Champions Battle for the Fate of the Future!: The Wild Finale of (Swords Versus Tanks Book 5)

by M Harold Page

  Tom raised his voice. "Will somebody please tell me what the fuck is going on?"

  "Yes," said King Edward, from the gallery overlooking the Control Car's interior. "Sir Ranulph, explain why we should assault the Holiest House?"

  Ranulph took Maud’s arm and turned her around. "Your Grace, that’s where the world’s magic lies imprisoned."

  Tom made a throttled sound. "Bullshit!"

  "Northmen on an airship," mimicked Maud. "Underway. No pilot."

  The lad closed his mouth.

  King Edward’s blue eyes never wavered from Lady Maud.

  "To wrest some magic from the clutches of the Church, of course, Your Grace," said Maud. "They keep back grimoires from the Rite of Incineration," she added. "At least, I’m sure they do. All the evidence..."

  Ranulph put his hand over her mouth. "The church has been stealing magic for centuries, Sire."

  "Stealing? How?" asked Tom. "You can’t steal an idea..."

  Maud became animated and tried to talk through Ranulph's hand. He continued, "The Church can — "

  Maud switched tactic and started gnawing his palm, sending unmartial sensations eddying through his arm.

  Ranulph swallowed. "When they burn a necromancer, they don’t actually burn the books. The Church passes off looted spells as miracles. The plan is to raid Holy Mount for grimoires, and use them to defeat the Invaders."

  "And these grimoires – where are they hidden?" asked the King.

  Maud squirmed free of Ranulph, leaving a cool wet patch on his palm. "I was thinking we could..." Maud’s teeth flashed in a feral grin. "...question one of the White Brothers."

  Ranulph shook his head. "There won’t be time — "

  "The Black Library," said Tom.

  All turned to look at him.

  "The Black Library under the Holiest House." The lad shrugged. "Empty when I visited, but it was... will be quite a tourist attraction."

  Maud’s eyes glazed and the vessel shifted course.

  "Halt this vessel," said the King. The airship lurched to a stop. Now the only sense of movement came from the structure vibrating and swaying. "Do you propose," he continued, "To unleash Necromancy on my realm?"

  Maud's eyebrows rose. "What? You knights have your hermits and your Chivalric Orders. What do you care about the Church?"

  Ranulph winced.

  The young monarch just laughed and said, "Church be damned — as I am sure most of it is — a monarch has a duty to his people."

  "Think of this as yet another trial by combat," said Maud.

  "In such affairs, God seems more concerned with Prowess than with Piety, thankfully!" said King Edward. He flashed a smile at Ranulph.

  "War is changing, Your Grace" said Ranulph. "Cannon and pikes are on their way. Why not add just one witch to the arsenal?"

  "Eddie, I’m out of my depth here," said Tom.

  King Edward nodded. "Is it possible, Sir Ranulph? Can we storm Holy Mount?"

  Ranulph untangled himself from Maud and tried to clear his mind. "I counted thirty three Housecarls plus two knights and an esquire, against how many White Brothers?"

  “We have failed,” said King Edward.

  Tom laughed. "No you haven’t!” He waved his arms at the racks of weapons; odd looking guns with circular drums attached to the underside of the stock. "These Jeeseedies are idiot proof."

  "Jeeseedies?" asked Ranulph.

  "G...C....D... General Combat Defenders." Tom grinned. "They’re like just like your crossbows, only slightly better."

  #

  Jasmine squinted into the dark and the rain.

  Mary Schumacher kissed her on the mouth. Her lips were big and wet, and tasted of fresh lipstick. "You’ve won, Field Marshal!” She added in a squeaking whisper, “Fancy a quicky?"

  Jasmine shrugged. She was not sure whether she’d really heard the last bit but she did not break the clinch. "I have the field, as they used to say. But the enemy got away."

  One of the staff officers said, "But we killed so many of them..."

  "We did, didn’t we?" said Jasmine. She resisted the urge to sniff. A Field Marshal wasn’t supposed to look like a puffy-eyed debutante weeping over some fickle beau. She raised her face to the darkening sky and let the ice rain wash away her tears.

  Lightning cracked as if a light switch had flicked on and off, leaving her with the image of an airship flying overhead, prow pointed down at Holy Mount.

  Mary pulled back. "What?"

  "An airship just went by."

  "I can’t hear it."

  Jasmine cocked an ear. Nothing but the rattle of rain drops on the tank’s hull. Her stomach clenched. The airship was moving under no earthly power, and it was heading straight for Holy Mount, the heart of whatever kept the… use the word… magic down. Holy Mount, which she had stripped of its covering force in order to win the battle. "Fuck me!"

  Mary dimpled. "Oh goody."

  "No. I mean, get on the…" No radio. She leaned over to her staff, "Get out there and direct any mobile units to support me at Holy Mount. Send some runners to Cromwell — she’s nearest. Schumacher? You might as well join them."

  Mary rose and saluted. "Yes Field Marshal." She slipped off the tank and into the darkness — and safety.

  Jasmine dropped down into the warm cabin and scrambled for the commander’s station. "To Holy Mount, step on it."

  CHAPTER NINE

  As her tank rattled down the ridge toward Holy Mount, Jasmine leaned back against the open hatch looking up into the rain. The airship sank through the roiling clouds, unperturbed by the thunderstorm, but definitely no longer making headway.

  Had Maud’s magic worn out?

  The craft dropped to level with the top of Holy Mount then surged forward as if thrown by a giant hand.

  "They’re making their assault run. Step on it!"

  The twin engines roared, vibrating her ribcage, blurring Holy Mount’s edges and bathing her in the stench of scorched engine oil. Tracks squealing, the tank rocketed downhill. It hit a bump, swerved, veered down the slope then somehow skidded back around onto the dirt road.

  Holy Mount dominated Jasmine’s view now, a black silhouette against the grey stormclouds, except for the glowing round window of the Holiest House — the famous Lost Window of Saints, a favourite subject for the Romantic Painters.

  Must get a photo for Rosetta.

  And the assault airship zoomed towards it like an arrow to an archery target.

  Then again, maybe not.

  #

  Archbishop Grossi knelt before the Great Altar and made the Five Recognitions. Behind him, the harmony rose to the gilded rafters. He surveyed the procession of martyrs on the Window of Saints. Given his achievements, it seemed reasonable that his likeness should be added to the ranks of the Most Holy during his own lifetime. He would protest, of course, but the Chapter of the White Brothers would insist that he take his place next to Saint Ignatius. Poor barbarous Saint Guthrum of the Rune Isles would just have to make space.

  The voices ceased. The echoes died away, leaving behind perfect tranquillity. Slowly, basking in the moment, the Archbishop lifted the Holy Chalice and —

  The great stained-glass burst inward like a drum skin. Flaps of glass and lead fell from the frame to crash on the altar. A translucent ball mounted on a latticework spar emerged further into the flickering light, behind it a fabric covered cone — the distinctive prow of one of the Invaders' airships. The storm licked into the church’s cavernous interior, snuffing candles or making them gutter wildly. Dozens of Northmen ran out along the spar, whooping and laughing.

  The Archbishop stumbled back. Somebody screamed and for some reason his throat hurt. His guts turned to water. He tried to turn and run, but some foul enchantment made the flagstones suck at his feet.

  The Northmen dropped onto the altar — knotwork shields slapping their jingling mailcoats — and jumped to the flagstones. Their eyes blazed from behind the spectacled faceguards of conical helmet
s. The ancient scourge of Mother Church had finally violated the Holiest House.

  Worse, each Northman brandished what could only be a weapon of Invader manufacture – an evil looking gun with a fat metal drum mounted on the underside behind the forward grip.

  Had the Harlot Klimt betrayed the treaty? It was no matter. Archbishop Grossi was ready for martyrdom! He dropped to his knees but somehow landed in a reeking puddle with his back to the heathens. Just to escape the foul liquid – and certainly not because he was scared or had fouled himself — he crawled away from the desecrated altar.

  Further down the nave, the White Brothers drew their swords. A hundred men charged to meet the heathen raiders.

  The Archbishop opened his mouth to bless them.

  A demonic clatter assailed his ears. Swordsmen fell over their own feet and a pungent egg smell overlaid the incense.

  Wet footfalls came from the direction of the altar. "God’s Teeth! This is not war as I know it!"

  The Archbishop recognised the voice and rose to confront the monster. Mud coated the knight’s armour, but he had the temerity to hold himself as if he were not an condemned heretic. "Ranulph Dacre!” declared the Archbishop. “Only you would commit such an atrocity."

  "This from a traitor," said King Edward beside the ogre-like knight.

  "Sodomite," shot back the Archbishop.

  Maud Clifford stepped out from behind Dacre, looking as if one of her demons had turned on her. Over her shoulder hung an ugly grey sack of the kind the Invaders used to carry their wargear. "Show us to the Black Library!"

  Now he understood. The Archbishop drew himself up. "Never!"

  CHAPTER TEN

  Forked lightning danced across the clouds. It left Jasmine with the afterimage of the airship wedged halfway through the Holiest House’s Great Window like a malformed shell jamming a howitzer breach. Maud must have a clear idea of what the Church was using to neutralise the worst of the magic. With any luck, her scheme would require some sort of lengthy ritual. If not — well Jasmine was already too late and all the fighting and killing had been in vain. The Medievals would destroy the Egality colony, and — back in the Present — the Aliens would destroy a civilisation created at the cost of millions of lives.

  As her night vision returned, Jasmine saw that two winking lanterns marked Holy Mount’s Land Gate.

  The intercom crackled. "The front door is closed, Field Marshal."

  "Halt here." Jasmine ducked into the conning tower and reached for the loudhailer mike. Her words reverberated outside the tank's hull. "The airship is rogue. Open the gates so we can help repel the attack." She gave them thirty seconds then ordered her driver, "Go ahead and knock!"

  The tank rumbled down towards the ancient gates then, with a great crack, slammed to a halt.

  Jasmine’s heart skipped a beat. Was Ranulph waiting there with his sword? Would the timber cladding make a difference? Did she have the energy – the will – to face him in hand-to-hand combat? If Maud was controlling the airship, then would Ranulph be at her side?

  The tank backed up and surged forward again. The driver whooped and the ironclad lumbered over the shattered gates and into the streets of Holy Mount.

  There was no sign of the big knight. However, arrows rained down to ping off the roof of the tank. Jasmine sighed and reached for the mike.

  #

  The cesspit stench of death blended with the reek of incense to form an overpowering miasma.

  Ranulph fought not to gag.

  The White Brothers lay scattered like bloody dressings on the floor of a surgeon’s tent. The nearest still clutched his longsword. Ranulph hooked an armoured toe under his shoulder and flipped him. A young, open face smiled up at him. The lad's blade lay unused, edge as perfect as the day it was forged.

  Ranulph rounded on the Archbishop. "Without runes, a single swordsman counts for nothing."

  Grossi flinched against Osmund, Thorolf’s lieutenant, then seemed to compose himself. The housecarls jingled past to take up a defensive position at the Holiest House's entrance.

  The cleric said, "Does the master craftsman care if the hammer dislikes sharing its toolbox?"

  "Splendid retort, Your Holiness," said Maud, "from one standing in his own piss." She drew her long dagger and probed the air in front of the fat cleric’s right eye. "Hold him firm."

  Thorolf glanced at Ranulph for confirmation.

  Ranulph coughed. "Lady Maud — "

  "What?" she said. "He planned to burn me alive. He offered me to his mercenaries to fuck to death – or have you forgotten?"

  Ranulph flushed. "I... Um..."

  "Do it," said King Edward. "He is a traitor and should face worse."

  The sorceress drew the knife down the Archbishop’s cheek. Blood trickled from the cut. "Direct us to the Black Library."

  The Archbishop’s jowls warped into a parody of a smile. The red liquid flowed over his lips and dribbled down his chin. "But of course. Proceed out of the West Entrance, down the cobbled road, and enter through the Great Courtyard."

  From the far end of the Holiest House came the rattle of the Northmen’s guns. Ranulph chewed his lip. It was one thing to hold the building for an hour, another entirely to fight through all that open ground.

  "Sir Ranulph, if you surrender now," said the cleric, "I will find you a place in the new order – my new order, that is. You could help shape the future, ensure that some outlet for individual prowess remains. I had considered instituting a gladiatorial games, no doubt you will want to put your ‘chivalric’ stamp on that."

  "Torture will yield only lies," said Ranulph. "Sir Tom?"

  The lad jerked. He smiled wanly. "I don’t like knives."

  Ranulph took his arm and turned him to face the airship and away from the bleeding cleric. "Can you recall a shortcut? Perhaps some sort of secret passage?"

  "It was a long time ago…"

  "The library is under our feet," said Maud, twisting awkwardly to sheath her dagger with her good right hand. "I can feel it."

  Ranulph caught her expression. She meant it. The girl must sense the unseen world the way he did the play of swords. "A petard," he said. "We shall blast our own entrance."

  Tom drew up his head, suddenly alert now he had a problem to solve — Ranulph knew the type. "I'll find some demolition charges — "

  "No!" The Archbishop thrashed against Osmund's grip. "Do not further profane the Holiest House — there is a private stair." At a nod from Ranulph, the Northman released the cleric who picked up his soiled skirts and waddled over to the wall next to the High Altar. Grossi shifted a golden candlestick and fiddled with a carving of St Guthrum. His fat fingers probed the martyr's exposed lungs and, with a clunk, the full-size sculpture swung away from the wall. Behind it lay the head of a cobweb-wreathed spiral staircase. He ducked under the threshold, but Osmund hauled him back and bound his wrists. Ranulph gauged the entrance and frowned.

  King Edward took a step forward. Ranulph put a hand on his breastplate. He held out his arms. "Your Grace. Sir Tom. If you would help me out of my armour — that stair is narrow and low." They pulled off their gauntlets and set to work. "Your Grace," said Ranulph, as they unbuckled his cuirass, "you must stay and command here. If the gunstones run out before we return, have Sir Tom pilot you to where you can rally the army. Treat my Housecarls well."

  “But I’ve never flown an airship…” protested Tom of Fenland.

  “You’ll manage,” said Ranulph. He fingered the arrow charm he had taken from Ragnar’s body. In this consecrated place it would provide no protection, but it made him feel that his friend was watching him.

  King Edward strapped Steelcutter onto Ranulph's hip. "How can I repay you?"

  Ranulph brushed mud from the youth's shoulder to reveal the gilded shoulder plates. "If I don’t come back, put the Dacre Wargear in a cave or cellar – anywhere with natural rock." He unhooked one of the huge lanterns — a big oil burning lamp with glass panes.

  "Careful
with that," said the Archbishop. "Books catch fire easily, you know."

  "So do vestments," said Ranulph. "You first."

  "I consider your veiled threat a jest," said the Archbishop, setting off into the depths. "After all, you protected me from the witch."

  Without turning his head, Ranulph said, "Lady Maud, I think His Holiness will be sufficient a chaperon. Would you care to join me?"

  The sorceress laughed and fell in behind him. "Don't worry, I still have the dagger." Her mailshirt jangled as she took the stairs. Ranulph twisted to look up at her. The armour barely came half way down her thigh, leaving most of her long legs bare. The gloom hid the bruises and mud, so that the steel rings only made her seem the more soft and delicate by comparison — which was about all it was good for. Shorn of runic magic, the mail would be even less use than it had during the battle. "Actually, you should go back, Milady."

  "What?"

  The Archbishop's footfalls dwindled down the stairwell. Ranulph hurried after him. "Hitherto, I have led you out of danger, not into it," he said.

  "You would not say that to Jasmine."

  "You are not a soldier."

  "And you are not a sorcerer," she said. "And this raid was my idea. It is I who lead, if only from behind." She laughed then cut herself off with a yelp. "Ribs hurt."

  The Archbishop halted before a wooden panel. "You shall have to unbind me so I can work the catch. Or perhaps you can squeeze past?"

  "Permit me a moment with which to deduce his scheme," said Lady Maud.

  "Uncovering cunning schemes is one of my many knightly accomplishments." Ranulph booted the cleric between the shoulder blades.

  With a scream, Grossi crashed through the panel and landed in a heap of books and splinters. A metal blade chopped down and grated to a halt inches above the prone man's ankles. The Archbishop whimpered. Ranulph stepped over him and caught the distinct sheep-pen smell of badly kept parchment.

  The oil lantern pierced the darkness and threw a bull's-eye of light on a wall of books. Ranulph cast the beam this way and that. The bookshelves towered to the vaulted ceiling. "Your grimoires, Milady."