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

by M Harold Page

  A murmur went through the aristocratic crowd. They must know about the Invaders from the survivors of Clifford’s army. But what did they believe?

  "It has been eight days!" Clifford raised his hand to shade his eyes and pantomimed peering into the distance. "Where are your Invaders?" Laughter welled up from the cluster of Red Unicorn badges to the Duke’s left.

  King Edward leaned back on the throne and regarded Ranulph. "What do you say to that, Cousin Dacre?"

  "The Duke of Highcraig would rather pursue a feud than protect his king. I call such a man a traitor, and will prove that with steel before God."

  Clifford laughed. "Since when did a prisoner challenge his captor?"

  King Edward’s face became glacial. All trace of the depressed youth vanished. "Since when, Sir, did a subject interrupt his monarch?"

  Like a single creature, the court gasped, then held its breath. This was the moment: the king’s break for freedom, and Ranulph’s chance to fight Clifford. He pictured his brothers’ bodies, quartered like autumn pigs for salting. His fingers curled and uncurled. It would not be enough to merely strike down this man.

  King Edward’s voice filled the hall. "In that Sir Ranulph was abroad during the Civil War, and in that throughout the late conflict he was merely defending his patrimony, We grant him a Full Pardon, and restore the lands and titles forfeited by his father. Still outstanding, however, is Sir Ranulph’s challenge to the Duke of Highcraig.” The king rose and pointed to the nearest of the Royal Knights. "You, sir, strike off his fetters. You, fetch two un-runed greatswords. We will have this duel fought here and now."

  The knights looked at Clifford, back at the king, then each other. One made to draw his sword, the other turned – evidently to fetch a pair of duelling swords. Clifford’s smile became fixed, but his eyelids flickered like the wings of a moth on a hot lantern.

  The Archbishop leaned forward and scrutinised Ranulph the way a tournament-loving lady assesses a potential champion.

  Albrecht’s voice came to Ranulph, "Watch out, you great oaf!"

  Ranulph schooled his expression. Kneeling was making his back hurt. His ribs gave him a twinge whenever he moved. His shoulders ached from spending a week in shackles. Then there was the shrill throb of his chafed wrists. The battle had left his muscles stiffened and dulled by bruises. The journey to Kinghaven had not helped either. But he had killed better knights while in a worse state. And why should it matter whether or not he impressed the Archbishop?

  The Archbishop’s brow creased into waxy ridges. "One moment, Your Grace." His eyes glinted from deep in their pudgy sockets. "The Act of Concession permits me to speak out on matters pertaining to religion."

  The King’s head whipped around, confusion written all over his face. "Speak, then." The authority faltered, then rallied: "But quickly."

  "His Grace will also recall that Sir Ranulph must answer to the Church in the matter of Necromancy, before any purely secular charges can be adjudicated."

  The King frowned. "Well, Dacre?"

  "Sorcerer?" Ranulph had a queasy feeling in his stomach. If only Albrecht were here. "Not I."

  "So!" The Archbishop leaned forward, stretching out the folds of his double chin. "You refuse to banish your army of ironclad demons?"

  Somebody bellowed, "Warlock!" Another added, "Necromancer!" Yelling and shouting, courtiers of both factions closed in.

  Ranulph threw his weight back and rolled off his knees and onto his feet. Even with his legs bent, he was a head taller than most of the aristocratic throng.

  "God’s teeth! If the invading army were mine," thundered Ranulph, "do you not think that Clifford’s head would serve as its standard?"

  The nobles recoiled – either they had forgotten he had his hands pinioned, or else they recalled the fate of his guards.

  Ranulph pressed on in quieter tones. "Besides, if it is a demonic army, why is it affected by blade runes?" But now he could almost hear Albrecht screaming, "Shut up! Shut up!"

  "Ha!" exclaimed the Archbishop, now standing. "Listen, Your Grace, how ancient necromancy pervades the nobility! God demands we eradicate all these runes -," he spat the word out, as if it fouled his mouth, "- from the entire realm, and not just from the confines of the Royal Castle."

  Men in the Archbishop’s livery filed towards Ranulph, picking a path through their betters.

  "Alas, Dacre," said the King. "Thanks to Our Act of Concession..."

  The Archbishop preened.

  "...We cannot interfere in matters pertaining to the Church."

  Ranulph’s shoulders slumped. He really was no good at this sort of thing without Albrecht to prompt him.

  A trumpet sounded outside. A young Royal Knight ran up the middle of the hall where once Ranulph had jousted. He brushed past Ranulph and threw himself to his knees before the king. "Your Grace! The invasion beacons burn! An army approaches at supernatural speed!"

  The Archbishop waved a chubby hand at the nearest billmen. "You know where to take him."

  Two new guards very politely ushered Ranulph toward a side door.

  It was then he noticed that somebody had laboriously chipped away all the runes protecting Tristram’s Hall. So this was what the Archbishop had meant by eradication.

  Ranulph’s laughter boomed out to fill the hall, startling the house gryphons. The winged felines rose squawking from the roof beams to wheel and cry amongst the massive candelabras.

  #

  Lord Redmain was being persistent. "Sir," he said. "Surely you could have been more... firm with the Archbishop in the matter of the runic defences. Suppose-"

  Clifford frowned. That alone was enough to quell the earl. He paused long enough for everybody else to note the sudden silence then said, "Sir, are you suggesting that I should deny the spiritual authority of the Church?"

  Lord Redmain shook his head.

  Clifford suppressed a smile. After granting the Archbishop his little victory, nobody would ever question his piety. Of course, he’d had to privately threaten to abandon the city, before the fat-arsed fanatic would agree to let them use their rune-etched arms and armour. "Kinghaven has thick walls," he said. He surveyed the assembled lords, knights... and others. Most of them nodded as his gaze reached them — tacit acknowledgement that he had done what he could in the face of priestly foolishness. He bowed his head at the King. "With your permission, Sire."

  The young man hesitated. It would, thought Clifford, soon be time for that riding accident. "Of course, Dear Uncle."

  "Sire. My lords." Clifford waited until the cavernous hall was utterly silent.

  From above, in the rafters, came a flutter and an abrupt squeal – one of the house gryphons hunting vermin. The much-vaunted Dacre heraldic beast was just a winged rat catcher, after all.

  Clifford continued. "I have fought the Invaders, and – despite what the Archbishop says — I can tell you that there is nothing magical or demonic about them. Their war engines and guns are no more than cunning artifice. However..." Clifford let his gaze fall on the aldermen-turned-militia-captains and wondered how many would survive. "...they are merciless and unnatural. They will rape your women, murder your babies and sell your sons as eunuchs – if you let them."

  The aldermen set their chins. Clifford smiled. The fools would fight to the death. The new-fangled urban trained bands would be lucky to break up the enemy formation. Putting them in the first line of defence would be a great way to get rid of the more belligerent town rats. "Your king honours your resolve," he said. "You all know the plan." He took a deep breath so he could raise the cheer.

  "With one small modification," said the King, softly. "We shall be leading the charge."

  Clifford sputtered. "It will be an honour to ride behind you, Sire."

  The King rose from his throne and drew his sword. "For Westerland!"

  Swords flashed and the cry filled the great hall.

  Clifford just mouthed the words. Perhaps the riding accident would be unnecessary.
r />   #

  "Teal 10," Smith's voice shrilled over radio, setting Jasmine's teeth on edge. "You’ve overshot."

  Jasmine looked out of her starboard vision slit. The other vehicles of the Experimental Tank Brigade were frozen in the act of breasting the ridge; twin prows heaving towards the sky, bellies exposed. Only hers sensibly hugged the forward slope. She reached for the SEND button but could think of nothing to say. "Stupid fucking name for a tank."

  Marcel gave a bark of laughter. "But colours do not imply hierarchy so are more appropriate than letters for designating squadrons."

  "Bastard," growled Jasmine. "Shut up."

  "It says so in the Brigade handbook," continued Marcel, innocently. "So it must be true."

  "We should do as Colonel Smith says," said the Port Gunner.

  "Yes! We elected him," said the Starboard Gunner.

  Jasmine’s crash helmet seemed to tighten around her temples, making the wound throb. This was the first time in history that one hundred and fifty tanks had rolled into action together. Why wasn't she in command? What had gone wrong?

  "Come now, Klimt. Back up to join the rest of us," crackled Smith. "Surely you’re not worried about tank busters? Or do you just like to be in front?"

  Jasmine’s stomach clenched. Smith had risked the entire brigade just to trap her. She leaned over Marcel’s shoulder. "When did we become so political?"

  Marcel turned from his steering levers and hissed, "Directive 302."

  Jasmine blinked.

  "Fuel consumption."

  "Oh." She pressed SEND. "But reversing would waste fuel."

  Another voice came on the radio. "Directive 302. She has a point." Jasmine didn’t recognise the speaker – one of Smith’s newbies.

  Somebody else chipped in, "In fact the wording specifically states..."

  Jasmine started to laugh, then felt sick. She tore off her headset, and made for the conning tower hatch. It clanged open and a crisp sea breeze cooled her face. She registered the scent of wood smoke from the medieval city – Kinghaven, known to everybody else as “Strategic Objective 2”.

  "A rare homecoming, eh?" Lowenstein grinned up at her from the saddle of a motorbike.

  "You! How did you find me?" Somehow the former Elitist scientist had given his Post Office Security minders the slip. What kind of influence did Lowenstein wield?

  The white-haired scientist continued unabashed. "How often does one return half a millennium before one set out?"

  The cobweb of streets running down to the sparkling blue ocean had yet to see a Great Fire. A cordon of towers and crenellated walls contained the sprawl. The Cathedral’s double clock towers rose from the architectural confusion just as gloriously as they did… had… would… on the eve of the Hundred Bomber Raid. It would be good to climb the famous clock tower, and revisit the place she where she met Georgina.

  Lowenstein chuckled. "Just think. Had we arrived but fifty years earlier, we would have seen St Ignatius riding the foundation stones like a lumberjack floating logs to the sawmill."

  "Did you read the tourist guides before or after the Elitist Atrocity?"

  He grinned. "Neither. I had a mistress who enjoyed such trash, back when I was a junior professor at the Kinghaven Technical Institute."

  Jasmine stared down at the stiff-necked former Elitist. It was hard to imagine him strolling down the Royal Promenade.

  "You look surprised. The Inst-"

  "Amazed, even. Somebody wanted to be your mistress! It just shows that money talks."

  Lowenstein grinned. "I think she liked her men to be… masterful."

  Jasmine fought back a shudder. "So…," she said, changing tack. "How long can you keep up this Alien Planet scam? Everybody knows Kinghaven Cathedral. It’s even in The Atrocity."

  Now Lowenstein laughed. "Oh, that propaganda film? But the moral high ground is a precarious perch, is it not?" He pointed to the sky.

  High above Kinghaven, a newly assembled airship bomber edged into position. Sunlight flashed on its Flexiglass control car, just as it had on those of the Elitist Super Bombers back in the Spring of ‘27 when Jasmine watched the notorious raid from the deck of a fleeing troopship. Back then, pursuit ships had twisted and turned to bring rocket batteries to bear on the bombers, or nestled close to the monsters as desperate Air Marines swung across the void, brandishing boarding guns. Now, of course, nothing opposed the Egality bomber as it wheeled over the defenceless city.

  "So we have an airship acting as forward observer. So what?"

  Lowenstein swung out of his saddle. “I note the lack of infantry support.”

  Jasmine winced. “Apparently tanks did so well at Castle Dacre, that we have a new doctrine: Tank Shock.”

  Lowenstein reached into the saddle holster and drew a chunky short-barrelled shotgun. He held it out, stock first. "It would be a pity if the army were to lose to lose its most effective commander to the hubris of a Postmaster General."

  Jasmine flinched. "A Stormgun."

  "A Mark Ten, no less!" Lowenstein grinned wolfishly. "It has dampers and a muzzle-brake to negate the not inconsiderable recoil. But, I recommend that you brace and shoot from the shoulder."

  Jasmine eyed the gun. Its barrel was wide enough to take two fingers. It terminated in a bobbin-like muzzle-brake, a baby version of the kind used by the new issue field artillery. A hinged sword-bayonet compensated for the short reach in close quarters. Four rounds clung to the stock. There would be another three monstrous shells in the magazine and one in the chamber.

  This was the signature weapon of the Elitist Stormwarriors. Fearless, arrogant, merciless. How many innocents had this weapon accounted for? She shook her head.

  A thunderclap cut through the dawn air. Jasmine turned back towards Kinghaven. Sticks of bombs fell from the airship. Smoke billowed from the cathedral. Her stomach muscles knotted. "We don’t bomb non-military targets."

  #

  The cell door gaped. Stale air wafted Ranulph's face. He grimaced. The Rune Isles seemed a long way off.

  The Senior Brother said, "In here, Milord… if you please."

  Ranulph eyed his guards – six White Brothers not counting the Senior and the Novice. They stood a good few paces back. Each cradled a wide-mouthed handgun – booty from the Psalmist Wars. Slowly, to give himself time to think, he ducked under the lintel and peered into the gloom.

  The Brothers’ torches cast hellish shadows on the walls of a vault. A ruddy glow came from the far end. Ranulph turned, expecting a brazier stacked with torture irons. Instead, wide green eyes blinked at him. They belonged to a red-haired young lady who huddled under a mound of blankets. She flinched and turned her freckled face from the torchlight. The movement unveiled a naked white foot and a delicately curved calve. Patches of dirt mottled her radiant skin.

  Ranulph tore away his gaze and took in the rest of the vault. No cover. Nothing. Just straw, chains, and air shafts no wider than the girl's ankle.

  He shrugged and turned his back to the wall. Perhaps he could rush them.

  No. Like true professionals, the Brothers fanned out on the other side of the doorway, creating intersecting fields of fire.

  Once, back when he was fighting for the Emperor, Ranulph had been on the wrong end of similar handguns in the hands of Psalmists defending a wagon fort. One touch of the match-cord unleashed a hail of pellets. The Brothers might not be singing rune-negating heretical psalms, but then Ranulph wasn’t wearing rune-etched armour either… and there was the small matter of having his hands shackled behind his back.

  "Stay very still please, Milord."

  Two Brothers advanced to stand between him and the girl. They levelled their weapons at his guts – no hope of a clean death from that quarter.

  The unarmed Novice gingerly raised a heavy collar to Ranulph’s neck. "It won’t fit." The boy rummaged for a large enough fetter. Finally, he gave up and wrapped the wall chain around Ranulph’s unprotected skin. The padlock clunked. The Brothers lowered their g
uns and gathered in the doorway.

  The Senior Brother bowed. "I am truly sorry about the chafing, Milord." He smiled sadly. "However, it will trouble you less than the Rite of Incineration, and your subsequent incarceration in Hell."

  The discarded iron collar still lay at Ranulph’s feet. If he kicked it hard enough, would it kill at least one Brother? It certainly looked heavy – it would have to be heavy, since magic of any sort did not work on consecrated ground.

  Ranulph’s heart leapt. He tensed his arms against the rune-etched shackles and felt them give. That just left the problem of the handguns. What he needed was a shield. He edged a little closer to the wall to give himself some slack in the neck-chain. "Gentle Brother, will you at least remove my wrist cuffs so I can pray?"

  The Senior Brother stepped closer. "Sorcerers are damned beyond redemption, but it is fitting you should try." He unhooked a key from his belt. "Turn around, then."

  Ranulph snapped the wrist-chain and clapped the iron fetters against the Senior Brother’s ears. The double blow crushed the skull like an overripe grape.

  The handguns came up.

  Ranulph dropped to his haunches and dragged the corpse down over himself. He buried his face against the dead man’s chest.

  Gunpowder boomed. The corpse shuddered as half a dozen pellet-blasts tore chunks out of it. One clipped Ranulph’s left ear. Another ricocheted off the dungeon wall and stung his back. The Senior Brother's blood splashed his face and dripped down his chin. The dungeon filled with smoke and the rotten-egg stench of gunpowder.

  Ranulph discarded what was left of the body and rose.

  The Brothers dropped their smoking handguns and drew falchions: short, heavy-bladed cleavers, perfect for fighting in a cramped space.

  Ranulph grasped the wall chain two-handed, braced his feet and — with a roar — wrenched. The chain came free, taking with it a chunk of masonry. The rock whipped through the smoke. Trailing the chain like a comet, it smashed into a White Brother's face, breaking his neck. He tottered, began to crumple —

  The others froze, eyes fixed on the corpse’s ruined face.