It was all Ranulph needed.
Before the corpse could fall, he hurled himself in amongst them, chain dangling from his bull neck. He scooped the falchion from the dead man’s fingers and cut upwards. The stocky blade caught a Brother under the chin and sliced off his face.
The survivors jerked into motion. Four weapons chopped down. The girl screamed.
Battle joy surged through Ranulph. Sweeping the falchion around to cover his back, he pivoted and jammed his left hand into the elbow of the nearest man, preventing the blade from descending.
The remaining falchions clanged harmlessly against Ranulph’s.
With a twitch of his hips, he whipped the heavy weapon around his head. It thwacked through the immobilised man's wrist. Hand and falchion thudded to the straw. The Brother blinked at the stump. The others raised their falchions to parry. Ranulph was quicker than the first and took his head. The corpse staggered, spraying the vault with blood.
The two survivors turned their parries into sweeping cuts.
Ranulph pivoted out of reach and hacked down on the arm of the nearest then sprang forward and disembowelled the last.
Now only the Novice stood in the cell doorway, paralysed like a rabbit before a mountain lion. Ranulph swatted him with the flat, leaving a crimson blotch on his face. He could not vouch that the boy would wake up with all his faculties, or at all. But there was no honour in the murder of boys.
Ranulph flipped him over and tore the keys from his belt. He unlocked the chain and, wincing, unwrapped it from his throat. For good measure, he ripped the lad’s robe and used the rag to clean himself up. Finally, he turned to the red-haired girl. "You are safe now, Milady."
The red haired girl blinked. "Damn and blast! You can see me!" She hauled up a slab and pulled out a small doll made of rags and platted straw. She scrutinised it, then replaced it. "Are you in some way immune to magic or illusion?"
"There’s no magic here, Milady…" A drop of blood splashed Ranulph’s neck. He fingered his left ear. There was a chunk missing, as if a gryphon had taken a bite. "This is hallowed ground."
"If an Air spell can work perfectly well in a convent, then it should also work in a dungeon."
Ranulph’s eyebrows lifted. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to go as far as the Rune Isles. "You are a sorceress."
The redhead flashed him a toothy grin. "Not a very good one, evidently." She unfolded herself from the pile of blankets and rose to her full height. The vault seemed to shrink.
Tall, thought Ranulph, taking an involuntary pace closer. Very tall. And – given her current location – doomed to be burnt along with her books of magic.
A rusty shackle clutched her left ankle, and only a simple linen shift covered her form, but she held herself with perfect poise. She fixed Ranulph with unearthly green eyes. "A more pressing issue, is the state of my immortal soul."
He offered her the keys. "Do I know you, Milady?"
"Apparently not." She unfurled her long fingers, then, with a shake of her head, folded her arms. "God tested me by permitting the magic. Now I must submit my body to its fate, or else my soul will face eternal torment."
Ranulph cocked his head and listened. The dungeons were silent. The Brothers had not been missed, yet. "Magic exists, so must be God’s work," he said.
"Then why does God grant His Church the Rite of Incineration?" shot back the redhead.
"The Church has sanctions against rogue knights, but that does not make knighthood a sin." Ranulph swept his arm around the cell to indicate the fallen Brothers. "God has just shown you His will."
"Knights!" She gestured at the carnage. "You think that was a trial by combat?" Her eyes narrowed. "You wear a somewhat soiled arming jacket, so it was defeat in battle which brought you to this dungeon. Was that also God’s will, Sir Ranulph?"
"I suppose that God wanted me here to save you," said Ranulph, with a vague but familiar feeling that he was going to regret arguing with her. "And I do not recall giving you my name."
She laughed. "You broke your bonds and slew eight men in less time than it takes me to recite a Blessed Be the Widowed Mother – and then call it a fair fight? You can only be Sir Ranulph Dacre, or his friend Ragnar Bloodaxe after a shave and considerable tuition in etiquette."
"Seven," said Ranulph, bowing. "The boy lives."
She curtsied. "Well, farewell Sir Ranulph. You cannot rescue me this time."
Ranulph could almost see the fire clawing at her bare feet, blistering her slender calves… red hair wilting, blackening, bursting into flame… green eyes bubbling, shrivelling. "Your pardon, Milady." He dropped to one knee, captured her leg and fumbled with the keys.
The sorceress’s fists drummed his head and shoulders. "What are you doing?" The drumming became a thumping. "I shall scream!"
Ranulph laughed. "The Invaders will arrive soon." The fetter fell away, revealing a great sore marring her ankle. He frowned and, rising, reached for her waist.
She squealed and sprang backwards.
Ranulph clamped her soft thighs to his chest and stood, throwing her over his back. "Your pardon," he repeated, and made for the cell door. "The White Brothers may decide to clean house before they flee."
The red-haired sorceress lifted her head and screamed. For all that she was upside down, it was a high-pitched almost musical sound – and strangely familiar. Ranulph hurried on past the other cell doors. If anybody heard, perhaps they’d just think someone was being tortured.
The gallery opened out into a vault with several arched doorways. Ranulph hesitated. He half-closed his eyes, visualised his route into the dungeons, picked an exit, then he set out across the room at a jog.
Torches blazed. Dozens of billmen wearing the Archbishop’s Gridiron badge poured in from all sides to form a hedge of blades.
The sorceress stopped screaming.
A sonorous voice said, "Couldn’t you have waited, Dacre?" The Archbishop waddled through the ranks. "I’m here to fetch you to better quarters so you can prepare for your duel."
Ranulph shook his head and felt blood flick from his wounded ear. "It was you who stopped me fighting Clifford." Though God alone knew why. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. He was missing something. Albrecht would have known what.
"Look at yourself, idiot!" barked the Archbishop. "You’re in no state to give Clifford anything but an easy victory." His jowls furled into a parody of a smile. "Now give up the witch and we’ll see about a warm bath and some fresh clothes."
Ranulph flushed. He could almost hear Albrecht laughing. With such odds, there was no reason for the Archbishop to lie. Unfortunately, he now had the sorceress to worry about. He shook his head. "Revenge is nothing without honour."
"Please, Sir Ranulph, do as he says," said the girl. "I want my salvation."
The Archbishop laughed. "I know you have a reputation for old-fashioned chivalry, but really! Do you plan to die defending Clifford’s daughter against her own will?"
Ranulph stiffened. The red hair. The wiry figure. "A moment, please, Your Holiness."
"Of course."
Ranulph looked over his shoulder and hissed. "God’s teeth! You’re Clifford’s daughter?"
"Lady Maud Clifford." She sniffed. "You didn’t recognise me?"
"Lady Maud. Give me your parole, or I’ll have to knock you out."
"Well?" asked the Archbishop. "Hot water, good food and willing women – or boys if you prefer – await."
Ranulph raised his voice. "A moment longer, Your Holiness."
"Parole," said Lady Maud. "I can hardly make a good Last Confession if you have pummelled me into drooling idiocy."
Ranulph nodded and rolled her down his shoulder to her feet. She scooped the hair out of her face and scowled at him.
The Archbishop smiled. "You have made the right decision, Sir Ranulph."
Ranulph raised the pathetically short falchion into an overhead chopping guard. "Who wants to die first?"
There was — after all — a
fair chance that the Archbishop’s men were not used to actual combat.
Raucous laughter filled the cavern.
Ranulph smiled wryly. There was also a fair chance that the two score or so billmen might all be experienced mercenaries.
#
Jasmine watched the smoke rise from the gutted cathedral and envelop the remains of the double clock towers. "But that wasn’t necessary…" How had people like Field Marshal Williams and Postmaster General Hamilton got control of her Army? She frowned. Now wasn’t the time to worry about politics. The people needed a haven from the Aliens.
"Go on. Try the balance, Colonel" said Lowenstein, still holding out the Stormgun. "Before this old man’s arm goes into spasm."
Anything rather than watch the bombing raid. Jasmine hauled herself further out of the hatch and leaned out to take the Stormgun. It was as heavy as it looked. She slid open the chamber. As expected, a round was already in place. "Where’s the safety catch?"
Lowenstein gave her a pitying look. "Something else for you, since we are now friends." He hauled a heavy bandoleer out of his saddlebag. "Red shells, pellets. Blue, solid slugs."
Jasmine shuddered. She held out the Stormgun. "Take it back."
All along the ridge, the tanks of the Experimental Tank Brigade roared. Several botched the hill start and slid backwards down the reverse slope. Another half dozen flopped forward then stalled with air locks in their fuel lines. The advanced halted.
The realisation hit Jasmine like a face-full of ice water. Less than half the crews had any combat experience. Worse, the training regime emphasised confidence-building over practical skills. Then there was the small matter of combat leadership. If she was going to get her people out alive, she’d need an edge.
For a second time, the tank engines roared. The now ragged line lurched forward.
Marcel leaned out of his driver’s hatch. “Are you done? Only we should probably join this attack.”
“Almost.” Jasmine lowered the Stormgun into the cabin and took the bandoleer. "You’re an Elitist bastard Lowenstein, and I don’t trust you. But thanks."
He gave a half bow. "You do not have to trust me to accept what I have to offer." He mounted his motorbike. "And I can offer you something better than to regain control of your brigade." Before she could reply, he revved up his engine and roared off back to safety.
Teal 10 rattled into life and clattered after its comrades.
Jasmine was still frowning as she took her seat in the commander’s chair.
CHAPTER NINE
Hedges, walls, small trees, cottages even, reared into Jasmine’s field of view, then vanished beneath the tracks of Teal 10, crushed into the mire by her unstoppable war machine.
"Aim for the near breach, please," ordered Smith over the radio. "Five degrees to port, please."
Jasmine ground her teeth. There was something… smug about Smith’s exaggerated courtesy.
As if reading her mind, Marcel leaned over. “Let’s see if he’s so polite when the shooting starts, eh?”
The formation changed course.
A volley of giant arrows flew from Kinghaven’s ramparts. Jasmine gritted her teeth and tried to ignore the steel butterflies spiking the inside of her stomach.
The primitive missiles erupted out of the sky and the armour plate rattled.
"Not anomalous!" crackled Smith. "I repeat. Not anomalous." Even through the speakers, he sounded triumphant.
Shells howled overhead, loud enough to cut through the growl of the twin engines. All along the ramparts, sections of crenellations vaporised and tower-tops exploded.
"Halt, please." The brigade braked. "Assault by number, please. Main formation provide covering fire, please." Smith’s Green 01 trundled out ahead. One by one, vehicles peeled off to his column.
A dozen white robed figures emerged from the breach, religious symbols held aloft on poles.
Heart in mouth, Jasmine thumbed the forward machine gun. The other tanks joined in. The robed figures vanished in a cloud of blood and shredded fabric.
"What the fuck was that about?" asked Marcel over the rattle of the idling twin engines.
"Triumph of Technology Over Faith," yelled Jasmine, wiping her brow. “I’ll get Rosetta to paint it some day.”
“Very allegorical,” said Marcel. “She’ll love it.”
Green 01 reached the ruined section. "Prepare to accept their surrender," said Smith. "Remember they’ll be suffering from culture shock."
"Just like at Objective 1," said Marcel. "What was Smith’s plan again?"
"Scare the ignorant natives with the Glorious Technology of the Egality."
"Dog-fucker!"
"If he could find the right orifice." Ahead, tank after tank scrambled through the ragged gap in the ramparts and vanished into the ancient capital city.
As Jasmine's Teal 10 brought up the absolute rear, the field of vision swung up to the flawless blue sky, then down into a shadowy canyon between huge wood-framed warehouses. The high-walls closed in.
"Remember not to damage civilian prop-" Smith interrupted himself with a scream. "Oh Sweet Mother! Please stop bleeding!"
Teal 09, in front, halted. Jasmine’s tank mounted its rear like a mating farm animal, flinging her back in her seat. Marcel swore and threw both engines into reverse.
Smith sobbed. "Stop bleeding! That's an order …Get up and drive this thing! You are not allowed to be dead. It’s not my fault! It’s not…"
Jasmine tore off her headset. As long as Smith hogged the airwaves, there would be no useful information from that source. She glanced around the cabin. The new crew might be Smith’s people, but they were just kids. They didn’t deserve to die here. "Marcel! Hard to port. Let’s get off the mother-buggering street."
Marcel gunned the starboard engine. Its track tore into the unpaved road and wrenched the tank around so that the twin prows nudged the wattle and daub.
Jasmine vaulted up into the conning tower so she could see down the urban canyon. Flames rose from one of the lead tanks. Spearmen in padded blue uniforms swarmed out of the buildings and enveloped the halted column, prodding at every vision slit.
Howitzers spat case-shot, literally shredding all those in the way.
A pair of crinkly leather boots blocked her view. Something scraped on the conning tower hatch.
Jasmine tightened her grip and grabbed a headset. "Marcel! Full ahead!"
Marcel opened both throttles. Teal 10 burrowed into the warehouse, crushing wood and plaster. The tank bumped down at least a metre, jolting Jasmine half out of her seat. Stacks of barrels reared up in the forward vision port. Wood splintered. Heavy objects crashed onto Teal 10’s roof. Dust billowed in through the vision-ports. The engines coughed and stalled.
“Bugger,” said Marcel.
The crew reported over the intercom, their voices ringing in the suddenly silent cabin:
"The air intake’s clogged!"
“Port gun fouled.”
“Starboard gun fouled.”
Jasmine pulled off her headset and dropped down into the cabin. She didn’t need to give orders — everybody was busy trying to get their equipment working. There was nothing beyond the vision ports but slatted barrels and dust. From somewhere came the strong smell of pickled herring.
“What now?” asked Marcel.
“Get the guns cleared and blast our way out,” said Jasmine.
The Port Gunner squealed and fell back clutching his eye. A spear followed him from the turret vision port. The point transfixed his throat, turning his screams into a gurgle.
Not a spear. A long pike. Jasmine grabbed the bloodied shaft and threw her weight against it. It snapped and her knees bashed into the steel deck.
The Starboard Gunner shouted, “Mine’s clear!” Her howitzer boomed. Grinning, the she reached for another shell.
A pike burst through the forward vision port.
“Watch out!” Marcel ducked sideways without leaving his seat, grabbed the front mach
ine gun and opened fire into the blackness outside the tank. Cartridge cases rattled on the decks. Gunsmoke misted the cabin; no engines, no extractor fans.
Jasmine reached for the Stormgun.
A second pike came through the starboard sponson. “Holy shit!” The gunner threw herself out of her firing saddle. Her head struck the engine block with a dull thud.
“What the…?” The Starboard Engine Specialist turned in time to take the weapon through her chest. She slammed into the inert machinery, spurting blood like a pagan sacrifice.
On the other side of the engine block the Port Engine Specialist screamed and curled up on the floor. At least she was alive. Jasmine would deal with her later. She hefted the Stormgun, threw herself into the starboard sponson. She shoved the bobbin-like muzzle through the vision port and pulled the trigger.
Everything went black except for a huge flash. The recoil sent her sliding so that she stumbled on the unconscious Starboard Gunner. White smoke filled the cabin. The pike shattered, smashed by the cloud of buckshot.
Ears ringing, Jasmine worked the action to chamber another round.
Upfront, Marcel cursed and fired again. The radio operator meanwhile had his carbine jammed through one of the firing ports and was shooting away at random.
The roof rumbled. Then boots thudded on the hull. Something clanged against the conning tower’s hatch.
Jasmine scrambled over the bodies, making for the ladder. “They’re trying to break in!”
The radio operator cursed and ducked aside as a pike thrust past his carbine, gouging a furrow from his hand all the way up to his elbow.
Something made Jasmine turn. A pike glanced against her brow. Blood poured into her eyes. She dodged sideways, slammed into the side walls.
The weapon thudded into the wall, piercing a fire extinguisher. Foam fountained into the smoky cabin.
Some kind of tool scraped against the conning tower hatch.
One hand staunching the blood, Jasmine blundered through the smoke and made it to the ladder.
Marcel grunted.
Jasmine waited for the curse, didn’t hear it. Turned.
Marcel sat at the controls, lifeless hands clamped on the machine gun, a bloodied pike head projecting from the back of his chair.
Armoured heroes clash across the centuries! (Swords Versus Tanks Book 1) Page 9
