Act One: The Shadow of the Gods (Part Seven)
seven
A thin layer of glass sand was blown onto the floor of the hall, sparkling like diamonds.
Yakov immediately scrambled to his feet. He pulled off his helmet, threw off his gloves, and unbuckled his belt—the chainmail was difficult to remove, so he forcefully pulled down his cloak, unbuttoned it, and let the soaked wool lining fall to one side—finally, he saw a brand new, searing wound on his left chest. The wound was curved, like a grinning mouth, with two sharp teeth protruding from the corners, dripping blood, right where his heart was.
He dazedly lost his strength, let go of his grip, and looked at Father Ferenc sitting on the island platform. The old man was doing the same thing as him—he was using a few purple, frostbitten, and necrotic fingers to pull open his white priest's robe—his withered and thin chest was already empty.
A long, terrifying wail emanated from the old man's body. He tumbled off his seat, crawled to Camilla's headless corpse, and began to painfully gnaw at her flesh—Yakov stared in disbelief at this deranged act, then rushed forward and kicked him away. Father Ferenc groaned in pain as Yakov grabbed him by the collar and dragged him up.
"What is this thing?" Yakov roared, pointing to his left chest. "Tell me, or I'll kill you!"
"...Who are you?" Father Ferenc seemed to regain some of his senses and touched Yakov's face with his bony hand. "You are not from the Zashchtytnikov family."
The half-dead old man's eyes showed no fear, but instead a terrible contempt and disdain, just like the look Yakov often saw whenever he exposed his face. He closed his withered mouth and stared at Yakov silently, like an aging vulture. Yakov was terrified and furious under his gaze. He stood there, trembling, helpless, until a mouthful of foul-smelling saliva was sprayed directly in his face.
Yakov wiped his face, then raised his sword and plunged it into the old man's chest. Father Ferenc remained silent. This time, blood foamed and gushed from his parched lips, splattering onto Yakov's white cloak.
Yakov stood there for a while, lost in the dilapidated, terrifying hall, his mind a jumbled mess. He sleepwalked toward the unconscious Schumeer, only to find the secret door empty—the damned Jew had vanished sometime earlier. Yakov thought, why don't I just ride off too? With this mark on me, whatever its meaning, can't I live? But he felt a strong urge to leave. He couldn't leave this mansion. He stared blankly at the now empty, massive window frames, then looked around at the gruesome sculptures and murals. Once again, Yakov looked up, following the guidance, into the darkness. He found the huge portrait again, supposedly painted by Schumeer eighteen years ago—he thought, there are three vampires in it.
Suddenly, as if a string in his mind had snapped, Yakov had a sudden realization.
There were four vampires in the painting. He knew the fourth vampire's name and appearance. He knew what to do.
Yakov pulled the helmet back over his head, covering his Slavic face once more. His vision narrowed to a slit again. He took a candlestick from the wreckage on the table and went up the curved staircase that hugged the wall. His cold, hard soles left a trail of blood on the clean carpet.
He left the hall and entered the second-floor corridor. Yakov was surprised to find that the second floor had far more windows than the first, and not all of them were covered with thick curtains. This made the sound of the raging blizzard outside seem even more real and clear, as if the first floor of the mansion existed solely to protect the habitable second floor. Through a long row of windows, Yakov saw a large lake in the middle of the forest behind the mansion. It was completely frozen, its vast, pristine surface reflecting a faint moonlight—the clouds had dispersed, and the blizzard outside was gradually subsiding.
The layout of the second floor was completely different from the maze on the first floor. This wide, winding corridor made it easy to see where all the room doors were, but it was still empty and pitch black. Yakov carefully held up the candlestick and probed forward, opening each room door and searching carefully.
He opened the first door. The walls of the room were lined with cabinets and filled with books, resembling the library of a monastery or church, or the workspace of a king's historians and scribes. Unfortunately, Yakov was not very literate and couldn't understand the contents of the books and manuscripts; he opened the second door. The room was an excessively ornate bathroom, filled with a fragrant aroma. In the center was a huge marble pool, surrounded by countless bottles and jars of spices and ointments, reminiscent of the Roman emperors' bathhouses. But now the water in the pool was cold and still; no one would want to stay there; he opened the third door. This was a bedroom with a lit fireplace, its flames burning warmly. Opposite the fireplace was a beautiful four-poster bed, its flowing silk canopy hanging from the ceiling and draped over the headboard. Beside the bed was a huge, expensive full-length mirror, still a priceless Venetian silver-plated artifact.
Yakov keenly noticed an open suitcase on the carpet in front of the dressing mirror, topped with a pile of black fur cloaks. A patterned calfskin leather belt protruded from it, supporting a square, rose-gold buckle.
He looked around; the room was empty, but the firewood was clearly new, crackling loudly. Yakov walked forward to the mirror and picked up the cloak. He unfolded it, and it hung straight down, indicating that his estimation of the figure's height in the painting was correct.
A long, guttural rumble escaped his stomach beneath his chainmail, followed by a wave of dizziness and weakness. Yakov recalled that all day, aside from the meager rations the cowardly knight he had killed had carried, he hadn't eaten or drunk a drop of water. And on this day, he had spent half a day trudging through the snow, cautiously navigating this eerie mansion. He had to find something to eat immediately.
"Such a luxurious aristocratic bedroom should surely have some small side tables with snacks," Yakov thought. He did find a low table, but it was covered with carved glass cups and jugs of various sizes, and some that looked like barber's needles and knives. He thought there might be small pots by the fireplace, so he went to the fire. The expensive, fragrant pieces of agarwood emitted an unappetizing aroma in the flames, and there were no cutlery or napkins there.
Of course, this is a vampire's house, so there's nothing for humans to eat.
Disappointed, he sat down on the soft carpet by the fire and felt his pockets. A strange package was tied to the leather belt that bound his chainmail and tunic. Yakov remembered taking it from the Jew. Could there be food inside? He ripped the package off. Inside was a long wooden box, which Yakov roughly unlocked—no food. It was a map box, with a roll of cotton cloth covered in markings lying inside.
Yakov thought desperately that perhaps he could go downstairs and touch the corpses. If all else failed, he could cut off some human flesh—the thought made him nauseous, and a terrible rumble came from his stomach.
Suddenly, he noticed a face remarkably similar to Mrs. Camilla's in the reflection of the dressing mirror, peeking out from the corner near the door. Yakov whirled around. A small figure darted out from the corner and ran outside. Yakov immediately grabbed the candlestick that had rolled to the ground and, mustering his strength, gave chase.
His vision blurred violently, filled with shimmering black stars, his ears rang, and a dull ache throbbed in his chest, the cause of which he couldn't discern. He staggered, as if his chainmail was about to crush his body, forcing him to draw his sword as a crutch; even walking on flat ground felt like climbing a mountain. Soon, Yakov finally collapsed from exhaustion onto the dirty, blood-stained carpet he had trampled.
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