Knights of the Blood by Katherine Kurtz, Scott MacMillan Page A

and pain as the serjeant hacked off his remaining arm and left him to squirm in the gore like an obscene worm.
    But the dark pool around Brandstadter had grown larger with his exertions. The German serjeant’s face was a pale bluish white, and as he raised his axe for what was clearly the last time, de Beq could see the golden hilt of a Turkish dagger protruding from under his left arm, and the wetly glistening torrent of blood staining his surcoat a darker crimson.
    For an instant, Brandstadter reared up in his final glory, the two—handed axe poised above his head at the apex of the swing, his coif pushed back and his thin blond hair matted with sweat and blood, a look of elation blazing in the pain—taut face. Then, with the supreme satisfaction of those who know they die in a just cause, if die they must, the axe flashed down, severing the head of the armless and legless Turk and embedding deeply in the floor. The light was already fading from Brandstadter’s eyes as he toppled forward across the torso of the Turk.
    The fighting was almost over, though. Fresh men—at—arms had pressed into the chapel, beheading several more Turks with their two—handed battle axes and clearing a way for Martello and two more serjeants with boar spears, who now drove the Turkish chief to ground in an angle between the altar and the chapel’s back wall, using the spears to spar with his blade. Myles Brabazon had brought three of the archers into the back of the chapel, too, and roared for the men in the center of the chapel to stand aside as three heavy war bows were brought to full draw, barbed arrows aimed unrelentingly at Ibn—al—Hassad.
    Suddenly, de Beq realized that all of the Turks were dead except Hassad. A hush descended as the men realized it, too, and weapons were guardedly lowered as all eyes turned fearfully to regard the trapped Turkish leader. There was still a danger so long as Hassad lived, and at de Beq’s signal, the knights Armand du Gaz and Hano von Linka pushed forward to join the three serjeants with more boar spears, unintimidated by Hassad’s glare. The other knights and serjeants pressed into the chapel as well, as many as would fit, all of them with weapons still at the ready, should Hassad try to escape.
    Aided by one of the men—at—arms, de Beq dragged himself to his feet and made his way toward the profaned altar and Hassad, picking up a spear from off the floor and hefting it as he eyed the Turkish chief. Hassad still held a bloodv scimitar in his hand, but now he flung it away and glared at them with haughty contempt.
    “You cannot harm me,” he declared in French. “I am eternal.”
    De Beq was as much shocked by Hassad’s use of French as he was by what the Turk said. Some of the men shifted uneasily, as though instinct warned that if they stood too close, he could in some way destroy them. Some of the others crossed themselves. De Beq, however, stood his ground.
    “Only our Lord is eternal, Turk,” he said evenly.
    “I think not,” Hassad retorted, spitting on the altar beside him. “I have drunk the blood of your Lord, and he is nothing! Nothing!”
    There was something in Hassad’s voice, an evil that went beyond mere blasphemy. De Beq could sense the threat that it might affect his men, causing them to falter—possibly even causing them to weaken, giving Hassad an opportunity to escape.
    “Pin him to the wall,” de Beq said, not even raising his voice.
    Without the slightest hesitation, Hano von Linka and Armand du Gaz rammed their spears hard into Hassad’s shoulders, the blades sinking to the bars on the ricasso and the points digging deep into the wall as Hassad gasped. At the same time, the archers let fly arrows into Hassad’s thighs, three of the shafts slamming through the flesh and pinning him there as well.
    “I shall kill you all!” the vampire roared, sweeping a forearm across the arrows and snapping them off like so many matchsticks, nearly pulling his thighs