Knights of the Blood (8 page)

The gates were made of thick oak planks, banded together with iron straps and heavy iron rivetsnot so very different from those at the Castle of Wewelsberg, the mystical fortress that SS leader Heinrich Himmler had reconstructed as the spiritual shrine of the SS. Kluge had been assigned to the research staff of Wewelsberg for a time, searching out the artifacts that legend said were imbued with mystical power. It had been Kluge’s job to locate these talismans and bring them back to Wewelsberg Castle, where they would be laid upon special altars and used in the magical rituals of the SS.

Struck by the similarity of this castle to that at Wewelsberg, Kluge stepped back a little to look up above the gates, still keeping to the shadow at one side. At that same moment, the moon brightened slightly, just before vanishing once again behind the clouds, and he was able to catch a clear look at the heraldic device carved into the stones above the gates.

The keystone set into the gate—arch was chiseled into the shape of a shield, and carefully carved on the stone was a cross potent, with four of the curved—armed swastikas called sun—wheels set within the angles of the arms of the cross. In only one other place had Kluge seen anything like such sun—wheels, and those were painted on the walls of the inner temple of the SS shrine at Wewelsberg.

The moon vanished behind the clouds then, and Kluge’s men sprinted the last fifty meters to the castle.

* * *

Standing behind the body of the dead German soldier, de Beq stared at Father Freise and then asked him–slowly, in Latin–why he had crossed himself. Freise struggled with the awkward vulgate tongue, hoping that he had correctly understood the question before replying.

“I’m a priest,” he said reaching into his field jacket and tugging out his pectoral cross–for he had lost his stole in the confusion of his capture. “
Sacerdos.”

“I see,” de Beq said, nodding with some unknown satisfaction. “And who are these others?”

“The enemy.”

* * *

Kluge and his men pushed cautiously against the small postern door set into the gates of the castle, and were rewarded for their efforts as the door swung silently open. Easing through the small opening, alert for any movement within, they found themselves in a large, silent courtyard opposite the main tower of the castle. Built out from the walls of the castle were a number of buildings that lined the courtyard and provided stabling, a smithy, kitchen, and chapel for the knights. Kluge and Baumann took it all in in a glance, and without a word being spoken, led their men along the eastern—most wall of the castle, staying well hidden in the deep shadows as they approached the tower.

* * *

Inside the castle, de Beq turned his attention to the three SS medics identified by the priest as the enemy. He had tried to speak with them in German, but it was obvious that they couldn’t understand him. He was trying to decide on a different tack when one of them stepped forward, snapped to attention, and with a click of his heels gave de Beq a smart, stiff—armed salute.

Somewhat taken aback by the soldier’s actions, de Beq was even further surprised when the man stepped forward and raised the left arm of the corpse and pointed to the tattoo on the inside of the bicep. Then, pulling off his own tunic and shirt, he showed his own tattoo to de Beq.

It was obvious that both men wore the twin lightning flashes on the inside of their left arm. Just what that was supposed to mean, however, was lost on de Beq. He turned to William of Etton, who had been quietly sizing up their captives, and asked for his opinion.

“Well,” said William, “I suppose that the men in the black uniforms all belong to the same order. They must all swear an oath to be branded, so they can tell their dead if they are stripped by the enemy. This other one–well, he’s certainly not one of them”–he inched his head toward the SS men–“and since he wasn’t armed when we caught him, I suppose he
might
be a priest.”

“Well, there’s one way to find out,” said de Beq. “How?” asked William.

“Priest,” de Beq spoke slowly in Latin, “I want you to offer Mass for us.”

“Henri, do you know what you are saying?” William whispered, eyes wide, as several of the other knights also exchanged apprehensive glances. “If we are damned for our transgression—“

“If we are damned, then it is long past time we perished,” de Beq said softly. “But I tell you, William, that to endure more than six hundred years without the sacrament of our Lord is long enough. Whether it heals or condemns, I am prepared to place the matter in His hands. Do you agree,
mes confrères?”
he finished, glancing also at the others.

At their low—voiced murmurs of agreement, de Beq turned back to Freise.

“Well, Father, do you agree?”

Freise had not been able to follow the urgent murmurings among his captors–he thought they might be speaking French, but he knew only a few words of that language–but the request for a Mass seemed relatively clear, if a trifle oddly timed, under the circumstances.

“You wish me to say Mass?” he said in halting Latin.

“Yes, the Mass,” the head knight replied.
“Corpus et Sanguis, Hostiam et Calix
–both, together.”

Freise nodded. They wanted it under both species, then, host and cup. The request was unusual, other than in a religious community–but maybe they
were
a religious community. The white robes suggested it–though Freise had never heard of an order like
this
before ... .

“We will go to the chapel, then,” de Beq said. “Pageau, bring some bread and wine.”

* * *

Kluge and his men were deep in the shadows of the stable when the knights and their prisoners started down the wooden stairs outside the tower. Holding back to watch, the Germans saw their comrades and the American priest marched at sword point across the courtyard and into the chapel.

As Kluge and his men were about to dash across the courtyard to the chapel, more than a dozen more white—robed figures began to emerge from the castle and also went into the chapel. Kluge and Baumann waited until the last of them had entered the building–and then another five minutes, to be sure of stragglers–then dashed across the courtyard with their men. The door to the chapel was closed but not latched, and yielded soundlessly to Kluge’s slow pressure.

Inside, the long chapel was illuminated only by a few votive candles at the sides and a blaze of altar candles on the reredos behind the altar. The five SS men crept silently into the vestibule beyond and eased the door closed once more, then Kluge signaled his men to work their way closer on their bellies, guns at the ready. He could see the American priest up at the altar, reading from a G.I. issue missal held by one of the white—robed men, but the rest were kneeling with their backs to the door, in a ragged semi—circle in front of the altar, their attention obviously focused on the priest.

The three SS captives sat tensely in seats carved out of the wall at the right of the altar, guarded by three knights who leaned on their naked swords, watching their captives as closely as they watched the priest. Kluge counted about two dozen of the men in all, but they were occupied for now. It gave Kluge time to consider all his options–for a single glance around the chapel had given him the answer to the question that had been gnawing at his subconscious since he first saw the cross and swastikas carved above the gates. He was in the castle of the Order of the Sword.

As he crouched in the darkness, Kluge tried to piece together what little he knew of the Order of the Sword. He recalled them having been a crusading order of knights, bodyguards to the Prince of Galilee ... but there was something else, something sinister, that he tried desperately to recall.

At the altar, the Mass was approaching its climax. Reverently, Father Freise held up a small loaf of bread, carefully pronouncing the words of consecration.

“Hoc est enim Corpus meum.”

Kluge found himself watching avidly as the priest put the loaf down, genuflected, then held the loaf aloft for the men to see. There was something, just at the edge of memory ... .

The priest continued in Latin, setting down the loaf, genuflecting again, and picking up the chalice. This he gazed upon with equal reverence, again speaking the words of consecration.

“Hic est enim Calix Sanguinis mei .... “

Calix sanguinis mei,
the cup of my blood–
blood.

Suddenly Kluge knew why the castle wasn’t on his map, The Order of the Sword had been declared anathema by the Pope at about the same time that the Templars had been suppressed in France. Unlike the Templars, there was no accusation of heresy. No, the charge against the Order of the Sword was far greater. They had been accused of being vampires.

As the priest elevated the chalice–
now containing the Blood of Christ,
if the Christian faith were true–Kluge stared at the gray—haired knight kneeling closest to the altar, perhaps the leader of this strange, white—clad band. Carefully, he took in every detail of the man–the chain mail showing under robe and mantle, the hand—and—a—half sword belted around his waist.

The full realization of what he was witnessing flooded over Kluge, crashing on him like a crimson wave. In an instant, he realized that the knights waiting to receive communion were centuries old. The pale luminance of their skins, the rapturous expressions on their faces as the priest lifted the loaf in one hand and the chalice in the other–all confirmed the darkest of the legends surrounding the Order of the Sword.

Himmler had modeled the blood rituals of the SS on those alleged to have been practiced by the Order of the Sword, and Kluge realized with a chill of elation that having been initiated into the bloody rites of the SS, he was in communion with the knights now kneeling in the chapel–knights with the blood of vampires in their veins, knights who would live forever!

Kluge took another look around the chapel, its walls painted in the style of most medieval churches. But unlike other churches, the murals on the walls of the chapel were not decorated with religious scenes, but instead covered with a continuous painting depicting the history of the Order of the Sword. Quickly Kluge scanned the stylized figures of the knights and horses, following their exploits around the room until, in the north, he came to a large triptych depicting the battle at Chalice Well.

The first panel showed the knights fighting with the Turks in the chapel, as a radiant Christ crucified looked on. In the next panel, the knights had pinned one of the Turks to the wall with heavy spears. Blood was gushing from another spear wound in his side, almost in parody of the crucified Christ, and the knights were drinking the Turk’s blood from cups offered to them by their leader. The figure of Christ on the cross now had an anguished look on its face, as though He were suffering far greater agonies than the Turk whose blood was being consumed.

The last panel showed the knights moving through the darkness, leaving the chapel. The crucifix was still there, only now Christ had turned His head away from the knights, and His face was not visible.

So. The Knights of the Sword had committed sacrilege, and been cursed by their God, and had retreated here to their castle in Luxembourg to make amends. But meanwhile, they were vampires!

Vampires! The thought of their total power electrified Kluge. It did not take a genius to see that Germany was losing the war, and yet here was a way in which some men could survive, and no matter what the outcome of the battle now raging in the forests around them, could rise out of the ashes of defeat and rebuild the Aryan race.

And now the vampires who could give Kluge this power were waiting to receive Christian communion. Kluge’s theology, based on childhood catechisms mostly forgotten, was hazy; but if the words of consecration truly did transform ordinary wine into the Blood of Christ, he had to wonder what such blood would do to a vampire. Would it provide the same kind of nourishment as human blood? Or would it destroy them utterly for daring to profane so sacred a thing? If vampires
were
cursed of God, the Blood of Christ would surely destroy them the instant it touched their lips.

Kluge decided he did not want to wait to find out. The potential gift was too precious to risk losing it by the pious self—sacrifice of six—hundred—yearold knights who had decided it was time to pay the price for a sacrilege committed long ago in the Holy Land. Even now, the young priest was dipping a fragment of the consecrated bread into the cup, touching it to the edge to stop its dripping, holding it a little above the cup as he looked into the ancient eyes of the leader of the knights.

“Corpus et Sanguis Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat animam tuam in. vitam aeternam. Amen,” he said.

And as the vampire knight also murmured, “Amen,” and extended his tongue to receive, Kluge and his men opened fire.

The first shots slammed into de Beq and several other of the knights kneeling nearest the priest. Freise sprang back, instinctively throwing himself to the floor and rolling to his right, scrambling behind the cover of a thick pillar that supported the roof of the chapel. He was still holding the chalice as he drew himself into a huddled ball behind the pillar, but the wine had spilled across the floor of the sanctuary. Freise grimaced at the sight, but he decided that it was more important not to spill any of his own blood just now, than to worry about Blood already spilled. Surely the Lord would not fault him for this.

Meanwhile 9mm slugs were slamming into the mailed bodies of the knights, shredding their white mantles and punching ragged holes through centuries—old chain mail. The knights reeled under the impact of the bullets, but struggled to their feet nonetheless, already drawing their swords and staggering forward to charge Kluge and his men.

Baumann and the SS troopers with him poured a deadly fire into the three men nearest them, finally managing to knock them off their feet—but they got back up! Another of the mailed men charged at Kluge, his heavy sword raised high above his head. The pistol in Kluge’s fist barked twice, but the slugs thudded into the chest of his attacker with no apparent effect. Coolly taking aim, Kluge fired a third round into the man’s forehead–and
that
dropped him, twitching, at his feet.