Hamilton's head simply exploded, showering brains and skull fragments onto the guards.
Before they could react, Jasmine chambered another round and fired. Pellets belched from the wide muzzle. The smoke cleared. One of Hamilton's people remained standing. Jasmine chambered another round, but the Security Worker vomited blood then collapsed over her boss's corpse.
Ibis-Bear whimpered and rocked backwards and forwards in her chair. Not really a soldier either.
Woodsman spat out what looked like a chunk of scalp. "So much for the little shit." He drew his sleeve across his face wiping away the worst of the blood. Next to him, Hamilton's corpse voided its bowels. "But what about his cronies?"
From beyond the stained glass windows came the rattle of automatic weapons.
"The veterans are… arresting them even as we-"
An explosion rattled the stained glass windows.
"-speak."
Woodsman looked at her appraisingly. "You know if you fuck this up, the Committee will have you shot." He made a grunting sound that might have been a laugh. "Shit! If that Elitist bastard Lowenstein can't fix the Gate, I'll shoot you myself."
Jasmine shouldered her Stormgun, put two fingers in her mouth and whistled. Her bodyguards poured into the chamber. "Clean up the mess," she ordered. "And escort General Ibis-Bear to her quarters, she's unwell."
"Let's find a beer." Jasmine patted the Infantry General on the arm and ushered him towards the door. "I'm not going to fuck up, so if the natives want to beat me, they'll need a better commander than Emperor Sigismund – great strategist, mediocre general."
"Can they find a better one?"
Jasmine laughed. "Read your history books, Woodsman. The Emperor lost his Grand Marshal five years ago. In our original history, he only managed to defeat Clifford the Foul by bribing the Redmains with the Duchy of Brandistock — a hell of a bribe."
"So?"
"So there was nobody alive he could trust to command the Imperial Host," said Jasmine. "We may have changed history, but not that fact. The Emperor can field an army, but there is nobody competent to lead it."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ranulph’s palfrey stamped and flicked back her ears. He patted the horse’s neck. "Easy girl." She wasn't trained for this.
Breastplates gleaming in the frigid dawn, the Imperial Landmarchers strode across Middleburgh's frosty tournament ground, shrouded in smoking breath like one of Jasmine’s war machines.
As they passed the fenced off lists where a decade ago, Ranulph and Ragnar had fought to a draw, the Colonel bellowed, "Square!" A thousand bass voices echoed his command. The Landmarcher Regiment shook out into a hollow square. Fifteen-foot pikes toppled into place. The formation sprouted a fringe of deadly spines. In the centre marched the red robed Friars of the Imperial Order of St Maximilian.
"My Court Philosophers call this the New Warfare," said Emperor Sigismund. His gaze fixed Ranulph. "They say the days of Chivalry are at an end."
Ranulph thought of Jasmine. "Then, Your Magnificence, they are wrong."
Lady Maud shot him a warning glance. The Emperor's features, however, wrinkled into a sly smile. "Will you prove it on their bodies, Dacre? Is the sword mightier than the pen? It would be, I think, an interesting experiment." He gave a bark of laughter, and the party of notables joined in.
Ranulph grinned to acknowledge the joke made by the most powerful man in the West.
Another command and the square seemed to pulsate like a feeding sea urchin. One rank after another swung its pikes up and back into the centre so that the Maximilianites could bless the heads without risking the arrow-charm pendant each soldier carried on his chest. A similar drill existed for the guns of the Imperial Siege Train. From time-to-time, a priest would preach that the Emperor had corrupted his church, and that the red-robed Friars were heretics. But, everybody had to admit that the Landmarcher regiments were cheap and quick to equip, and deadly against traditionally armed chivalric retinues.
"Knighthood may wane," said Ranulph. "But your Landmarchers have boldness, prowess and dedication to arms. Moreover, I swear that Colonel Eckhart wields his men with as much skill as I handle my sword."
"Dacre, are you volunteering to command one of my regiments?" said the Emperor.
"My sons might, and with my blessings…" said Ranulph.
"If they are not already commanding those of Westerland," cut in King Edward who was comfortably mounted on one of the Emperor's spares. He grinned. "I think Westerland shall have its own Royal Order of Saint Ignatius."
Ranulph regarded his monarch. Watching him mix with his peers, one would never know that he had spent so many years in Clifford's shadow. With the charm also came wisdom. He'd even had the good sense to leave his "Private Secretary" at the Royal Lodgings.
The Emperor's scrutiny shifted to the young king. "But first, Westerland, you need my help to get your kingdom back." Unstated was that the help came with a price.
Ranulph held his breath.
King Edward inclined his head. "Perhaps, Your Magnificence. However, I am minded to let King Hjalti's Northmen and the Invaders fight it out, then sweep aside the survivors."
The Emperor's brow furrowed.
Here we go, thought Ranulph.
"But Westerland has plenty of room for both peoples," said the Emperor. "What if they became allies? Would you like to face war engines with runes?" Emperor Sigismund had examined Tom of Fenland’s strange two-wheeled contraption, heard eyewitness accounts of Jasmine's war engines in action. No surprise then that he saw the threat.
“That is a risk I will have to take,” said King Edward. “I would also lose my kingdom if I returned in the baggage train of a friendly army.”
The Emperor grinned. "Very well. The Imperial Host will march as allies of the King of Westerland, but without me – I can hardly be subordinate to a mere king."
Ranulph glanced around the Imperial notables. There were several dukes, but all of them either young and inexperienced, or too aged to be great commanders – Sigismund's Psalmist Wars had taken their toll of the Empire's old nobility. Who would command the Imperial Host?
"The position of Imperial Grand Marshal has been vacant since the Psalmists killed the previous Duke of Brandistock," said the Emperor. "Though everybody is very polite about it, I never did have the patience for set piece battles." He unhooked a gilded baton from his saddle bow. "The ideal candidate would have respect for my Landmarchers, and respect from my knights. He would also have to be a high ranking Imperial noble, such as… perhaps… a duke." He offered the baton to Ranulph. "Look after my people."
Ranulph glanced at King Edward, received the royal nod of assent, then reached for the symbol of office earned in his own right and not through his family connections. He could already see himself carving through the press, an army at his back. It would be like coming home.
"Congratulations, Sir Ranulph," said Lady Maud. There was a twinkle in her eyes that Ranulph did not entirely trust.
The Emperor chuckled. He nudged his horse sideways so that the baton was out of reach. "There is, of course a condition." He turned to King Edward. "Brother Westerland, Dacre should command the entire army rather than merely lead the imperial contingent. I believe the position of Royal Marshal has been vacant since yesterday afternoon."
The young king laughed. "Indeed. Since Sir Ranulph gave the former office holder such a… headache, I think it falls to him to serve as a replacement."
Ranulph closed his eyes. Leading from the front was one thing, but commanding the army of two kingdoms was quite another. He would only fight if something went wrong, and if something did go wrong, any honour he gained fighting would never offset the dishonour of defeat.
Ranulph glared at Maud and mouthed, You knew.
The red haired sorceress just blew him kiss. "We all have to grow up sooner or later," she said.
"Your Magnificence, Your Grace," said Ranulph. His fingers tightened on the golden baton. "You both do me a
great honour. I shall try to be worthy of it."
"A good thing for all of us, Dacre," said the Emperor, "that you did not do anything rash when Clifford stormed your castle. You are about to lead two armies into the greatest battle of our age. The flower of chivalry and the harbingers of the New War against these Invaders from the Future. Can you do it, Dacre?"
“God and steel will decide, Your Magnificence,” said Ranulph.
#
Later, Ranulph and Maud rode out along the windswept shore to watch the sun sink into the Ocean of Thule.
When they were well ahead of their followers, Maud said, “And magic!”
Ranulph blinked. “Your pardon?”
“You said…” Maud fought strands of red hair back into her hood. “You said, God and steel will decide. Do not forget that you need Magic in order to win this war.”
“I have not forgotten.” Ranulph looked south, down the beach. A week’s march in that direction would take them to Holy Mount. “Do you swear we’ll find the magic there?”
“No,” said Maud. “No more than you can swear that you will capture the place.”
“But I shall capture Holy Mount,” said Ranulph. “God is on my side or I else I would have died in the Land of Black Glass.”
“Knights!” exclaimed Maud. She wheeled her palfrey and, with a kick of her heels, sent it cantering down the cold sands. The hood fell back and her hair streamed in the wind like strands of sunset.
Mesmerised, Ranulph watched his future bride hurtle off into the dusk until Thorolf caught up and suggested that just perhaps he was supposed to give chase.
#
What will happen when the two mighty armies clash? Will Ranulph and Maud recover the magic of the ancients?
Find out in the apocalyptic final instalment:
SWORDS VERSUS TANKS 5:“Champions Battle for the Fate of the Future!”
Click here to find out about new and forthcoming releases!
Table of Contents
Contents
BOOK 4 Warlords race for power while the final battle looms
Copyright
Dedications
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
Warlords race for power while the final battle looms! (Swords Versus Tanks Book 4) Page 7
