Act One: The Shadow of the Gods (Part 5)
five
"You're lost, aren't you?"
Schumeer spoke first. Yakov saw that he was already fully dressed, wearing a short wool cloak, and his body was covered with luggage; it seemed he was planning to escape.
"Why are you asking me this?" Yakov used his most ferocious tone to mask his weakness and panic. "Do you know what happened?"
“I swear to my God, I have no idea what’s going on. As you can see, I’m a devout man, so my words must be true…” Schumeer’s lips moved rapidly, his speech growing increasingly agitated, until Yakov’s blade was pressed against his neck. His drooping amber eyes snapped shut in pain, and his mustache trembled again under his nose, as if he had smelled something extremely foul. “I… I only have one guess!” Unsurprisingly, he changed his tune again, “You must have heard the rumors about vampires in this forest?”
Yakov's mind flashed back to the image of the shabby, flute-playing bard on the snowy road. "You mean the Grand Duchess is a vampire in disguise?"
“No, no!” Schumer shook his head, using the opportunity to move his neck further away from the blade. “Lady Camilla, I guess she’s the vampire, and she’s also the Grand Duchess. We’re a bunch of foolish lambs, letting the devil take the lead!”
"Why do you think that?" Yakov grabbed his collar, causing the clumsy Jew to slip and nearly fall.
“I…I’ve known her for 18 years!” Schumacher wanted to shout, but dared not make a loud sound. “When you came in, did you see the portrait in the hall? That’s my work from 18 years ago! She hasn’t aged at all, has she?”
Yakov recalled the eerie and lifelike portrait of the three figures, and realized there was truth to it. "You must be an accomplice of the vampires," he said with a mixture of contempt and wariness. "Only the devil's servant could paint something like that."
"I simply can't tell if you're praising me or belittling me!" The painter, held in Yakov's arms, was enraged by these words. "You crude brute wielding swords, what do you know about art! Kill me, so you can get lost and die in this castle, and then regret killing the only person who could show you the way out!"
Yakov regretfully discovered that he had been trapped by the tempting terms. He had to think of a way to leave. "You know the way out," he said, releasing his grip and letting Schumeer's heel hit the ground. "Take me out. If you try anything funny, don't blame me."
The two hurried through the long, stained-glass corridor. Schumeer's luggage didn't slow him down; each bundle was carefully secured to his body with leather straps or buttonholes, saving him effort and freeing his hands—which wasn't good news for Yakov. Schumeer sped ahead of him, as if he were about to flee. It was Yakov who was slowed down by his snow-soaked wool sweater and heavy armor. He quickened his pace and grabbed Schumeer.
“Slow down. I know you want to run away.” Yakov casually snatched one of his bags and tied it to his own belt. He was pleased to see Schumeer’s angry expression return, which meant what he had taken was quite important. “I’ll keep this package for you. I’ll return it to you when we get out of here and into the village.”
Schumacher couldn't resist, but his mustache and braid fluttered in anger. "You know, you owe me a favor for this," he said, trying to ease the tension but with a hint of sarcasm. "If I ask you to escort me back to Venice, you can't take my money."
“Shut up, Jew,” Yakov replied coldly. “If you weren’t still useful, I would have killed you long ago.”
They stopped in front of a wall. Schumeer held a delicate Arabic oil lamp, which looked like a pretty teapot with a pointed spout. The flame was just a tiny point on the spout, illuminating a very small area. Yakov frowned as he watched him fumble and grope his way along the wall.
What are you delaying for?
“Shut up, knight!” Schumeer interrupted impatiently, retorting, “You big shots just love to boss people around!”
Yakov pulled down his helmet and watched his movements silently.
A moment later, it seemed Schumeer had found and triggered some mechanism. He carefully placed the oil lamp on the ground, then forcefully pushed up a lever that appeared out of nowhere—the stone wall spun as he pushed, turning into a hidden door—and Yakov understood why he was lost. But as the gap appeared, an expected, incredibly strong smell of blood and light poured out. Schumeer gagged from the stench, used his frail arms to push the lever all the way down, then scrambled to retrieve his oil lamp, blew it out, and put it in his pocket.
“This door leads to the hall,” Schumacher said softly, but was forced to stand up by the tip of his longsword.
“I don’t trust you.” Yakov urged him, raising his sword and lifting the hem of Schumeer’s clothes. “You go first.”
Despite his immense reluctance, Schumer had no choice but to submit to Yakov's tyranny. His mouth, which hadn't stopped moving, began to mutter a prayer in a language Yakov couldn't understand, and his legs went weak, his knees swaying back and forth in fear. The two men walked slowly and silently through the doorway that had been opened by the mechanism. Yakov realized this was the hall he had entered from; they were now emerging from a doorway deep within the hall, below the curved staircases on either side.
The fresh, warm stench of blood filled his nostrils, assaulting his very skull. Yakov, hiding behind Schumeer, hadn't even had a chance to properly survey the room before Schumeer collapsed, unconscious, and lay motionless on the floor. Yakov tried to kick him to wake him, but he too was horrified by the hellish sight.
Yakov had been to the battlefield—he had seen mountains of severed heads, piled up for humiliation; he had seen corpses torn apart by vultures and hyenas in the summer, their entrails spilling out, the stench attracting thousands of maggots and flies. These horrific memories of these less-than-human creatures sustained him, allowing him to still stand.
The hall remained as brightly lit, luxurious, and exquisitely decorated as when Yakov had first arrived, yet utterly silent. But the silver platters that once held food no longer held game or delicacies; instead, they held severed limbs and dismembered bodies, as if a cannibalistic feast had just concluded. Each person seemed to have been torn apart from within, spilling every drop of blood from their body. The extreme blood loss gave all the corpses on the platters a ghastly bluish-white hue, their eyes bulging from their sockets. It was too bright here for Yakov to ignore the faces piled beneath the wreckage. He recognized the poor people in the procession, and the servant boy he had just reprimanded.
Each person wore a strange, blissful smile, as if they were extremely honored to be eaten.
A faint sound of horseshoes tapping on the ground came from the gate, drawing Yakov's attention. The tall, handsome Norman horse stood uneasily beside the gate, pacing nervously, its nostrils flaring in alarm, but it appeared healthy and unharmed. Its saddle was still on, the bit still firmly in its teeth, making it easy for someone to leap onto its back and ride away.
Where is that vampire? Was it really a vampire? Yakov thought, I must ride that horse and gallop away before anything finds me. Even if the blizzard outside buries me, blows me away, or freezes me to death, that's better than becoming a meal here. So he kicked Schumacher's unconscious body aside and tried to walk to the middle of the hall.
Before he could leave the shadows and step into the light, he heard a woman's voice coming from the bottom of the staircase, from the deepest part of the hall.
“You are not devout,” Camilla said. “You have betrayed me.”
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