Champions Battle for the Fate of the Future!: The Wild Finale of (Swords Versus Tanks Book 5) (2 page)

Once the scout had gone, Maud harrumphed. “I thought you said that the Invaders would sit tight in Kinghaven while we seized Holy Mount.”

“It would have been better,” said Ranulph, “to have found your grimoires first. A lot of good men will die today.”

“What about going inland?” asked Maud.

Ranulph shook his head and missed Albrecht. The bay was really just the mouth of a forested valley. Surely she couldn’t imagine dragging an army through that terrain?

“You
can
beat them anyway, though?”

“Oh, we can beat them, my lady,” said Ranulph but he was already counting the cost. Was this what he wanted to be remembered for?

Harness jingled and hooves thudded.

“Lord,” said Thorolf. “The captains come.”

Ranulph lowered his spyglass and turned to greet the leaders of his army. “God’s Teeth, sirs!” he barked, “dismount so they don’t see us.”

“
They
, Marshal?” exclaimed Lord Redmain without shifting from his saddle. “Where? Are you imagining things, sir?”

Ranulph’s fingers flexed. Beside him, Maud stiffened. He should have killed the would-be rapist that night in Kinghaven rather than just broken his nose. However to cut down Lord Redmain now would be lose all the Redmain cavalry. “Their drab livery makes them invisible, sir,” he said mildly.

Colonel Eckhart sprang off his hack and strode up to join Ranulph and Maud on the rock. Landmarcher-style, he clicked the heels of his long boots, “Grand Marshal.”

Ranulph bowed. “Colonel. Tell us what you see.”

Colonel Eckhart raised his own spyglass, a soldierly leather tube but with lenses, no doubt, from the Imperial Workshop just like the more ornate device that the Emperor had presented to Ranulph.

“Ah,” he said, his expression suddenly grim. “Look amongst the cannon to the left of the road.”

Ranulph raised his glass in time to see two white figures being dragged back behind a concealing gun shield.

Ranulph’s stomach lurched. “Priests to bless the guns.”

Everybody started talking at once. Lord Redmain even dismounted to yell his opinion until his face purpled. Despite Ranulph’s efforts to impose calm, the argument continued until somebody announced, “His Grace!”

All bowed as King Edward and his attendants rode up and dismounted. The young monarch came forward onto the rock, his lover Tom of Fenland at his side.

Courtesies dealt with, Ranulph addressed the blond-haired turncoat. “Sir Tom, can you tell us the range of the enemy guns?”

Tom nodded. “We are already well within range, my lord.”

“Priests and guns, Sir Ranulph,” said the King. “We should retreat.”

“Your pardon, Your Grace,” said Colonel Eckhart, “but the Emperor’s savants have determined that priestly blessings don’t work beyond a bowshot. Our runes will protect us as we advance.”

Ranulph nodded. That fact—plus the open order favoured by the invaders—was why he had not pressed the Emperor to lend him an artillery regiment. “We’ll do it shoulder-to-shoulder so as to pool our arrow runes,” he said. “Their gunstones explode, so near misses are still fatal.”

“Ha!” Redmain strode forward. “What happens when we get to within a bowshot? Eh? Eh? We still won’t be at the river. They will obliterate us! I
knew
this was a fool’s expedition. Dacre, you have been a poor adviser to His Grace!”

“
His Grace
,” said King Edward, “is standing right next to you, sir. Now, let my Marshal speak.”

Ranulph almost glanced around to see who the king meant. How had
he
ended up as both Marshal of Westerland and Grand Marshal of the Empire? He made himself take a breath, then spoke with as much gravitas as he could muster. “If they have priests to bless the guns, do they
also
have priests to bless the tanks—the war machines?”

Colonel Eckhart rubbed his beard. “They would need one priest for each gun and tank. From the numbers we know…” He glanced at Tom of Fenland who had the good grace to look down and shuffle his feet. “…they can do one or the other.”

“But at the critical moment,” said Ranulph, “they can shift the priests to the tanks. Is there a way of breaking a consecration?”

“It’s called
desecration
,” said Maud, earning an uncomfortable murmur from the gathered commanders. She continued, “An act of blasphemy or impiety within the war engine would do it.”

“But first we would have to get inside,” said King Edward.

Colonel Eckhart chewed his lip and said nothing.

“We must slaughter the priests, then,” said Maud.

Everybody gasped.

Her green eyes flashed. “Why not?” she said. “They are traitors.”

“Mounted charge,” barked Redmain. “Ford where the river meets the sand and attack up the back of the ridge.”

Why was Lord Redmain so suddenly enthusiastic? Ranulph waited for somebody to explain why this was a bad idea. When nobody spoke up, he said, “Most horses don’t have armour. Arrow runes or not, aimed shots from the Invaders’ handguns would kill most of them.”

“Ha!” said Lord Redmain. “You are afraid my cavalry will steal your glory.”

Ranulph flushed. Redmain had
wanted
him to say no. He raised his spyglass to give himself time to reply. “It would be said that I sent you to your death.”

“The other half of the cavalry are subjects of His Excellence the Emperor Sigismund,” said the young Duke of Kriegstein, captain of the Imperial knights. “And we will go gladly where the Best Knight in the West sends us. After all, only a handful need to reach the guns. What are a few horses when the fate of nations is in the balance?”

Ranulph winced. It was nice that the younger knights respected him, but now he was starting to feel old and wise. With the tide out, the horses could certainly ford the river where it carved a shallow runnel through the beach. However they would still have to get onto the ridge. “It’s too much of a scramble,” he said. “Even were the road climbs the ridge, riders usually dismount.”

Maud drew herself up to her full height. “This witch shall win you your battle.”

The nobles exchanged glances, edged away. Thorolf took a pace closer to Maud and nonchalantly rested his right hand on his belt, near his dagger.

“
What
, my lords?” exclaimed Maud. She opened her palms to indicate herself. “That’s why I am here, the only woman amongst men. I am a
sorceress.
” She said the word slowly, as if talking to idiots. “I can bind the elements to my will and I will see to it that the priests do not bother you.”

“What do you need, milady?” asked Ranulph.

“The
Seasnake
and your Northmen,” said Maud.

“I shall not send my future wife into danger,” said Ranulph.

“Yes you will,” said King Edward. “Peril is the price of our high station, and Lady Maud does well to embrace it.”

Ranulph looked from his king to his betrothed. He knew that this wasn’t about her duty, it was about Maud having her place at the table. It was the red-haired sorceress’s will as much as her wildness that made him love her and the price of that love was the possibility of losing her. Was that what Albrecht had gone through every time Ranulph went into battle? “Very well,” he said. “Thorolf, please signal the
Seasnake
to make landfall.”

Again, everybody started talking at once.

Tom of Fenland leaned closer to the King and Ranulph caught the words, “Fuck it Eddy, I’m coming with you.”

#

The back of Jasmine's neck prickled. Here she was sitting on a tank surrounded by soldiers, but knights snaked past the mountain at the northern end of the bay, pennons fluttering in the breeze, plate armour glittering like jewellery.

She kicked her tank’s armour plating just to check everything was real.

It rang comfortingly.

High in the grey sky, the sun flashed on firesilk. Chivalry was riding out for one last battle, oblivious of the scout airship hovering thousands of metres above. "Welcome to the future, gentlemen."

“Did you want something, Field Marshal?” Mary Schumacher had bobbed out of the conning tower where she was crewing the radio.

Jasmine shook her head. "Just talking to myself."

“Oh.” The girl blushed winningly, turning the heads of Jasmine’s staff who clustered in the shelter of the tank’s horns.

Hiding a grin, Jasmine swept the glasses seaward down the ridge. The mist softened the rhomboid shapes of Sheila Cromwell's fifty tanks who guarded her left flank. Beyond them rose the Holy Mount, looking like nothing more than a load of shoe boxes dumped on a saggy old armchair. Jasmine shuddered and her Tolmec tattoo throbbed. She put a hand to her sternum.

What did the Archbishop have stashed in the fortified place that kept the magic down? For the hundredth time, she raked her childhood memories of tattered cloisters and vaulted chambers. There was no easy way to get answers — the Archbishop had closed the gates and was refusing to accept a garrison.

The radio crackled from inside the tank. "
Airship Three to Command. Do you copy?
"

"Command to Airship Three. We copy." Mary Schumacher's voice sounded hollow inside the metal tomb. Jasmine grimaced. She would keep that girl alive one way or another.

"
You should have the enemy now, over?"

"We see them," said Jasmine.

“Confirm. We see them,” echoed Mary Schumacher.

At the other end of the bay, the native army slowly emerged onto the wide expanse of sandy pastureland behind the dunes. Not everybody was on horseback. A column of Imperial Landmarchers undulated across the landscape, pikes like the spines of an exotic caterpillar.

Jasmine frowned. They would have been sitting ducks for tracer bullets and priest-blessed bombs. Which reminded her… She leaned over the hatch and caught a familiar whiff of oil and perspiration. "Mary – raise Postmaster General Smith and ask where the fuck my barbed wire is."

Her staff exchanged worried looks.

Jasmine ignored them and glanced downhill. Almost invisible in their field grey, Carbineers hunkered along the near edge of the gully, covering the fords. She had General Woodsman down there as her second in command. He’d make sure nothing would get through to the tanks and artillery on the ridge. Even so...

Hooves rumbled over the sound of the radio traffic.

"There's so many!" wheezed General Ibis-Bear. Her horse stamped and whinnied – the sign of a nervous rider, or perhaps it didn’t like the look of the tank with its newly attached wooden carapace. "Shall we open fire, Field Marshal?"

Jasmine shook her head. "Stick to the plan, General. We don't want to send them scurrying for the hills with just over an hour of daylight left. We want to kill them all!"

"I have reservations about the…" Ibis-Bear nudged her horse closer to Jasmine’s command tank and hissed. "
Priests
." She nodded. "Yes, but we…” — she glanced around expansively to indicate the three artillery officers she had in attendance — “…did a
runic
crystal reading this morning and…
the omens were good. Weren’t they?
" ]

The others nodded sagely.

"Great," said Jasmine. A priest waited by each field gun, looking not a little spooky in their white cowls. "They give me the creeps too," she said, trying to put the old lunatic at her ease for at least long enough to win the battle.

"It's not that," said Ibis-Bear. "They are the same religious order which burned…
burns
so-called witches." She shuddered theatrically and her horse snorted in sympathy.

Jasmine frowned. Albrecht's painting came back to Jasmine, flames coiling around Maud's freckled legs, singeing the soft red down. She flinched. "No witch burning on our watch."

"Field Marshal?" Mary Schumacher's voice was loud enough to make her jump. Leads trailing from her earphones, the girl stood half out of the hatch like a prairie dog... a voluptuous, bushy-haired prairie dog. She was no longer blushing, but everybody was looking at her.

Jasmine grinned. There was something about the prospect of battle which heightened the senses. "Yes?"

Schumacher blushed. "The Postmaster General says he has engine trouble and the barbed wire will be delayed."

"Engine trouble!" General Ibis-Bear snorted.

A murmur went through the staff.

"The dog fucker!" Jasmine rubbed her temples. When she next saw Smith she was going to... But anger would not help her lead her army. She glanced at the enemy. She did a mental calculation of time and distance. "It will be an infantry attack. We'll manage. Mary, pass the word to General Woodsman."

The knights began to dismount. Unarmoured figures cast long shadows inland as they led the horses to the rear.

Jasmine surveyed Ibis-Bear's artillery — twenty field pieces ranged along the ridge, served by barely-armed specialists, with just a handful of Post Office Security Workers as guards. "Damn Smith!"

She glanced inland to where the ridge rose into the Heart Mountain. A white torrent glittered down the face of the rock: a high tarn draining into the Slaughterburn. If things went to plan, there would be no need for the barbed wire. "Mary – ask General Woodsman to detach a company of Carbineers to
assist
the Post Office Engineers. And... explain to him about the
issue
with barbed wire."

Jasmine shifted her weight and forced herself to take measured breaths. She'd done this before, albeit with a smaller command. She could do it now. Even with Smith trying to foul things up, she wasn't going to lose – not unless the enemy general was some kind of military genius, or the world's most inspiring leader.
Hell! He’ll need to be both.

His timing was good, at least. Navigating the dunes in daylight made sense, and twilight would fall as –
if
— the armies clashed. He must think that the reduced visibility would give the knights a chance to get in close without being harried by ranged weapons. Jasmine smiled. "Got plenty of star shells, Stella?"

Still mounted, Ibis-Bear sucked, nodded vigorously, then frowned. "But I don't like the feel of that fog. I must check my omens to see if the karmic energy is still flowing."