Pyramid of Blood (Swords Versus Tanks Book 3) by M Harold Page Read Free Book Online

heat became unbearable. Swaying, Jasmine took the final step.
    Wisdom-at-Night twisted and intertwined her oiled fingers with Jasmine’s. "I have given you a gift. Now you must give me a gift in exchange."
    Jasmine remembered the human hearts on the pyramid. Those nimble, delicate fingers had parted ribcages and torn organs out of screaming victims. With a sigh, she let Wisdom-at-Night draw her down onto her slippery body.
    The priestess’s mouth tasted of fresh blood. When the girls began to tie Jasmine to the altar, she could not find the will to resist.
    #
    “Lord, do you remember when we fought three days in armour under desert skies?” said Thorolf. “This is worse.”
    Ranulph nodded. He blinked away the sweat and concentrated on tearing his feet free of the sucking mud without losing his boots. He had already given up swatting away the mosquitoes.
    Lord Obsidian-Death’s men were escorting them through the city’s temple district. All down the hellish street, stone devils leered at queues of fly-mobbed worshippers, each laden with baskets of fruit or flesh. In the gloomy interior of each boxlike temple, more flies buzzed, and gold glittered on the limbs of priests.
    Ranulph remembered the way Lady Maud made deductions about Jasmine’s people based just on their war engines. If the red-haired sorceress were here now, she’d have said that a city like this implied the existence of a vast empire. Even so, apart from the priest’s strange ability to speak Western, there was no sign of any real magic.
    "Is your own city this magnificent?" asked Lord Obsidian-Death, his lips moving independently of his words.
    Ranulph made a play of surveying the scene. Give insult, or admit weakness? The air was heavy with the cloying smell of a summer battlefield. His empty stomach lurched. Admitting inferiority would be... unwise. Better a courtly answer. What would Albrecht have said? "My home does not boast quite the same qualities."
    Lord Obsidian-Death grunted and picked up the pace. They trudged in silence until he announced, "The Place of the Warriors!"
    A wide stair led up the side of a stone platform. Tolmec warriors bracketed the steps. The squat brown men were naked except for simple breech clouts and feather headdresses, but each clutched a double-handed axe tipped with shiny black glass.
    Ranulph’s fingers itched for the hilt of his dagger. He smiled wryly. Even if they weren’t outnumbered, daggers against axes would be interesting. "Halt!" he ordered.
    "Is there some problem," asked Lord Obsidian-Death.
    Ranulph shook his head. "I merely wish to show you the courtesies of my country." He turned to the housecarls.
    The warriors had lost all order. Some flexed their fingers. Others shifted their weight from foot to foot. A rictus smile flitted across Thorolf’s face. This was a warband preparing to fight, not feast.
    "Dress the ranks," said Ranulph in Northern.
    Thorolf turned and barked, "Form up, two abreast. Eyes front! Show these midgets we're not a procession of mincing Ilian eunuchs."
    Lord Obsidian-Death’s eyes narrowed. "You have more than one language?" he asked, still in Western.
    "That is truth." Time to take a chance. Ranulph switched to Northern. "You sheep-shagging mother-sodomiser."
    Lord Obsidian-Death’s expression didn’t change. Either the Tolmecs had some very strange domestic customs, or else the priest’s magic made him master of just one language at a time… and Tolmec sorcery was as hamstrung as the Runes, meaning Ranulph had failed in his quest. He switched back to Western. "Your pardon, Sir," he said. "My followers only understand the second of our two languages."
    Lord Obsidian-Death drew himself up. "The Tolmec Empire long ago abolished all slave tongues."
    "Really?" said Ranulph. "How very interesting – excuse me." Formed up into a compact column, the twenty two housecarls now seemed dwarfed by the Tolmec city. He switched to Northern: "This is all a test, my friends. Don’t