Chapter 28: Wolves and Jackals (Part III)

What happened next completely exceeded everyone's expectations.

The guide's choice to hijack Count Etienne was understandable. Among so many people, only he was the "noble lord," and he held the title of special envoy to the Holy Land from Louis VII. In any case, he would not be the one to be abandoned.

What was most clever was that he had just prayed for the favor of Saint Pelagius a moment ago and was at his weakest—hijacking him would be much simpler and safer than hijacking anyone else.

Count Etienne and his squire were stunned for a moment; the excessive fatigue and tension indeed affected their reaction speed—the Count was knocked straight to the ground by the guide, who reached out, one hand trying to strangle his neck, the other gripping a "mercy" dagger.

The name of this dagger came from its purpose—when a fully armored knight fell to the ground, breaking his spine or ribs, and there was no hope, his enemy or friend would draw this triangular-section dagger and stab it through the gaps in the armor to kill him.

The guide holding this dagger certainly wasn't for any damn mercy. The greatest advantage of this dagger was its sharpness—it was very much like a thin, pointed awl, so it didn't require much strength to stab it all the way through...

As someone who had been on the battlefield more than once, Count Etienne's instinct was ultimately faster than his thoughts. Although the guide's impact had knocked him to the ground, he still firmly gripped the man's arm as he lunged over, and raised his knee to press against the guide's chest.

The guide's eyes erupted with venomous flames—if he couldn't capture the Count, then only the gallows awaited him. He didn't think he would have the luck of that Isaac man named Witt.

"One of us has to die!" he shouted, rolling the words from his throat. Faced with death and resentment, this thin man erupted with unprecedented strength. He twisted his shoulders, dragging the Count's cloak, and used all his might to tighten it. The Count had once praised his goldsmith for making the brooch both gorgeous and sturdy; now he wished it weren't so sturdy. With that sudden tightening, his vision went black.

The squires and Templars had already rushed over, but the two were already locked in a struggle. Jofrua held a short axe, and after a moment's hesitation, he found that the two people rolling on the ground had suddenly disappeared.

Everyone present felt their hair stand on end. The two sergeants following the Templar even subconsciously pulled out the "holy medals" (a type of small saint figurine blessed by a priest) hanging around their necks and gripped them in their hands.

At this moment, Count Etienne's nephew showed unusual courage. He held a torch high, shouting "My Lord!" as he rushed over, and then his foot slipped—he almost fell down too, if not for Cesar grabbing him just in time.

"What is that?" Jofrua leaned his head to look. The cleric on the side cautiously crouched down, letting the torch get closer to the ground. Now, they could all see clearly: it was a long, narrow, and deep fissure. Originally, it had been hidden under loose pine needles and thin ice, invisible to anyone, just waiting for a human or beast to walk over it—this was a natural trap.

Count Etienne's nephew felt a wave of lingering fear, and the cleric's face turned pale. He stood up and held the torch high. In such a deep, dark night, the torch's light didn't so much illuminate the road and environment as it did the person holding it—but he didn't need others to see anything. He just pointed the torch toward the previous camp, and then toward the hill on the other side. Jofrua walked a few steps, looking toward the faint glimmer in the distance. "It's a stream, already dried up."

He walked back, took the torch from the cleric's hand, and threw it down. The torch fell into the darkness, immediately hitting something, sparks flying everywhere, and then it bumped and fell another distance, leaving a trail of fleeting light, finally stopping somewhere and becoming completely still.

Jofrua, just as one would pay respects to the suffering Savior on Good Friday, not only touched his knees to the ground but prostrated his entire body on the damp, cold mud. He lowered his head, looking down, while listening with all his might.

After a while, he stood up, his face as ugly as the cleric's: "This isn't just a stream, it's the Devil's Mouth."

As soon as this term was uttered, everyone present couldn't help but shout "Jesus Christ!" The cleric swayed, and Count Etienne's nephew couldn't help but burst into tears.

Cesar hesitated, not knowing whether he should ask what a "Devil's Mouth" was at this time. The sergeant beside him shook his head and explained it to him, and he finally understood—the so-called Devil's Mouth was a fissure caused by an earthquake on the ground without obvious displacement.

Sometimes, these fissures would close after swallowing people, animals, trees, and houses; sometimes they would remain.

People at this time could not understand what an earthquake was.

In the ancient Greek era, Aristotle overturned the hypothesis that earthquakes were caused by weather phenomena such as drought or flooding. He believed that earthquakes were caused by narrow tunnels or cracks throughout the underground. When wind rushed rapidly through these "pipes," it would cause the tunnels and cracks to vibrate, thereby triggering an earthquake.

Later scholars also had their own theories, such as the comet theory, the poisonous gas theory, the dragon theory...

After the Christian Church occupied most of the world, explaining earthquakes became even simpler. No verification or debate was needed. The public only needed to know that once an earthquake occurred somewhere, there must be some unspeakable sin there that made God lose all patience. You only needed to hold holy icons and crosses for a procession, or go to church for mass, or at the very least, hang portraits of saints on the four walls, and you would be safe and sound...

Of course, we all know that these penitential acts were of no help to the victims of earthquakes, and were even worse. There was once a place where, when an earthquake came, those who ran to the church to pray were instead buried along with the collapsing church.

"Devil's Mouth" was the name Christians gave to the ground cracks produced during earthquakes. They didn't understand what an earthquake was, and of course, they didn't understand how this derivative appeared. Such a fissure, which could swallow everything and disappear in an instant, and even if it remained, was beyond their understanding—to the survivors, wasn't it just like the devil's great mouth?

This "Devil's Mouth" was hidden extremely cleverly. When the stream still had water, it was a "lake" hidden under the calm current. After winter arrived and the stream dried up, it froze over, and dry, loose pine needles fell onto it, maturing into a thin layer of humus over three or four months. The humus layer caught more fallen leaves, broken branches, animal fur, and mud, eventually forming a beast-trapping hole so exquisite that even the most seasoned hunter might not be able to detect it.

No one knew how deep the "Devil's Mouth" could be. Even throwing down a torch or a rope couldn't determine it.

Fissures like this could never be as smooth as cheese cut by a knife. If someone could draw a cross-section for it, you would find the cross-section was as jagged, bent, and undulating as a saw blade, and sometimes the gap would become even narrower or twisted due to protruding tree roots or buried stones.

The group lit more torches (fortunately, this was a pine forest), and the result after checking made their hearts sink a little further—this fissure was probably only about one and a half of Jofrua's shoulder widths. The Count's squire used a piece of coarse underwear soaked in oil, lit it, and lowered it to look, but could only see a depth of five or six feet. And at the five or six-foot mark, the width of the fissure could only allow one person to pass through.

They shouted toward the depths of the fissure, hoping to hear something—groans or curses would be fine—but apart from the wind coming from who knows where, they couldn't hear anything. Jofrua even shuddered, feeling that the sound of the wind sounded more like the devil laughing.

"Fortunately, you already anointed him with oil," the Templar said. His words made the Count's cleric show a smile uglier than crying. "Is there no other way?" he asked.

Jofrua remained silent. Everyone here had been on the battlefield and certainly knew that an injured knight could hardly escape the clutches of death, let alone that Count Etienne had fallen into a fissure they couldn't see or hear. He might already be dead, and even if he wasn't, he couldn't possibly have the strength to hold onto a rope and climb up...

They were all going to be in trouble. They would have to endure the wrath of Amalric I, and Count Etienne's entourage would be held accountable by Louis VII.

"I might... have a way."

Everyone looked over. The one who spoke was actually the youngest among them, his green eyes shining brightly in the torchlight.

A bit of impatience rose in Jofrua's chest. It was true he liked this child a little, but at this time, such self-assertion was a bit annoying.

The Templar didn't think he could offer any good suggestions. Cesar was only nine years old, not yet an adult, and didn't even qualify as a knight's squire—if he had already undergone "selection" and been chosen, then perhaps there was a glimmer of hope—not believing in him, but believing in the saint he envisioned.

"You tie me with a rope and lower me down." He could search little by little along the bottom of the fissure.

The Count's cleric was first stunned, then pleasantly surprised.

They certainly had ropes; this was something every long-distance party had to prepare. The Count had them, and more than one bundle, and the Templars had them too. Combined, there were at least fifty royal feet. As long as this fissure didn't lead to hell, his proposal might not be the ignorant ramblings of a child.

But this approach carried great risks. Those remaining at the edge of the fissure could very well encounter bandits, pagans, or the wolf pack and other beasts returning. They might be forced to abandon this place, leaving him to shout in vain in the darkness.

He could also break his leg, have his head smashed by a stone, be bitten by a venomous snake, stung by a scorpion, or go mad due to the dark and claustrophobic environment; it was also possible that Count Etienne was dead or unable to move, and that hateful rebel, the bribed guide, was still alive. If he saw Cesar, he would surely stab a dagger into his chest.

Jofrua frowned. His fondness for Cesar wasn't strong enough to make him willing to give up Amalric I's reward for him. "Are you sure?" What he worried about was that this child had shown courage in words, but would turn into a coward in action. He hadn't seen few such people; almost every battle had a few squires on their first battlefield who became the laughingstock of everyone.

Cesar didn't speak. The next part wasn't his stage; he could only wait for these people to make a decision.

The Count's entourage and the Templars discussed it briefly—they couldn't refuse. In the end, they would lose at most one young servant. Even if Prince Baldwin asked, the Templars could completely say he was dragged away by wolves or died of a sudden illness on the way.

The Count's cleric had considered whether to let someone else do this, not out of care for Cesar, but out of the same worry as Jofrua. He feared that Cesar would be occupied by fear before he even landed, crying and shouting for them to pull him up, which would waste their time and exhaust their strength.

But among these people, the smallest was definitely Cesar. Even a squire had to be twelve years old, a page needed to be fifteen, and knights were even more out of the question—they had broad shoulders and thick bodies. Even if they could enter the fissure, after falling a distance, they might get stuck somewhere.

The cleric brought a bottle of wine. Now was not the time to consider the dangers of alcohol; the fissure was much colder than the ground, with a bone-chilling, gloomy wind. Cesar took it and drank it all, gritting his teeth.

Jofrua took off his sheepskin cloak—Templars shouldn't wear luxurious fur, but because the winter in Jerusalem and the surrounding areas was truly unbearable, they were permitted to wear sheepskin—Cesar hesitated for a moment, took it, and put it on. The sheepskin cloak was much too large, and the hem could touch his ankles.

Jofrua laughed, "How interesting," he said, "very much like a Templar."

They recited the Lord's Prayer fifteen times (this was mandatory!), then wrapped the rope around Cesar's armpits and legs, tied a secure knot, fixed one end to a tree, and had two strong knights pull the other.

The cleric gave Cesar a bell and agreed on a signal: one ring meant everything was fine, but nothing had been found; ringing continuously meant encountering an insurmountable obstacle or danger, requiring them to pull him up as quickly as possible; one ring, then another, then another, meant good news—he had found Count Etienne!

"Begin," Jofrua said.

The light before Cesar's eyes dimmed as the rope was lowered inch by inch. He held the fire-knife and flint Jofrua had given him, with the torch tucked at his waist. He closed his eyes slightly—he couldn't see anything anyway, and just relied on his senses to determine the situation around him.

(End of chapter) ===== CHAPTER 29 =====