Pyramid of Blood (Swords Versus Tanks Book 3) (6 page)

Ranulph turned back to the stone platform and mounted the first step. He'd come here seeking magic. But now it would be enough to get home alive. He rubbed his forehead. That meant using... diplomacy.

#

Jasmine tensed her limbs against her bonds. The leather squeaked but refused to stretch. She strained for a dozen heartbeats, cool oil trickling down her belly, muscles aching. Then she let the wet heat press her into the altar’s warm leather padding.

Wisdom-at-Night’s face blocked the view of the black clouds. The priestess smiled. Her nails drew a tingling trail down Jasmine’s flank.

Jasmine squirmed. She blinked away the sweat. "What now?"

“Nothing bad,” said Wisdom-at-Night. She gave an order in her native language, then vanished from view.

Slave girls appeared to either side. Their clammy hands parted Jasmine’s breasts, drawing the skin tight against her sternum. One girl leaned over Jasmine’s face – pendulous brown flesh tantalisingly out of reach – and dabbed cold black ink onto the taut skin.

The girl reversed her brush to present glass needle-points to Jasmine’s skin. Now she remembered the rotting human hearts adorning her lover’s pyramid. She curled against her thongs, straining every muscle, and raised her face. "Let me go!"

Wisdom-at-Night stood at her feet, regarding her with alien eyes. She stroked Jasmine’s immobile foot. "Now we have exchanged gifts, you must bear the mark of the Dancing Earth Fish," she said, the words not quite matching the movements of her gold-bedecked lips. She climbed onto the altar and knelt between Jasmine’s legs. "Relax." She called out in her own language, and a hundred female voices chanted a response.

Warm feelings eddied through Jasmine. She lowered her head to the padding and stared up at the roiling blue-black clouds. She had no choice, after all. No choice, whatsoever.

The needles bit. Jasmine yelped. She closed her eyes against the pain. Something trickled down her chest onto her throat. The needles bit again, and again. Jasmine opened her mouth to scream but could not find the breath.

Wisdom-at-Night’s slender hand slid between her tensed thighs and
flexed
.

Then Jasmine did scream, but not in pain. Overhead, thunder crashed. The clouds hurled scalding rain onto her pierced flesh.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Rain streamed down Ranulph’s face — warm rain that brought no relief from the heat. He raised his hand to shield his eyes and stared at the entrance to the Place of the Warriors.

It had jaws.

Great carved canines served as jambs. Jagged stone teeth formed the lintel. A tongue of crimson tiles projected from the hellish gate and undulated halfway down the steps. As Ranulph stepped onto its tip, he wiped the sweat from his brow then extended four fingers and made the sign of the gridiron, left-to-right, sternum to throat.

Lord Obsidian-Death's eyes narrowed. He seemed unperturbed by the heavy raindrops weighing down his feathers. "An interesting gesture," he remarked.

Ranulph could almost hear Albrecht,
Diplomacy you great oaf!
He flushed despite the heat. "One of respect," he said. "Were the masons local?" A good topic that. Clerics at home would talk for hours about where they found this or that craftsman, how much their church or cathedral had cost to build, and what tribulations were overcome in its construction.

But the Tolmec priest merely cocked his head to one side. "Make haste," he said, "A great feast awaits."

The hellish gate opened onto a wide three-sided cloister, with Tolmec warriors stood like idols between each triangular column. In the centre, a great canopy of woven leaves sheltered low tables from the downpour. Naked boys scurried to lay out food and drink for the guests. Others swung burning balls of incense, harrying the worst clots of mosquitoes that sought refuge under the shelter

"Welcome!" declared Lord Obsidian-Death.

Behind Ranulph, little sounds spoke of the reaction of the housecarls – an indrawn breath, the rustle of clothing as men jostled, a subtle change in gait. Without turning his head, he regarded the Tolmec warriors. How many were there? Fifty perhaps. That gave odds of roughly two to one. "My friends," he said in Northern. "Do not seem too eager."

The little sounds ceased. Lord Obsidian-Death ushered them into the shelter and seated them on cushions around the table. Close to, the food was strange indeed: all shiny yellows and reds, with more exotic purple and black fruits…? Vegetables? The housecarls hesitated. Osmund grunted, "Fuck this!" and bit a chunk out of something green. The big Northman's face purpled, but he managed to swallow. The other housecarls laughed and tucked in.

It would be insulting to reject the hospitality. Ranulph hefted a drinking bowl in both hands, sipped then coughed. It was like molten metal. "Interesting."

"Firewater," said Lord Obsidian-Death. "Our sacred drink."

So
this
was Jasmine's "fuel". If he recalled aright the stories of his merchant friends, the trick in bargaining was not to show too much interest. Ranulph set down the cup and tried the dark beer instead. It tasted odd, but at least it didn’t feel quite so like having a Psalmist’s spiked mace forced down your throat.

Lord Obsidian-Death clapped his hands. A pair of warriors took up position in each of the three corners of the rainswept courtyard. Ranulph set down the cup and made ready to go for his dagger.

Lord Obsidian-Death eyed him appraisingly. "A ritual in honour of the War God."

Without any fuss, each pair faced off and began to fight.

"We have something similar," said Ranulph, trying to make conversation. "We call it,
prize-play
."

An axe shattered a skull. Brains fell on the wet flagstones. The Northmen cheered and hammered the tables. Despite the rain, fat black flies settled on the corpse.

Suddenly, the food was too dry to swallow. Ranulph swigged the beer and made himself watch the pointless slaughter.

Lord Obsidian-Death said, "Mortal combat is a fitting way of sacrificing to the Gods, do you not think?"

"Very," managed Ranulph. "Impressive," he added, and wished Albrecht were with him.

A second fight ended with blood misting the obscene cloister.

"Two less to fight,” remarked Thorolf, beside him.

"I’m hoping there will be no fight," said Ranulph in Northern. He forced a smile for the benefit of his host. "We are slightly outnumbered."

Two of the survivors paired off, while a third did a strange hopping dance on the spot.

“I hope you talk as well as you fight, Lord,” Thorolf said. "Those axes look blade heavy, but these little men move well. And, as you say, there are lots of them."

Ranulph spoke in Western for Lord Obsidian-Death's benefit. "The chief of my warriors observes your warriors with considerable interest." Lord Obsidian-Death's order was obviously a military one, like the Sword Brothers. Perhaps he was more comfortable with soldierly talk. Start with a compliment. "You must have defeated your enemies a long time ago."

The Tolmec priest inclined his head. "How very perceptive of you. Defeated, and given to the Gods." He sipped his firewater. "Is this the custom in your land?"

Conversation at last! "Not as such," said Ranulph. "We tend to give our God to the vanquished, rather than the other way around." He smiled.

A weak joke, but the priest returned the smile. "That would be the God of the Elements, would it not?"

Ranulph sipped his beer in a silent toast. Diplomacy wasn't so hard after all.

#

The handmaidens sliced the wet thongs from Jasmine’s quivering limbs.

Wisdom-at-Night said, "You and your friends must now slip away."

Every muscle protesting, Jasmine rolled off the altar. Her bare feet splashed into a puddle. Her wet hair flopped onto her naked back. The returning circulation prickled her arms and legs. She ached inside. But she was still quivering from the orgasm. She grinned and shook out her limbs.

Pain blazed across her chest. A bloody fish tattoo now nestled between her breasts.

She shuddered and looked away. Rubbing her wrists, she raised her voice over the hiss of rain. "Why?"

"Lord Obsidian-Death thinks the priests of the God of the Elements stole our magic. He would give you all to the War God."

Jasmine bit her lip. Marcel would have said,
Situation first, soldier girl! Minor injuries can wait.
"But you still have
your
magic."

Wisdom-at-Night inclined her head. "Only a handful of rituals that my predecessor did not share with the priests of your God."

"I didn’t mention any God."

Wisdom-at-Night grinned. "You invoked him several times during the ritual." She snapped her fingers. A handmaiden approached with Jasmine’s utility belt, the combat dagger still in its sheath. "What else do you need?"

"Firewater. As much as you have." Jasmine glanced at the pile of her sodden clothes, shrugged and buckled the canvas belt around her bare hips and felt like a soldier again. The movement made her chest throb. She bit back a curse. Even once the wounds healed, the tattoo would still be there. "Why the… why did you mark me?"

Wisdom-at-Night inclined her head. "You are chosen to do the will of the Dancing Earth Fish." She called out orders in her own language, setting dozens of handmaidens into motion. She gestured around the five-sided courtyard. "It took a thousand sacrifices to prepare the incantation. Do you not feel honoured?"

Jasmine blinked the rain from her eyes. There was something funny about the columns supporting the cloister roof. The carved skulls were too irregular, too finely detailed to be stone. She swallowed. "Honoured. Of course." She took in the handmaidens — be honest,
slaves
— the mutilated eunuchs... Her stomach lurched.

Wisdom-at-Night grasped her arm with sticky fingers. Jasmine had to fight not to flinch away. "There should be no problem," said the priestess. "Unless your companions foolishly reveal their religious allegiance."

#

"You know of our God?" asked Ranulph, using his battlefield voice to be heard over the torrent hissing on the woven canopy.

The last pair of Tolmec duellists fought on despite the storm, splashing through the bloody slick that now coated the paving stones of the Place of Warriors.

Lord Obsidian-Death leaned over to whisper in a boy’s ear. The boy scurried off and the priest returned his attention to Ranulph. His sad eyes belied his smile. "Yes, my lord. In my grandfather’s time, a White Priest called Ignatius came to our shores to learn – they said — how to serve all the Gods, not just the God of the Elements."

Saint Ignatius!
thought Ranulph. His great grandfather’s by-blow and his father’s favourite saint.

But why would the great cathedral builder be learning about heathen deities? "We worship just one god." Ranulph nearly said
the One True God
, but that would have been… undiplomatic.

The duellists circled slowly around the courtyard, each with eyes fixed on the other, oblivious to the steaming raindrops bursting on their feather headdresses.

"Strange," said Lord Obsidian-Death. "By all reports, Ignatius and his party took meticulous notes. Why not pass on what they learnt so that you could learn to serve
all
the gods?"

"Perhaps the White Priests never made it home," suggested Ranulph. "The sea voyage is perilous."

"Or,” said the old man, “perhaps they angered the Gods with some improperly performed ritual. That would explain why They withdrew Their favour and took away our magic."

Ranulph set down his cup of beer. "Your pardon, Sir Priest. Are you saying that you had powerful magic
before
the visit of Sain… this Ignatius?"

Lord Obsidian-Death grinned, exposing yellowing teeth set with red gemstones. "Had you arrived in my great grandfather's time," he said. "You would have seen vessels of stone floating over the land, and other such marvels." He snatched an insect out of the air and crushed it between thumb and forefinger. "And the mosquitoes would not have troubled you."

Ranulph massaged his temples with finger and thumb.

Had these heathen magics inspired the miracles of Saint Ignatius, who had banished the mosquitoes from the Love Marsh, then gone on to levitate stones in order to build Kinghaven Cathedral? Or had the miracles been merely heathen magic? He felt a little sick.

Saint Ignatius and his brethren were
supposed
to have been sojourning at sea, living off raw fish and practising the ascetic disciplines that raised their leader to living sainthood. Instead, he’d been off destroying Tolmec magic – not necessarily a bad deed in itself. But the Rite of Incineration required a necromancer to accompany the forbidden books to the stake, hence Lady Maud’s narrowly avoided fate. Something was not right.

Ranulph coughed. "Did they take a Tolmec priest with them … to instruct them, I mean?"

Lord Obsidian-Death tilted his head. "Certainly not. A priest may not leave his temple without warriors to attend him. The further away, the greater the host required." He smiled. "When visiting a foreign country, a priest is compelled to take an entire army."

The smaller of the duellists stepped and swung his obsidian-headed axe. The other skipped out of the way, skidded on the wet flagstones and stumbled to a halt. The housecarls thumped the low table and yelled encouragement. The pair returned to their endless circling in the rain.

Ranulph watched blankly.

The miracles and the magic
must
be the same thing. Saint Ignatius really had stolen, not destroyed, the Tolmec magic. If that was true, then Hjalti and Ragnar had been correct; The Church
had
stolen the Greater Runes.

Ranulph’s gut churned. Were
all
the Church’s miracles just purloined heathen magic? Was his religion a lie?

He shrugged. No good knight really trusted the Church. Faith and Religion were not the same. One thing
was
clear: if the Church had the Greater Runes, then Ranulph’s duty was to get them back in order to fight the Invaders.