Knights of the Blood (29 page)

Authors: Katherine Kurtz,Scott MacMillan

* * *

Just before dawn, the three remaining SS men were brought to the center of the castle courtyard, hands still bound, and made to kneel at three—yard intervals. Opposite them, the punkers were drawn up in a straggling line against the wall of the great hall. Standing to the right of each of Kluge’s SS men and slightly behind them was a knight with a large two—handed sword: Hano von Linka, William of Etton, and Etienne Lefroi.

De Beq raised his hand, and the knights began to slowly circle the big swords over their heads, increasing the speed with each pass of the blade. The eastern sky was brightening with the faint colors of the coming day, and as the first golden rays of the sun broke through the clouds, de Beq dropped his arm. In a single flashing instant, all three of Kluge’s knights were dispatched to Valhalla. Behind him, de Beq could hear one of the punkers puke.

Turning to Armand du Gaz, de Beq jerked his thumb in the direction of the punks.

“Cut their throats,” he said.

Du Gaz made quick work of the four remaining vampires. When it was done, he leaned down and wiped his blade on the shirt of the last to die and then, being careful not to step in the spreading pool of blood that was slowly sinking in between the cobblestones, he followed de Beq back to the temporary hospital in the great hall. Despite their need, they would have nothing to do with
this
blood.

Inside, de Beq paused to speak with one of the serjeants, both of them glancing toward the corner of the room where Father Freise was bending over a now conscious and vocal Drummond.

“Ow! That really hurts,” said Drummond, as Father Freise tried to remove the bandage that was stuck to his matted hair.

“Well, it’s off, so let’s have a better look at that cut, now that we’ve got some daylight.” Father Freise carefully probed the edge of the gash that ran along the side of Drummond’s scalp: “I’m afraid this is going to leave quite a scar, my friend.”

“I’ll just comb my hair over it,” Drummond quipped.

De Beq squatted next to Father Freise and set down a small leather bag. Opening it up, he scooped out a liberal amount of something that resembled gray lard.

“Here,” he said, plopping the dollup in Freise’s hand. “Put this on the wound. It will stop it scarring or going rank.”

Freise looked at the glop in his hand, then over at Drummond.

“Sure, go ahead, Frank. Don’t want to offend the man,” Drummond said.

“Okay, but if your hair falls out, don’t blame me,” Freise replied, carefully spreading the greasy concoction along the side of Drummond’s head before tying on a clean bandage.

De Beq watched closely, inspecting Freise’s handiwork with an experienced eye. As the bandage was tied off, he spoke to the priest.

“I have taken counsel with my knights,” he began, “and we would esteem it a great honor if you would say a Mass for us before you leave.” The speech had taken a great deal of effort on de Beq’s part, and Father Freise knew how much this simple service would mean to them.

“Well,” Father Freise said slowly, “I could offer up a Mass of Dedication.” He looked straight at de Beq.

De Beq knew at once what the priest was driving at.

“Father,” he began, “I cannot lead my men out of this castle to fight your Nazis. The world is much too changed a place. Even the best knights need leadership, and there are none among us who know your world.” He lowered his eyes. “Most of us have forgotten our world.” He paused for a moment, his voice trailing off, and whispered, “We are lost.”

“I could lead you,” said Drummond, propping himself up on one elbow.

“How could you?” asked de Beq. “You are not one of us. You are not even a knight.”

“If I
were
a knight, would you follow me?” Drummond asked.

“If you were a knight,” de Beq retorted, “would you join with us, and live as we live, and keep to our holy vows?”

“If I could, yes,” said Drummond. “As far as any man can.”

De Beq turned to Father Freise. “You said a Mass of Dedication, yes?”

Freise looked at Drummond, who drew a deep breath.

“We need them, Frank. \Ve’ve gotta have the backup.” Drummond pushed himself up into a seated position and felt himself going light—headed. “I don’t know what it’s going to take, but we’ve got to stop Kluge, no matter what the cost.”

De Beq looked at Father Freise beseechingly. “Well, Father?”

DOZENS OF
candles flickered in the chapel that evening, casting ghost—like shadows over the helmets of departed knights that hung from pegs set high in the walls. Beneath each helmet was a sheathed sword, the name of a knight carefully illuminated on the scabbard. The heady perfume of incense filled the air, and in the stillness the sound of a silver bell added to the rapture that filled the hearts of those present. One by one, the men of the Order of the Sword came forward, and each received the cup from Father Freise’s trembling hands.

The last to approach the altar rail was a postulant dressed in the purest white. Like the others he knelt at the altar step, his hands pressed together in an attitude of prayer, but unlike the others, the priest did not approach. Instead, a lean, grizzled man with a short—clipped salt—and—pepper beard came forward, clad in burnished chain mail and wearing a surcoat of deepest red.

Kneeling in front of him, the knight placed his hands around those of the postulant. Together the two men exchanged the simple vows of an ancient order of chivalry. The knight stood, and taking his sword from the altar held it in front of him, pommel topmost, forming the sign of the cross. Kissing the sword where the simple guard crossed the blade, he turned it so that it pointed skyward and then solemnly brought it down flat—bladed on the postulant’s shoulder.

“Soit Chevalier,”
he said as the steel touched the right shoulder. Then lifting the sword over the head of the postulant, he touched him lightly on the left shoulder. “
Au Nom de Dieu.”

Two more knights stepped forward and placed a surcoat over the head of the kneeling man–bright red, emblazoned with a pale blue, gold—limned cross set with four golden sun—wheels. The knight by the altar bent down, and taking the newly made knight by the hands, lifted him up.

“Avaunce, Chevalier,”
he said, and led him by the hands to the topmost altar step, where both of them knelt, the older knight behind and a little to one side. The chalice lay on the altar, set before a bank of flickering candles, and Father Freise lifted it with reverence, bringing it over to the kneeling new knight.

“The blood of Christ, my son,” he said, as he offered Drummond the cup–a simple thing of horn, bound with brass ... .

Placing his hands around those of the priest, eyes locked with his, John Drummond drank deeply of the communion of the Order of the Sword.