Jasmine twitched the Stormgun to aim at the newcomer’s horse. The gun boomed and thumped her shoulder.
The heavy slug clanged off the mount's spiked head-plate. Its front legs crumpled and it nosedived into the white paving just sort of Sir Ranulph. As it settled, the unicorn knight jumped clear of his saddle and drew his sword.
Sir Ranulph's helm swivelled in her direction, but he did not turn away from the newcomer.
"Damn!" Jasmine worked the pump action and aimed the Stormgun at Sir Ranulph’s visored face. At this range, the slug should snap his neck, even if the armour held.
Sir Ranulph’s eyes glinted through his eye-slit. His voice boomed from behind the steel. "Colonel Klimt! And with a fine new handgun."
The unicorn knight raised his sword. He took a pace toward them.
Sir Ranulph raised his sword in salute. "Your pardon, Lady Knight. Clifford and I have a private matter to settle." He dropped into a fighting stance.
Jasmine glanced at the wiry looking knight and shivered. Clifford — the future King John the Terrible. Most people agreed that history would have been much better if the battle outside Castle Dacre had ended with Sir Ranulph standing over the corpse of the notorious regicide and tyrant… a man who sent his own daughter to the stake for political advantage.
But this history was already different, and she had plenty of slugs.
Even so, Jasmine could not pull the trigger. She lowered the Stormgun. "We're even now, big guy, OK?"
"As you say." Sir Ranulph raised his sword in salute. "Pray grant us space for our play."
Jasmine backed away from the two knights, reloading as she retreated. She didn’t belong in this scene. It was like one of Rosetta’s compositions: the mountainous Last Knight against the spidery Clifford. Though, the artist would probably not have chosen a tank-wreck as a backdrop.
Sir Ranulph let his sword – Steelcutter! — droop to the flagstones. “What happened to the New War, Clifford?”
“Sometimes the old ways are the best.” Clifford threw a strike at Sir Ranulph's head, springing to the side like a cat despite his armour.
Jasmine held her breath.
Sir Ranulph shifted his left hand to his blade and hurled himself into the attack. He blocked the cut and continued on to shoulder-charge Clifford.
Clifford sprang to meet him. The knights collided and became a blur of articulated steel.
Now mirroring his enemy’s bayonet-style grip, Clifford pivoted away and jabbed at Sir Ranulph’s armpit.
Sir Ranulph deflected the thrust.
Clifford’s pommel crashed into the big knight’s visor.
Sir Ranulph staggered back. He shifted his right hand to join his left on the blade, then swung his sword like a hammer, using the cross-guard as a head.
Clifford raised his sword and blocked.
Sir Ranulph yanked, trying to hook away Clifford’s weapon.
Again, armour crashed against armour. Clifford wormed his knee behind Sir Ranulph’s leg and sent him clattering to the paving.
Both hands on the grip, Clifford thrust his sword at the prone knight’s groin.
Jasmine shouldered the Stormgun.
Sir Ranulph kicked the sword aside. He rolled to his feet like a beetle, landed inside Clifford’s guard and hooked his point into his enemy’s gauntlet-cuff. The steel glove came off in a spray of blood.
Even as he bled, Clifford replaced his bare hand on the grip and drove his point into the crook of Ranulph’s elbow joint.
Unnatural sparks flew. Jasmine glimpsed a spurt of crimson. Then three dismounted knights jogged out from behind the crippled tank and charged straight at Sir Ranulph’s back.
Jasmine recognised the unicorn badge painted on the first man’s helm. She shot him in the face. His head flopped back and he crashed to the earth, neck snapped.
She pumped out the second round without aiming – as she expected, the buckshot had no effect on either survivor. The third round failed to penetrate the anomalous plate, but instead tore off an arm. Then the last man was on her, axe raised.
Flipping her bayonet forward, Jasmine stepped in and to the side. She jabbed at the gap where arm met torso. Her point lodged in the steel rings, so she dropped to one knee, braced and pulled the trigger.
The Stormgun belched pellets into the woven steel mesh. The knight spiralled away, sprinkling blood from his macerated armpit, then crashed to the black paving like a broken chess piece.
Jasmine put her back against the tank. She pulled more shells out of the bandoleer — solid slugs this time — and shoved them into the Stormgun. Then she turned back to Sir Ranulph and Clifford.
The two knights wrestled, legs bent to keep their weight low and grounded, visors almost touching, each with his sword in that odd bayonet grip, one hand on the blade, one on the hilt.
As the fourth shell clunked into the Stormgun’s chamber, Sir Ranulph kicked the lighter man’s legs out from under him, disarmed him with a hook of the cross-guard, and landed astride his enemy’s chest. He dropped his sword, tore open Clifford’s visor with one hand, and drew his dagger with the other.
Clifford clutched at the blade. Blood streamed from his unprotected hand, splashing his face.
Slowly, inexorably, Ranulph forced the dagger point towards the prone man’s wide green eyes.
Jasmine watched in horrid fascination. This was the bit in the movies where somebody would say, No. If you kill him, then you’ll be as bad as he is. Somehow, she didn’t think that was going to happen.
Clifford shook his head from side to side. "No! Mercy!" The movement dragged his nose across the dagger point, slicing open the tip.
Sir Ranulph’s voice was calm, flat even, but still loud enough to be heard over the sound of battle. "This is more mercy than you granted my father and my brothers."
Jasmine opened her mouth to say something, anything…
With an almighty crash, the wrecked tank slewed to the side. Metal squealing on metal, Teal 10 shoved its way past the hulk.
Sir Ranulph’s helmet swivelled towards the noise. He rolled off Clifford’s prone form.
Teal 10’s port track thumped into Sir Ranulph’s back, spinning him around. He vanished between the twin prows. The tank skidded to a halt.
Jasmine took a pace forward then stopped. She did not want to see what was left of her hero.
Mary Schumacher popped up out of the driver's hatch. "Colonel Smith says I have to arrest you." Her eyes widened, wide and innocent in contrast to the livid brand on her cheek. "You’re not going to beat me up, are you?"
"Not unless you want me to." Jasmine scrambled over the beak and dropped in through the conning tower. The thick locker-room air enfolded her like an old pullover. She made her way forward towards the commander’s chair.
Ahead, Schumacher slid into what had been Marcel’s station. Wads of blood-soaked stuffing still projected through the tear in the chair back.
The Radio Operator leaned out from his seat and caught Jasmine’s arm. He shook his head. "Not the Commander any more, Jasmine." Her actions had probably saved this man’s life, but now his lips twitched as if he were doing his best not to grin like a schoolboy.
The Stormgun thudded to the deck plates. The Radio Operator flinched, but Jasmine merely squeezed onto the Port Engine Specialist’s bench.
The twin engines roared and the tank lurched into motion. Jasmine’s vision blurred. She blinked. Strange, her eyes were long-accustomed to the fumes.
She shrugged off the bandoleer. Eighteen of the heavy shells remained – could Lowenstein provide more?
Jasmine dropped the ex-Elitist’s gift and kicked it under her bench. If she’d raised Field Marshal Williams on the radio, perhaps it would’ve been Smith under arrest now. Instead, she’d gone off looking for the enemy champion, then – worse — let herself get sucked into his world.
She’d already lost her brigade, her battalion, and squadron. Now she was going to lose her tank. If she still had a career at the end
of this, then she had better start thinking like a soldier, not a knight.
CHAPTER TWELVE
As the massed knights clattered away, taking Ranulph with them, Maud edged up to the Cathedral porch.
Chains of sparks swung after the charging knights, dragging men from their saddles, making horses rear and topple. She followed the sparks to their source; the flanks and nose of what looked like a giant flying horn-whale chewing on a reliquary made of impossibly clear panes of glass. Behind the glass, little figures moved, controlling the artificial beast from within its maw.
Her eyes narrowed. One of the terrible weapons of the Invaders, then, winnowing out knights without the best runic armour. Not one of the gleaming paragons had thought her worth saving from the Rite of Incineration. How was it that the Church permitted war, but not sorcery? Why was sorcery more sinful than swordsmanship? Ranulph was right, damn him.
Her fingers tightened on her untitled grimoire. Now was her chance to prove to Sir Ranulph that she was worth at least a hundred knights.
Maud retreated into the shade of the porch and pressed her bare back against the rough door.
She riffled the pages. The chapter on Invocations flickered past. Rain — not destructive enough… Heavenly Fire — knights and lightning did not mix, except in ways that were messy and unpleasant. The Invocation of the North Wind – Perfect! Except, she wanted to smash the aerial monster, not waft it around.
The pages fell open at The Last Spell. As always, the nameless thing of tentacles and beaks beckoned from the ruins of a burning city. Fear tugged deliciously at Maud’s loins. Now would be just the time for a pact with an Archdaemon.
She snapped the book shut and tried to rise above the whirling joy. There would be other battles. Besides, where would she find so many black goats at such short notice?
From outside came a terrible rattling, like a million skeletons dancing in unison. Then, jumbled war cries interrupted by thunderclaps.
Now Maud opened the grimoire at random.
Conjuring an Aerial Spirit as an Assistant Daemon. New warmth suffused her skin. It was not as dangerous as The Last Spell, but still full of lethal potential. Better yet, all the components would be easily scavenged. She could let go... but not yet.
Incense from the Vestry… Step over the bodies and try not to inhale… Chalk from the Counting House... Pretend she didn’t know what the cooking smell was… Feathers from the Scriptorium… A high place? Either of the Cathedral’s famous twin towers would do.
It was only as she planted her bare foot on the first step that she stopped to think. You could always repent Invocations – even if the White Brothers incinerated you, they let you make confession first.
But, there was no turning your back on Conjury, not without devoting the rest of your life to penance and chastity, which was, in her case – to be honest – somewhat unlikely.
She shivered. The spiral staircase might lead up, but – if she were wrong about the way the cosmos worked — they would take her down to Hell. At least she’d have Sir Ranulph for company. Knights always thought they could redeem their souls with a few pious donations and a couple of fighting pilgrimages. Maud knew her theology better than that. She grinned. Ranulph probably expected to hew his way out of the Thirteenth Pit.
Heart hammering, she mounted the second step and let the elemental force embrace her.
Near the top of the stairs, something jabbed Maud’s foot. Eddies of sharp sensation coiled up her leg like a brier. She gasped and steadied herself against the icy stone stairwell. Cold shocked her naked back. She curled her leg to inspect her foot. Blood welled up around a splinter, as red as wine, but dripping like warm honey. She caught the shard of wood between her fingers and pulled.
The exquisite pain lanced through her, kindling a new heat in her belly. It would be easy just to stay here, slumped against the stairwell, revelling in the swirl of hot and cold. Her hands drifted to her flanks, then her thighs, then between... She could spare a few moments.
Something thundered outside. The tower shook against her spine. A haze of smoke rose from the stairwell. Maud straightened and adjusted the satchel strap. Why dally here, when the real thrills awaited above?
She picked her way through the debris and emerged into the cold embrace of the Autumn wind, under the open sky with only the bloated air vessel for company.
The wooden clock house had simply vanished, as if smashed by an angry giant. All that remained was an unfenced stone platform. There was nothing between her and the three hundred foot drop. She took a step forward. The wind tore at her hair. Her legs buckled. Heart hammering, she dropped to all fours and crawled to the edge.
A bizarre melee now filled the Cathedral Square. Knights hacked away at the grey war wagons, which looked for all the world like great iron-plated coffers. Every so often, what she took to be a gun belched flame, and a knight or his horse exploded.
The air vessel played its strange weapons over the chaos, seeking out knots of knights, from time to time striking the war machines with no apparent effect.
Sir Ranulph was somewhere in that mess.
Maud retreated to the centre of the platform and, drawing her focus in on herself, laid out her magical paraphernalia. She invoked the Earth King — after watching the return of Ranulph’s wargear, she almost felt she knew him socially — and carefully drew the protective circle. That was the easy bit. Now she struggled with the tinderbox until the incense caught – blue zephyr to please the air spirits. The breeze fanned the flames so the sticks burned like candles. "Damn!" Not much time then.
Maud buckled the satchel against the wind then fought the fluttering pages of the grimoire until she had the right spell. She read the invocation, putting herself into it in the same way she’d been taught to pray.
"Spirit of the Air I invoke thee.
"Come now quickly! Quickly. Quickly!
"For I am Astardita,
"Queen of the Blue Vault.
"I conjure you by your True Names..."
The magic speared her. She arched her back and screamed the words of power.
Nothing happened.
Maud stilled her breathing and let her perception broaden. A little way off, the air rippled like a heat haze. She dipped the quill in the ink and rose. "You shall not escape so easily!"
Her hair floated down around her shoulders; the wind had ceased – the sylph recognised its mistress. Utterly self-assured, she took a pace towards the semi-visible entity, then another.
A glassy human shape condensed, just out of reach.
"Ha!" Maud took another pace and registered a subtle change of texture under her toes. She looked down. Her bare feet were at the edge of the protective chalk circle. Another step and she’d have been in the grip of the air elemental and then...
She shuddered. Then the terror turned to anger and her face flushed despite the cold.
The wind clawed her naked skin, tore at her hair.
Maud squared her jaw. The sylph was an air elemental. Air corresponded to the sanguine humour; that of health, happiness and confidence; too much confidence. "Very clever," she said. She backed into the middle the circle and planted her bare feet on the flagstones. Even dressed stone counted as elemental Earth. A sense of rootedness anchored her whirling mind. She picked up the feather. "Let’s see how you like this."
Maud closed her hand around the feather.
"Rebellious Sylph,
"I condemn thee to Tartarus,
"To be enclosed for evermore by the Compressing Earth."
The air screamed.
"You don’t like that, now, do you?" She slackened her grip.
"I am She That Binds and Unbinds!
"I am the Keeper of the Gates!
"I am the Toothed Vagina That Devours!
"Accept my Seal or-,"
Maud snapped her hand shut.
"Be entombed until the Mad Gods dance on the Dark Side of the Moon,
"And the World plunges into Primal Fire."
A face formed out of the air, neither real nor unreal. Its brow pressed against the very edge of the circle so that Maud could touch it without breaking the protection.
She dipped the feather in ink and careful copied the glyph onto the elemental spirit’s forehead.
Stifling a yawn, she broke the circle and stepped up to the edge.
The sylph left her unharmed. It was her slave. Now all she had to do was set it against the air vessel, and then she could sleep.
However, the floating behemoth’s strange weapons were still. Below, in Cathedral Square, not a single knight remained standing. Grey-liveried soldiers swarmed across the great chequerboard, picking over the dead.
There was no sign of Sir Ranulph.
Maud summoned up the last of her energy. She had to find and rescue him before she passed out.
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Find out what happens next in…
SWORDS VERSUS TANKS 2:
“Vikings battle Zeppelins!
Clashing cultures spark forbidden desires!”
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Armoured heroes clash across the centuries! (Swords Versus Tanks Book 1) Page 12