Kurtz, Katherine & Scott MacMillan - Knights of the Blood 2

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Knights of the Blood Book 2
AT SWORD'S POINT
Katherine Kurtz & Scott MacMillan
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
The hissing camp lantern made the dome-shaped tent in the small
clearing glow with an amber incandescence. The young couple inside
were locked in the heaving passions of their embrace, unaware of the
erotic shadows their entwined bodies cast on the wall of the tent.
Outside, a light mist softened the shadows and stood like beads of
perspiration on Wilhelm Kluge's well-muscled shoulders, forming small
rivulets as they ran down his back and across his buttocks. The moonlight
glinted on a small silver quaich that hung from a golden chain around his
neck. Naked, his hands resting on the pommel of his sword, Kluge didn't
feel the damp chill of the late summer rain as he waited patiently for his
victims to finish their last earthly pleasures.
Finally, the shadows stopped thrusting on the inside of the tent and the
sounds of heavy breathing were lost in the hiss of the lantern. Slowly the
young man pushed himself away from the girl, rising first to his knees and
then to his feet. As he threw back the flap of the tent, a slice of yellow
light fell across the clearing.
The rain had stopped, and the mossy ground felt damp through the
soles of his thick wool hiking socks as he stepped outside, drawn now by
another, more pressing call of nature. Still naked, shivering, he cupped his
hands and blew on them to keep them warm as he moved into the pale
chill of the moonlight, away from the tent, to relieve himself.
Kluge stepped silently from the shadows and made his way around the
tent, avoiding the pale sliver of lantern-light that spilled from the open
flap. Stopping just behind the oblivious victim, his sword at the ready,
Kluge paused for a single moment. Steam was rising from the moss-
covered rocks at the young man's feet; and over the sounds of the
spattering urine and hissing camp lantern Kluge could hear the pumping
surge of the red tide that rose with each beat of the young man's heart. For
a moment Kluge savored the sound, as other men savor a lover's caress.
Then Kluge's sword flashed through the moonlight, the flat arc of its
bright blue blade severing the head, sending it bouncing into the darkness.
The steaming trickle of urine was lost in a frothing geyser of blood as the
headless body crumpled silently forward onto its knees before finally
sprawling chest down on the ground.
Turning, Kluge walked slowly over to the tent. He could see her
shadow on the tent wall, the lantern showing him where the sacrifice
waited. Standing quietly outside, he raised his sword and, with a
downward thrust, slit open the thin wall of the tent.
The girl was helpless in Kluge's grasp, paralyzed with fear. Yanking
her up by the hair, he dragged her out into the chill moonlit night and,
before she could cry out, drew the titanium blade of his sword across the
side of her throat.
Her body arched as searing pain exploded through her, but Kluge's
viselike grip on her throat prevented any sound escaping into the night.
Using his free hand, he drove his sword deep into the soft loam of the
clearing.
Then, bending down as if to caress his victim, he pressed his mouth
over the wound he had opened in the girl's neck.
He drank deeply, the hot, foaming blood gushing into his mouth as he
relaxed his grip slightly on her throat. When he felt the reserves of his
powers replenished, he lifted his head and drew a triumphant breath. Then,
still holding her by the throat, he pulled his sword from the red-soaked
earth and held it high above his head, its sharpened tip pointed toward the
North Star.
From the edge of the clearing a hunting horn sounded, followed by
others deeper in the woods. As the horns winded their eerie cour de
chasse, other shadowy figures stepped into the clearing, nearly a dozen of
them naked in the moonlight, their swords held before them, blades
pointed skyward. As they solemnly made their way to where Kluge stood,
he earthed his sword again.
The vampires drew near in a semi-circle before their Master, also
plunging their swords into the mossy ground. At his gesture, they
approached him one by one, the first of them distinguished by a black
eye-patch. As the one-eyed man dropped to his knees at his Master's feet,
Kluge took the quaich from around his neck and filled it with the girl's
blood, then passed the silver vessel into upraised hands. When the man
had drained its contents and returned the quaich, he rose and backed off to
be replaced by another suppliant. All drank deeply of the cup, blood
running from the corners of their mouths and down their chins, matting in
the hair on their bare chests.
Finally, when all had been served and the last notes of the horns died
away in the chill air of the forest, Kluge threw the girl's body back into
the tent. Pulling his sword from the ground he pointed it once again at the
Northern Star and cried, "Sieg Heil!"
Together the vampires echoed their Master's salute, raising their blades
to the darkened heavens.
"Sieg Heil!"
The forest muffled the cry of the vampires, but deep within, the
primordial gods listened, and accepted the sacrifice.
CHAPTER 1
The gash on the side of Drummond's head was healing nicely, due as
much to the twelve tiny sutures Father Freise had provided as to de Beq's
thick poultice. It had been nearly a week since Drummond was wounded,
and until today, he had been kept flat on his back. Father Freise and one
of the serving brothers kept regular tabs on his condition and, despite his
protests, refused to let him get up.
So he had spent his days resting and, in large measure, deciding what
to do. There was much to digest; much that, until a few weeks ago, he
would have dismissed as utter nonsense. LAPD homicide captains did not
go charging off to Austria, simply on the word of a batty old priest, to
chase down vampires.
But Drummond had done just that. And however unlikely his own
actions might have appeared since then to an outsider, John Drummond
was certain of one thing: the so-called "Vampire Slayings" he now knew
to have been committed in Los Angeles by Father Francis Freise more
than two decades ago would go "unsolved" as far as Drummond was
concerned. In the light of what he had experienced in the past week or
two, Freise's killings took on the look of justifiable homicide—
eliminating a very real evil from modern society.
As to the vampires—both those who now acted as his hosts at Schloss
Marbourg and those who had escaped into the woods—Drummond was
unsure how to proceed. That first day, after Kluge, his Nazi vampires, and
their punker cohorts had stormed Schloss Marbourg, he had been utterly
convinced, along with Freise, of the need to hunt down and destroy Kluge,
De Beq and his men had been less convinced at first—bow could
medieval knights, isolated from history for nearly seven hundred years,
hope to cope with a world they had long since ceased to know? Yet the
knights, indirectly, had been responsible for Kluge becoming a vampire;
they were the logical ones to help stop him now. So strongly had
Drummond become convinced of that, and of the absolute necessity to see
Kluge destroyed, he had even agreed to become one of them—to become
a Knight of the Sword.
Even now, Drummond was uncertain just how full a commitment he
had made to the knights. It had been six days since Father Freise served
him the Communion of the Knights, and yet, unlike the others, he had not
yet developed the blood hunger of the vampires.
Perhaps it took longer to develop than de Beq remembered, he thought.
De Beq had been vaguely certain that the transformation would take only
a day or two at the most. But nearly a week had passed and while
Drummond's appetite had returned, it was a tuna-melt and iced tea that he
craved the most.
Having had to satisfy tonight's hunger with ill-cooked mutton and
potatoes and brown bread, Drummond pushed back his wooden trencher
and turned to Father Freise. They were in the great hall of the knights'
castle, seated at one end of a long trestle table near the large fireplace. At
the other end of the table, several of the knights were clustered around
their Master, Henri de Beq, glancing occasionally in Drummond's
direction as they talked in low voices. Drummond had agonized over his
decision, but he knew he had no other real choice.
"Frank," he said, "I've been thinking."
"Careful," Freise said lightly. "You've got a head wound."
"No, really. I've given this a lot of thought in the last few days, and I've
decided I'm going back to L.A."
Father Freise looked up from his dinner and stared at Drummond for a
few seconds before answering. He did not look like a man in his mid-
seventies, but his appearance of youthfulness came from an altogether
different source than that of the men at the other end of the hall.
"I can't say that I'm surprised, John," he said quietly, "though I did
hope you'd stay and help us with the fight against Kluge."
"Oh, I'll help," Drummond said. "It's just that there are a lot of loose
ends I have to tie up first." He picked up his mug of ale and took a deep
drink before continuing. "Besides, we need a lot more information before
we go charging off after Kluge. We already know that his business
connections extend to several major cities in the United States and
Canada. With his cover blown here in Europe, he may switch his base of
operations. In any case, the best way to round up solid information is for
me to return to the LAPD and utilize their extensive and very efficient
intelligence network."
Freise made a face. "You really think his cover is blown here? That's
only true if we can get someone to believe us. I mean, 'Nazi vampires'—
really!"
"Yeah, I know," Drummond replied. "I've been telling myself the same
thing. Which makes it ail the more imperative that we utilize every
resource at our disposal to get a plan of action organized and track him
down. We can't do that without more sophisticated information than I can
gather sitting here in a medieval castle in Luxembourg."
"I suppose you're right," Freise conceded.
"We'll also need considerable financial backing—some of which I can
provide, but I can't set the wheels in motion from here," Drummond went
on. "If I'm going to give this operation the support it requires, I have to go
back to L.A., catch my breath, and set up the support structure. But I
promise I'll be back. After all—" he gave a wry grin and glanced at de
Beq and his knights "—I made a promise to him, too."
At his words, the eyes of both men turned toward the other end of the
hall, to the white-robed Master of the Order of the Sword and his knights.
Henri de Beq looked to be only in his late forties to early fifties, tall and
lean, with a short-clipped salt-and-pepper beard and pale eyes that missed
little; but he and his men had fought in the Holy Land when Acre fell—in
1291. Drummond still did not understand everything that had caused his
path to cross with that of the knights, seven hundred years later, but
something deep inside him knew that de Beq and his men were as
different from Kluge and his minions as day from night.
Recalling himself with a shake of his head, Drummond glanced back at
Father Freise. The old priest looked wistful as he pushed his plate back
from the edge of the table.
"Well, I suppose it's necessary," he said quietly. "Have you told him?"
"No. I hoped you'd do that for me," Drummond replied. "I—don't know
that I could cope with my pidgin French and his medieval English to
make him understand. Would you do it, Frank?"
Freise swallowed uncomfortably, then nodded. "Yeah, I'll tell him."
Standing up, the priest turned his back on Drummond and walked over
to the fireplace, staring for a long time at the glowing embers of the dying
fire. After a moment, Drummond joined him.
"So, when do you plan to go?" Friese asked.
"If I leave in the morning, I can still make my original flight back to
L.A. I don't suppose you'd care to come with me?"
Freise turned to face Drummond. His eyes were red-rimmed and moist,
as if he had been leaning too close to the smoke from the smouldering
embers on the hearth.
"No, not this time, John. The last time I left this castle, it was to run
away from Kluge. The next time I go—well, it'll either be to finish him
once and for all, or feet-first in a pine box." The priest smiled. "But you
might as well catch your flight. No sense wasting the ticket. Just don't be
gone too long. I'm an old man, and I'll miss you. And they—"
He glanced again at the knights at the other end of the room, then
shook his head and returned his gaze to the dying embers.
"Why don't you turn in, John? I'll see you in the morning before you
leave. And I'll—speak with de Beq."
The next morning, after Father Freise had celebrated Mass for them, de
Beq and half a dozen of his men turned out to escort Drummond to the
small clearing in the woods where Father Freise had parked Drummond's
rented Mercedes after the battle with Kluge. Four of the six were knights,
now wearing the formal red surcoats of the Order of the Sword under
their white mantles, chain mail showing from under sleeves, swords
belted at their waists. The two men-at-arms carried crossbows and kept a
wary eye out as they brought up the rear of the little procession. The
escort seemed small to Drummond, but in fact it represented about a third
of the castles remaining force. He had thought there were more when he
first arrived at the castle, but some had fallen to Kluge and his men, and
he assumed that the rest of de Beq's men were too busy with other tasks to
see him off.
The walk through the woods to the car was particularly silent, with
neither de Beq nor Father Freise really having anything to say. Even
William of Etton, whom Drummond had found to be the most talkative of
all the knights, was silent as they made their way across the meadow and
through the forest. Finally they arrived at the white Mercedes, and as
Drummond tossed his bag in the trunk, de Beq stepped forward.
"Sir John," he said without preamble, "I know not if you are truly one
of us, but this I do know. You are a knight, made so at your desire and by
my hand before this company and before God Almighty."
Drummond felt a chill creep up his spine at de Beq's words.
"Further," de Beq continued, "you are now about to leave us, and we
know not if ever you will return." He signaled William of Etton, who
came forward with something long and narrow, wrapped in a white cloth.
"So, to protect yourself until you can rejoin your brother knights—" he
stared Drummond square in the eye" —I give you this—my sword." From
under the cloth, William produced a beautifully wrought sword in a dark
red scabbard set with gilded mounts, which de Beq took almost reverently
from him and held out across both his palms. "I give you this sword, as
one knight to another, and I charge you to return it within a year, or die in
the attempt."
He stepped forward and laid the sword across Drummond's hands. Its
touch seemed to send an electric shock tingling through Drummond's
body, a connection across seven centuries of tradition maintained by the
owner of the sword. Never had anything moved Drummond the way de
Beq's simple speech moved him. Even more profoundly than at the
moment of his knighting, itself so mystical, he now realized that he was
bound to the Order of the Sword—that he was one of them, spiritually, if
not physically.
Maybe this is how the transformation begins, he thought.
Spontaneously he brought the cross-hilt of the sword to his lips in
salute, both to de Beq and to the chivalric tradition chat bound them in
brotherhood, then solemnly grasped de Beq by the right wrist.
"I promise I'll be back, Henri. With your sword."
Then, without another word, he carefully laid the sword in the trunk of
the car next to his bag, closed the lid, and walked around to the front of
the car to slide in behind the wheel, not daring to look at de Beq again. He
turned the key; and the car started instantly. When he glanced in the
rearview mirror, the knights had vanished from sight.
Father Freise opened the passenger door and stuck his head in.
"Going my way?"
"Sure, hop in."
He waited for Freise to get settled in the passenger seat, then eased out
the clutch and pointed the stubby snout of the car toward the road. "Where
to?"
"Just as far as the village. Oh, and—uh—I hope you can loan me some
cash." Father Freise sounded vaguely embarrassed to be asking for money.
"Sure. How much?"
"Not much. Just enough for a bicycle and a few odds and ends, that's
all." Father Freise's voice became a little brighter, rather like a kid whose
big brother has just given him money to go see a movie. "I've managed to
get our knights somewhat organized while you were recovering, but it's
still pretty primitive at the castle."
The village was only a few miles down the road. At Freise's direction,
Drummond parked in the center of the square, across from what the priest
indicated was the local general store.
"I'll be in there, getting a few things," he said, then pointed to another
shopfront a few doors down. "By the way, in the last few days I've
discovered that's the local infirmary. You might want to have them take a
look at that cut of yours before you head out. It's been a while since I did
any suturing—about fifty years, in fact—and in those days, I was working
with something a bit more sterile than linen sewing thread." Before
Drummond could answer, the priest turned and headed into the general
store.
Drummond had all but forgotten his head wound, especially in the
intensity of getting ready to leave this morning. It had stopped hurting
days ago and still hadn't started itching;—a good sign that everything was
on the mend—but it probably was a good idea to have a proper doctor
look at it before he went charging back to America. Glancing at the sign
on the door Freise had indicated, Drummond headed into the infirmary.
The waiting room was empty, and Drummond pressed a button on the
counter. From somewhere in the back of the building he heard a muffled
buzz, followed by an indistinct burst of French. Resigned to waiting, he
took a seat next to the door. A few moments later, a young man in steel-
rimmed glasses stuck his head around the partition.
"Oui?"
Drummond pointed to the bandage on his head and, in awkward French,
started out with, "Je ne parlez Français …"
"English?" The young man emerged from behind the partition, his
hands thrust deep into the pockets of his lab coat.
"No, American."
"Okay, no problem." The young man smiled. "What happened to your
head?"
Drummond thought fast. "Fell hiking last week and gashed it open."
"Uh-huh," said the doctor, carefully removing the bandage and peering
at Drummond's scalp. "Who stitched you up?"
"Oh, a priest in the base camp. Said he learned how to do it when he
was a missionary. Why?"
"Well, because he has done an excellent job—even if he did use linen
thread." The doctor stepped back from Drummond and looked him over
professionally. "Okay, my friend, come on back and I'll clean you up a bit
more."
Drummond got up and followed the doctor back into his surgery. The
doctor indicated that Drummond should sit on the examining table, then
focused a bright light on the side of his head. The antiseptic he used to
start cleaning around the sutures stung a little.
"Yes, indeed, your friend did a very nice job," the doctor said, prodding
around the wound. "When did you say this happened?"
"About a week ago. Why?"
"Well, it's just that it seems to have healed very quickly. In fact, I think
I'll just go ahead and take out the sutures. It's clear you don't need them
anymore."
"You're the doctor," Drummond said as the man picked up scissors and
a set of forceps and went to work. A few of the sutures pulled a little, but
they mostly came out easily.
"If you don't mind my asking, did the priest put anything on the
wound?" the doctor asked as he continued snipping and tugging.
"Yeah, some kind of glop that he said would help it heal," Drummond
replied, not feeling it necessary to mention that it had been de Beq who
had provided the ointment. "Why do you ask?"
"Because the healing really is remarkable. You've got hardly any
scarring. In fact—" He paused. "I'd say that your recovery is nearly
supernatural."
摘要：

KnightsoftheBloodBook2ATSWORD'SPOINTKatherineKurtz&ScottMacMillanCONTENTSPROLOGUEThehissingcamplanternmadethedome-shapedtentinthesmallclearingglowwithanamberincandescence.Theyoungcoupleinsidewerelockedintheheavingpassionsoftheirembrace,unawareoftheeroticshadowstheirentwinedbodiescastonthewallofthete...

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