"Um." Beads and charms rattling, General Ibis-Bear leaned closer.
Better yet, thought Williams, perhaps the mob might get out of hand. It was not unknown for an unpopular general to end his or her career before an ad hoc firing squad. You had to love democracy.
Ibis-Bear coughed, enveloping Williams in the stench of garlic. "Hamilton will say it was you who sent Lowenstein off on a suicide mission," she said.
"Ah." Williams had a sickening feeling that he’d walked into a trap. Units isolated from higher authority could elect officers as they saw fit. A good rule perhaps – that was how Williams managed his first upwards rotation – but nobody had expected it to apply to entire armies.
General Woodsman broke his silence. "We’re buggered."
Without a word – less is more — Williams made for the balcony. The others fell in behind him. A good sign. "Enough of problems," he said as briskly as he could. "Give me solutions!"
As his Carbineers swung open the doors, Woodsman said, "They can’t hold an election if there’s fighting."
Williams stepped onto the balcony. The icy sea breeze sucked the breath out of him. He shivered, drew his coat closed and popped another pill just in case. Below, grey-uniformed Carbineers drifted into Cathedral Square. Some huddled around fires built in the lee of wrecked tanks. These troops weren’t going to push the war into Winter, especially with a broken supply chain.
Williams cursed under his breath. In future he would trust his instincts! He’d never really believed Hamilton’s excuses for not salvaging the rusting hulks. Obviously, the Postmaster General intended them as a demoralising reminder of the last battle – an unpatriotic attempt to undermine Williams’s position.
Not that he could say any of that to General Woodsman – one had to protect the morale of one’s colleagues! "That just postpones the problem. Give me something better. Something which will really make a difference."
"What about a show of authority?" said Stella Ibis-Bear with just a little too much enthusiasm.
Williams shook his head. Once he had the Post Office back under control, he’d assign a Political Delivery team to discover whether her occult obsessions masked a Crypto-Elitist love of hierarchy. "The Army doesn’t like authority," he said as if to a child. "What we need is an achievement. Something to validate their efforts going forward."
Williams surveyed the square. A pity they’d had to bomb the Cathedral – now would have been a good moment to blow up a Proto-Elitist icon. Of course, there were plenty of other icons available for destruction.
Without turning, he said, "Being out of contact with the Committee also allows me to change policies as required." He grinned. "Let’s shoot us some feudal oppressors – the Army will like that." He raised his voice so all the hangers-on could hear. "Woodsman – please ask your Carbineers to round up all the aristo prisoners. That includes Citizen Lowther." He smiled. "We'll put it around that Hamilton was lying about his star prisoner joining the side of social justice."
CHAPTER THREE
The fire crackled. The ocean roared. Tom shivered. "Marcel, you’re hogging the blanket." He rolled over onto a cold, hard surface and smelled piss, stale sweat and sick. An empty whisky bottle rattled across floorboards and vanished into the half-light.
Another roar… not the waves on a beach; human voices. No tent. No Marcel. No Edward, either. Tom propped himself against the wall and threw up. He rubbed his temples. He had to be in a bar of some sort. That would explain his headache and the dozen or so dishevelled soldiers slumbering on the uneven floor.
"Hey, fucker!" A troll-like Carbineer bounced to his feet. He towered over Tom, swaying like a jack-in-a-box. The front of his puke-soaked combat greys glistened like a fresh wound.
Tom’s pulse raced. On instinct, he drew his knees in. Perhaps the beating wouldn’t be too bad if it were over quickly. That thought set off a flare of self disgust. He didn’t need a blunt longsword to defend himself. He half rose, then collapsed against the wall.
"You’ve fucking fucked up my fucking… um fucker." The Carbineer swayed. "Fuck you, you… fucking fucked-up fuckwit!" His lips puckered, then parted in an explosion of vomit. "Oh fuck! I’m fucking fuck-" He toppled across the legs of a half-dressed woman. Oblivious to his weight, she lay like an upturned turtle, snoring contentedly with each heave of her exposed midriff.
Tom forced his breathing rate down. What was he doing in this dive?
He could remember the Security Workers frogmarching him back to Kinghaven Castle. His motorbike had been waiting, along with a note from Hamilton: All charges were dropped so that he could immediately return to Peasant Liaison.
It was only as Tom drove away that he had realised there was only one possible explanation: Even though he had rejected Tom, King Edward had demanded Tom’s safety as a precondition for cooperation. That thought had set Tom’s brain in a spin. His last clear memory was of setting off in search of a calming mug of wine.
Tom peered through the dark. He’d obviously found that wine, but where?
Thick beams spanned a big, low-ceilinged room lit only by small square windows. This looked more like a small warehouse than a tavern. It must be one of those unofficial drinking dens which sprang up wherever the army stopped. Post Office Security tended not to bust the dens. Hamilton claimed the hands-off policy was good for morale. It certainly made the Postmaster General popular.
Tom hadn’t made it quite as far as the country.His heart missed a beat. How long have I been AWOL?
Hours? Days?
Tom’s head throbbed. He started to stand, felt dizzy, then slumped against the wall. He hauled his left hand up until his eyes could focus on his wristwatch. Less than twenty four hours. If he drove like a lunatic, he might escape with an Admonition from his Peer Committee. Of course, that would require being able to stand up in the first place.
The crackling sound, again. This time Tom recognised it: a ragged volley of rifles. The crowd roared approval. Who could they be shooting? It wasn’t as if there could be any war criminals. His stomach lurched. He tasted bile, coughed, then dry-retched. If he could only get to his bike, everything would make sense.
Head spinning, he levered himself up the wall. Slivers of daylight framed the distant doorway, casting a dim light on a tangle of sleeping drunks. Not all of them would be so obligingly enfeebled. Best to rest until he felt stronger.
Another volley jerked him back to consciousness. He drew his sleeve across his vomit-soiled mouth, then steeled himself to check his watch: three hours left. He could make it, just. If he got killed trying, so be it. Concentrating on every step, he lurched through the unconscious soldiers and somehow reached the exit without tripping.
The door opened onto blinding white. His foot collided with something solid, which vanished with a drawn-out clatter.
Tom tottered on the edge, flailing his arms. He clawed the empty air. His fingers found a length of rope and tightened on the rough woven hemp. He steadied himself and slowly drew away from the abyss. Cold sunlight stung his eyes. He averted his gaze and blinked until his sight returned.
The drinking den was on the first floor of a warehouse. Thanks to him, the ladder lay in the courtyard below, propped across a fallen motorbike … he blinked... his motorbike. The rope trailed down the wood-framed wall and ended in an iron hook. He traced it back up to where it looped over a pulley on the end of a beam which stuck out above the doorway.
The massed voices changed note, like an engine speeding up. A chorus of whoops and jeers swelled until it drowned out the background chatter.
Hackles rising, Tom finally looked out at the world. He found himself staring across the chessboard patterned Cathedral Square. A field-grey mob swirled around the base of the Great Steps. At the top, in the shadow of the Cathedral’s bombed-out shell, gaudy figures lay strewn like discarded rag dolls.
Somebody had decided to shoot the aristocrats.
A wedge of Carbineers pushed through the human tide like a steam yacht. In
their midst walked a lean young man, his shoulders straight, his wrists tied behind his back.
They were going to kill Edward.
#
An icy clarity washed away the hangover to reveal just a single thought: Tom must get to Edward.
Counting down from a thousand so as to blot out any dissenting thoughts — What would he do if he reached him? — Tom wrapped himself around the rope and swung out over the courtyard.
He righted his bike, struggled to mount it. It roared into life. Pulse racing, he nudged it toward the courtyard gates.
Tom revved the single-cylinder engine until it sounded like an Elitist Reaper Gun. The crowd scurried out of the way, opening a path to the Great Steps. He changed up and thundered through the gap. As he neared the Great Steps, he squeezed the front brake hard, then gunned the throttle back. With a squeal, the bike slewed around to face the prisoner and escort.
Edward halted and looked straight at Tom. He mouthed, I forgive you. A soldier slammed her carbine-butt into the young king’s back.
Tom’s hand tightened on the throttle. The engine roared. The bike lunged. The escort broke ranks and scattered. Tom swerved past Edward and brought the machine back around in a screech of tyres. A Carbineer raised her weapon. "Hold it there!"
Tom slowly raised his hands. What had he he expected to achieve?
Behind her, Edward twitched his shoulders. Wrists trailing shredded rope he clapped his hands above his head and cried, "King of the Air! Into your kind keeping, I gave my shining sword. Now with this sacrifice..." He made a fist and hammered it into the back of the woman’s neck.
Her eyes went blank. She toppled without a word.
It would do no good. The escort closed in, bayonets fixed. Tom forced himself to watch. This was all his fault, after all.
"I bid you return my sword to my grateful grip." Instead of defending himself, Edward raised his hands and clapped them above his head. There was a whoosh! and a longsword appeared out of thin air. He grasped it.
A fence of bayonets contracted around the young king-
And Edward moved through them.
Steel flickered. Blood sprayed. Corpses sprawled on the paving slabs, and the young king had a black square all to himself.He took a running leap and swung up into the saddle behind Tom. He wrapped an arm around his waist. "Well, Sir Tom? Are you rescuing me or not?"
Soldiers pointed carbines. Tom looked at them, puzzled. Then something plucked at his sleeve, leaving a neat hole through the fold. He opened the throttle wide and plunged into the field-grey mob, creating a human bow wave.
A Carbineer dropped to one knee and levelled her weapon.
Tom drove straight at her.
She dived clear, but the knee-guard clipped her legs. The bike jumped and, tyres squealing, skidded sideways across the giant chessboard. Edward’s arms tightened, crushing Tom’s lungs.
Gasping for breath, Tom turned into the skid and threw his weight to the side. They righted. He changed up a gear, launched the bike towards the edge of Cathedral Square. Now Tom hunched forward, weaving the bike between stragglers. The battered buildings blurred closer. Tom picked a gap and threw the bike into a narrow street. The urban canyon channelled the engine noise, turning it into a thundering heartbeat.
A corner opened out onto a straight section – a small marketplace. At the far end, a dozen blue-uniformed Security Workers sped to meet him: nippy little two-stroke motorcycles whining like salon hairdryers.
Tom yelled over his shoulder, "Hold on." He swerved into a side street and wove between panicked natives.
The wall to his left exploded. He looked up. Airship 03, the scout model, hovered low over the medieval city, pouring lead into streets. Civilians jerked and crumpled, their bodies shredded.
Tom hauled the bike around, changed down and rumbled into a gloomy alley. The overhanging buildings provided cover from the airship. But his quivering wing mirror showed the Security bikers ploughing after him.
Tom picked an even narrower alley – a mere crevice between wattle and daub walls – and plunged into the shadows. A tight bend forced him to brake and change down. Now, big single-cylinder engine thumping like a bass drum, he inched the machine forward, brushing his shoulder on ragged masonry and wooden supports.
Edward shouted in his ear, "You have lost them."
"It’s not that simple." Tom tried to picture the map of the city. There was no possibility of escape through the main gates, but perhaps one of the breaches was unguarded. "Which way to the sea?"
"Straight ahead, I think."
The alley opened into the Harbour Market; deserted at this time of year. Off to the right, a rubble-strewn breach gaped invitingly. Tom began to pull the bike around.
The Security Workers buzzed out of a parallel alley, cutting them off.
Tom wrenched the handlebars back towards the forest of masts. Fifty metres ahead, the city walls met the Ocean of Thule and extended into a long stone mole with fishing boats tied up along its length. A squat fortified lighthouse rose like a hammerhead from the end.
He opened the throttle wide and they rocketed between lobster pots and fish carts.
The Security Workers didn’t have passengers, but – thanks to Marcel – it was Tom who had the better tuned engine. Gradually, as the seconds stretched out like hours, Tom pulled ahead of his pursuers. The tyres mounted the smooth flagstones of the mole. The bike picked up speed and the masts of the fishing boats flew by.
Tom hurtled along the narrow walkway, faster and faster. Sea spray misted his goggles. The tower at the end of the mole grew ever closer. In a few seconds they would plunge into the ocean. But as the edge approached, his fingers clenched on the front brake. Tyres screeching, the bike whirled to a stop facing the Security Workers. They waited at the head of the mole.
Trapped.
Tom twisted to face his passenger. "Sorry Edward."
Edward laughed. "For my part, while I live I will fight." He brandished his sword one-handed. "Let us make a pass of arms!"
Without stopping to think, Tom ducked low over the handlebars to give Edward a clear field of view, and set the bike thundering back down the mole towards the Security Workers.
Some tried to turn their bikes, others jumped free and fled on foot. The sword caught one under the chin. Another vanished off his bike. Blood misted Tom’s goggles. The front wheel bumped over something and they were airborne. The engine screamed as the revs jumped up. A heartbeat later, they bumped to the ground next to the breach.
Tom stood up on the pegs and scrambled the bike up the rubble and out of Kinghaven.
Bullets cracked. Mud splashed. The scout airship had spotted them. Tom zigzagged as randomly as he could, each turn pulling his body left and right, making Edward’s arms tighten on his waist. Then the autumn-brown Royal Forest enveloped them.
Edward shouted in his ear. "Left! There’s a hunting track."
They flew along under the russet canopy, leaving behind everything that was modern, or even human. It was as if the Egality had never been.
CHAPTER FOUR
It was only after an hour of hard driving that Tom dared to stop. The woods were almost silent save for the distant whine of the Security men's two-stroke engines.
"It will be a long chase," said Edward.
"Not so long," said Tom, wiping his goggles. "This is the Cruiser, not the Urban model." He dismounted. "Also, I have spare fuel and they have not." He checked the bike, then rummaged in his saddle bags while Edward cleaned his sword.
Tom found himself staring at his signed edition of Mountain of Solitude — a present from Marcel. Way too heavy to carry, but he could not make his shaking fingers uncurl from the spine.
Edward caught his wrist. "As I fled your embrace, I thought on your words, then of all the cities, boroughs, villages, castles and monasteries of my kingdom, and how in each one, there were men who are alone, even in the company of their friends. I cannot believe that God would create us just to suffer in this
world and the next. And these people are my subjects – my responsibility. And... I am not saying this well." He kissed Tom hard on the mouth, his soft blonde beard snagging in Tom’s stubble
Tom’s head spun. The book fell to the mud. He returned the kiss, anchoring himself against the maelstrom of grief and confusion. But a thought forced him to pull away. "Why did you surrender to Smith?"
"To Hamilton. Smith now languishes in prison. You sang the praises of the Egality so well, that I dismissed Smith as the rotten apple in the barrel—that is until your Field Marshal Williams sent men to slay me." Edward laughed. "And I thought Westerland court politics were lunatic! At least as King I may do some good. The rank of Citizen transpired to be a death sentence."
Tom sank to his haunches. He brushed the mud from the book. "I can’t go home now."
Edward knelt next to him. "I shall make what recompense I can."
"Let’s take off. Lose ourselves in the Empire. You could set up as a fencing master. When the Egality arrives, we’ll just be a couple of locals."
Edward laughed. "Tempter." He sobered. "But I must live and die a king." He placed his hand over Tom’s, as if they were taking a vow on the Scriptures. "Take me to Middleburgh, my love. I am Duke there in right of my mother. If the Army of Westerland has rallied, it will be in that city."
Tom stared down at Edward’s hand. Could he really bring himself to help the enemy leader back to his army? He reached into his jacket, and unfolded the map. "There are soldiers at Holy Mount, so you can forget the coastal road." Discussing practicalities wasn’t the same as agreeing to help.
"A fine map indeed." Edward traced the river through the mountains. "Too far east, and we’re in the Land of the Psalmists."
Warlords race for power while the final battle looms! (Swords Versus Tanks Book 4) Page 2