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

free as he arched his body away from the wall and wrenched at von Linka’s spear. “I shall kill you all and drink your blood before you die!”
    Still pinned by the spears, apparently oblivious to pain, Hassad kicked out at the crusaders and continued trying to tear himself free. Other men rushed forward and drove more spears into arms and legs, putting their weight behind the hafts, two to a spear, as his superhuman strength threatened to overwhelm even these efforts.
    De Beq had seen enough. Moving swiftly to the altar, with the dead priest’s body still staked out upon it, he bent down and retrieved the cup that the old man had died to protect–the cup that Hassad had used to drink the old man’s blood. Hefting his spear, he held the cup aloft for Hassad to see, righteous rage propelling him into vengeance.
    “I will hear no more of your blasphemy, Turk! This holy relic is the cup of our Lord. You profaned it by drinking the blood of its keeper. Now we will purify this cup. The last thing you shall see before I send your soul to hell will be this cup resanctified!”
    Without further preamble, de Beq moved a single step closer and plunged his spear into the Turk’s side. Hassad gasped, his head snapping back as he felt this wound, but he could do nothing to stop the blood gushing out of his side and down the shaft of the spear, to be caught in the cup which de Beq impulsively thrust beneath it.
    “I curse you, Christian!” Hassad ranted. “You and yours shall live to regret what you do here! I call upon the nine demons of Hell to torment you, to smite you for your presumption! You cannot kill that part of me which is immortal! I curse you! I curse youuuu ... .”
    At that point, de Beq had ceased caring about any part of Hassad, whether or not it lived forever. He was thinking of the horror Hassad had wrought upon countless hundreds, perhaps thousands–and in particular, of the blameless old priest still staked to the altar beside Hassad in the anguish of his death, whose tortured pleas for mercy had fallen upon deaf ears. De Beq’s ears were likewise deaf as he lifted up the blood—filled cup and, to astonished gasps from his own men, pressed it to his lips and drank, never taking his eyes from Hassad’s as he swallowed once, twice, again.
    But eager hands were waiting to take the cup when he had drunk, passing the cup from man to man and back to de Beq each time it was emptied. Hassad’s cursing had given way to maniacal laughter. The gush of blood from the Turk’s side slowed—surely the wound was not closing of its own accord i—and de Beq had to twist the spear to make the blood continue flowing, until all who desired had shared the gory communion, even those in the yard pressing inside to partake–all save the archers, who had melted back to the courtyard murmuring among themselves when de Beg’s intention became clear; for their service to the Order was by contract, not as true members, and they did not share the other men’s thirst for blood—vengeance.
    Hassad was still laughing weakly as de Beq set the little cup carefully on the altar, but reason no longer lit the dark eyes. De Beq almost pitied him as he took the sword that William handed him and, after kissing the holy relic in its hilt, struck off Hassad’s head.
    His men’s shouts of approval reverberated in the little chapel as Hassad’s body arched once more, blood spraying them all in bloody baptism, then subsided on the spears that pierced it. The head came to rest on the floor at de Beq’s feet, and he shuddered, suddenly sobered, as he thought he saw a fleeting smile pass briefly across the dead Turk’s lips.
    But then the moment was past. Justice having been done, and having been seen to be done, the men immediately withdrew from the desecrated chapel to see to their dead and wounded and set about the more pleasant business of looting what valuables they could from the village. De Beq remained for a little while, staring in