Act 9: The Oathbreaker (Thirteen)

Thirteen

As Yakov reached the back of the column, he realized he was one of the few hunters to be alone. The servants of the minor nobles were in groups of three or five, while the large contingents of the major nobles looked as if they were about to charge into battle. They wore fine armor over padded coats—supposedly to prevent the metal from gleaming in the sun and alerting enemies and prey to the presence of armored soldiers—but it was too hot, and many people extended their armored arms from under their padded coats to cool off, yet the column still shone brightly in the eye.

"Whose hunter are you?" a registrar stopped him. "State your name."

“I am a hunter from the Noctenias family,” Yakov said without batting an eye. “My master is Jubius of Transylvania.”

“You’re alone.” The registrar frowned under his helmet. “Follow the Angelos family’s group ahead and follow their orders.”

Yakov nodded and spurred his horse to follow.

He recalled Schumeer's words: "Hunting is not merely for pleasure, but a good opportunity to hone skills and discipline." Yakov guessed that this was similar to the battlefield. The king summoned his lords, who in turn summoned their knights; the soldiers came from all over, each with their own lord to serve. What appeared to be a large and complete army was in reality a scattered and disorganized rabble, posing a considerable challenge to the commander. How to coordinate the leaders without causing conflict, how to allocate tasks without disputes—all these required careful consideration.

Someone distributed bait to them, which was better than nothing. Yakov followed the group into the forest, contemplating slacking off, but unfortunately, the leader of the group he was with didn't think so—he was a father with his young son, seemingly a prominent nobleman. The large hunting party was accompanied by numerous hunting dogs, and a beautiful falcon perched on the officer's magnificent cloak, its eyes blindfolded, nodding blankly. Surrounded by the crowd, he untied the blindfold, released the falcon, and the soldiers cheered and sang praises to their master's bravery.

Yakov found the scene ridiculous—the officer had released the falcon and was simply taking his son for a stroll. Meanwhile, the soldiers were organized into squads, flanking and searching along pre-planned routes through the mountains. They had to do the work and also sing praises. Yakov thought, what a hypocritical activity.

He was assigned to follow a group of infantrymen, but the soldiers didn't recognize him and treated him as if he didn't exist. Yakov then took off his helmet and let his horse stroll slowly behind them. "There are boar root marks over there," he pointed out idly, taking a sip of wine. "See those footprints on the grass by the tree?"

But the Greek soldiers glanced at him and continued along the designated route.

What kind of hunting is this? Yakov thought, a group of hunters who know nothing but singing praises can only get prey by using the most rudimentary method of surrounding the mountains. They can neither hone their fighting skills nor improve their hunting knowledge. If sent to the battlefield, how could these people survive if they relied on their generals, who were eating, drinking, and having fun in their tents, to make decisions? He recalled the hard times he had spent with the Tatars: every man in their households was a skilled horseman and archer, and everyone knew how to hunt—although their discipline was indeed lacking.

After walking a while longer, Yakov spotted wild boar tracks for the second time. "These are wild boar droppings," he couldn't help but say again, "and they're fresh."

“Stop showing off your little bit of knowledge,” a soldier turned around and warned him. “Nobody wants to hear it.”

Yakov rolled his eyes—he decided not to offer any advice.

The air in the woods was moist and fresh, much cooler than the meadows outside. Yakov was reluctant to finish his wine—such a strong liquor was forbidden in the Knights, a rare treat. The soldiers had no horses to ride, their shoes sank into the mud and grass, making walking difficult. Soon their formation thinned, and they chatted idly, complaining about nothing in particular. "If I had a horse, I wouldn't have to trek here," one soldier grumbled, scratching at the grass with his spear. "I'd like to be in my tent, drinking fine wine and waiting for the prey to come to me."

"There are people drinking on horseback behind you," someone sneered. "And they're all drunk."

"I'm drenched in sweat from walking." Someone plopped down on the ground. "Let's rest here for a while."

"Let's do it this way." Someone dropped the shield from their back. "We'll leave later."

Listening to their conversation, Yakov couldn't help but wonder about their reasons for slacking off. He dismounted and joined the group. "What's the point of hunting like this?" he asked. "Don't you want the prey? Don't you want honor?"

"You're a strange fellow. Where did you come from?" The soldier turned to look at his face.

“I am a Rus’ man, a mercenary,” Yakov lied as soon as he opened his mouth.

"No wonder you have that question," the soldier remarked. "What's hunting like where you're from?"

“The warriors would track their prey individually, and whoever found it first got to keep it,” Yakov said. “If they were late or slow, they wouldn’t get a single bit of fur, meat, or bone. Fights often broke out over the prey.”

“That’s not how it works here.” The Greek soldier looked him over as he squatted steadily on the ground. “We can only report to our superiors when we spot the prey; we’re not allowed to track it ourselves.”

“What if you try to track them on your own and encounter wild animals?” another person sitting on the ground chimed in. “You’ll get bitten open by fangs, and the prey will belong to its owner. You’ll only get a few silver coins at home. It’s not worth it.”

"Exactly, only a fool would follow a trail." Everyone nodded in agreement. "We'd rather not run into anything at all."

So that's what happened. Yakov thought, so the scolding he received earlier wasn't entirely unjust. He thought for a moment, then handed his wine bag to the people around him. "Have some of my wine," he grinned, "as an apology for my big mouth."

The soldiers exchanged glances, took the wine flasks from him, and each took a sip to moisten their throats. The fragrant wine eased their parched throats, and they continued their idle chatter, the topics gradually becoming bolder. "Being a soldier here now isn't as good as being a mercenary in the North," they complained bitterly. "Our families have to pay such heavy taxes, all the money goes to foreigners, and we have no way out ourselves. We learn nothing but flattery."

"Weren't all the Venetians' money confiscated before?" Yakov asked casually.

"What does that have to do with us ordinary people?" the soldier patted him on the shoulder. "The emperor and nobles have all taken the money."

“Even if the Venetians are gone, there are still the Genoese and the Franks,” someone exclaimed, pointing a finger at Yakov. “Now even the Slavs can come and make money!”

“I used to be a slave, I can’t stand hearing this,” Yakov said, snatching back his wine bag without getting angry. “Do you think there’s anything more miserable than being a slave?”

The soldiers first burst into laughter, then sighed. "At least you have some real skills. If you can recognize the tracks of prey during a hunt, even if you can't chase after it, you'll know how to avoid it, right?"

People stole a moment of leisure in this secluded forest, complaining and finding joy amidst hardship. They took turns drinking, and a faint blush appeared on everyone's cheeks. "Alright, time to get going," someone said, getting up to brush the grass off their bottom. "If we stay any longer, the encirclement might slip through us."

Yakov lifted the wine flask to check its weight. With so many people around, the wine was gone in a few sips. He regretted wasting time and drinks—suddenly, he heard his mount snort uneasily and twitch its hooves as it tried to back off—Yakov immediately scrambled to his feet, held his breath, and reached for his bow and arrows on his back. Seeing him like this, the others silently and slowly rose to their feet, their eyes darting around.

Every sound in the forest was amplified. Unidentified birds chirped in the branches, the wind rustled through the leaves, and the crisp sound of each person's shoes crunching on the grass was clearly audible. Yakov aimed his arrow, his back to the soldiers holding spears, shifting his weight. He heard a faint grunt—the arrow left the bowstring before he could even think. Everyone saw the shadow of a huge wild boar leap from behind a tree trunk and disappear into the distance. The beast had been wounded by Yakov, an arrow lodged in its rump.

Suddenly, all the soldiers excitedly took off in pursuit, one even blowing the whistle hanging around his neck. Yakov was horrified—this was a far cry from their earlier complaints. Just moments ago, these men had been clamoring that they should run away as soon as they encountered prey, so why were they all going back on their word and chasing after it? "You can't beat that beast!" Yakov immediately mounted his horse. "These idiots, are they crazy?!"

The wild boar, as expected, was enraged by the whistle and turned to charge straight at the man. Yakov's mounted archery skills were rendered useless in the dense forest; he had to switch hands to his spear, spurring his horse to attack from the side, the spear tip just within reach of the boar's head. "Poke its eyes!" the whistleblower shouted, "Don't damage its hide!"

"Fur, still thinking about fur?" Yakov released his pent-up strength, the spear snapping and breaking off as it struck the tusks. In the blink of an eye, the boar charged angrily, shoving the man several meters away, crashing him into a tree trunk. The remaining men finally arrived, spears in hand, surrounding their prey, but none dared to thrust forward. "Aren't you going to kill this beast?" Yakov turned his horse, shocked by the scene. The whistleblower was coughing up blood, clearly seriously wounded. "He's dying!"

"This man won't survive even if we save him!" the man who had just drunk his wine shouted arrogantly. "You have a horse, quickly call Lord Angelos!"

Yakov stared in disbelief. "What do you want with him?"

"Only Lord Angelos is worthy to kill this beast!" The soldier's eyes were fixed on his comrade's blood, bloodshot veins bulging wildly. "Hurry up, or the man will have died in vain!"

Absurd. Yakov thought, this was too absurd to be so blatantly displayed under the scorching sun. He nocked an arrow again, but couldn't release the string, and felt distressed at the thought of dropping it. Just as he was anxiously pondering what to do, a group of people came from the depths of the forest; it was Angelos's father and young son.

"What a huge wild boar!" the officer exclaimed, shoving a longsword into the child's hand. "This is your first wild boar. Go!"

Yakov's bow fell limply. He quietly pulled his helmet back over his head and silently reined in his horse. The young boy, protected by a group of men, approached the struggling beast—Yakov thought darkly that if the boar retaliated and killed him, it would be fair—but the guards plunged their spears into the intact hides the soldiers treasured, leaving it riddled with holes and barely alive. The officer's young son, shakily, raised his heavy sword and effortlessly plunged it into the beast's howling throat, spraying blood all over his face and body. The surrounding crowd cheered and celebrated again, as if the child himself had truly hunted the boar.

The Blood Slave snorted with utter disgust and turned to plunge into the depths of the forest.