Working in silent unison, they swung back the pot and hurled it through the doorway
Flame flashed, then whooshed. Fire crackled. Men within the tower cried out. A screaming figure burst out of the doorway and staggered a few paces, beating frantically at his burning cassock. He rolled onto the mud, still screaming.
“A burning priest. Whoops,” said the squire, with the satisfaction of a man who had once only narrowly escaped execution at the stake.
Ranulph turned his back on the dying cleric and drew Steelcutter.
The ragged front ranks of Clifford’s army swept closer like a foaming wave. Springald bolts lashed out from the castle walls, but the crews of the giant bolt-throwing engines might as well have hurled darning needles at the tide.
Meanwhile, the priest stopped screaming.
“Um. Shouldn’t we be running, Milord?” asked Albrecht.
Ranulph laughed.
Albrecht raised his visor to reveal his 'My Lord is Crazy' face. "I know that laugh,” he said loudly over the sound of the onrushing army. “Come on you great oaf, we can still make it!"
Ranulph shook his head. “I must buy time for my men.”
Albrecht simply closed his visor, plucked his flail out of the ground and took his stand next to Ranulph.
There was nothing left to say.
Clifford’s men closed on them.
The lighter-armoured soldiers quickly outran the knights and advanced with bills and spears waving like reeds in a strong wind, their footfalls a thousand drum rolls, their shouts an echo from the Thirteenth Hell.
The tower crackled and spat. The smoke began to envelop them. The priest roared, “I curse you, Dacre!”
Albrecht coughed and leaned closer to Ranulph, “Why the priest? Knights don’t need priests to bless their weapons.”
Ranulph shrugged. “What does it matter — ”
A deep thunderclap rattled Ranulph’s armour, shook the siege tower. Then came the distinctive crash of a cannonball smashing into the castle wall and the familiar rotten-egg stench of gunpowder.
The noise brought the army to a halt.
Albrecht broke the eerie silence. “Then again,” he remarked. “They could have had a bombard concealed in the base of the siege tower. I’d say they’d need the priest to bless that.”
Ranulph half turned, careful not to put his back to his enemies.
Where the causeway filled the moat, a breach now marred the white walls of Castle Dacre. The survivors of his sally party stumbled on through the powder smoke. They really weren’t going to make it. Even if they did, Clifford’s army would be hard on their heels, and they would have no professionals to lead them.
Orders rang out, and Clifford’s army resumed its charge.
“Damn.” Ranulph turned to Albrecht. "Go and take command.”
Albrecht’s eyes were white behind his helmet sights. “Me?”
As one, Clifford's army roared and picked up speed.
Ranulph pawed out his left hand. He twisted the heavy flail from his squire’s grip and tossed it against the base of the burning siege tower. “Put this in one of your sketches and show it to King Ragnar,” he shouted. “By your vow to me — Go!"
Albrecht yelled something.
But Ranulph was striding forward, Steelcutter raised to greet the oncoming army, his gaze fixed on the Red Unicorn banner fluttering over the throng. If he was going to die today, Clifford would precede him down to Hell.
CHAPTER TWO
“For an alien planet, this looks a lot like Earth,” said Colonel Jasmine Klimt, panning her field glasses across the hill.
“Parallel evolution,” said Marcel beside her on the armour plated hull of Green 01, her tank. “No sign of the bloody infantry, then?”
Jasmine shook her head. “I…”
A deep boom! echoed from the direction of the objective.
She dropped to her haunches behind her tank’s conning tower.
Ever the old soldier, Marcel was already kneeling on the armoured hull, making the most of the cover afforded by the boxy conning tower. The stress thickened his Saumurian accent; “What the fuck was that?”
Pulse racing, Jasmine looked back down her fifty-tank column in time to see commanders scamper back inside and hatches slam shut. None of the vehicles appeared to be under attack. “Sounded like it came from a long way off.”
Without raising her field glasses, Jasmine scanned the landscape, hoping to catch some movement or sign of attack in the corner of her eye.
She saw only rough pasture leading up to where the craggy ramp of Objective One soared out of the landscape. It could almost have been a medieval landscape, except there were no cattle and no people. Then white powder smoke rose from the summit of the objective. “The natives have gunpowder,” she said.
“Well they aren’t shooting at us,” said Marcel, rising. He clambered over the conning tower and started back down to his driver’s hatch. “Must be some sort of local brouhaha.”
“Hang on,” said Jasmine. “The infantry aren’t here yet.”
Marcel’s broad shoulders raised in a Saumurian shrug. “What were General Hamilton’s orders?”
“Postmaster General Hamilton’s orders,” said Jasmine, “…were that we should not lose the element of surprise under any circumstances.”
“And does not the Post Office control the Gate?”
“Bugger fuck. No wonder the Carbineers haven’t caught up. Hamilton wants us to win a victory without them.” Jasmine sighed. Internal politics again. But if she didn’t give the ambitious Hamilton what he wanted, somebody less competent would. She slid back into the fug of the tank cabin, took her swivel seat in the conning tower and slammed shut the hatch. She grabbed her headset and ordered, “Start her up!”
The engines roared and the tank thrummed against her back — a metal monster come to life. Her metal monster. She hit SEND and ordered, “Advance in column. Green 01 will take point. For the Egality!”
The radio crackled with cheers.
Marcel levered the tank into gear. It shot forward, bumped over a hillock and crashed down onto what passed for a road. He asked over the crew circuit, “What’s the plan?”
“Tank shock,” she replied, buckling on her safety strap.
Port Gunner Smith cut in, “You’re not supposed to give the natives culture shock!”
Jasmine ignored him. Just because the Army of the Egality elected its senior officers, didn’t mean that she had to discuss all her decisions with what Postmaster General Hamilton insisted on calling her Force Application Team.
She swung around to check on the rest of her tanks through the rear view port. Spraying mud, they tore across the primitive landscape behind her with no sign of opposition. The second tank’s port sponson brushed what would have been a wayside inn had this been Earth. The entire facade collapsed in a shower of plaster and splinters.
Jasmine turned back to the front view port.
Twin engines howling, the column hurtled uphill towards the walled town. Ahead, the gates lay propped against the walls like broken shutters awaiting the repairman. A Red Unicorn banner hung over the gatehouse. “Signs of local conflict,” she noted for the benefit of the crew.
Green 01 skidded, banged against the wall of the gate tunnel then, with curses from Marcel, squealed through. The street was empty. Other than that, it looked just like a picture of a medieval street; timber-framed buildings overhanging a muddy lane, shop signs depicting the wares on sale within. The natives must have evolved in close parallel to humans.
Jasmine toggled SEND. “Remember, we’re here to liberate the natives from the yoke of their quasi-elitist overlords. Anybody carrying a weapon is a legitimate target. For the Egality!”
#
Like an accident in an armoury, dozens of hook-bladed bills toppled towards Ranulph. The things would be unruned but dripping with priestly blessings that would negate the runes etched into his armour. That was how the New War worked.
The v
oice of his old fencing master came to him; Keep moving or die, boy.
Ranulph stepped in. Steelcutter licked up, swept aside the falling polearms, snapped down for the kill.
The blade parted quilted armour and flesh, cracked through the collar bone, sliced the ribs, severed the spinal column and emerged on the other side in an explosion of gore.
The head and half-torso fell to the packed earth.
The next man paused, bill raised, face rigid in horror.
Ranulph ran him through. It was only as he tore Steelcutter free that he saw the dying man’s wheatsheaf badge. These weren’t mercenaries in Clifford’s yellow livery. These were men of the Evenshire trained bands in plain linen jacks. Yeomen, farmhands, labourers, millers... ordinary men with trades, homes, wives, children… Clifford had turned Ranulph into a murderer as well as a traitor.
Bills battered Ranulph’s armour, sent stinging smacks through his arming jacket.
So much for the New War — they hadn’t even taken the time to get their blades blessed. With a roar of frustration that filled his helm and made his ears hurt, he snapped Steelcutter around, splintering shafts. He barged his way through the surprised countrymen, shedding glancing blows, suffering bruises but spilling no blood, always moving towards the Red Unicorn banner.
Behind him, the billmen yelled encouragement to each other. He sensed their front rolling back on itself in pursuit of him. He’d bought time for Albrecht and his men. A pity he would not be joining them in the defence of the breach.
A throng of dismounted knights clattered up and collided with the billmen.
With a whoop, Ranulph plunged into the press and left all thought behind. Steelcutter flowed around swords and axes, diverting blows and wreaking destruction in economical strokes, each driven by a well-timed step that took him yet closer to his enemy’s banner. But as he reached its shadow, somebody barked a command and the men before him retreated, leaving him penned by a circle of Clifford's household knights.
Silence settled on the mob of knights and commoners. From farther off came an oddly metallic clattering and squealing — probably some new siege machine being dragged up. Ranulph ignored the sound. He turned slowly, deciding where to make his final rush.
An argument broke out behind the wall of steel. A single knight stepped through the ring. A murmur went through the crowd then quickly hushed.
Ranulph recognised the golden armour – he’d once turned its un-runed doppelganger into so much scrap metal. "Lord Lionel – a good morning to you. It is always a pleasure to greet a friend from the tournament circuit. I trust your father is well."
"Better than yours, Dacre." Clifford's son and heir raised a two-handed sword over his rear shoulder. The flames from the siege tower picked out its runes, turning them into livid scars on the smooth diamond-sectioned blade. His voice shrilled triumphantly through his visor. "Besides, it is now afternoon."
Ranulph mirrored Lord Lionel’s stance and let Steelcutter rest on his shoulder. The blade of the youth’s two-handed sword was a foot longer than that of Ranulph’s greatsword, but that probably mattered less than the youth thought.
"In the matter of the time of day, I stand corrected, Sir," replied Ranulph. He dropped his voice so the watchers wouldn’t hear. "Are you sure you want to do this with sharps, boy?"
"Last time, you had the advantage of experience," hissed Lord Lionel. "Now I have the advantage of training from... Master Gerhart Onehand."
"Really?" Ranulph edged into distance, then sprang forward, throwing a simple diagonal cut at Lord Lionel’s shoulder.
Lord Lionel pivoted away and cut down at Ranulph’s head, relying on the greater reach of his two-handed sword.
Ranulph raised his fists and pointed Steelcutter to the sky.
Lord Lionel’s two-handed sword struck sparks from Ranulph’s edge, then clanged into the crossguard.
Ranulph stepped in, let go with his left hand and shoved Lord Lionel’s hands up and out of the way. He hammered Steelcutter’s pommel into the young knight’s visor and willed him to go down.
Lord Lionel kept his feet, but stumbled back a few paces. He cut wildly.
Ranulph pivoted into the attack, shifted his left hand to Steelcutter’s blade in a half-sword grip, and blocked the two-handed sword just over his own head. He landed toe-to-toe with his adversary, sword aligned with the younger knight’s visor.
Ranulph drove the point into Lord Lionel’s eye slit.
The youth recoiled and clutched the damaged visor. Blood seeped between his mailed fingers.
Ranulph brought Steelcutter back to his shoulder. He thought of his murdered father and brothers. "You should have asked Onehand who it was that maimed him."
Steelcutter caught Lord Lionel just under the helm. The runes cancelled each other out, but Ranulph did not need magic to make his cuts tell. The throat guard split. Helm and head hit the packed earth with a dull clang. Fountaining blood, Lord Lionel’s corpse staggered back three paces then crashed into the wall of knights.
Clifford’s men shuffled away from Ranulph.
Ranulph laughed. He took a step toward the distant Red Unicorn banner and whirled Steelcutter one-handed. “Who is next?”
Another order.
Four knights stepped into the ring of watchers. Each took position at a point of the compass. These were professionals. Ranulph might slay three, but the fourth would attack from behind. Clifford would point to his wounds and claim he had been cut down in flight.
The full weight of his armour dragged on Ranulph’s shoulders, making his back ache. His sweat-soaked arming jacket prickled his skin, tormenting his bruises. It had been a long day. He deserved a hot bath, a feather bed, a warm wench...
He shrugged, making his shoulder plates rattle.
One of the knights flinched.
Ranulph wheeled and sprang. He deflected the knight’s blade, ducked, and clutching Steelcutter one-handed, threw the man over his shoulder. There was a double yell and the crash of two armoured men colliding. So much for being stabbed in the back. Grinning, he whirled Steelcutter and cut down the next man, and the next.
But the knights neither scattered nor panicked. Weapons hammered Ranulph’s armour, numbing his limbs. His ears rang. Stars speckled his vision.
There was nothing beyond his visor but steel and the whites of men’s eyes. No sound but the clash of steel and the screams of the maimed and dying —
— and that odd rattling and squealing sound, now much closer.
Something thumped into Ranulph’s backplate between his shoulder pieces. He slipped in the gore and crashed to one knee. On instinct, he raised Steelcutter. Now sparks cascaded around him as rune-etched blades clashed, again and again, jolting his arms and shoulder muscles.
To defend only, is to die.
Ranulph groped for the energy – the rage – to rise to his feet and fight on. But he had nothing left. The only choice was to let go. The end would be swift. No torture before a gloating Clifford. No public humiliation to mark the finish of five hundred years of Dacres.
He smiled tiredly into his visor. He'd not done so badly. Perhaps Albrecht would put this into one of his drawings...
There came a peel of terrible thunderclaps that reverberated through Ranulph's armour. An invisible hand picked him up and dashed him through a wall of bodies and into a blanket of red tinged black. He welcomed unconsciousness like an old friend —
#
Ranulph’s fingers tightened on Steelcutter and the pain returned, along with it the sewer stench of death. Gagging, he drew in his knees and rose from the heap of corpses into a spinning world.
How long had he been unconscious?
Not long, he realised, as his vision settled. Most of the houses fronting the Cattle Market had collapsed, but the dust still hung in the air.
Monstrous grey machines roared around like gigantic rogue sheepdogs, harrying Clifford’s men this way and that. Bracketing each machine was a pair of boxes, each sprouting what could
only be cannon. One emitted an armour-rattling thunderclap and belched flame. Earth erupted, tossed bits of men and armour high into the air. The siege tower exploded. Burning bodies, charred hides, and planks of wood rained on Clifford’s milling army.
More explosions blossomed on the face of the castle walls.
Ranulph held his breath as the wind whipped away the smoke, then exhaled. The white lime mortar rendering was marred, but, thanks to its ancient runes, the masonry beneath had shrugged off the assault. The snag was, there was already a breach where the priest-blessed cannonball had negated the magical protection.
With a detachment born of fatigue, Ranulph raised his visor to take a good look. The armour-plated machines bore no discernible heraldry, just Parvian numerals daubed on faded circles of colour. And, if they were some sort of war wagon, where the Hell were the horses?
One ironclad halted. Squealing and rattling, it rotated towards Ranulph. From between its unnaturally shaped wheels poked a smaller gun, about the same bore as one of Ranulph’s fowling pieces.
He watched with interest, secure in his carapace of rune-etched steel.
The gun’s breach flared. There was a sound like tearing silk. Something hammered Ranulph’s armour, battering his ribs and throwing him off his feet.
Gasping for breath, he wriggled behind a pile of bodies and tried to make himself small.
An explosion obliterated a nearby knight – almost; one armoured leg remained. Ranulph winced. The other pieces of rune-etched armour were probably intact as well, just not the man they were supposed to protect.
Another knight blundered past. The gun swung. The tearing sound again, and the flame flickered on the weapon’s breach. The knight jerked and quivered. His head snapped back. He twirled and crashed to the ground next to Ranulph. His armour was undamaged, but blood seeped from his visor. Ranulph frowned. The small guns must fire a continuous series of bullets, as if served by a demonic crew. The bullets might not be able to penetrate rune-etched armour, but they could batter knights to death just as effectively as clubs wielded by mob of angry peasants.
Armoured heroes clash across the centuries! (Swords Versus Tanks Book 1) Page 2