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

men.
    “Down!” boomed Baumann’s heavy voice, and instinctively Kluge dropped flat on the ground and tried to cover his ears. He heard the metallic clatter of the grenade hitting the stone floor, followed seconds later by the deafening blast as it went off.
    All of them were momentarily stunned by the concussion of the exploding grenade, The sharp smell of cordite stung Kluge’s nostrils as he gasped for air, while the chapel filled with a combination of smoke from the grenade and plaster dust from the damaged walls. The ringing in his ears made it impossible to hear anything, but instinctively he knew that he had to act before the knights recovered their senses.
    Pushing himself up onto his hands and knees, Kluge shook his head and tried to clear his vision. The concussion grenade had done its job: Kluge’s nose was bleeding, his own men only faintly stirring, and the knights were collapsed in disoriented heaps around the chapel. The triptych on the north wall had fallen down, almost on top of Kluge; and as his eyes finally focused, he found himself staring at the center panel, at the scene of the knights sharing their sanguine communion.
    Even in his stunned condition, Kluge knew immediately what he had to do. Half crawling, half walking, he tottered his way to the nearest downed knight, fumbling inside his battle—dress jacket as he fell to his knees beside the man. The knife he withdrew had a gravity—operated blade–the sort usually issued to paratroopers–and with a flick of his wrist, he opened it. He had to struggle to roll the stunned knight over, but his blade slit the man’s throat with hardly any effort.
    Blood gushed from the wound, and Kluge looked around belatedly for something to catch it in; but seeing nothing in reach, he bent down and pressed his mouth over the wound. Now was not the time to be fastidious. He drank greedily of immortality, swallowing as much of the knight’s blood as he could stomach.
    The others were stirring by the time Kluge raised his head. From behind the pillar, a groggy Father Freise watched in stunned disbelief as Kluge, gorged on the fallen knight’s blood, lurched unsteadily to his feet and staggered over to two of his men, shaking their shoulders and rousing them to consciousness.
    One of the captive SS orderlies had been hit by stray bullets and would not be going anywhere, but the other two were dragging themselves upright, starting to stumble towards Kluge, too. Another gained his legs a few feet away and helped Kluge get the others standing.
    All around them, the knights were stirring, too, and with a signal to Baumann and the other SS men, Kluge dashed for the door of the chapel and out into the courtyard. Most of Kluge’s men were through the door to the courtyard when William of Etton and a few others managed to find their feet, but they had not reckoned on the speed of the vampire knights.
    The SS medical orderly stared in disbelief at the knight whose sword had just sliced through his torso, before the top half of his body toppled to the cobblestones just outside the chapel. Bursting into the courtyard, the knights fell about the nearest Germans with incredible ferocity, literally hacking the men to pieces as they fan for the gates and the safety of the war beyond.
    Kluge had just dived through the postern door when he heard something smack into the man right behind him. Turning, he saw one of his men catching himself on the sides of the door jamb, wideeyed, the point of a crossbow bolt jutting out through his forehead. Baumann had been hit as well, the iron bolt passing nearly through his shoulder. Grabbing the Scharführer by the front of his battle jacket, Kluge yanked him through the opening and, half carrying, half dragging the wounded soldier, made for the wood at the edge of the clearing.
    Back in the chapel, as the sounds of fighting subsided in the courtyard beyond, the trembling Father Freise finally dared to venture out from behind his sheltering