us?

The Ones are still deciding who will stand on the very top. But they agree on one thing – those two should be stopped at any cost! They pose a serious threat.

To the Ones?

Badri told him didactically, in a dry unpleasant voice: The Ones do nothing for themselves and everything for civilization.

Good wording, Rolan muttered. But I know its origin. I’ve read the Quran.

How can you know there were no Secret Ones helping Mahomet with his code of laws? That might have been their wording as well. Overall, Rolan, you talk dangerously. You dare to question the supreme wisdom of the Ones while you’re not on the highest stair yet.

Rolan waved him away, carefree as a strong man can be. But who are they? What’s the threat?

Badri’s face became impenetrable. "Who are we to demand explanations? To do that, one must stand higher than the sixth stair, and where do we stand? However, nothing prevents us from finding it out on our own. The Secret Ones take care of the whole of mankind, but we are simpler. We may put our own kin first. By the way, our job is to watch our home regions. I watch the people of the steppes, as many as grits in a desert, and you–"

I watch those of the North, Rolan nodded, as many as drops in the sea. If those two crop up in my lands, I can get a couple of tribes moving to meet them as soon as today. Or a couple of dozen. That’s their usual way, moving like wolf packs. Today there is one nation, and on the morrow another.

"They will pass. Prepare an ambush! More than one. And I’ll send the men of the steppes after them. On their light horses, they can gallop to the farthest sea!"

The Northman nodded, but winced. They can’t.

Why?

The nations of North are strong and ferocious. They are starting to send their own hosts to the East. Haven’t you heard of Vikings? Or about the Crusade to… ha, ha… to re-conquer the Holy Sepulcher?

Badri nodded. I have. I think my watch of the steppenmen is temporary. I hear they are going to move me one stair up. I’ll be watching the Saracen.

Those are better. And the nomads of the steppes… No literacy, not even cities, living by robbery… Why wouldn’t the Ones wipe them off the face of the earth? It became clear long ago that civilization is where plowmen are. No matter whether they are Christian or Saracen. And the steppenmen keep robbing and destroying them alike.

The Steppenman shrugged. Who are we to question the Ones? Probably they are useful, as pikes are for the crucians not to sleep. Or some bloodletting would cure not just a fat one, but whole fat nations. Probably the Ones have other reasons as well. Don’t forget: the two men who destroyed Slymak are very strong. Not only with muscle, sure.

Are they magicians?

It’s not clear. The only thing known for sure is that one’s an ignorant brass head, while another a wandering pilgrim.

Rolan alerted. Blue eyes went dark. He’s intelligent, Badri thought involuntarily, very intelligent, despite his strong muscle and beastly looks. That’s unusual, as if a warhorse had set to playing lute. The Creator has put in this mighty body a mind that was meant for a weak and shy one. And the Secret Ones are able to find valuable minds whatever body they hide in. To find and put at their service.

A pilgrim? Rolan asked thoughtfully. Any trouble could come from that sort. The cloaks of pilgrims hide either spies or runaways, or even mad prophets. They say even gods once used to roam the roads in the appearance of pilgrims. The brass heads are simpler, though not all… Haven’t we been that sort ourselves, when our bodies were stronger and our wits next to nothing? Every young man is fascinated by the glitter of swords, by military exploits. But what I like least is them traveling together. Brass heads usually stick to the company of those like them while pilgrims wander in crowds of the same ragged ones.

Badri smiled. Not triumphantly, not venomously, but to his peer with whom he shared a secret. In a calmer way, they finished their wine (a rare one even in Hellene – it was beyond understanding how local merchants managed to bring it from far away in such quantities), and rose.

Rolan opened his arms, Badri stepped up too, and they embraced like brothers. Even closer, as a blood brother may stab while embracing you, and brothers by Idea will truly stand up for each other.

I swear by Wotan, we will stop them! And learn their secrets.

You still swear by Wotan?

A habit, Rolan waved aside. The new faith was hammered into my people even later than in these Rossian heads. For now even konungs treat Christ with contempt, as he does not come of the family of gods. The one of humble origin, especially a bastard, will have trouble winning my lands even if he’s a god. And him being a Jew… we try not to mention it at all. In a word, we’ll stop these two. If they are really heading for Britain.

You will, Badri agreed. If only… my steppenmen don’t get them before.

They bared their wolfish teeth, lifted their hands in farewell. They had some indefinable thing in common, though to the innkeeper who observed them secretly, it was hard to find two more different people. But what is the difference in height, skin and hair colors when a man’s body is nothing but a scabbard for a gleaming sword? And the gleaming swords of these two had been forged in the same smithy and served the same master.

That master was not a man. The proud Northman would serve no man, even an emperor. Neither would the Steppenman whose pride was not lesser. But there is a way to subdue even the smartest, the boldest, the most independent. Call them to the service of no man but Idea! The noblest and the greatest one.

***

In the night woods, they heard footsteps. One could learn many things from those, so even before the wayfarer came to the fire, Thomas had seen with his mental eye (or drawn a picture of) a tired young man, poor and unarmed (otherwise he’d have been rather afraid), shod in sandals of birch bast, rather shabby. Oleg even detected a smell – the wayfarer had not washed for a long time, reeking of sweat like a horse, but kept coming from the windward side. Definitely he’s no hunter. That sort always hide their smell like dogs hide bones.

When the stranger came to the fire and stood so they could see him well, and those expecting a catch could even slip into the dark and check for others hiding there, Thomas waved to him kindly. Come to the fire. You’ve come a long way.

The boy sat down at the fire, his eyes were kind and sad. He seemed to watch them with a sort of hope. The hands he’d stretched to the flames were sinewy, marked by various work. Having checked himself, he pulled out of his scrip a loaf of bread, broke it to pieces and handed them around. Help yourselves to what the sky sent us.

Thomas gave a favorable nod. The witch took the hunch of bread and set to it so eagerly it was as if she had been starving for her whole long-enough life. Oleg felt bitter again: this Rusich was afraid to mention his ancient gods. But he didn’t want – or didn’t dare – to say the new god’s name either.

On business or out of it? the witch asked briskly.

Don’t even know how to put it…

Put it as it is. You see us today, but never again. Don’t be shy.

No place for shame in bathhouse and woods, the wonderer said.

The boy looked with big mild eyes. I’m looking for my fiancée. She went to the forest for berries and was gone. I’ve worn my feet out, looking for her a fortnight. If even a beast savaged her, I want to collect her bones. To bury. And if alive, I’ll bring her home, look after her. I’ll pick the herbs, do everything that’s needed.

Even this damned world has true people, Oleg thought with bitter warmth. He wants no other girl, rosy and healthy. A good-looking guy, he’s ready to devote his life to a cripple. For him, she will always be young and beautiful.

The witch said thoughtfully, She could have strayed into a wretched hole. It looks like a proper glade to gather mushrooms throughout the summer, to herd your cattle… But once in a summer – and twice in the last one – this place becomes rotten. Whoever steps there, will spread around like dough and flow down into the ground.

The boy blanched, even his neck lost color. Thomas sniffed sympathetically, slipped him a cup of mead. The boy accepted without a look, took a sip, coughed. Not until then he realized what he had in hand.

The new age is coming, Thomas said. These wild lands will also be reached by the faith of Christ. I know it has already come, but now it will strengthen and crush all the evil, destroy the wizards. No wretched hole will be spared. The world will be clean.

Oleg shook his head. Each faith produces its own monsters. And kinds of crime never known before. Well, we’ll have to get up early tomorrow, and the day’s breaking.

You sleep, Thomas said warily, and I’ll speak to her for a while. Our Britain has no witches. And I, once Krizhina is mine, will never leave home again!

A pig promised not to eat… er, Oleg muttered indifferently.

The witch clapped her hands. Readily, those who had been watching the feast for a long time began to get out of the shrubs: kikimoras, leshiys, korchevniks, chugaystyrs, mavkas, ischezniks⁸. All shaggy, unkempt, some looked like giant fir cones, cumbersome stubs, or balls of mistletoe. These strange forms of life that had once filled all the earth are now disappearing, going wild, while man is pressing and destroying it along with beasts, swamps and wildernesses.

They danced and somersaulted around the fire. Thomas watched with disgusted interest. The true faith will come and bring the glow of Christ’s teaching to this place too. Let them have a bit of fun at the end. It was not him who would have to soil his hands.

Oleg lay aside from the fire, cautious, looking at the forest people with anguish. The knight is right: they will come, wipe off and destroy, and inscribe their own writing once they learn it. Now even kings in the North are illiterate, superstitious. But the future belongs to these people, as they live avidly and fiercely, argue their beliefs furiously, ready to defend them with sword in hand, to give their own lives and the lives of others. It was them who stirred half the world to win back the tomb of their prophet. What hosts they send to the East! For the first ever time, as far as Oleg could remember, a war began not to capture the lands of others, plunder, take prisoners and sell them as slaves, rape women, but to liberate a holy thing from desecration. Of course they will rob and rape, old habits do not die that easy, but they already feel ashamed of that, no one would confess having come just for spoils. That’s good enough.

These Old Forest dwellers know and can do immeasurably more than common folk (even kings are common folk as against them) but they strive for nothing, crave for nothing. They live as their forefathers lived and don’t see how the world has changed. Woods give place to steppes, which turn into sands, and those may, in some thousand years, pour into a chasm or a ravine, then spill out of there in oceans and flood all around. And this new world has new people!

They shall leave, he told himself sadly, as even gods have gradually left. Where are they, those titans created by Rod? The first who came into the world? Even immortals leave. The witch, with all her knowledge, can’t see what’s looking at her over the young knight’s shoulder, dooming her. It is the future. Ignorant, full of superstition and prejudice, so absurd with its judgments… But the knight is bringing life to the stagnant swamp, into which, again, the whole world has begun to turn.

Dance, he said aloud. Dance your leaving.

Chapter 3

Waking up, Thomas felt the sword hilt in his hand, while the other hand lay on the bag with the cup. It was not very comfortable to sleep on, but unlikely to be stolen that way. Light-sleeping, he would seize his sword at once if anyone tugged at the bag. Calmed down, he fell dozy again, then forced himself to open his eyes.

The wonderer sat with his legs crossed, meeting the dawn. His face was stern and solemn. Thomas froze with awe; at times like that, sir wonderer bore a true resemblance to the prophets. Not to what they tend to be painted like but what they actually were – mighty, vigorous men, as a powerful spirit would only live in a strong body. Or so the heretics said. Anyway, heretics were a kind of Christian too, just a different one.

The merchants were harnessing their horses to drive on. The witch stayed there, doing some magic over a suspicious-looking pot. The tablecloth was in place, the leftovers under the rumpled and trampled shrubs, but the cloth still had a roast pig on it, with an apple in mouth, and the air smelled of boiled buckwheat.

Thomas, glancing with regret at the full tablecloth (and especially the full jugs), offered suddenly, Hey, beauty, would you mind going with us?

Where? the witch asked suspiciously.

To the God-blessed Britain. Our land is cold and severe, but that’s just because God has put all our heat in our hearts and souls.

Oleg turned away, thinking that no man could have drunk enough to see this old hag as a beauty. Strong are the new god’s warriors!

The witch shook her head with disapproval. "Only fools go knocking about the world. One even turned up here from the Tin Isles⁹ – who would believe it? All trouble comes from change. Want a morning-after drink?"

What rite is that?

You will like it, the witch promised.

Thomas looked with suspicion at the huge cup bound with old silver at its lip. The cup had good red wine – that’s why he took it from the witch, though in the morning light he saw at once that the cup had been made of a human skull.

Have I tasted from it this night?

Tasted? the witch asked again. "You drank all the night! Who trampled these shrubs down if not you?"

Thomas grew anxious. Me?

You, and so dashing!

Why would I?

You were showing the dances of your impious Druids. Then babbled of some tower of David, Saracens, Nebuchadnezzar, the vile Gehenna, Sir Gorvel to be knocked into the ground. You attacked the oaks, taught the assassin dance to the merchants, told us about parrots, climbed the tree…

Poor Thomas groaned, clasping his head. Why would I climb the tree?

"You were telling us about monkeys. How they steal wenches and do obscene things on trees. My heart nearly jumped out when you took me to the very top. Ugh, what a shame! Our women live with bears, willy-nilly, when those keep them in lairs throughout the winter. But those are bears! Same as men in their prime, and hairy the same. And monkeys are nastier than shoemakers."

Thomas drooped his head. How many sins would he have to repent if the hag spoke the truth? And drinking from a human skull – would the chaplain forgive that? Though the wine was good…

The cup felt cold and heavy in his hand. The silver had a mysterious glimmer, the red surface seemed pitch-dark.

Was he a good man? he mumbled unhappily.

A furious warrior, the witch swore. Strong and fearless. His voice was like a lion’s roar, his chest broad as a door, and his hands were always strong to hold a sword. He laid many men under the blanket of turf until they dropped him to one knee. But even wounded, he kept fighting. When they cut off his leg, he leaned his stump on a stub and kept fighting, and took three more lives!

Thomas took a reverential sip of wine. His dried body accepted it gladly, he felt the particles of the strange warrior’s might, which the strong wine had washed out of the thick bone, flow into his flesh, the arms, legs and heart of Thomas Malton of Gisland, a Christian warrior.

The horse neighed a call, and Thomas, reluctantly, began to raise himself. Oleg spoke without looking at him: Europe is still covered with dark woods. Hard to get through ahorse… But local… er… locals are promising to help.

Does anyone live here?

They even have good wine.

Ah, you mean the witch, Thomas grumbled.

He stood and twisted with suffering. His head was ringing with peals, though wherever Thomas looked, he could see no bell tower. However, his spirit took no fright – he had seen enough mirages back in the sands of Great Saracenia.

Do you mind?

No, no, Thomas said hastily. "The wine was excellent. Though stolen."

Well, even your faith does not prohibit pillage.

Pillage and stealing are not the same. Pillage is noble, and stealing… stealing is bad.

Even stealing from Pagans?

Thomas fell thoughtful over this difficult theological question. Then he remembered how their priest had dealt with unanswerable questions like Can God create a rock He cannot lift? or Did Adam have a navel? and pressed on, This hag is a Pagan too!

There are faiths older than hers. She thinks of them as Pagans.

Thomas thought for a while and resolved: We may steal from Pagans. And infidels. And heretics.

The charms in Oleg’s fingers were tapping, slipping through like water-smoothed pebbles. Each time he got only the figures of snake and sword. Even a child could see – that meant journey and fights. The law had not yet come to these lands. A long sword ruled them.

Having saddled the horses, they set off, leaving the dawn behind. Thomas rose on his stirrups impatiently, as though in hope of seeing the misty rocks of Britain, which the wonderer called the Tin Isles, in the old fashion. However he gave a hint that if he, Thomas Malton of Gisland, delivered the cup safe, then it would not be called Britain anymore but re-named – the whole vast country with dozens of peoples and princedoms – in honor of his glorious, though small, tribe of Angles. Thomas disliked and feared the prophecies of Pagan sorcerers, as those were from devil, but may this one come true, even if he has to burn in hell’s fire for it.

***

By noon they got to the bank of a twisting river. Across it, one could see white huts almost hidden by the woods. The river was picking its course carefully, changed it, returned to old places, having filled the way behind with silt and scum, while trees either came up to the very water or gave place to thick sedges.

A track went along it. Without hesitation, Thomas drove his horse onto the trodden path. Should there be a ford, they’d cross: a ford is hard to miss. The wonderer leaned off his horse on the go, plucked tufts of grass, smelled them, even tasted. Thomas rode still as a tower. It was hard to move in his knightly armor, let alone do tricks like a wild Steppenman. His only comfort was that no Steppenman would be allowed to the kingdom of heaven, as they were all Pagans. Otherwise he’d have been ashamed of sitting side-by-side with narrow-eyed or yellow-faced men. Or even with commoners! But God is fair, he would not allow such humiliation of a highborn man.

Here, closer to the north, autumn was in the air. Death caps, bright as if splattered with blood, stuck out of the dark green grass, asking to be picked, while the mushrooms of noble birth never pushed forward but waited, modest and dignified, for the gaze of man the king to fall upon them. The blackthorns stood all covered with black berries, a befuddling smell was coming out of prickly raspberry canes.

Oleg pointed silently at some bear tracks – the forest master would miss no opportunity to regale on sweet things. He dismounted, silent, went into the prickly thickets without a noise. Thomas squirmed, but knightly duty commanded him to stay ahorse and guard his friend. Birds were calling to each other in the thick branches, Thomas heard no anxiety in their voices.

Taste, Oleg invited, coming out of the thickets. Soon this forest will cease to exist.

Thomas took a handful of berries. Why?

They’ll cut it down, uproot it, and till the ground. Then the wind will blow out the earth, as it’s been loosened, and only leave sand. Great Sands… I’ve seen that happen more than once.

It gave Thomas shivers. Sir wonderer, you speak scarily. Will we have enough time to cross? My horse would stick in sands.

Oleg made a doleful wave of his head. "We shall. That’s to come in some eight or ten thousand years. But your great-grandchildren will have a hard time."

Thomas moved his lips, then fingers, as he counted years, then grinned. They may consult the Saracen on how to build cities in sands. Will the Saracen still live then? What do you think?

He vaulted off his horse with unexpected ease, entered the thorny bushes intrepidly. There came crunches, snaps, a satisfied cry. Then a scary