Knights of the Blood Read Online Free PDF Page B

focus on the knight.
    “Those who practice ... the Black Arts ... also ... become ... vryko ... vryko ... vry ... “
    The priest’s head slammed forward onto the table, and de Beq gave a heavy sigh. He should have curtailed the priest’s consumption before he passed out. Now it would be morning before they could speak on the subject again. Resigned, he had three of the serving brothers carry their unconscious guest to a pallet in a corner of the hall to sleep it off.
    The next day around noon, de Beq was in the stables checking on the condition of the horses when one of the men—at—arms brought him word that the Greek priest finally had recovered from the previous night’s drinking. Giving a few instructions to the native groom who looked after his men’s horses, de Beq went back across the courtyard and up the stairs to the great hall. The priest was sitting at the long trestle table opposite de Beg’s chair, holding his head in his hands and nursing an untouched cup of thin local beer. No one else was in the hall besides a few servants at the kitchen end, cutting bread trenchers for the main meal later on. As de Beq sat down, the priest looked up through bloodshot eyes and moaned.
    “Sire de Beq,” the priest croaked, “I feel all of God’s punishment for my sins in my head. Not for all the money in the world would I wish to be archbishop of Cyprus. The wine would kill me.”
    De Beq didn’t care if the Cypriot wine killed the priest or not, but he did want to know one thing further from their conversation of the night before.
    “Tell me, blessed Father, how do you kill a broucolaques in the Greek lands?”
    “Vrykolatios, “ the priest corrected automatically.
    He drew a deep breath and held it for several seconds before expelling it, looking very pale behind his beard. For a moment, de Beq thought the sodden cleric was about to be sick and instinctively moved back, just in case.
    “To kill a vrykolatios, you must drive a spear or sword through its heart,” the priest informed him gravely. “Cutting off its head is even better.” The priest closed his eyes as a mighty belch rumbled up from his guts. “Finally, they may be killed by burning them to ashes–oh, Mother of God!”
    The priest belched again. The red veins on his nose stood out from the purpled flesh, and his eyes began to water. Expecting this, de Beq jumped back, just as the priest turned his head and was violently sick on the stone floor of the great hall.
    De Beq surveyed the scene with disgust and got to his feet. The Greek priest turned back to de Beq with a weak smile and a look of apology, but appeared as if he was about to be sick again.
    “Thank you, Father,” was all de Beq said, and then he left the hall.
    For the next three weeks, de Beq had concentrated all of his efforts in preparing his men for the inevitable confrontation with Hassad and his men, going on the assumption that all of them might well be vrykolatios, as the priest had suggested. Contrary to the rule of his Order, de Beq fed his men three full meals a day, with meat served both morning and evening. Regular devotions in the chapel were increased as well, with daily attendance at Mass and reception of communion–for if the vrykolatios were also afreat or demons, as Sharif Salim maintained, and accursed by Allah, de Beq had to suppose that any fortification from the Christian God could only assist Christian knights in carrying out His will.
    Meanwhile, de Beq did not neglect the practical side of his preparations. Prayers were well and good, but prowess with cold steel held its own grim reassurance. De Beq worked his garrison hard, requiring the men to spend extra hours swinging at the pells with their heavy swords and throwing heavy spears at stuffed “Turks” hanging from the quintain in the training yard. Nor were tactics overlooked. Shoulder to shoulder, the men grunted under the morning and afternoon sun as they formed schiltrons bristling with spears and