Knights of the Blood (27 page)

Before Father Freise could answer, one of the men—at—arms came running through the door of the great hall and came to a stop directly between the priest and de Beq.

“Sire,” Pageau said in Norman—French, “there is a large body of men in the woods,” he gestured toward Freise and Drummond, “near where we first sighted these two.”

“How big a force?” asked de Beq.

“About thirty, perhaps a bit less. Eight or ten of them are in uniforms, like those of the last men to attack our castle.”

“And the others?” De Beq stared first at the priest, then at Drummond.

“Peasants, I should think, by the way they behave and are dressed.” Pageau, his report finished, stood waiting for de Beq to speak, but de Beq turned to Freise instead.

“This man has just told me that there are thirty soldiers in the woods, not a hundred paces from where you were waiting.” De Beq’s nostrils flared. “Are they with you, priest? Are
they?”

“I give you God’s word, they are not!” Freise crossed himself. “I fear that they are the ones I told you about.”

“The Nazis?”

Father Freise nodded.

“Then in that case, none of them will leave here alive.” De Beq looked back at Pageau. “Open the gates. “

Then, turning to Father Freise, he said, “God’s will be done.”

* * *

The man—at—arms in the woods crouched down, reaching into a leather box on his belt. Pulling out a strip of oil—soaked rag, he wrapped it around the shaft of an arrow and knotted it in place. Then, taking up flint and steel, he struck several sparks onto the rag before it ignited. Blowing on it, he waited until it was burning nicely before he set the arrow to his bow and, drawing the nock to his cheek, sent the flaming arrow skyward.

Kluge and his force were halfway to the castle when the arrow arched over their heads and fell, like a shooting star, into the courtyard of the castle. De Beq, waiting for the signal, picked up the fiery brand and quenched it with a steaming hiss in a nearby barrel of rain water.

“They’re coming,” he said to the two men watching with him. Then, hand on the hilt of his sword, he turned and headed back into the great hall.

Cullen, one of the men—at—arms, still stood over Drummond, one mailed hand clasped to Drummond’s shoulder and the point of his dagger pressed firmly to the soft flesh behind Drummond’s ear. De Beq walked over to them and ordered Cullen to fall in with the others. Then, looking at Drummond, he extended his hand and pulled him to his feet.

“Come,” he said, leading Drummond by the arm.

“Sire de Beq,” Father Freise began as de Beq came abreast of him.

“Priest, stay!” de Beq barked, almost as if speaking to an over—affectionate dog.

Grabbing a torch off the wall, de Beq headed down a narrow stair, half—dragging Drummond along behind him. The smooth stone steps wound their way down into the cellars beneath the great hall. At one end of the cellar was a stout oak door, with a wrought—iron grill set over a small opening near its top. Taking a key from a nearby hook, de Beq opened the door and shoved Drummond in.

Dungeons,
thought Drummond
. Vampires and dungeons.

He stood facing the wall, waiting for de Beq to slam the door, lock it and, in all probability, throw away the key, but instead, de Beq came into the cell with him, crouching down to wrench at the lid of a large wooden box. Lifting it open, he held the torch close so that Drummond could see inside.

The box was filled with guns. Or rather what had
been
guns, when the knights had gathered them from the surrounding fields more than half a century ago, after the Battle of the Bulge. Drummond wasn’t an expert on military hardware, but from the looks of the guns in the box, he guessed that they had been down here since the Second World .War, at least.

“Prennez,”
said de Beq–then, sticking out his right hand, grasped Drummond around the right wrist. Drummond immediately gripped de Beq’s right wrist in return, and for a moment neither man spoke. Then de Beq broke the silence with a single word.

“Honor.”

Drummond nodded his head almost imperceptibly. “Honor.”

Without further words or need for words, de Beq handed Drummond the torch and headed back up the courtyard. Looking into the box, Drummond rummaged among what was mostly rusty junk until he found a P—38 that looked as if it was in working condition. Releasing the magazine catch on the bottom of the grip, he counted the rounds.

Seven. Pulling the slide back just a tad, he could see another round in the chamber of the pistol. Eight rounds. Better than nothing, but a long way away from enough.

Enough,
Drummond reflected for just a moment.
How many slugs is enough, when you’re shooting vampires? And where do you shoot them?

Drummond decided to go for head shots. If it’ll drop a speed freak on PCP, it ought to at least slow down a vampire, he reasoned.

Farther down in the box of rusted weaponry, Drummond struck pay dirt. Rusted solidly to a Luger was the remains of a Schmeisser sub machine gun, its magazine filled with nearly fifty rounds of ammo that would fit the P—38. Pulling a bayonet out of the box, Drummond managed to pry the aluminum magazine out of the gun, and using his thumb he dumped the live ammo into the palm of his hand, quickly transferring it to his jacket pocket. Sticking the bayonet under his belt crossways behind him, he headed back up the stairs to join the others in the great hall.

* * *

The flaming arrow looked like a shooting star as it streaked down into the courtyard of the castle, as Kluge and his followers ran across the meadow that separated the castle from the woods. At the edge of the moat, they slid to a halt, then carefully made their way across the drawbridge.

In the pale moonlight, Kluge saw the doorway through which Drummond and the priest had entered the castle. Pushing against the door with the sole of his riding boot, he found it locked solidly closed. For just a moment he hesitated, wondering how the priest had entered, when suddenly the gates swung open as Magda and the girl in the fishnet stockings pushed against them. With no more time to worry about Drummond and the priest, Kluge bolted through the gates with the rest of his horde.

THE DOOR
to the great hall was open, spilling a swath of reddish—orange torchlight across the uneven cobblestones of the courtyard. The punker shock troops of Kluge’s first wave instinctively made for the light, weapons at the ready, their blood lust rising in their throats as a chorus of frenzied screams.

The first punker had reached the steps leading up to the great hall when from out of the darkness a crossbow bolt smashed through his skull and embedded itself in the heavy timbered door—frame. Brains and blood bursting out of his forehead and streaming down his face, the punker spun with the impact and fired wildly into the darkness.

“Fuckerrrrs!” he screamed.

His legs buckled beneath him, and still trying to crawl, he slowly fell forward.

The first burst of gunfire triggered an immediate reflex reaction in the rest of the punkers. Wound tight by their blood—high and the surging adrenalin, for a few seconds they fired wildly at anything they imagined to be in the dark shadows of the courtyard. All discipline momentarily vanished as they went on a full auto rampage, slugs smashing through window glazing and ricocheting off the stone walls of the buildings.

Suddenly, as quickly as it had begun, it stopped, and an awesome quiet descended over the castle. From inside the great hall, only the voice of Father Freise could be heard, chanting the psalms of Evensong.

“Rush ‘em!” someone screamed, and the punkers broke toward the great hall, now firing random bursts to lay down covering fire as they ran.

Before they had gone twenty paces, a skirmish party of half a dozen men—at—arms, led by du Gaz and Etienne Lefroi, came bursting out of the great hall and collided with them, scattering the startled punkers like ten pins.

The suddenness and ferocity of the resistance were totally unexpected. Lulled by the glamor of their superiority of firepower, the punkers fell back before the steel—edged might of warriors in red surcoats, men who were not afraid to throw themselves against withering gunfire. Blades flashing pearlescent in the moonlight, the armored knights began hacking their way through the punkers, whose bravado changed to obscene terror as cold steel clove through vampire flesh to kill and maim.

Kluge and his knights had held back in the shadows, not moving toward the great hall until after du Gaz and his party sallied forth and engaged the punkers. But now, surging past that struggle and bounding up the steps, Kluge’s black—caped knights burst into the hall to look for the rest of the castle’s inhabitants, their great hand—and—a—half broadswords flashing in the torchlight.

Kluge, in the vanguard, cut down the serjeant nearest the door and slammed his shoulder into another red—clad knight, sending him crashing to the floor. Swinging his broadsword two—handed, he turned in time to deflect a blow from a short battleaxe aimed at his head. Recovering, he lunged forward, jabbing his attacker in the face.

The knight staggered back, recovered, and gripping his axe in both hands, came at Kluge again, only to be hamstrung by a Nazi who had taken him from behind. Collapsing, the knight pushed himself up into a kneeling position, only to have Kluge’s blade cleave down, decapitating him.

Backed into a corner, one of the Nazis was holding two serjeants at bay, feinting first at one and then the other with his broadsword. Pushing past two more men who were locked in hand—to—hand combat, Kluge came up behind one of the serjeants and, swinging his sword as if it were an axe, split the man’s head down to his chin.

The remaining serjeant turned to defend himself against the threat of Kluge’s attack, giving his former opponent the opening he needed. Swinging his broadsword like a baseball bat, the Nazi’s titanium—edged blade sliced through the serjeant’s body armor and opened his abdomen. Slipping in his own entrails, the serjeant fell screaming to the floor.

Adding to the chaos of battle, de Beq and his reserves now entered the fray, sweeping across the courtyard to systematically take out the remainder of the punkers, some of whom were still trying to put up a fight. One of the punkers broke through to the hall, spraying a burst of machine—gun fire which did little damage but shifted some of the fighting to that part of the hall for long enough to overwhelm him.

Drummond, meanwhile, was doing his best to stay clear of the swordplay, rationing his meager supply of ammo and determined to make every shot count, concentrating most of his effort on protecting Father Freise and keeping himself alive. His face was a mask of grim determination as he stood shielding Father Freise, his P—38 held rigidly in front of him in a two—handed combat stance. One of the Nazis came for them, his sword held out to his side, taunting Drummond to fire.

Without changing his expression, Drummond fired two rapid shots, both of which slid neatly under the rim of the black coal—scuttle helmet. The Nazi, completely rigid, toppled forward, landing at Drummond’s feet.

Turning to his right, Drummond pumped three quick shots into the chest of another of the Nazis. The impact of the bullets caused the man to stagger back, but he recovered almost immediately, continuing his advance on Drummond and Father Freise.

Aiming at the Nazi’s face this time, Drummond squeezed the trigger again.

CLICK. Nothing happened. Drummond tried again, but after fifty years in the castle dungeon, the damp and corroded ammo refused to go off.

Reaching behind his back, Drummond grabbed his bayonet and, taking it by the point, threw it at the advancing Nazi.

Cartwheeling through the air, the bayonet struck him in the chest butt—first and clattered harmlessly to the floor.

The Nazi smiled unpleasantly, and blind panic seized Drummond for just an instant.

Then Father Freise shouted, “The sword, John! Grab the sword!”

Drummond threw himself onto the floor, grabbing the sword that lay next to the body of the Nazi he had just shot. Rolling clear of the black—clad corpse, he came up into a crouch, the sword held menacingly in front of him.

The Nazi was pressing one hand against the wounds in his chest, trying to heal himself while he decided whether to finish off Drummond or Father Freise first. Abruptly, spinning towards Freise, he cocked his sword arm back and then snapped it forward, his sword arching overhead and flashing down toward Freise’s shoulder.

Drummond’s own reactions were faster, as he swung his sword in a desperate attempt to block the blade, but his aim was off. Instead of stopping the Nazi’s sword, he felt his own blade slice through the wrist of his opponent’s sword arm. The Nazi screamed, and his sword, still clutched in a blackgloved hand, spun through the air, narrowly missing Father Freise. In a frenzy, Drummond began to beat at the Nazi with his sword until the man collapsed, a large pool of blood spreading from the end of his right arm.

Behind Drummond, one of Kluge’s black knights was locked in a hand—to—hand struggle with one of de Beq’s men—at—arms, the Nazi repeatedly driving his knee into the warrior’s crotch with little or no effect. Finally, the two combatants tripped and crashed to the ground, where the Nazi was able to get on top of his opponent and gouge his thumbs deep into his eye sockets. Howling in pain, the blinded man—at—arms furiously rammed his hands deep into the pit of the Nazi’s stomach and then, wrenching upwards, grabbed the bottom of his rib cage and split his chest open.

The Nazi screamed and staggered back against the wall, his heart and lungs hanging out of his body. Slumping into a seated position, his heart thumped feebly to a halt and the lungs slowly deflated. A wheezing scream caught in the Nazi’s throat as he died.

Still clutching his sword, Kluge staggered out of the great hall, hacking and slashing at the mailed men in red surcoats, who had made short work of his punker vanguard and now were slowly gaining the edge on his black knights as well. Even on the run, unable to take a close count, Kluge could see that four or five of his SS men were down, some of them to rise no more. It was not supposed to go this way!

A serjeant lunged at Kluge with a spear. Sidestepping the attack, Kluge swung his sword at the man’s midriff and felt the blade embed itself in the man’s spine. Unable to free his weapon from the body of the badly wounded serjeant, Kluge let it go, and was turning to bolt for the safety of the gatehouse and the forest beyond when he saw Drummond and Father Freise coming cautiously out of the hall, Drummond with one of Kluge’s swords in his hand.

Bending down, Kluge seized the spear the serjeant had dropped and, drawing back his arm, launched it at Drummond with all his strength. The six—foot oak shaft flew just shy of its mark, its iron head grazing Drummond’s head with great force and opening a nasty wound in his scalp, but not killing him.

Shock waves of pain exploded in Drummond’s brain as the impact of the spear jarred him into Father Freise’s arms. The sword fell from his hand. A great rushing sound filled Drummond’s ears, and his vision narrowed, until he felt that he was at the bottom of a well looking up at the priest’s face. Then even that faint vision was extinguished, and everything went black.

Kluge paused just a moment to savor the satisfaction as Freise anxiously lowered Drummond to the ground, blood streaming from the wounded man’s head. And as the old priest looked up, searching for the one responsible, Kluge grinned and ran for the open gates and the safety of the forest. He did not see how Father Freise stood and, drawing Drummond’s Beretta pistol out of the pocket of his cassock, took careful aim and fired a single shot at Kluge’s retreating form.

The bullet hit Kluge just above the knee. Its impact spun him, flailing, to the ground. Stunned, he tried to stand, only to have his leg collapse under him. It took him several seconds to comprehend that he had been shot, and that the wound was bad.

In the half a century that Kluge had been nearly immortal, he had not experienced pain, real pain, like he now felt coursing up his leg. Unable to stand, he began to crawl out through the gatesuntil suddenly he felt a woman’s hands grabbing him and lifting him up.

Magda Krebs had hidden in a doorway by the gates once the shooting started, watching with horror as the red—surcoated knights made short work of Kluge’s first wave and then started cutting a swath through the black knights. She had been about to run for it when she heard the shot and saw Kluge stagger and collapse, shot through the leg. For a moment, shock had paralyzed her, that her beloved master should be felled by the priest’s bullet. But then, ardor overcoming her fear, Magda ran out and helped Kluge to his feet.

Gasping, Kluge pressed his hands against his wound, hardly even aware of who she was, much less of the devotion that had fired her to action.

Blood, he thought, I’ve got to have blood–blood to heal, blood to stop the bleeding! And the blood of another vampire was best.

Panting with the exertion, Magda threw Kluge’s right arm over her shoulder and struggled to her feet, starting to drag him through the gates.

“Hang on, Master! Hang on!” she cried. “Just through the gates. I’ll get you help!”

But as he leaned on her, pain pounding in his leg and strength waning by the second, Kluge realized that help was already at hand. Reaching down with his left hand, he closed his palm around the hilt of the SS dagger and quickly brought it up to plunge into the side of Magda Krebs’ neck.

Her startled squeak was drowned in the gurgling of her own blood gushing in a frothy torrent into her throat. Kluge twisted the knife and pulled it out, sinking down, dragging Magda down to him, sealing her wound with his mouth and drinking in the hot vampiric blood that would immediately jolt his body into an even higher healing mode than normally possessed by the near—immortal. Unlike most of his other victims, Magda didn’t even struggle after that first, startled reflex from the pain, but instead seemed to press herself closer to Kluge’s body, unable even to whimper, as if in this one final act, her passion for Kluge was at last returned.

He kept drinking even when she moved no more, taking the blood as fast as he could, feeling its power surge through his limbs. Letting her fall, he pressed his hands on the wound above his knee and felt the bullet hole close, and the electrifying jolt of pure bliss as strength returned to his limbs. Still a little shaky on his feet, he stood, keeping to the shadows as he hobbled away from the turmoil in the courtyard and passed through the gates, headed toward the drawbridge, only to have a hurtling figure suddenly burst from the shadows and nearly bowl him over–the girl in the fishnet stockings and Doc Martins, making a break for the safety of the woods.

“Master!” she gasped, only then realizing who he was.

Viciously, Kluge threw her off and lashed out at her with his good leg, sending her sprawling to the ground. Enraged, he kicked out at her again, this time catching her under the jaw with the toe of his boot. Turning then, he started to head for the open field, only to have the girl grab his foot, nearly wrenching him to the ground.

The conflict in the castle courtyard began to subside and de Beq, seeing Kluge trying to escape, bellowed for the men in the gate house to drop the portcullis. High above Kluge in the gate house, two armored men seized heavy mallets and began hammering at the safety block that held the portcullis in place, pounding on it with all their might.