Act XIII: The Last Supper (Part 8)
eight
Yakov rode his horse across the yellowish-white sand. As was customary, he led half the soldiers of Lud and answered the call to Karak. Rounding the Dead Sea and passing the familiar salt flats, the knight saw the Transjordanian lord's mysterious plan—craftsmen were dismantling large ships into parts, loading them onto wagons, and then sealing them with tarpaulins. Many Templar Knights like himself gathered beneath the city walls, a dense, undulating red cross. They discussed the terrifying yet grand plan of the expedition: to the Red Sea, to Mecca, to destroy the Kaaba, the place of daily pilgrimage, and burn the sacred veil covering it to ashes.
Yesau was waiting for him in the group. "We've been assigned the task of finding a water source," he said with a forced smile.
"You're not avoiding me anymore," Yakov clicked his tongue. The dry sunlight was so bright he could barely open his eyes.
“I am your comrade-in-arms, and I must obey the Grand Commander’s orders.” Yesau handed him the water bag. “Did you come here because you wanted to go to Mecca, to break the agreement, and to eliminate all the [illegal forces]?”
Yakov glanced at him sideways as he drank his water. “I have no hatred for the □□, nor any gratitude towards Christians,” he said meaningfully, “but getting involved in this won’t do me any harm.”
“Friends are more useful than enemies.” Yesau spurred his horse to make way for him. “When you have two enemies fighting, why not unite with one of them and defeat the other?”
Yakov pondered the meaning behind the words. He chuckled coldly and poured the remaining water onto his scalding chainmail to cool it down. "For me, now is not the time." The knight shook the sand off his cloak and marched toward the main group. "I have two enemies, but so do you. Why shouldn't I sit idly by and watch you fight? And how can I be sure you don't think the same way?"
Yesau watched his retreating figure helplessly, and had no choice but to follow behind him, holding the reins.
The best way to find water is to ask a local for directions—Yakov knew this well. He hadn't been gone long when he found a shepherd on the edge of the desert and tossed him two silver coins as a guide fee. Having done this, he simply mounted his horse freely and leisurely, admiring the surrounding canyons beside the ranks of soldiers.
However, his annoying comrades followed him closely.
“Yakov, I understand your distrust,” Yesau’s voice murmured like a fly, “but even the bravest lone knight cannot defeat an army of thousands. Unity is built on trust. If you could put aside your prejudices, you wouldn’t have to go through all this trouble.”
“A lone knight can’t do it, so what about your master, my master?” Yakov said impatiently, tugging at the stirrups and letting the dust kicked up by the horse’s hooves slap his face and muffle his mouth. “Unity is not built on trust, but on power. Your organization is no exception.”
"...I have no master." Yesau reluctantly covered his head with his turban and sighed deeply. "I hope I can convince you along the way."
The language of the gods—Yesau's narration still revolves around that fervent story. Like a fabulist immersed in a beautiful dream, he paints a picture of Yakov's "paradise."
"Engraving is a tool, no different from anything else. When a sword is in hand, whether one does good or evil depends on the wielder's beliefs. Why don't you say that swords themselves are evil and despicable products, but instead say that engraving is? You can see it as oppressive violence, or you can see it as a just power. And once a truly just power is established, its creator must also abide by it."
"That would be the most equal and free world, where lies and deception would cease to exist. Our desire is for an end to oppression and domination—this is not a castle in the air, it cannot be built solely on people's simple consensus and delusions. A largest and most powerful domination is needed, only in this way can we suppress smaller dominations. People's hearts are driven by self-interest, and this is the only feasible and real path."
“Open your eyes, Yakov. If we don’t do it, someone else will. You’ve traveled a long way and witnessed human fragility and blind obedience. Rather than let an evil and selfish god rob all believers, why not choose a kind and just one?”
Sometimes, Yakov truly felt that everyone in the world seemed like a confused fool. He couldn't tell whether they acted this way due to a lack of experience or a lucky arrogance, and could only rejoice in his own clarity while savoring his loneliness. The army marched south, along a twisted canyon parched and cracked by the sun. On the third day, the army rested at Montreal Castle—their last resting place before reaching the Red Sea; further south lay Saladin's city and port.
Finding a water source was becoming increasingly difficult. Yakov had to trek back and forth across the endless desert, both himself and his horse becoming parched. Before setting off again, he finally found an old Bedouin man, his eyelids thickly coated with black antimony powder—yet he spoke with an unintelligible accent. "Water!" the knight asked, gesturing in Arabic, "We need water, many people need it!"
He talked for a long time, mixing gestures and shouts, before the old man finally understood. "Water!" He nodded, led his camel, and said, "Let's go!"
The knight breathed a sigh of relief and turned his horse to find the squad. "Follow me!" he said, raising a long banner, black on top and white on the bottom, with a red cross and the crest of Noctennias in the center. "Take the water-carrying horses!"
A caravan set off in the sweltering heat, following a waving flag, its packhorses laden with shriveled goatskin water bladders—his annoying, fanatical comrade sidling up to his horse, trying to mimic his every move. Yakov, tired of hearing him say it, impatiently stopped him before he could speak.
"I have a question. I only have one question to ask you."
“Ask away.” His rare response made Yesau’s eyes light up.
“If it’s as you say,” Yakov’s brow furrowed deeper, “your selfless, great, and fair ‘god’ should have bestowed the mark upon everyone he met. Why didn’t he do that?”
His question clearly surprised Yesau. "Not everyone can understand the true meaning of freedom, and it's worthwhile to learn the secrets of the ring," the Blood Slave pondered before speaking. "Sifting is necessary before the real enemy disappears."
“If it were me, I would expose this secret to the world, leaving all vampires nowhere to hide.” Yakov turned his head on horseback, scrutinizing his comrades’ flaws. “Why don’t you do that?”
“…But there is more than one vampire in the world.” Yesau thought for a long time before speaking. “If we do this, it will start an unprecedented war in the world.”
Anxiety made Yakov bite his chapped lips—Ambikya's horrible image flashed through his mind. "You will lose miserably." He realized his mistake. "I understand."
If that's the case, why doesn't Anbichya launch this war that is sure to be won? Yakov silently asked himself, but no one could answer him. He could only let the question fester inside him.
“I know about the other blood slaves.” Yesau broke the silence as if he could read his mind, looking up at the long banner in his hand. “They say, ‘Blood slaves are servants of noble vampires who serve the Noctennias family.’ Elsewhere, the mark is a glorious symbol of immortality, proof of superiority, and a way of toying with death.”
“That’s true.” Yakov nodded hesitantly.
"Therefore, vampires don't need to be marked at all; they can control people simply by exploiting their greed and fear." Yesau sighed with regret. "If there are too many such vulnerable people, it will overturn the teachings of God and erode the language of God. If that happens, they will not be able to enter 'Garden City' and will only be trapped in a painful hell. Just a single thought, a single step, will determine the outcome of the final judgment."
“Unless you have killed all the other vampires.” Yakov gripped the reins tightly.
"Yes."
The two blood slaves proceeded in silence. An elderly Bedouin man riding a camel led the group into an extremely narrow canyon. Yakov wiped the sweat from his brow with his headscarf and looked up. All around were reddish-brown rock walls, their tops smoothed by years of wind and sand, displaying colorful, flowing swirling patterns. He looked down at the horses' hooves and discovered ancient water channels carved into the towering cliffs—unfortunately, it was the dry season, and only dried-up dust remained within them.
“This is too dangerous.” Yakov reined in his horse as he caught sight of a cave in the rock face. “There might be an ambush.”
"Send a few men in to scout," Yesau said, picking a few soldiers from his entourage. "Go forward, come back when you see water, and shout if anything happens."
The two men stopped in the middle of the road, watching the soldiers' backs as they retreated deeper into the distance, spears in hand. The old Bedouin, seeing their fearful expressions, scoffed and laughed. "Bitra," he muttered, a word Yakov hadn't heard before, before driving his camel away behind the winding stone wall. A short while later, they heard the soldiers' hurried footsteps returning—Yakov's heart sank. He tossed the battle flag to the standard-bearer and drew his sword from his waist.
"You...you go and see..." The soldiers emerged from behind the jagged stone wall, their eyes wide with astonishment. "There's something inside...it's inside..."
What is it?
"There's water, people, and... and..."
Yakov was thoroughly fed up with these stuttering, ignorant fellows. He spurred his horse and spurred it into the winding valley. The canyon was so narrow and high that it slit the sun and sky into a thin line, almost impassable. The rider moved through the cool shadows, quickly becoming unaccustomed to the bright sunlight, as if the path ahead had turned into a blurry gold—his horse slowed, and he finally saw what it was.
A magnificent temple, seamlessly integrated with the mountainside, appeared before Yakov, gazing upon him like a silent and ancient giant. Yakov stopped in awe before the pillars, admiring their weathered surfaces and towering eaves. Upon closer inspection, there was not a single trace of glue or mortar—the temple had been carved directly from the rock face by artisans, the grain of the massive stone clearly discernible.
Yesau followed behind him, tilting his head back as he did. "...Truly magnificent," the Blood Slave exclaimed, "But for whom was this temple built?"
Yakov then remembered to look for the totem. But he found neither a cross, nor a crescent moon, nor any trace of a six-pointed star. The knight had no choice but to shout at the old man on the camel, "What god's temple is this?" He demanded fiercely, "Who built it?"
But the old Bedouin just shook his head. "I don't know," he muttered. "Nobody knows."
They fetched water and led their fully loaded caravan out of the canyon. Two knights returned to the main force and distributed the water to everyone. The soldiers, who had marched all day in the wind and sand, expressed their gratitude, quenching their parched throats with the precious spring water. Yakov looked at their faces, now refreshed after a long drought, and was suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. He was nourishing a foolish and brutal army, and he himself was parasitic on it, trying to find a place for Yubi—how wonderful it would be if he didn't have to do all this? How wonderful it would be if, as Yesau said, he could simply lazily lower his guard and lie blinded by the comfort of his faith?
But then he resolutely decided it couldn't be Yubi. If it were anyone else, that would be one thing, but he absolutely couldn't shift the blame onto Yubi.
"That unprecedented war will begin sooner or later," Yesau warned him from behind. "Which side will you choose?"
“I’m not choosing either side,” Yakov said through gritted teeth. “I have my own heart; I don’t need anyone else to think for me.”
“You, a free man who struggles with God,” his comrade sighed. “May you find your way back from your misguided path.”
Just then, a messenger called out his name and ran suspiciously through the army. Yakov put down his water bag and went to answer the call—"Lord Yakov," he saw the messenger's horse lying foaming at the mouth on the sand, "an urgent letter from Lud."
Yakov snatched the letter and noticed that the sealing wax on it was imprinted with the pattern of Yubi's ring, thin and light. He suddenly felt a long-lasting sense of guilt and an ominous doubt: Yubi didn't know his whereabouts and couldn't search for him at night; but what important matter required a horse to run itself to death to let him know?
He turned his back and tore the letter with his rough fingers.
The text above contains only a very short sentence, written in Schumeer's handwriting.
"Ambichia will be making his pilgrimage here; return quickly."
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