Act One: The Shadow of the Gods (Part 1)
one
"Go to the Holy Land! You will be redeemed, your sins will be cleansed..."
Accompanying the army was a mad, ragged monk. His head was shaved with a rough wreath, revealing a patch of ugly, pale skin on his scalp. His dry mouth mumbled indistinct Latin, which few in the small Hungarian village could understand. But Yakov had studied Latin and knew what the man was saying.
Yakov never believed these things. He was an atheist. Whether it was the gods of the Franks and Byzantines, the Saracens and Egyptians, or the Hebrews, he disbelieved in all gods, as if he were born with an aversion to these high and mighty things. Yakov also refused to acknowledge his own sin. Disbelief meant no original sin, and those without sin had no need for God—a perfect closed loop! Those who willingly confessed their sins were destined for a bad end, like foolish animals trapped in a snare. Look at him, that devout servant of God, already spouting nonsense and becoming tiresome, yet insisting he was "cultivating himself through asceticism to draw closer to the will of saints and gods." This was utterly ridiculous. According to this logic, the more devout one is, the more one suffers—what kind of glorious and great God is this?
Whenever they passed through a village, the older villagers, who still retained memories of decades past, would pull all the able-bodied children into their houses as soon as they saw the Crusaders from afar, shutting the doors tightly, making no attempt to hide their overflowing disgust. They knew and remembered what kind of people the Crusaders were. Some of the bolder old men would climb onto their rooftops and throw stones at the incessantly chattering monks, spitting at their feet.
The village was now relatively friendly, except for a clumsy, clown-like bard who had been surrounding them since the beginning of the path, playing his flute and singing terrifying vampire tales, shamelessly sticking out his hat to beg for money. But the group was too poor to give him a single coin. "You're cursed!" he cried angrily. "Tonight, you'll be drained of your blood by vampires, your souls stolen, and you'll never go to heaven!"
"This is madness, utter madness." Upon hearing this, the mentally unstable monk suddenly regained his senses. Then, he followed the bard and left without looking back, disappearing from sight.
Yakov couldn't be bothered to look for him. He wished these swindlers would just disappear from his sight.
He was hiding in a group of fewer than twenty men—a considerable number to muster in these villages unwelcoming to Crusaders—who were trudging through the snowstorm with a man on horseback. The Transylvanian winter was bitterly cold, reminding Yakov of his days years ago in his northern homeland. Here they were climbing a plateau, the snow falling thicker and thicker. The men in the group had clearly been poor just days before. They wore only crosses embroidered on their shoulders, coarse linen and fur coats and cloaks, barely able to withstand the biting wind, their joints creaking from the cold as they carried their own pitchforks, hoes, and flails. But they did not stop.
Perhaps some in this group truly set out for their faith. But Yakov knew the reality. They were either from impoverished families, having lost their land and livelihoods in the war; or they were heading east in search of fame and fortune, fantasizing about achieving success themselves. These were not exactly honorable reasons, so they had to use faith to embellish their journey.
Yakov was unlike anyone else; he stood out tall and imposing in the group. He concealed his Slavic face beneath an iron helmet and wore an expensive suit of chainmail. Over the chainmail was a white tunic secured with leather straps, adorned with a red cross. For his hands and feet were metal-clad, leather-lined gauntlets and boots. Now, if Yakov were to punch or kick someone, he would slice off pieces of flesh with a piece of iron. This outfit, if sold, could fetch two plots of land, livestock, and a shed in the village—but the outfit didn't belong to Yakov.
The pathetic and savage Slav had been penniless just hours before. This was what he had stolen from someone else. The wretched man's face was now smashed, his naked corpse lying by a cold stream. Yakov recalled that his attacker must have been a knight. It was clear that when a knight was alone, off his horse, and unguarded, even if he was tall and strong, even if he had a tempered and polished longsword at his waist, he couldn't withstand the sudden attack of a bandit who had been starving all day—and now that sword belonged to Yakov too. Yakov cherished the sword, always handling it, and discovered that it was not only ornately decorated but also ingeniously weighted, making it nimble and light in his hand. This was not something he could easily steal from battlefield corpses. The hilt of the sword was carved and engraved, and a small, translucent ruby was set at the top, sparkling in the sunlight. It came with a beautiful and well-fitting scabbard made of perforated and embroidered leather. Attaching it to his waist with a leather belt made him look as imposing as a general or lord. The leather was also engraved with words, the same as those on the hilt, but Yakov didn't recognize the language and couldn't decipher its meaning. Perhaps it was the knight's family name, Yakov thought; he himself had no surname, so this surname was his too—
"Sir Zashchtytnikov." A naive-looking young man jogged up to Yakov, his hands and feet shivering from the cold, his wrists chapped and red outside his sleeves. "Father Ferenc is calling for you."
Yakov paused for a moment, then remembered that his face was still covered by the iron mask, so he pretended to be calm and followed him to the front of the horse.
He trudged heavily across the slippery ground. Down the mountain, the snow melted into the mud as soon as it hit the ground. But up the mountain, the snowflakes clumped together into a dense layer of ice, making the road dirty, gray, and full of potholes. Yakov's feet were frozen, and muddy water seeped into his shoes, making his toes stick together painfully.
The man leading the procession on horseback looked to be nearing eighty; it was Father Ferenc. Yakov thought the young man must be the priest's page. He looked up at the man on horseback, at the richly dressed old man with two gold-embroidered sashes hanging down his back. A long, flowing white cloak draped over his shoulders and down to the horse's rump. Unfortunately, he was still shivering from the cold, having to bury his neck in his expensive but windless collar, his exposed ears turning a stiff red. Seeing such a high-ranking person in such a pitiful state, Yakov felt a sudden, inexplicable pleasure and wanted to mock them.
But he was an imposter and couldn't reveal it yet. So he just waited quietly for the priest to speak.
“Sir Zashchtytnikov, I’m so sorry, it seems we’ve taken the wrong turn and shouldn’t have come up the mountain,” Father Ferenc said in Latin. Even with the cold wind disrupting his perfect rolled “r”, his manners remained impeccable.
Yakov thought, "I don't know which way this group was originally supposed to go. But if Father Ferenc freezes to death here tonight, I can steal this horse. It's a fine horse, chestnut all over with a black mane." Yakov guessed it must be a Pinorman, tall, big, and heavy, perfect for someone as tall, big, and heavy as himself. If he didn't want this horse, he should have stolen the chainmail and hidden it away long ago; why did he bother climbing up the mountain with the group to suffer?
But he didn't say anything.
“No one can stand walking like this any longer.” Father Ferenc’s teeth chattered as he spoke, but his accent remained elegant. “Ahead lies the castle of the Grand Duchess of Transylvania, Lady Noctennias. She is an old friend of mine; let us spend the night there, sir.”
"Sir?" Such a flattering address filled Yakov with both delight and heightened vigilance. He had no reason to refuse the offer. Did this cunning old priest expect him to refuse, only to then reprimand him for letting the entire group freeze to death? Through the visor of his helmet, Yakov saw that upon hearing this, everyone in the group looked up, their eyes gleaming with hope for warmth by the fire.
Yakov simply nodded and went back to the back of the line.
The more he thought about it, the more uneasy he felt. What kind of castle was this? How many people were inside? Would he still be able to steal the horse? Would his identity be exposed? Yakov was also unbearably cold; he longed for a fire, hot food, and a place with a roof to sleep soundly. These two thoughts battled in his mind. As he pondered, the group continued forward through the heavy snow. Gradually, the path ahead narrowed, and the group stretched out, each person following behind the next. The surrounding scenery quickly changed from grassland to forest. The straight tree trunks, set against the white snow, appeared an eerie gray-black, arranged in a bottomless abyss, their canopies blocking out the sun. Yakov recalled the bard's tale: "The dark, gloomy mountain forests are the lair of vampire monsters." But he didn't even believe the priests' sermons, so he wasn't frightened by such nonsense. Yakov thought that the first danger in such a place was that there might be bandits lying in ambush—as a bandit himself, he knew this best—but in such cold weather, even the most vicious and desperate people would not want to squat in the snow all day guarding the road; and the second danger was getting lost.
They made their way through the woods. Although the wind and snow were somewhat blocked, a layer of snow still accumulated on the ground, making it difficult to even pull one's feet out. Yakov was exhausted. His armor was heavy, and every step added to his effort. He regretted not having found a chance to escape before going up the mountain; he shouldn't have been greedy and wanted the horse. But now there was no turning back. The wind grew stronger, bending the branches of the trees above the group and making a whistling sound. In the corners of the sky, the silvery-gray clouds piled up thicker and thicker.
Yakov knew that by nightfall, the snow would turn into a blizzard. If they couldn't find the castle before dark, they would all perish there.
Everyone knew this. The group was on edge. Clouds rolled in, and the sky began to darken early. Everyone kept their heads down and hurried on, not uttering a single word.
A moment later, Yakov noticed something amiss at the front of the procession. People stopped and swarmed around the priest on horseback. Yakov dared not speak, afraid his voice and Slavic accent would give him away. But he hurried on anyway. The cold wind whistled through his helmet, seeping in through the gaps and making his ears ring.
He pushed through the crowd and saw the priest had fallen from his horse, frozen stiff, unable to move his limbs. The page grabbed his limp, cold, withered hand in terror. "Is he dead?" The young man knelt helplessly on the snow, unable to do anything. "I don't know the way, we're all going to die here!"
Yakov's heart sank. "Take off his clothes!" he shouted, not caring whether he would be recognized.
The pageboy, upon hearing his words, hurriedly began to remove the priest's cumbersome robes, exposing the old man's loose, wrinkled chest and belly. Yakov removed his metal gloves, knelt on the ground, and plunged his bare hands into the snow, gathering it in his palms and rapidly rubbing it up and down against Father Ferenc's still-warm skin. After a while, he felt the body beneath his hands finally exhale warm breath. Yakov breathed a sigh of relief.
He then noticed a red, swollen wound on Father Ferenc's left chest, like an old, branding scar, reminiscent of the marks of slaves in a barbaric era. The scar formed a peculiar pattern, like a smiling, evil mouth, with two sharp teeth protruding from beneath them, dripping blood.
Father Ferenc's lips trembled as he exhaled white breath. Yakov leaned close to his mouth to listen.
“Follow…the bats,” Father Ferenc said.
Yakov wondered what the old man was talking about. He wasn't a believer, but he knew that bats were never a good omen in the church.
He looked up and was astonished to find a huge white bat hanging upside down from a dark tree facing them. The bat had red eyes, its white fur blending into the white snow, and its red eyes gleamed in the shadows like two evil lamps, making it impossible for Yakov to look away. The white bat suddenly spread its wings, its thin membranes blocking out all light as if blotting out the sky.
It flew away along the road. Yakov then realized that it was completely dark.
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