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

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

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