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

by M Harold Page

  #

  Marcel raised his stein and bellowed over the jazz band, "Death and Glory!"

  Jasmine recognised the old Imperial Legion toast and made to lift her glass.

  Tom put his hand firmly on her wrist. He leaned close and shouted, "What about Life and Glory? Or just Love?"

  Marcel’s smiled faded. He stubbed out his rollup and ushered Jasmine and Tom into a booth. As they sat, he said, "Death is the price of glory, my pretty boy. Our time is borrowed."

  Tom’s face stiffened. Jasmine cut in, "Crap! You don’t get to die on us."

  Marcel set down his drink. He leaned over the table. His paw-like hands fastened on both Tom's and Jasmine’s uniform lapels. "Promise," he growled, his Saumurian accent thick with alcohol. He dragged them closer. "Promise, if I die, you’ll mourn me by living long and well."

  "You’re hurting me," said Tom.

  Jasmine’s fingers flexed. She could break Marcel’s hold if she wanted to. But then, the ex-mercenary might just react, and that would be bad.

  A shadow fell over the table. "Am I interrupting something?" asked Rosetta Morris. The artist’s eyes narrowed, making her laughter lines extend into a whole trench system. "Stay like that, my little warhounds!" She pulled out her sketchpad. "I have to capture this."

  Everybody obediently froze.

  Without turning to look up at her occasional lover, Jasmine asked, "Enjoying the New Realism?"

  "Sod that, darling," said Rosetta. "I’ll use this for Sir Ranulph’s Last Parting. Romantic Idealism will be back, you’ll see."

  "If Tom’s Albrecht again, who the Hell am I?" asked Jasmine.

  "Buxom Wench, or Grizzled Veteran. Your choice, sweetie."

  "Touché!"

  Rosetta blew her a kiss.

  "Are we done?" growled Marcel, without letting go.

  Rosetta slid in beside Jasmine. "For now." She twisted and slapped the bottom of a passing waitress. "A bottle of pre-War bubbly and four glasses – tell Pierre that it’s Rosetta Morris who asks."

  Marcel looked from Jasmine to Tom.

  "We promise," said Jasmine. "Don’t we, Tom?"

  Tom nodded. "Living seems good."

  Marcel’s craggy face split into a wide grin. "My boyfriend and my best friend!" He released them, sat back, and raised his stein. "Death and Glory!"

  The three clinked glasses. "Death and Glory!"

  Rosetta turned over a new leaf and started to sketch. "In the Hall of King Ragnar, I think."

  #

  Blood dripped into Jasmine's eye. She rubbed it away and stared at Marcel.

  Not a fusillade of Parvian long muskets. Not an Elitist Stormgun. Not even an artillery shell bursting through the armour plates. Saumurian petty gangster turned Imperial Legionary, mercenary, Klimt family butler, Egality Carbineer Sergeant, tank driver, best friend – and all it took was one primitive weapon in the wrong place.

  Jasmine’s childhood fantasies were just that: fantasies. All those spears, axes, swords, maces in the museum — mere killing tools. Inefficient, outmoded, but still instruments of death.

  Light spilled into the cabin. Jasmine looked up. The conning tower hatch gaped open. Red-tinged faces appeared in the opening, illuminated by flickering flame. Somebody had an incendiary device.

  "I’ll give them death! Proto-Elitist bastards!" Jasmine dropped to one knee and grounded the Stormgun’s stock. She pulled the trigger. Another flash. The gas from the muzzle brake seared Jasmine’s face. A fine rain of blood cleared the air of gunsmoke. From above came the crackle of fire and screaming.

  Jasmine grabbed the Port Engine Specialist by the collar and hauled her to her feet. She blinked to clear her eye then read the girl’s name badge, "Mary Schumacher! Get the Godsodomising engines working!"

  "I’m not certified for both engines."

  Jasmine pushed the Stormgun into the girl’s face. "I don’t care." The muzzle brake hissed on flesh.

  Schumacher whimpered and clutched the circular brand on her cheek. Her eyes widened. "I’ll try."

  Feet thudded on the hull.

  Jasmine flicked the sword bayonet forward. Without looking at Marcel, she hauled herself up into the conning tower.

  A blade probed at her face.

  She swung the Stormgun in a one-handed parry, jarring her wrist with the impact. Her boots found the footrest and she stood up in the midst of a pile of smoking bodies – her shot had obviously burst the incendiary device.

  A man towered over her. He wielded not a pike, but a hooked sword on a stick: a bill. The weapon arced towards Jasmine’s head.

  Jasmine shouldered the Stormgun, noted the steel breastplate over his padded jacket, and shot him in the face.

  The muzzle brake spewed a flaming circle of gas, reducing the recoil. The dampers slowed down the transfer of momentum. So, the Stormgun only bruised, rather than dislocated, her shoulder.

  The billman tottered back down the hull, blood oozing over the edges of where the upper half of his head should have been.

  More billmen charged up the tank's sloping stern.

  Jasmine aimed low. The buckshot blew off the first man’s left leg. The men behind him went down like trees in a hurricane.

  In the gloom of the low-ceilinged warehouse, more figures scrambled up the unprotected rear of the immobile tank.

  The hammer clunked on an empty chamber. Jasmine rose screaming, and the billmen were on her, three abreast.

  Just as Marcel had taught her, Jasmine stepped onto the port track so that they could only come at her from one side. She deflected the nearest bill, barged into the shaft of the next, and slashed the sword bayonet across the wielder’s throat.

  The third man swung low. The shaft battered her shins, tripping her up. Still clutching the Stormgun, Jasmine twisted so that her left shoulder slammed into the inert track.

  The billman took a pace forward, raising his weapon to cut her in two.

  Teal 10 coughed, roared and lurched forward. The track rattled, jerking her towards the prow. The bill clanged on the plates just short of Jasmine’s feet.

  She rolled into a crouch and drove the bayonet into the billman's crotch. As he screamed, she sprang onto the conning tower roof and somehow went feet-first through the hatch and landed on the half deck inside. She ducked inside, slung the empty Stormgun over a hook and grabbed the anti-aircraft machine gun. With a grunt, she hauled it through the hatch, and slammed it into place and inserted the ammunition belt.

  Screaming, she pulled the trigger.

  The weapon rattled. Tracer bullets scoured the hull clean of men and corpses.

  Still screaming, Jasmine played the lances of fire over the interior of the lamp-lit warehouse, smashing barrels, splintering wooden support columns, sending men screaming for cover.

  When she was sure nothing was moving, Jasmine pulled on her headset and listened to the jumbled mess of status reports. It would be easy to let the men and women of the Experimental Tank Brigade take the consequences of their own actions. They picked Smith as Colonel, after all.

  However, she could not help plotting the battle on her mental map. The primitives seemed to have a better idea how to fight than did Smith. The half-armoured billmen must be an elite force tasked to plug the escape route, while the ordinary pikemen mobbed the tank column at close range.

  Jasmine’s thumb hovered on SEND. The Brigade would obey her now, if only from habit. She could order a retreat, or try to lead them to victory.

  She pressed the button. "The buildings to port are now military targets. Gunners, HE rounds then two case shot.” Thunder rumbled beyond her tank. She smiled mirthlessly. That should clear the way. “Hard to port and through the buildings. For the Egality and Victory!”

  Marcel was dead. Somebody had to pay.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Falchion raised, Ranulph circled his enemy’s daughter, shielding her from the polearms. There had to be a weak point where the formation was loose, or where a billman wasn’t concentrating. If he coul
d get in amongst them…

  From above came a deep rumble. The floor shook. Specks of mortar fell from the vault. Ranulph tensed, then gauged the distance. Too far for a rush.

  "Kill them both," said the Archbishop. "I’ll let it be known it was Clifford’s idea. And, take your time with the girl – I believe mercenaries enjoy such things."

  One of the billmen coughed. "Your Holiness, what girl?"

  The sorceress had vanished.

  Ranulph whipped around. His arm bumped against something soft. He glanced at the bare, wet, rock under the boots of the advancing soldiers. The girl's invisibility spell had started working. What other magic might now also work within the Cathedral’s precinct?

  He hissed, "Milady. Keep a generous sword’s length to the rear. Or better yet, lie flat." Then he intoned the Sword Charm that was his Dacre birthright.

  "Earth King-"

  The circle of billmen contracted.

  "Into your kind keeping-"

  The billmen were shoulder to shoulder now.

  "I gave my wondrous war gear-"

  Somebody shouted an order. Alternate men stepped forward and continued to close.

  "With this blood sacrifice, I crave its rapid return!"

  Ranulph hurled the falchion over their heads. It whirled through the dank air towards the Archbishop.

  The obese cleric was surprisingly nimble. The priest behind him was not. The weapon thwacked into his ribcage. He twitched as he died, spilling blood into the puddles. It was enough.

  Cracks spread out around Ranulph’s mail-topped boots. Tiny claws burst through the rock. The scent of freshly dug earth became overpowering.

  The billmen recoiled.

  The cracks widened to crevices. Hundreds of muddy-skinned little men burst free and scurried up Ranulph’s legs. More flooded into the cavern. They bore his articulated greaves on their backs like ants hauling dead centipedes.

  The Earth King had sent his minions to return the Dacre Wargear.

  A billman yelped. Somebody else whimpered.

  The leg harness snapped shut.

  Ranulph held out his arms.

  The creatures swarmed over him. Piece-by-piece, the Dacre armour slapped into place against his grimy arming jacket. His helmet closed around his head, making his injured ear throb. Finally – clambering over his steel-shod forearms – they heaved his gauntlets into place.

  Ranulph flexed his fingers against the plates, then shrugged to make his shoulder guards rattle. He was home.

  One item remained.

  Like warriors of the Iron Horde erecting an execution cross, the miniature men levered Steelcutter upright. Ranulph’s hand closed on the hilt.

  He slammed down his visor. Taking a two-handed grip, he raised the rune-etched sword into Roof Guard and slowly turned on the spot. Wherever his gaze fell, the billmen shuffled back a pace.

  "What’s the matter?" screamed Archbishop Grossi from somewhere in the rear. "It’s only necromancy!"

  "Your Holiness hasn’t blessed our weapons," said one of the men in the front rank. His comrade nudged him hard in the ribs, making his own weapon drift off line.

  "Really?" said Ranulph. He launched a diagonal Wrath Strike – the simplest, most powerful cut of them all. As his right foot landed squarely in the opening, Steelcutter caught the nudger between head and shoulder, sliced through his padding, sheared the collar bone, slammed the corpse into the bare stone floor.

  The nearby billmen struck in unison. Blades hammered Ranulph’s armour, sending sharp smacks through the padding beneath. Points prodded the patches of mail, bruising his flesh, hampering his advance.

  Laughing, Ranulph whirled Steelcutter windmill-fashion across his body, cracked through a shaft, battered down three bills. Stepping in, he threw a reverse cut up into an exposed flank.

  Against fabric armour, Steelcutter had no special advantage. But Ranulph knew how to cut. The chisel-edge sliced the layers of cloth, parted flesh then flicked free in a spray of blood.

  A bill hurtled at his head.

  Ranulph batted the weapon down and thrust over the top-

  -and something hit the back of his helmet, sending him staggering forward in long steps. Another blow crashed onto the plates of his right spaulder, numbing his shoulder.

  Ranulph tripped on a corpse. He bowled into a billman, then belly flopped onto him. There was a cry, cut short by a wet crunch.

  More blows hammered Ranulph’s helmet, shaking his brains. Soon he’d be unconscious, then dead. And the strange new war would sweep away his world. And the red-haired girl would also die, eventually.

  The sorceress shouted, "By God, Sir Ranulph, on your feet if you want to fuck me!"

  With a roar of "Dacre!", Ranulph rolled into the unprotected ankles. Billmen sprawled over him. He drew in his legs and stood, shedding men as he rose.

  Before anybody could react, he scythed into them, hewing limbs and heads with each stroke of Steelcutter.

  As quickly as they had appeared, the Archbishop’s men scurried back into the tunnels.

  Ranulph took a pace in pursuit. A twinge went through his arm muscles. His legs quivered. He braced his legs and let Steelcutter trail from his right hand. He raised his visor and gulped the dungeon air.

  The sorceress reappeared, green eyes wide, cheeks flushed behind her freckles. She threw her bare arms around his mailed neck, tilted her head under his visor, and kissed him on the mouth, making his dry lips tingle. Then she leaned back, stretching out her throat, and cried, "We shall live!"

  Blood now flecked her shift where it had touched Ranulph’s armour. The lady was gone. In her place was a Pagan Chooser of the Slain.

  And Ranulph wanted her.

  His free arm clamped her waist. Her body bowed towards him then slapped into his breastplate. Their mouths met in a fury of teeth and tongues.

  With a grunt, she coiled her legs around his, lodging her heels in mailed patches in the crook of his knees. Ranulph staggered backwards, dragging Steelcutter's point along the floor. He tore his face free and pushed her away. "You are my enemy’s daughter!"

  "I am fair game…" She was panting now. "…then." She flashed her green eyes. "Ravish me!"

  Ranulph gaped.

  Lady Maud ran a few steps off, leaped over a corpse, and whirled to face him. The grease from his armour had plastered the flimsy material to her small breasts and belly like a second skin. The torchlight caressed her lithe figure.. "I know what you’re thinking – your armour would be a hindrance. But I am quite flexible." She wiggled her hips, shimmying like a crimson snake, and just as dangerous. "If I were to go on all fours and if you were to lift your tassets and mail skirt..."

  Ranulph took an involuntary pace forward. "Are you drunk, Milady?"

  Lady Maud crossed her ankles. "On magic. It's better than wine." She fixed him with wide innocent green eyes. "It makes my head dizzyingly clear." She unwound her legs and started to slide her bare feet apart. "I like feeling like this."

  Ranulph shook his head. "I slew your brother, Lord Lionel," he said, to bring her back to herself.

  She giggled. "Half brother." She raised her hem and skipped from side to side, in nimble barefooted dance steps. "Slay the man who calls himself my father, and we shall both have had our revenge."

  Thunder rumbled. The vault shook. The sound reverberated in Ranulph’s chest.

  "We must get to the harbour,” he said. “The attack begins."

  "But the Emperor is your friend. Let us sit out the battle in safety." Her eyes hooded. She brushed down her shift. "I am sure I can entertain you while we wait."

  Ranulph laughed. "You have been too long in the dungeons, Lady Maud. It isn’t Emperor Sigismund at the head of the Imperial Grand Host — it’s a barbarian horde from nowhere, armed with horseless war wagons and terrible guns."

  "And Sir Ranulph Dacre flees?"

  "This battle is lost. Magic from the Rune Isles may yet win the war."

  Lady Maud’s brow wrinkled, then smooth
ed like a bed sheet pulled taut. "If it is better magic you seek, help me find my grimoire."

  "Pardon?"

  "My spell book... a compendium of Invocations, Conjurations — you know the sort of thing." She extended her hand. "More Air magic." A coppery hair trailed from her fingers, suspending a single straw. It spun lazily, like a mariner’s compass, then froze, pointing towards a tunnel mouth. "It seems this is no longer consecrated ground. I wonder why..." She set off in long barefooted strides. "This way."

  "I thought you had renounced sorcery."

  Her eyes flashed over her shoulder. "Well, according to current theology, I am already damned, unless you think me capable of living the life of a penitent ascetic."

  The madness seemed to have passed. "You must be cold," said Ranulph. "Let me scavenge a padded jack for you."

  Lady Maud's voice echoed back down the tunnel. "The philosophers assign to Elemental Air the secondary attribute, 'Hot'. So I have magic to heat my blood." She giggled. "The primary attribute is of course 'Wet'."

  Then again, perhaps she had not yet fully returned to herself. Ranulph hurried after her.

  #

  Ranulph did his best not to stare at Lady Maud's long bare legs as they swept her along the vaulted passage.

  He struggled to keep up without breaking into a jog that would make his armour clatter and give away their position. Perhaps he could strike back at the Invaders without a trip to the Rune Isles. But, what kind of sorceress lets herself get captured? "Lady Maud, might I be so bold as to ask how you came into the clutches of the White Brothers?"

  "It was boring — " The sorceress drew out the word into a long drone so that the echoes turned it into a purr. " — being a nun! Then I happened on my grimoire and life became more interesting, especially with the invisibility spell. Yes…" She pirouetted to face him, hands extended to forestall his objections. "I know. Magic isn’t supposed to work on hallowed ground. But it did. Until they caught me." She slid forward her bare foot. The welt still marked where the shackle had chafed the white skin of her ankle.

  "But your father…?" began Ranulph.

  Lady Maud laughed, "…would rather seal his bargain with Archbishop Grossi, who wants to demonstrate that nobody is above the Church. Another year, and he will declare himself Pontiff."