“Sheila - Who were the enemy unit?”
“Looked like a load of Vikings plus the witch you warned us about. They escaped in an actual fucking dragon ship.”
“Well of course an actual dragon ship,” said Jasmine. “You can buy me a beer to make up for it. Over and out.”
Sheila Cromwell laughed, “Over and out, Jasmine.”
Jasmine stood up on her command tank.
The natives were now just one hundred metres short of the fords.
On the lip of the river gully, a whistle shrilled. Three thousand Carbineers rose and opened up as if on a firing range. At first they had no effect. Then a knight fell, then another.
Jasmine nodded to Mary. "Please remind General Woodsman to tell people to shoot at specific targets, and not for area effect."
She watched as the enemy advanced and for a crazy moment, she was back in her brother's bedroom playing with painted knights. But this was no army of identical lead-cast figures.
Helms dripped with garlands, sprouted feathers, or even heraldic beasts. Armour ranged from waxy smooth to cathedral-spired. Weapons – any variation on cold steel, from the familiar sword cocked over the shoulder for the march, through hefty poleaxes, to exotic concoctions of blades and spikes on sticks. A visor hid each man's features, but there was something horribly human about the ironclad warriors intent on hacking to pieces the men and women of her command.
They reached the fifty metre mark.
Jasmine frowned. Without effective artillery, she couldn’t afford to let them get any closer. She ejected a slug from her Stormgun's breach and carefully replaced it in her bandoleer. Then she loaded a flare.
#
Ranulph glanced up as a blue light streaked from the darkened ridge. “What was that, Sir Tom?” A bullet pinged off Ranulph’s helmet. Somebody had taught the enemy to aim for eye slits. “Well?”
Tom of Fenland said, “Flare. Some kind of signal.”
Ranulph shrugged. The fords were in sight and nothing Jasmine could do would save her army now. There was no sign of the priests attending the guns — Maud’s scheme must have worked! — so with no artillery to stop them, it was just a matter of time before his knights got over the river and in amongst her soft, grey-liveried little men and women and taught them the true meaning of war.
A thunderclap shook the army. High up, off to the left, a column of water rose from just behind the falls that fed the Slaughterburn.
"Another miss!" declared King Edward and the men around him laughed.
Then, as if shying from the explosion, a chunk of mountain slid away. The waters of the tarn spewed down out over the cliffs and fell into the burn. The whole gully was about to turn into a moat.
Ranulph glanced around. He would be as well trying to give orders to stampeding cattle.
"What..?" began the King.
Ranulph slapped his shoulder. "When in doubt, Your Grace, attack harder." He took a deep breath. "Faster," he bellowed. "Run like there's a witch behind you and a harlot in front!"
The tanks crashed down the slope to greet them, the tracks setting off little avalanches of rocks. Each war machine sported a carapace of wood and leather — proof, Ranulph realised, against the steel runes on the knightly weapons. His army would crush itself against the torrent while Jasmine's war engines discharged their guns so close that even the runes wouldn't help.
“Faster!” he bellowed.
One of the tanks reached the bottom. Its twin guns flashed and thumped.
A huge gunstone tore past Ranulph, almost sucking him off balance. The explosion reverberated through his limbs, shoving him forward.
Ranulph caught up with King Edward and pressed the marshal's baton into his gauntleted fingers. "Retreat. Nightfall will save you."
"But..."
"The army needs a knight now, not a general." Ranulph broke into a run. His legs took him clear of the Main Battle, through the ragged Vanguard, and out in front of the army.
Glowing orange beads streamed across the river. Small bullets hammered his breastplate, stinging the flesh beneath, then swept his legs from under him. He rolled, came to his feet, and ran towards the guns. Something had indeed gone wrong, something beyond the power of a Grand Marshal to repair.
Ranulph drew Steelcutter and plunged down the natural ramp into the water.
CHAPTER SIX
The river surged around Ranulph's legs, a fluid snare trying to drag him over. Tendrils of ice water seeped into his greaves and seared his bruised shins. He angled himself into the current and waded deeper. The cold burned his thighs, his crotch, his belly – stealing his breath as the Inquisition fire would have done Maud's.
Behind the roar of the rising water came the chant of his name, but nobody had the stature to follow him into the rising torrent. "I’m getting too old for this."
The water reached the top of his chin piece and spilled inside; sheet lightning on the skin of his throat, his chest, his spine.
Squat war machines pressed against the far bank, flashing death from each side turret. A continuous thunder battered his ears, punctuated only by gunstones screaming overhead to murder his army.
Another step took him to the middle of the swollen river. Foam lapped his lips.
Ranulph drew breath through his nose, but managed only to inhale a stream of freezing liquid. He gagged, choked, and rose up on his toes to gasp for air.
A rock turned under his boot. His right foot plunged into a hole and the river swallowed him. Frigid claws wrapped his head, pried at his eyes and mouth.
He thrust his free foot but only managed to throw himself backwards into the darkness. The current tumbled him. Rocks clanged on his plate armour. "Up" and "down" dissolved into a numbing whirl.
Still clutching Steelcutter, Ranulph flailed, drew in his legs and sprang for what might be the surface. His helmet thudded into something solid. He sank, rolled and lodged against a rock.
Each beat of Ranulph’s heart drew the blackness closer. His lungs burned as if he had inhaled wild fire. Some part of him laughed – he was doomed after all, but this was not the sort of end Albrecht would have drawn. Would Ragnar welcome him to his pagan afterlife?
But with the stillness returned his sense of place. Somewhere beyond the darkness was Maud, wild enough to need his protection, and magnificent enough to merit it.
Jaw clenched against the river, Ranulph pushed off the bottom and stood up.
The water drained from his helm. He inhaled. A pulse of light robbed his sight, but air filled his lungs. Nearby, the guns roared. Behind him, thousands of knights cheered.
He cocked Steelcutter over his shoulder and, under-padding squelching with each step, trudged towards the noise. The river streamed from his armour. He was half-deaf from the water in his ears, half-blind from the Invaders' fireworks. But he knew where to find his enemy.
There was a double flash and a thunderclap. A dark shape roared down on him.
Blinking water from his eyes, Ranulph swung Steelcutter. The blade struck something solid and jarred his arms. His eyes adjusted. Before him stood one of Jasmine's war engines, every inch clad in wood and hide.
The nearside gun belched flame, and the war machine rocked.
Ranulph's lips cracked into a grim smile. There were parts that they could not cover. Perhaps he could create enough confusion to buy time for the King to save the army. Albrecht would be taking out his sketch pad, right about now.
Do you actually have a plan, you great oaf?
He grinned and threw himself at the ironclad.
A small gun flickered between its mandibles. Bullets slapped at Ranulph's arms. The impact smacked through the armour into his flesh and bones, but the pain drove off the remaining numbness. He stepped in and threw a windmilling Crooked Strike at the source of the agony.
Steelcutter twirled across his body, cracked through the lashed-on staves, and half sheered the gun's barrel, interrupting the flow of bullets. His sword sang and vibrated. Flame gouted from
wounded steel and the barrel exploded. The war engine roared and lurched forwards.
Ranulph skipped backwards, drawing his enemy on, marking the narrow vision port left bare by the hide cladding. Pebbles rolled and crunched underfoot. He curled his arms up into the Guard of the Ox – sword high and pointing forward for the thrust. The tiny slot was no bigger than the opening in a knight’s helmet. Steelcutter met a soft resistance and came out dripping with blood.
The machine roared onwards.
Ranulph threw himself at the machine, sprang between its horns and — clutching Steelcutter one-handed - vaulted onto its roof. He ran over the top and rolled off the back.
As he picked himself up, the machine splashed into the flooded gully. It bobbed, wallowed, listed, then rolled. A belch of air escaped, and the war engine settled on its side with one trapezoid flank just below the surface. The turret door slammed open. Water poured in and screams echoed from the interior. A grey-liveried woman scrambled out, just as the water poured in.
She looked nothing like Jasmine, but Ranulph saluted and let her go.
To either side, stocky guns swivelled in his direction. He sprang into the gap between the pair of war engines so that neither could fire without hitting the other, then threw a Wrath Strike at the one on his left. The keen-edged blade snapped through the wooden casing and the gun clanged to the rocky ground.
Behind him, men howled.
He turned and found the army pouring across the unexpected causeway. Some knights misjudged the leap and disappeared into the icy water. Most made a clattering landing and ran on without breaking step.
He raised his visor. "Back!" But the knights charged into the midst of the war engines and set about hacking through their wood and hide shells.
Flickering steamers turned the space into a slice of Hell, cutting the legs from under men, toppling them into the swollen Slaughterburn. The larger gunstones splashed the water around the drowned engine, or blew chunks out of the gully walls.
A mud spattered knight threw himself at Ranulph and embraced him. King Edward’s voice came from behind the gilded visor. "Victory!" He shoved the Grand Marshal’s baton back into Ranulph’s belt.
"You damned fool, Your Grace," roared Ranulph. "This was meant to buy you time."
A thunderclap enveloped them, hurled them to the ground.
Ranulph hauled himself out from under his groaning monarch and rolled to his feet.
The ironclad that had served as a causeway had gone.
A firework burst high overhead, casting shifting shadows. Ranulph staggered to the edge of the ravine. Hundreds of knights stared back at him. The river was only a few yards wide, but it might as well have been the Ocean of Thule. "Retreat!" he shouted. "Retreat while you-"
Something slammed into his calves, spinning him onto his back. A glowing lance passed between him and the darkening sky. Whip-cracks rang through his head. It did not matter that their bullets could not pierce runic armour. Each hit was like a strike from a mace. The handful of knights on his side of the river were doomed.
"Get up, Sir Ranulph," ordered King Edward. "Or are you afraid of your wedding night?"
CHAPTER SEVEN
A star shell flared and Jasmine peered down into the twilight.
There was still mopping up going on the Egality side of the river. However most of the tanks had moved down to hammer the retreating enemy.
Constrained by a cooling time imposed by wooden cladding, the tank gunners fired at much the same rate as a powder-and-shot era cannon, with about the same effect too. A star shell illuminated the scene just as a High Explosive shell hit a knight. He simply vaporised. His neighbours fell in neat circle patterns like synchronised swimmers frozen in mid routine. But everybody else within the blast radius simply jogged on into the gathering night, anomalous armour shrugging off shrapnel and concussion waves as if they were optional extras.
Elsewhere, rounds somehow passed entirely through the swirl of retreating men, or smashed a knight without detonating.
Jasmine frowned. She’d seen it all before – fluke explosions, failed fuses, freak misses — but not all at the same time, and not again and again. "Mary. Remind the tanks to aim for specific individuals." Her lips quirked. Discipline would always count over luck, even if that luck appeared to be distilled and bottled.
"Static! I still can't get through," said Mary.
One of the staff officers suggested sending a runner.
“They’d never get there in time,” said Jasmine. Perhaps it was for the best. There had been enough killing for one day.
The world flared white and there was a sharp report overhead.
She looked up, glimpsed a starless sky, then icy water drilled into her face and drummed on the armour plate at her feet. She ducked her head so that the rain merely hammered her helmet. Sheets of water veiled the landscape beyond the ridge top.
A star shell streaked up into the storm and the clouds swallowed it. An almost tangible darkness settled on the battlefield.
So much for her hopes of total victory. Where, she suddenly wondered, was Ranulph in all that mayhem?
#
The wrecked ironclad bucked as one of the Invader’s cannon struck it. Ranulph pulled his king nearer. He raised his voice over the rain. "Our cover will not last, Your Grace. We should join the others in surrender."
"Last time I was their prisoner, they tried to murder me." King Edward thumped Ranulph's shoulder, making the plates clash. "I can think of no end more fitting, nor better company – the Best Knight in the West..." His helm nodded in Tom's direction. "...and my true love."
"The thunderstorm will save your army," said Ranulph, pressing closer to be heard. "Jasmine will want to negotiate."
Another rumble from the sky. The ironclad wallowed like a storm-bound ship, then settled at an odd angle.
"The Emperor’s army now," said King Edward. "A king should not outlive his kingdom."
"Nor a man his heart's desire," said Tom of Fenland. "Stupid play, that." He hefted his longsword onto his shoulder. "Shall we get it over with?"
Ranulph shivered. It felt as if somebody had applied ice-packs to the places where only mail covered his body — his armpits, the crook of his elbows and knees, his crotch. He could not keep this up much longer. And there really was no way out, other than surrender. But that would guarantee a dishonourable death for his king. He wriggled his fingers on Steelcutter's grip. "Wait until the next shot and then we shall rush them."
There was a clang. Tom yelped. "What the fuck?"
Again a thunderclap. The ironclad that had been serving as cover flipped over and crashed onto its side.
Ranulph took a pace forward. "Stay behind me and slip away if you can — "
Somebody grabbed his baldric and yanked him back. Tom said, "Wait!"
“God’s teeth!” Ranulph rounded on him. "We are trying to make a good end…"
"Rope ladder you cretin," said Tom, and started to climb. As he rose, he called over his shoulder, “I thought I had to be brave. Now it turns out that sensible will do nicely instead.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Bright light blazed through Ranulph’s eye slits and warm air filled his lungs.
"It is safe," said Thorolf. "Let go of the ladder."
Gingerly, Ranulph extended a foot and found decking. He raised an aching arm to flip open his visor. The unnatural illumination forced him to screw up his eyes.
"Northmen," muttered Tom. "On an airship."
Ranulph’s armour pressed down on his shoulders and crunched his back. He held out his hands and let his men remove his helm and gauntlets. The sodden leather inner-gloves dripped water on the deck. It would be good to remove his wet gear.
And Maud grinned at him. A huge bruise marred her brow. Mud caked her red hair. But her green eyes burned with life. “Do you like my new airship?”
“How…?” began Ranulph.
She kissed him and her fire drove off the cold,
"Northmen," r
epeated Tom. "On an airship."
Ranulph wrapped his arms around Maud and returned the kiss.
She yelped and drew away. "Cracked ribs, I think."
Ranulph made to hold her hands, but the nails and knuckles of her right were bloody and bruised. He rounded on Thorolf. "God’s Teeth! How did this happen?"
Thorolf's mouth twitched. "Your Valkyrie will bear strong sons if she does not first drown in the steel storm."
Maud’s good hand encircled Ranulph’s fingers. "My fault, really. In our next battle, I am resolved to leave combat to those trained in its arts." She tugged him forward towards the Control Car. He squelched after her. The airship differed from the one that took him to the Tolmecs. Coiled rope ladders hung from the ceiling like roosting cave gryphons, each with its own deck hatch. Racks of odd looking guns lined the walls.
"Next battle? I need to rally the army first," said Ranulph. "Where are you taking this vessel?"
"Underway… but no pilot," said Tom. "What. The. Fuck?"
Ranulph pushed past him and leaned on the pilot's chair. Beyond the glass panes of the control car, a familiar rock rose out of the rain. "Holy Mount?"
"Where else?" said Maud.
"But it will be heavily garrisoned. And then there's the army."
"The only garrison belongs to the Archbishop,” said Maud. “Your army must fend for itself — this is the only chance."
"But your magic will not work inside the precinct," he said, and had a familiar sinking feeling, as if his argument were already giving way under him. "Unless you plan to desecrate it…"
"Nothing so terrible." She laughed. "Though the sylph cannot cross its boundary, he can most certainly—” She grinned. “—hurl the airship at the correct target."
Ranulph winced. The plan, however, made sense – as long as they were quick. They could be done before any of the army reached the coast road, which was where he would rally it anyway. And it would be good to have some hope to offer.
Champions Battle for the Fate of the Future!: The Wild Finale of (Swords Versus Tanks Book 5) Page 4
