Pyramid of Blood (Swords Versus Tanks Book 3)

by M Harold Page

  Now there was only her shirt and his linen braes between them. Of their own accord, Ranulph’s hips twitched, pressing into the softness between her thighs. He raised himself up on his arms. "This was not my intent!"

  Jasmine’s knees clamped his legs. She squirmed under him. "Like I can’t feel your intent?"

  Ranulph strained to pull free. "Milady, I apologise. I was enchanted… I…" What was the truth? "I succumbed to base lust, but meant no harm."

  "And that makes it better?" said Jasmine. She knocked out his elbows. His chest slammed into hers. A soft landing for him, but it forced a gasp from her lungs.

  Ranulph seized the moment and rolled clear.

  But the soldier-woman clung to him and landed astride his loins. "Come on!" she said. She ground her hips. "This is what you wanted."

  Ranulph squirmed and bit back a whimper. "Were I as bad as you paint me, I would still be better than you."

  Her hand flickered. Ranulph raised his arm too late. He turned away, but the blow landed as a slap.

  "Bastard!" she said, and slapped him again. "You’re a cold-blooded killer. How dare you make me feel bad!"

  He caught her wrist. She grunted. Her muscles twitched uselessly. "Killing is killing," he said. "Whether in cold blood or hot."

  Jasmine rose up on her knees and leaned over him. "The armour is shining, but the men inside are butchers!" She swung her free hand.

  Prepared this time, Ranulph pinned it with his right. "Enough!" He raised his head and looked her in the eye. "I have never knowingly slain an innocent or violated a truce.”

  “You sailed with King Ragnar,” shot back the soldier woman. “Northmen have pretty ships but they’re just rapists and slavers when they’re not robbing people.”

  “Yes,” he said without letting go of her wrists, “that is their nature. However, when I sailed with Ragnar we were mercenaries defending Ilium against the Parvians. You, Milady — without so much as a challenge — connived at the dropping of petards on those who had shown you only hospitality and good cheer."

  She blinked down at him, as if he were the one who spoke mangled Western. Then she gave a little start. The tension went from her outstretched arms and the pride left her face. The muscles were still there, but now some malign enchantment had transformed the magnificent Amazon into a bedraggled plough-girl. She sat back on his hips, a dead weight now. "Stupid bastard," she sniffed. "Why do you think I whacked the keep first?"

  A great sadness welled up in Ranulph’s chest. He did not want to have to kill this woman, but Ragnar must be avenged. Very carefully, he asked, “Were you controlling the petards?”

  Her eyes flickered to where Steelcutter hung lay. When she spoke, her voice was level and devoid of emotion. “Only the first one,” she said. “When I hit the wrong target to give you some warning, Lowenstein decided to put a professional back in control.”

  Ranulph released her wrists. "Your warning shot was as good as a challenge. It saved Lady Maud and all but saved Ragnar. Why did you not tell me?"

  "And 'fess up to pulling the lever?" she said, now sounding like a little girl.

  Ranulph drew her down to rest her head on his chest and held her as tight as he dared. "There now."

  "Bastard!" She gave a shuddering sob. "Don’t be nice to me. I helped kill your friend."

  "You did all that a knight would do when given immoral orders by an unworthy lord," he said, and realised he believed it.

  "No kidding?" she sniffed, burying her face in his shoulder.

  "Truly."

  Jasmine lay still, her hot weight slowly crushing the air out of Ranulph. Just as he was considering polite ways to shift her, she sighed and sat back on his thighs.

  Eyes twinkling, she grabbed the hem of her grey blouse and tugged the garment up over her head, unveiling smooth olive curves covered only by her strangely form-fitting undergarments. She reached behind herself and her breasts swung free, as inviting as cold apples on a hot day. She shook out her bushy dark hair and grinned down at him.

  In the windows behind her, lightning laced the billowing storm clouds.

  Ranulph frowned up at her. "What about Maud?"

  Jasmine laughed. "What, Big Guy? Afraid of being second best?"

  "No, I mean..."

  A volley of raindrops battered the windows of the Control Car, turning it into a drum.

  Jasmine grinned and shook her head. She placed his hands on her hips.

  He moved to caress her, but her damp skin clung to his palms. Instead, he patted his way down to the waist of her odd woman’s braes and tugged. The strange fabric merely stretched and pinged free of his fingers.

  "Ouch! Bloody primitive," shouted Jasmine over the rattle of the rain. She rolled off onto the blanket, drew in her legs and pulled off the garment to lie there shamelessly naked. "Better?"

  Ranulph flinched. Ladies did not behave like this. Before he could flag, he tore at the drawstring of his braes and kicked them away.

  The soldier woman greeted him like an old lover and the hot scent of her body enveloped him. She sighed, tickling his ear with her breath. "At last!"

  He raised himself on his hands so as not to crush her.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Milady, I am better built for making war than love."

  Her flushed face broke into a wide smile. "I'm built for both, Sir Ranulph." She drew him down.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tom raised his sword and cocked his fists back to his rear shoulder. "Roof Guard!" He inhaled and the buzz of thoughts faded. Now there was just the sword, the wooden pell, and Edward’s remembered voice, Imagine a thread connecting your sword to the target.

  Exhaling, Tom cut and stepped. The practice sword snapped diagonally forward. Just as his foot landed, the blunt edge rapped the pell, setting a fusillade of echoes bouncing around the castle buildings. Squawking roof gryphons fluttered into the dawn sky. A perfect Wrath Strike.

  Now with arms extended in Long Point Guard, Tom pushed the pommel, levering the blade back, and, with a change of feet, delivered a steep cut to the other side of the battered wooden post. "Take off!"

  Springing out of range, Tom sawed the blade across the pell, dragging his fists back to his hip so that the sword covered his body and also threatened the eyes of his imaginary — but now bleeding — opponent. "Plough Guard!"

  He contemplated his efforts. "That’s one dead wooden post." Edward would be impressed – when he bothered to turn up.

  Tom lifted the blade into Left Roof Guard and repeated the exercise. It was easy to sink into the rhythm: Left Roof Guard, Wrath Strike to Long Point, Take Off, Plough Guard, Right Roof Guard, Wrath Strike…

  He paused for breath. "I’ve really got this!" He should have – he’d been doing it for three days. If he was lucky, his self-appointed fencing master would teach him some drills to go with the other strikes. And perhaps he in turn could talk some sense into him.

  He glanced around.

  There was no sign of Edward’s guards. The Royal Castle was peaceful except for the cries of the roof gryphons as they settled back into their roosts, and the constant thud-thud of the generator.

  Perhaps the young king was sleeping late. They’d talked and drank long into the night swapping life stories… well, modified versions at any rate.

  A muffled cry broke the tranquillity. Tom looked for the source. The Armoury door was half open. Odd — modern padlocks should have sealed the place.

  Tom rested the blunt sword on his shoulder and edged across the courtyard. "Edward?"

  A blue-uniformed Security Worker emerged from the arched doorway. The man folded his arms across his chest. "Bugger off, rent boy."

  Edward’s voice echoed from somewhere within. "Unhand me, varlet!"

  The Security Worker leered. "Unless you want to watch-"

  -and Tom hit him with a Wrath Strike. The blunt sword slammed into the collar bone. There was a crack like a pistol shot.

  The man collapsed into the doorway
. He twitched. A pallid hand groped for the injury, then flopped onto the flagstones. Vomit pooled at Tom’s boots and a burbling keening assailed his ears.

  Tom stared. It had just seemed the right thing to do. It was the right thing to do. But his victim wasn't supposed to lie there in messy agony. He bent over his victim. "Sorry. I'll..."

  From within the building came Edward’s bellow; "Fellator of lepers! Abuser of goa-" A grunt interrupted the tirade. Several men laughed.

  Tom rose and shoved his way into the gloomy interior. The doorway threw faint light on racks of spears and odd-looking polearms... sharp, but nothing he knew how to use.

  A brighter light came from a narrow opening in the corner. Tom worked his way through the stacked weapons and found himself at the top of a spiral staircase. From below came an animal cry.

  Tom hurled himself down the stairs and burst into a vaulted room. Four Security Workers stood around Edward and Smith. The young king lay face-down over a barrel, the remnants of his hose in strips around his ankles, a gag tied between his teeth. Smith stooped to apply his utility knife to the youth’s linen under-shorts.

  Tom’s boots clattered on the stone floor.

  The men turned, smiling like little boys sharing a prank. Smith’s white underwear bulged through gaping flies. "Come to join the fun?" he said.

  Tom swallowed and loosened his fingers on the sword grip. "What the Hell are you doing?"

  Edward strained against his ropes and growled against his gag.

  "Doing what needs to be done," said Smith, ignoring the king’s struggles. "There’s a war on, remember?" He winked his remaining eye. The others edged forward on either side of Tom.

  "Field Marshal Williams will have you all shot."

  Smith smirked. "If we break little Eddie, the old fart will be out of a job." His eye flickered to Tom’s left.

  Tom pivoted and swung the sword. Wrath Strike! A man grunted and crumpled. As of its own volition, the sword came up — Take off! — then down again. A scalp split. Blood spilled in the electric light — Amazing what damage a blunt sword could do. Tom pirouetted – Thwart Strike! – and cracked a skull.

  The fourth man went for his gun. Crooked Strike! Tom smashed his arm. Now just Smith remained.

  Tom’s gorge rose. Four men sprawled on the stone floor: two concussed, two with broken bones, judging from the mewling. And he had no recollection of how he’d done it. He raised the sword, but now his hands were shaking.

  Smith whimpered. His fingers uncurled. The knife clattered on the stone floor. He raised his arm over his face. "You wouldn’t hit a one-handed man?"

  Tom felt the strength return. If the hideous little man thought he was in control, then it must be true. "Pick up the knife and cut the king free."

  Smith squatted to retrieve the knife. Gingerly, he parted the ropes around Edward’s ankles then his wrists. The king didn’t move.

  Tom took a step forward. "Edward!"

  Edward’s hands came free and he stood. Terrible welts marked his wrists. His hose pooled around his ankles leaving his muscular legs bare. But somehow, he now dominated the vaulted room.

  Smith backed away, slicing the air with the knife.

  "Careful Edward!" said Tom. Chances were, the little man knew what he was doing.

  Edward stepped out of his hose so that he stood in just his long linen shorts. "Now, Sir Tom, let us test your friendship."

  Smith lunged. Tom opened his mouth to cry a warning. Edward moved. Smith sailed past.

  The young king shook out his limbs and grinned. "A one-eyed, one-armed knifeman against an unarmed man," he said without taking his eyes of the Smith. "A fair fight, would you not agree, Sir Tom?"

  "I should say so," said Tom.

  Smith lunged, this time slashing as he came on. "Elitist cocksucker!"

  Edward pivoted into the attack. He blocked with his right forearm against Smith's wrist, and drove a left hook into his abdomen. The stench of urine filled the air. Smith stumbled away, the exposed fold of underwear now dripping yellow liquid. Again the knife clattered on the floor.

  Smith went for his gun.

  Edward pawed the firearm out of the little man’s hands. "Pick up your blade."

  Smith’s eye narrowed. He ducked to retrieve his knife. As he straightened, he sprang forward and repeated the lunging slash.

  Edward pivoted into the attack. This time, Smith was ready for him. The cut snaked into a thrust. The knifepoint jabbed towards Edward’s groin.

  With a gasp, Tom took a step forward.

  Edward slapped the blade away. His other hand chopped into his opponent’s throat. Smith swayed but did not drop his weapon. Edward’s knee came up just as his back leg straightened. Something crunched. Smith crashed onto the stone floor and lay there, immobile.

  The young king turned to Tom and gave a half bow. "My thanks, Sir Tom."

  Tom blurted. "Marcel would have been impressed."

  "As was I by your swordsmanship, though I confess, bound as I was, I must judge your technique by its results." Edward tensed his shoulders then wriggled his fingers. "I would not ask you to break your allegiance and contrive my escape. However, it would seem that I am no longer safe here."

  "We’ll go to Field Marshal Williams,” said Tom. “This is just the excuse he needs to get rid of the Postmaster General."

  "Do what you must." Edward put a hand on each of Tom’s shoulders. "Know that I account you a worthy friend." He pressed his lips to Tom’s.

  The Kiss of Peace. Just a chaste gesture. But, somehow, Tom’s tongue escaped and brushed the young king’s teeth.

  Edward sprang back. "What’s this?"

  Tom felt himself blush. "I’m sorry. Amongst my people, a kiss means something different." His gaze dropped. Medieval linen underwear left little to the imagination. "You know what I mean."

  Edward’s face set. His cheeks went white. "I had thought you my friend. Now it seems you plot to debauch me."

  Terrified, realised Tom. What was it the Westerlanders did to that king who took a male lover? Something involving red-hot pokers. And Tom had just made things worse. "You are not alone, Edward," he said. "One man in out of every twenty is like us. And what is the harm?"

  "You will burn in Hell! And you would have me join you?"

  "Crap!" Tom bit his lip, then tried to speak more softly. "What kind of bastard God would rule by torture, or create you to be so unhappy?"

  Edward put his hands over his ears and backed away. "I do not hear you!"

  The young king whirled away and pounded up the stairs.

  "Edward!"

  Tom ran after him. But as he burst into the courtyard, he stubbed his toe on the man who had tried to bar his entry to the armoury. Flies covered the corpse's unlidded eyes.

  A shudder ran up from Tom's legs and into his stomach. He threw up onto the cobbles.

  He screwed up his face and pinched the bridge of his nose. There wasn't time for this now. He had to save Edward. Wheezing now, he set out for his motorcycle. He was still out of breath when, half an hour later, he scurried up the Town Hall steps.

  A Carbineer barred his way. She listened to him in silence then folded her arms. "Do you think I was born yesterday? It just came over the radio — Citizen Lowther has declared his support for the Egality."

  A hand gripped Tom’s shoulder. "Integration Worker Fenland? You are under arrest for murder and treason."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Afterwards, Ranulph drank in the scent of Jasmine's hair as she lay with her head on his shoulder. Beyond the crystal walls, the rain slackened off. The storm was saving itself for later.

  "I’ve imagined it like this for years," she said and kissed his neck. "And that was even better that I imagined."

  Ranulph rolled to face her and banged his knees on the control apparatus. "Years? But we met only weeks ago."

  "Where — when — I come from, you’re a legend." She sat up with her back to the Control Car's transparent walls. Behind her, rents i
n the clouds exposed sheets of rippling water. She smiled at him, unconcerned by the way that less than a finger's breadth of the oddly flexible glass separated her from the dizzying fall to the cold ocean below. "Bigger than King Tristram even." A blush shone through her olive skin. "All thanks to Albrecht’s paintings. You were – are – The Last Knight. Everybody knows your story."

  Ranulph frowned. He’d never doubted Lady Maud’s explanation, but the Future had seemed no more substantial than a fairy kingdom. Until now. Ranulph thought of Albrecht’s cold body laid out in Castle Dacre’s chapel. "It was a better ending without your war engines," he said.

  "I prefer this version. Maud doesn’t get burnt, and you got to be my First Knight."

  And now he had to ask: "Do I have a grave?"

  Jasmine’s face froze. She drew back slightly. "No. Clifford the Foul had your body fed to the gryphons." She extracted the book from her bedding. She opened it at the picture of Ranulph outside Castle Dacre. "It’s a big canvas. At least twice as tall as you. They show it just three times a year, and thousands of people queue up each time. Dacre's Last Stand. What more could you want?"

  "But Albrecht is dead." Ranulph heard the raw edge in his own voice, but continued regardless. "There was no Last Stand. You killed my fame."

  "Not when-where I come from." She touched his cheek. "Our worlds are both real, just yours has a new future." Despite the wilting heat, she seemed to glow.

  "I will carry many regrets into this new future of yours," said Ranulph. "But I will not regret that we have lain together."

  “Not that we did much actual lying down,” said Jasmine. Her wide mouth creased into lewd grin, and he wanted to mount her and start again. "I’ll come and find you once things have settled down," she said and reached for her shirt.

  "If we both survive."

  She looked puzzled. "I thought you wanted to go into exile?"

  "I intend to beg aid from the people you call the Tolmecs."

  Jasmine's dark eyes widened, then narrowed. She rolled to her feet. "You fucked me, even though we might have to kill each other?"