Armoured heroes clash across the centuries! (Swords Versus Tanks Book 1)

by M Harold Page

  "We’re the good guys, remember?" said Tom. He swung back into the saddle and turned the ignition. After a few revs, he shouted. "You and your Security squad will just have to cutty trees yourselves."

  #

  Sergeant Brown tossed another corn dolly on the fire. The wood didn’t burn very well. Probably too green or something. But the crap hanging on the trees flared nicely, and there was plenty of it.

  Clarke took his slug and passed the liquor on. "When’re we going to give that Integration poof a kicking, Sarge?" he asked.

  "Soon," said Brown. "Or he’ll have us cleaning wog shithouses."

  Clarke stood up and pissed into the flames. "Can’t let him get away with this. I’ve got blisters."

  "Oh, he’ll get more than a kicking," said Brown. He grinned and imagined making the Integration Worker plead a little before they gutted him.

  Suddenly Clarke screamed and clawed at his own face. He cried, "The pickles are genuflecting!" Then he threw himself on the fire.

  Brown went for his carbine. The others pulled Clarke clear and smothered the flames. He wasn’t burned too badly – it was a shitty excuse for a fire after all – but he'd managed to pulp his own eyes.

  The last time Brown had seen somebody do that, it was after a Sandhaven doctor had administered an experimental aversion therapy drug to one of the queers. Brown dropped behind a fallen tree. "Wogs’ve got poisoned blow darts, lads."

  They waited in silence, Brown painfully aware of the way the firelight made them perfect targets.

  Out in the trees, a light flickered.

  "Benjamin and Flint – you’re country boys. Go fetch."

  The Security Workers slipped into the night.

  Brown smiled. He’d seen them flushing perverts out of woodland. This wasn’t going to be pretty.

  But the screams, when they came, belonged to his men.

  Brown rolled to face his remaining men. Seventeen should be enough. "Right. Sod chasing wogs in the dark. We know where they’re camped."

  #

  Tom traced Marcel’s shoulder blades through the layer of muscle. The firelight turned his stocky Saumurian figure into a bronze statue, but the flesh was soft to the touch – well, most of it.

  Marcel glanced over his shoulder. "What’s up, Pretty Boy? You’re not talking."

  Tom sighed. "I’m OK." He rubbed at the scar from his right cheek and his chin.

  Everything about the requisitioned inn was alien – the wood fire, the low-beamed ceiling, and the fragrance from the heather-stuffed mattress. But it was also familiar. Add a busty wench, and they could have been inside one of Rosetta's paintings, perhaps Sir Marcus and Queen Isod Take Refuge in a Humble Wayside Inn.

  It was as cosy as Tom had imagined, but somehow, he could not throw himself into the mood. "Remember Sandhaven?"

  Marcel struggled onto his back. Pain flashed across his face and Tom felt stupid. Thanks to his maimed leg, Marcel probably thought of Sandhaven more often than he did.

  Tom could still picture Marcel back then, almost literally exploding into that hellish courtyard. The rubble had barely settled before the grizzled veteran was shooting from the hip, taking down the Rehabilitation Cops faster than they could turn their shotguns on the Egality revolutionaries.

  The blast of pellets struck Marcel as he untied Tom, so Tom dragged his erstwhile rescuer to safety. Marcel always said that made them even. Even so, fearing some sense of obligation, he’d resisted Tom’s advances for an entire year.

  Marcel always did what he thought was right, even if it wasn’t wise. What would he do now? Best to say nothing.

  Tom rolled his thumbs down Marcel’s biceps, a trick he’d learnt for money, but now did for love. Perhaps he could forget all about the Fairy Grove.

  Marcel sat up and took Tom by the shoulders. "Tell me," he growled.

  "Corporal Brown," said Tom, feeling himself choke. "Rehabilitated. And promoted."

  Marcel’s arms hardened. "Shit! But..."

  Tom explained.

  Marcel sat in silence.

  Tom got off the bed and busied himself stoking the fire. Beyond the medieval room, engines rumbled. Voices boomed from downstairs. They didn’t have much time left. The least he could do was leave the place warm for Jasmine and her date.

  At length, Marcel crouched next to Tom and threw a log into the fire. "Perverse decisions make the counsellors feel important."

  "I’ve been thinking," said Tom, without looking around. "Brown was obviously homosexual otherwise he wouldn’t have... perhaps he really was traumatised."

  "You were traumatised." Marcel spat into the flames. "But you didn’t sodomise people with a riot gun. I only stopped half a massacre, remember?"

  "I remember." Welcoming death. Braced for one last indignity while around him, one by one, his friends died.

  "We’d already won," said Marcel. "He could have fled. He had a choice."

  "And now he’s rehabilitated. Perhaps the counsellors know best."

  "I should have killed him," said Marcel.

  They watched the fire in silence. There would be no lovemaking tonight. Even now, Tom lived in Brown’s shadow. "Rehabilitated," he repeated.

  Somebody hammered on the door.

  "Fuck off!" growled Marcel. "We have half an hour left."

  "Sorry boys," said Jasmine from the hallway. "There’s a villager with an urgent message for Tom. Hitched all the way here on a dispatch bike."

  #

  Tom gunned the engine and roared into the clearing. A truck’s headlamps cast long shadows from the heads of two dozen peasants who stood in a trench, digging what must be their own mass grave. Not one of them looked around at the new sound, probably because Sergeant Brown’s squad stood over them, bayonets fixed.

  Tom slewed to a halt in front of the carbines. He kept the engine idling and left his headlight on as a beacon.

  Brown advanced on him. "Tom!" His teeth flashed in a boyish smile but his carbine was levelled menacingly. "This isn’t a very good time." He had that parade ground trick of talking very loudly without seeming to shout.

  With a shaking hand, Tom reached for his regulation sidearm and slipped off the safety catch. He’d never had to shoot somebody, but he had spent hours on the range trying to seduce Marcel. "What are you doing?" he yelled.

  "They killed some of my men," said Brown, very reasonably. "Now I’m executing them."

  Tom aimed the pistol and fought to stop it wavering. "Not without a trial."

  "How many little boys did they send to your tent?" asked Brown.

  Beyond the screen of trees, a vehicle rattled up the road. Had Marcel and Jasmine managed to find Hamilton? Or was it a night patrol? If so, it was hardly going to explore the woods in the dark. Tom was on his own.

  "Where’s your proof?" asked Tom over the sound of the engine. His voice was going hoarse.

  "It’s obvious. My men cut down their precious Fairy Grove. Then they start dying."

  The vehicle was closer now. The throb was too low to be a truck, and it had the distinctive syncopated double-beat of twin engines.

  With his left hand. Tom eased the throttle open, drowning out the rattle of the approaching tank. He raised his voice over the racket. "Fine. Arrest them."

  Brown shrugged. "You'll make us shoot you too." He backed off. "It'll be your own fault!"

  Tom cocked the hammer. "I’ll take you with me."

  Nearby, the tank crunched over felled trees. How could Brown not hear it? Tom nudged open the throttle still further to mask the sound.

  "I doubt you’d get the shot off," shouted Brown. He raised his carbine. "On my mark, lads."

  This was like Sandhaven all over again, almost. Tom released the throttle, and as the engine died, grasped his pistol with both hands and aimed at Brown’s chest.

  The forest was silent. In the corner of his eye, a grey bulk loomed beyond the pool of light cast by the truck’s headlamps. The tank had trundled to a halt.

  Marcel’s voic
e roared out in Saumurian, “Tom! Take cover!”

  The Security Workers turned in the direction of the shout, carbines raised.

  Tom launched himself into the trench and yelled in the medieval dialect, “Lie down, good men! Hide!”

  Peasants tumbled around him. Somebody crashed into his back and he struck his head.

  #

  Tom tasted cold earth. He was lying next to his machine. His ears still rang, and his head hurt.

  Somebody brushed dirt from his face. Marcel bent over him. He opened his mouth to speak, but Tom just kissed him.

  The kiss lasted a very long time.

  "Ahem," said Jasmine. She was standing over them. "If you’re quite finished, could you ask your friends to give us a hand picking up the bits? And tell them to keep their mouths shut."

  Tom struggled to his feet then heaved Marcel up. He glanced around the clearing. Jasmine’s tank sat on one side of it, its searchlight casting long shadows. The villagers still cringed in the trench — what should have been their mass grave had saved their lives. There was no sign of Brown and his men.

  "Where are the Security Workers?"

  Marcel grinned. "They went to pieces." With his good leg, he kicked something on the ground.

  Sergeant Brown's head.

  Further off, shadowy lumps resolved into body parts, some still covered in Post Office blue fabric. "I thought you’d arrest them," said Tom. "Go through channels." His stomach lurched. He clutched his mouth.

  "My finger slipped," said Jasmine. “Oops.” She dropped a coil at his feet. It looked like barbed wire, but he saw each nodule was a small ball-bearing wrapped in wire. "Nasty stuff, case shot," she said.

  As if in a dream, Tom righted his motorcycle. It was scratched and covered in bits of flesh.

  "General Hamilton was 'in a meeting,'" said Marcel, making quotes with weathered fingers.

  "And the senior Security officers were having a brothel party," said Jasmine.

  Tom swung onto the torn saddle. "But you just executed them... murdered them... without trial.”

  Marcel laughed. "What did you want us to do, Pretty Boy? Fill in a mother-buggering complaint form?"

  “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?" said Tom.

  “Well,” said Jasmine. “You remember back in ‘25 when that Post Office Consciousness Raising team got ambushed by an Elitist Wolfpack?”

  Tom felt sick. “But we have democracy… you could have raised a motion at the Army Council…”

  “They were arresting competent officers on false charges,” said Marcel. “And when there’s fighting going on, only rear echelon troops ever attend the Army Council.”

  Tom just stared at him.

  “Look, in case you haven’t noticed,” said Jasmine. “It’s not actually normal for the Postmaster General to control an army’s logistics, let alone have his own brigade.”

  “But democracy…” began Tom.

  “Yeah, well,” said Marcel. “Democracy doesn’t work too well during a war.”

  "I love you,” said Tom. "But I need space now."

  Marcel’s face seemed to crumple.

  The silence stretched out. Then Jasmine said, "That’s a crappy thing to say in the middle of a war."

  Tom lowered his goggles to hide his tears and kicked his bike into gear.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  KINGHAVEN WELCOMES CAREFUL DRIVERS

  — Kinghaven Municipal Council, "Road sign" (1911)

  #

  Ranulph halted in mid step.

  Like a trail of blood, dried rose petals marked the course of Clifford’s triumphal procession across the Inner Ward of Kinghaven Castle up to the great double doors of Tristram’s Hall. Muted chatter seeped out of the ancient building. Compared to the new Royal Range, the old hall was an over-sized barn, but the oak-shingled roof had sheltered tournaments since the time of King Tristram. If Westerland’s chivalry had a home, this was it.

  Ranulph frowned. His homecoming wasn't supposed to be like this.

  A spear-butt hammered his shoulder blades. "Move it, warlock!"

  For the hundredth time, Ranulph strained against his manacles, but they were rune-etched like Steelcutter, and just as strong.

  "Or crawl like a dog!" sneered the younger of the two guards. He jabbed his spear point into Ranulph's left calve. Blood trickled down the back of his leg.

  Ranulph dropped into a fighting stance, knees bent ready to uncoil and drive him into action.

  Behind him, the company of Royal Archers – the real escort — rustled to a halt. Bows creaked. One wrong move and two dozen broad-headed hunting arrows would end things now: tempting, but suicide was a sin. Ranulph let go of his rage and felt filthy for it. The two guards weren’t even proper soldiers, just varlets from the lower ranks of Clifford's retinue. It was a dishonour to be seen with them, let alone to be paraded as their prisoner.

  Ranulph trudged through the ancient doorway. The archers did not follow — was there was not enough space inside the packed great hall? He frowned. Albrecht would have read something else into this… but what?

  Familiar scents greeted him: spiced beef, hops, wood smoke, gryphon musk, warm bodies and perfume.

  Ten years dropped away.

  His second Winter Tournament. The good one. Battered armour, jostling knights, cheering crowds… then blacksmiths prising off his unruned helm so he could accept the trophy.

  Only now, it was the survivors of the civil war who crowded together under the gaze of the house gryphons. Any cheering would come later, when Clifford displayed the quartered corpse of the last Dacre.

  So much for Ranulph’s return from a decade of war and tournament.

  The chattering crowd parted before him.

  He picked out old friends, distant relatives, former lovers. Some met his eyes with defiance or sympathy. Others looked away. None had been at the siege of Castle Dacre.

  A florid-faced earl wearing the Clifford Red Unicorn blocked his path and made a half-bow. His jowls parted in a gap-toothed smile. "Such a glorious return." A poorly set broken nose made him sound like he had a bad cold. "Your father would have been so proud." His followers snickered.

  Ranulph’s fingers curled against his manacles. "Lord Redmain," he said in his outdoor voice. "Now too fat to catch little girls, I see."

  "Scum!" The portly earl wound his fist back, then took a mighty swing.

  Ranulph sidestepped and put out his foot.

  Lord Redmain hurtled past, screamed. There was a dull thud.

  Ranulph did not bother to look back.

  The varlets scampered to catch up with him. “Do that again and we’ll…” began the older one.

  Ranulph just looked at him, then returned his attention to the court.

  Men who had once worn the Dacre Gryphon now bore either Clifford’s Red Unicorn, or the Archbishop’s Gridiron. Only one man wore both badges: young King Edward, who slumped on his throne between Archbishop Grossi’s quivering bulk and Clifford’s spider-like presence.

  Ranulph frowned. Albrecht had reckoned this to be an armed standoff. That explained why Clifford had marched on Castle Dacre with a largely mercenary army; he needed his faithful followers back in the capital, balancing those of the Archbishop. What scheme would Albrecht have devised for him?

  King Edward sat up straight and fixed Ranulph with intelligent blue eyes.

  Ranulph shrugged. Albrecht had had his methods. Now Ranulph would have to trust his own. He met the King’s gaze, winked, then glowered down at the Royal Herald. "Announce me."

  The old man blanched and glanced at the dais. The Archbishop and Duke both shook their heads.

  "Move!" ordered the older guard and tugged Ranulph forward by the arm.

  "Go on with you!" added the sneerer. He shoved on Ranulph's left shoulder.

  "As you wish," said Ranulph. He dropped into a fighting stance and added his own weight to the movement. He tore his left arm from the gaoler’s grip. Still with his wrists pinned behind his b
ack, he pivoted and brought up his knee, hard, driving the blow by straightening his back leg.

  A sickening squelch. The older guard screeched like a dying pig, crumpled and skidded on the polished flagstones.

  Ranulph exhaled and stamped backwards, ramming his heel into the younger guard's knee.

  The crack cut through the buzz of conversation. The older guard finally slid to a halt at the feet of the nobility. A whimper filled the silence, followed by the thud of the second guard collapsing on flagstones.

  Cleansed, Ranulph grinned down at the herald.

  The old man swallowed. "Sir… Sir Ranulph Dacre, Earl of Dacre." He coughed then continued in a louder voice. "Knight of the Imperial Order of the Golden Lionskin. Blood Brother of High King Ragnar of the Rune Isles…"

  Ranulph would have given the second precedence over the first, but he was in no position to quibble. He clasped his hands against his spine as if by habit rather than constraint. Keeping time to the herald’s recitation, he strode up to the throne.

  The herald picked up pace. "Victor of the Battle of Love's Marsh. Conqueror of Blackness Castle. Champion of the Late Emperor’s Funeral Tournament…"

  Clifford’s billmen bustled forward.

  Ranulph just sank to one knee before King Edward, for all the world as if he had returned of his own will.

  "…and victor of the Battle of Little Markham," completed the herald.

  "Cousin Dacre," said the King, his voice strong but crackling with youth. "Even now that you are an earl, your achievements outnumber your titles."

  Ranulph bowed his head. The ancient hall was silent except for rustle of gryphons high up in the rafters. "I would that my father was still Earl of Dacre, Your Grace." He glared at Clifford.

  The duke leaned over and muttered into the young monarch’s ear.

  "Ah," said the King. "My uncle points out that your earldom is forfeit. He also calls you a traitor and a necromancer. "

  Ranulph’s fingers clenched. He pressed his fists into his spine. Patience! One step at a time. "A simple misunderstanding," he said. "I offered myself as an ambassador to King Ragnar. Your Grace will need powerful runes with which to fight the Invaders."