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

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