Act X, The True Knight (Seventeen)
Seventeen
The Colosseum was originally built for Roman chariot races. It was wide and long, with a narrow circular track divided in the center by commemorative columns and fountain sculptures. This was not the most suitable arena for knightly jousting. Yakov did not fully appreciate this when the arena was divided for the races.
His Turkic horse was far inferior in physique to the Norman horse. It had already run back and forth on the long track before the race, and now it was slowing down unhappily, refusing to change its pace no matter how much Yakov tried to spur it—this disobedient thing, Yakov cursed inwardly. It still had plenty of energy, yet it showed signs of weakness right at the start!
Seilman's white coat and white horse stood out starkly against the gloomy sky. The white dot rapidly magnified and drew closer in Yakov's vision, the lance tip aimed straight for his heart. Yakov, unwilling to flinch, tried to push the lance against Seilman's shoulder, attempting to dismount him with a similar tactic—he only heard a thunderous boom from inside his helmet, like a huge flying insect vibrating its wings against his eardrum. Seilman's lance missed its mark, striking Yakov's arm instead. The force of a siege boulder pressed down on the exquisite shoulder armor, sending Yakov tumbling backward, half-hanging off the saddle, only managing to stay upright thanks to the strong grip of his stirrups.
He vaguely heard the gasps and gasps of a hundred thousand spectators. Yakov gripped the reins, straightened up, and sat back in his saddle. He noticed his lance was half-broken and was surprised to realize—he had hit Seilman too! His horse, startled, galloped around a bend in the track. Yakov regretfully discovered that the experienced blood slave hadn't been dismounted either, and was adjusting his speed at the other end of the track—Seilman's lance was still intact, and he was charging towards him again without stopping.
Yakov now realized just how necessary it was to have two squires. If Daoud hadn't fallen ill, he would have had two chances each lap to retrieve a new weapon. His mind raced as he ran. Should he draw his sword and fight, or dodge the attack and return to Nuk to get another lance?
The knight cautiously chose the latter. He leaned down, adjusted his posture, and pressed himself against the horse's back—Seleman's lance did not strike him a second time. The two passed each other and galloped back to where their respective squires were.
"Sir!" Nuk handed him a new lance. "This one's gone, so there are two left!"
Yakov didn't have time to listen to these words; he grabbed his lance and galloped away. His steed, the Turkic horse, finally regained its form, its nostrils flared, and it galloped at full speed. They accelerated to a terrifying pace on the long arena track. This was a good opportunity, Yakov thought, to throw him off his horse! He cleverly stretched out his arm, trying to make his lance thrust further than the opposing spear. Even if it was only an inch longer, the chances of him hitting me would be much smaller!
The white figure loomed before him again—only then did Yakov realize that the armor beneath Seilman's robe was no less formidable than his own. His lance, its tip piercing through the fabric, struck a smooth, curved metal surface, sliding off almost immediately. Because Yakov hadn't tucked the lance under his arm, the entire shaft nearly slipped from his waist, grinding against his chainmail and creating a gaping crack.
But Seilerman's spear missed him. The two separated again, circling halfway around the field.
Yakov refused to give up. He still had another chance. Blood Slave adjusted his breathing and calmed himself. He thought, it would be best if he hit the target, but if he missed, he could just take another one. He bent down, picked up the lance in his hand, and neatly tucked it under his broken chainmail—bending down was also a good idea to increase the length of the lance, but the point of impact would be lower, closer to the opponent's center of gravity, making it less likely for him to fall off his horse.
The white horse and the black horse clashed once more—this time, Yakov felt a heavy force fall on the tip of his lance. He gripped the lance tightly with his glove, shouting as he tightened his grip.
With a bang, his lance shattered once more. Yakov dared not look back at the result. He simply tossed aside the wreckage and went to the servant to fetch another. "My lord, my lord!" Nuk exclaimed, almost jumping for joy, "Keep it up!"
Yakov then realized that he had thrown his white-robed enemy from his horse, and a surge of elation overwhelmed him—Seleman was rolling on the sand like a boneless rag doll, struggling to get up after a long time. His Akhal-Teke horse had already run off in a panic to the side of the field, quite a distance away from him.
A golden opportunity! Yakov suddenly felt as if the glory of victory was hanging over his head, within reach. He spurred his horse and charged in the opposite direction toward his unsuspecting opponent—but he saw Seleman straighten his posture, bend down to pick up the broken spear, and assume a graceful throwing stance.
At such a distance, using a spear as a javelin, hitting oneself was simply a pipe dream! Yakov roared, raised his lance, and charged at his unwilling opponent. The helmet's field of vision was too narrow; he could only see Seleman's feet running on the sand, each step swaying and accelerating as he carried his spear.
The Blood Slave hadn't expected Seleman to be so skilled at throwing; the spear tip aimed straight for the gap in his helmet. Both the horse and the spear were too fast, forcing him to dodge immediately. Instinctively, he tried to hide behind the horse, mimicking a skill he'd learned as a boy riding with the Tatars—but Tatar stirrups were constructed differently from Latin stirrups. Before Yakov could even process this, his helmet slammed heavily against the edge of the fountain—he'd fallen from his horse.
The audience's voices were so chaotic that no discernible fluctuation could be heard. It was like countless rousing musical pieces playing at once, with the climaxes intertwined and chaotic, giving no one a chance to relax.
Yakov's vision blurred. He gritted his teeth and tried to get up—his hand drew his sword before his mind could compel it, blocking Seyleman's saber.
“Do you know?” Ambikia whispered from beneath a plain veil, “that I used to play like this with Inart before you came into my life.”
Yubi didn't understand what this meant. He was being swallowed up by the crowd with his mouth agape, the sweltering air filling his throat and making him so thirsty that he couldn't utter a sound.
“Each of us will choose a blood slave. It could be our own, or it could be our mother’s. Then we’ll put them in cages and let them fight.”
"What's the point of all this? What's the significance of wasting their lives like this?"
“Why would we waste their lives?” Ambichai looked at him in surprise. “At most, we’ll see who has more willpower and can endure more pain. Such people have a special flavor in their blood.”
Yubi still didn't understand her words. He looked worriedly at the knights and generals locked in combat—they twisted and rolled on the sand, hacking and slashing at each other until death. But swords and fists couldn't pierce each other's sturdy armor; the attacks were meaningless, just a simple contest of physical strength—the vampire suddenly understood something. He froze.
“Where are you going, my dear brother?” Ambicea turned and called to him. “Aren’t you going to keep lying to me, and to everyone else?”
Yubi left his seat without looking back. His elaborate robes trailed behind him as he quickly disappeared into the arena.
Yakov's body was slammed to the ground by Seyleman's knee. It hurt terribly; he must have broken several ribs. The sand was soft, and he struggled to free himself, twisting his arms as he tried to grab the longsword lying to the side. He tried again and again, his fingers groping haphazardly, when Seyleman's other knee landed on his flailing elbow.
"Admit defeat." That hateful dark face stared into his eyes from beneath the helmet.
“This is the arena, not the training ground.” Yakov’s nostrils and teeth reeked of blood. He grinned, revealing a terrifying smile. “No messed-up rules, right?”
He pulled a short dagger from his sleeve and plunged it deep into the chainmail behind Seilman's knee, twisting it around—his opponent finally cried out in pain, his leg giving way. Yakov immediately punched him to the ground and pulled out the dagger. It was specially made, sharp and thin, shaped like a needle or awl, specifically designed to pierce the gaps in metal rings.
Yakov was pleased to see the entire blade covered in blood; Seleman would be crippled from now on, his legs never to be nimble again. "If you don't admit defeat, I'll kill you." The blood slave raised the dagger and stabbed Seleman again. This time, the blade pierced his back, and blood gushed from his white robe. "Can you give up your life for your master's benefit?"
Seymman lay on the sand, curled up in agony and howling.
Why hasn't he given up yet? What belief sustains this blindly loyal slave? Yakov didn't bother to find the answer. He grabbed Seleman's helmet, intending to deliver one last blow to his neck. Victory was within his grasp, shimmering and falling before him, about to fall into his arms, like a dream come true, like entering heaven—but Yakov noticed that the bloodstains on Seleman's white robe were rapidly disappearing.
The Blood Slave recalled his battle with a bear on the Kipchak Steppe, and the wondrous scene of Yubi having her ring removed from her arms, her blood weaving back into her wound like red threads. Images flashed before his eyes of the blood Ambikia failed to offer as a sacrifice at Camilla's funeral, and the miracles recounted to him in Batur's carriage. He even remembered the frenzied, aging priest in the Transylvanian castle, gnawing on the corpses of vampires.
Undeterred, he relentlessly stabbed at the pristine white robe with his awl-like dagger. Yakov was certain he was using enough force; the tip of the blade felt the solid texture of flesh and blood—Seleman rose monstrously from the battlefield, kicking him away with his supposedly crippled leg. The seasoned blood slave discreetly turned away, removing the horrific dagger from his own neck—without a trace of blood.
"This isn't fair!" Yakov staggered back, roaring, "This isn't fair! Anbichya, this isn't fair!"
No one in the vast arena heard his shouts. His pitiful voice was drowned out by the cheers of a hundred thousand men. The Greeks applauded their general's tenacity and luck, and condemned the knight's despicable act of using a hidden dagger. They knew nothing, saw nothing, and could discern nothing—despair made Yakov dizzy, and his nearly exhausted strength and the broken bones in his chest made his legs feel as heavy as lead. But he still picked up the longsword from the ground.
“It’s pointless.” Seilman picked up his own saber and dropped the dagger. “This isn’t your home turf, Yakov. I told you so.”
“I’d rather die,” Yakov spat out a mouthful of blood. “I will never admit defeat.”
“If you die, your master will be devastated,” Seyleman gestured toward where he had entered.
Yakov's blurry gaze drifted toward the doorway—his master was now beside Nuk, his long, flowing turban trailing behind him. The vampire's red eyes were dangerously exposed to the overcast sunlight, their gaze fixed on him relentlessly. Yakov realized with sorrow that his resolve to die had wavered.
“What do you want to do?” Seleman asked. “If you admit defeat, I will spare your life.”
Yakov felt as if he had inhaled shards of glass. Countless thoughts swirled and collided in his mind, making the pain even more intense and unbearable.
"...We'll continue later." He lowered his sword and shouted in the direction of the emperor and the referee, "I demand a break!"
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com
