Champions Battle for the Fate of the Future!: The Wild Finale of (Swords Versus Tanks Book 5) (3 page)

Jasmine raised her field glasses. Beyond the army's left, the fog carpeted the Ocean of Thule, hid the promontory, and lapped the base of Holy Mount. However, it showed no sign of advancing inland. She shrugged. "Fuck all I can do about the fog — I'm a soldier, not a magician."

The dismounted knights shook themselves out into two deep lines. Banners unfurled in the centre of each so that for a crazy moment they looked like one of those battle diagrams – neat rectangles with outsize flags poking out the top.

"How far do you make their piquet lines?" asked Jasmine. When last had a Egality commander asked that? Not since the Battle of Harecote at the start of the War when Egality machine guns swept away the Elitist Shock Dragoons. Unfortunately, she was down to one magazine of tracer per tank. Otherwise, she could have guaranteed the same result.

Ibis-Bear took a range card from one of her staff. "Two thousand metres – well within range."

The enemy general evidently had no concept of the reach of modern artillery. "Kill the horses first," said Jasmine. She remembered the slaughterhouse stench of the field at Harecote. "Poor bloody animals."

"I see the Redmain Gauntlet in the rearguard," declared the Integration Worker she’d had attached to her staff. "The vanguard – that's the Westerland Royal Banner, but the young king will only be nominally in charge. The yellow eagle is Von Kriegstein, young but high ranking. He must be leading the Imperial knights. The Imperial Grand Marshal will be running the show, though. That's his red two-headed dragon standard."

"I wonder which doddering pensioner the Emperor hauled out of retirement?" Jasmine raised her field glasses, dialled up the magnification and found the Westerland Sun and Stars. The youth in fancy armour could only be King Edward. Next to him... her stomach lurched. There, looking nervous in some sort of studded armour, a sword and modern service pistol on his hip, was Tom. And next to him, under the dragon standard, stood an armoured giant, a gilded marshal's baton hooked into his sword belt.

Ranulph had an ornate telescope pressed to his right eye.

And he was looking at her.

Without putting down his spyglass, the giant knight drew Steelcutter, flourished it, then returned the sword to his belt.

“Have you spotted the enemy commander?” asked General Ibis-Bear.

Ignoring her, Jasmine returned the salute in military style. She lowered her glasses and chewed her lower lip.

"What's the matter?" asked Mary Schumacher.

Jasmine unslung her Stormgun and started snapping solid slugs into the magazine. "Nothing," she said. "Nothing at all."

CHAPTER THREE

Ranulph raised his marshal’s baton, bellowed, "For Chivalry and Westerland!" and set off towards the ridge. The trumpets blared, the banners lurched forward, and seven thousand knights tramped with him. Each man kept his own clattering gait, feeding the continuous din. Then the Landmarcher drums began to beat and all marched in unison.

Ranulph reached for Steelcutter.

King Edward put a hand on his arm. “No, Sir Ranulph. Today you wield the baton, not the sword.”

“But Your Grace…” began Ranulph.

“The army needs a general, not a knight,” said the young monarch. “Swear you shall not draw Steelcutter.”

“I swear, Your Grace, not while the army needs a general,” said Ranulph.

They marched on a few paces. Then the Imperial Standard Bearer stumbled on a rabbit hole. "A mile is a hellish long way to walk, Grand Marshal."

Ranulph suppressed a grin. Most of the knights were more landowner than warrior, accustomed to the lists and tiltyard where they were never more than a bowshot from the nearest cold beer. "At least the ground is solid, Sir Heinrich."

"Be glad you're not at the Battle of Love's Marsh," said King Edward. "Six miles through sweltering mud, was it not, Sir Ranulph?"

"I was wearing somewhat less armour, Your Grace.

"You were — so I hear — bollock naked!"

Ranulph had made Albrecht burn that sketch. Now he remembered his artistic squire's crestfallen look, and flushed.

The Royal Knights laughed, and the laughter spread through the Vanguard to become something more animal, more menacing.

Ranulph checked Steelcutter was loose enough in its belt hanger. Had Albrecht confessed his love, what would he have said? But Albrecht
had
confessed, through his drawings, and Ranulph had chosen not to see. And now, thanks to Jasmine's Invaders from the future, they had swapped fates; Ranulph would wield the sword where his friend should have wielded a pen or brush.

One man alone did not join in the laughter. Against all advice, the King's favourite stumbled along next to his royal lover, his face the hue of the snow on the mountains beyond Jasmine's ridge. The riveted brigandine hid the rise and fall of his chest, but the signs were familiar enough. As the royal party split to flow around a raised dune, Ranulph let his path take him next to the youth. Just as he had seven years before to another reluctant comrade-in-arms, he said in a low voice, "It helps to breathe, Sir Tom."

Colour flooded the pale cheeks. "I'm not a knight."

"You rescued the King, which makes you worthy."

"You know we're well in range of the guns. Any moment now..." Tom interrupted himself to breathe. "...we'll be blown to pieces."

Ranulph laughed. Colonel Eckhart had told him all about the Emperor's secret experiments with priest-blessed field artillery. He drew closer still. "A royal… favourite should be brave," he said, trusting the noise of the advance to give them privacy. "...lest people recall how he earns that role. Do you know the story of King Aelric?"

Tom flinched as if Ranulph had struck him. "I saw that Tragedy at the Regensburg Lyceum. Bloody awful play. Mostly bloody, actually. And that thing with the poker… Oh…"

Ranulph grimaced. Another reference from the future. But it seemed he had delivered his message.

"How do you do it... Sir Ranulph?" wheezed Tom. "Face the random chance of death... the prospect of some giggling psycho hacking off your head."

"I trust in God and steel. And I breathe."

Tom laughed. "Mostly you
are
that psycho." He threw a look at Ranulph. "When I rescued Eddy – I emptied my guts after."

"It happens. An overexcited child throws up on his name day. A bride before her wedding. A newly dubbed knight on the morning of his first tournament – God's teeth, I did!"

Tom negotiated a rabbit-ridden pit where the turf gave way to sandy soil. "Really?"

Ranulph laughed. "I was fifteen, and going against my father's wishes. And — in truth — not yet dubbed. I had been up all night painting my armour black."

Tom seemed puzzled.

Ranulph smiled. Now the lad knew how it felt to be the ignorant one. "If you want to be anonymous, you deck yourself out as the Black Knight."

"So what happened?"

"I fought my way into the final round of the foot tournament and came up against Sir William Northwind. It was a short match."

"You won?" Tom’s boot snagged in a rabbit hole.

"Against Sir William
Northwind
?" Ranulph scooped him up by the armpit and set him aright. "No, but I put a dent in his armour."

"Well, Sir Big Guy, I don't believe in God. And blades scare me. That leaves breathing."

Finally. "In for the count of three steps. Hold for another three. Breathe out for three. And repeat."

"That's-" Tom stumbled on a rock. Ranulph scooped him up without a word. "-
it
?"

"Or disgrace His Grace," said Ranulph and wove his way back to the Grand Marshal's standard.

Lights flickered along the ridge, as if a shoal of silvery fish had broached the surface then plunged back into the depths. A demonic chorus split the air — thunder mingled with the whistle of gunstones.

"Did we miscalculate?” asked King Edward.

Ranulph shook his head. "No, Sire. Her guns will do her no good at this range."

"
Her
?"

From behind the army came an appalling tattoo of hollow thuds punctuated by equine screams. A rolling thunder enveloped them.

The knights halted. All looked back. A head taller than most men, Ranulph could see beyond the Redmain rearguard. A pall of smoke rose from where they had left their horses. A few short heartbeats had seen the piquet lines turned into a smoking abattoir. Now there could be no mounted flight or pursuit.

Around them, knights halted in mid pace, turned around to look, or huddled with their comrades.

“That shouldn’t have worked!” said Colonel Eckhart.

“Well it bloody well did,” said Tom of Fenland.

Ranulph nodded. He should have felt horror, anger even. Instead, he relaxed his grip on Steelcutter and smiled. "We are half way. They will murder us whatever we do." He clambered up a sandy bump and roared, "Our remounts are that way!" Which was almost true. He waved his baton in the direction of the ridge. “Forward, by God! Forward!”

The drums beat and the army lurched back into motion.

Another flicker on the ridge. The gun-stones howled overhead…

To a man the army froze, flinched.

Again, the gunstones tore the air, screaming ahead of their own thunder.

This time they passed well overhead.

A moment passed, then smoke blossomed far away on the mountainside behind the army. Boulders crashed down the slope. The priestly blessings no longer seemed to be helping the enemy cannon.

Ranulph shrugged and bellowed, “Onward! Let us see if steel is less fallible than prayer!”

Seven thousand visors slammed shut. The army emitted muffled cheers and surged across the windswept pastureland.

King Edward strode closer, his gilded armour rustling rather than clattering. “If Lady Maud fails then we will all die as we near the river.”

“She will not fail,” said Ranulph.

CHAPTER FOUR

All along the ridge, white-robed priests lay on the ground and wept. Others staggered aimlessly around the silent field guns, blood streaming from ears and noses. Some just stood and grinned at everything and nothing.

Jasmine glanced north.

The tide of steel swept across the bay’s hinterland. The knights would be at the fords in minutes.

Jasmine slid off her tank, barged through her milling staff, and ran over to the nearest artillery piece. She hauled the priest to his feet and slapped him hard across the face.

He looked at her with wide, shocked eyes.

She screamed in his face, "What the fuck happened?"

His face spasmed. "As the gunstone flew away, my soul..." He whimpered and shuddered. "…loosened like a rotten tooth." He dropped to his haunches and hugged his knees.

Hooves thudded behind her. Jasmine whipped around, the Stormgun falling into her hands as she turned.

Ibis-Bear smiled down from the saddle. "Only me, my dear.” She dismounted. “And I am certain I can explain."

"Go on."

"When the priests – " The artillery general held up both hands to make quotation marks. " – 'bless' something, it's just like the !M'Talong Spiritual Practice of..." She saw Jasmine's look, and gabbled faster. "They imbue it with their Second Soul Body. Distance is held to break the bond and return the spirit to the Wisdom-Birthing Woman. But..." She took a deep breath."...what if, my dear, the distance increased faster than the bonds could break?"

“She means,” said Abbot Clunard, appearing from behind the Artillery General’s horse, “that the gunstone tore out his soul. I heard rumours of this resulting from the Emperor’s experiments.”

Jasmine grimaced. She didn’t like the abbot. He reminded her too much of Lowenstein. Even so, he was in charge of the priests assigned to her army and presumably knew best. “So is this going to work at all?”

“When the enemy are closer, yes,” said the Abbot. “Say just beyond the river.”

Ibis-Bear nodded frantically. She sucked in her cheeks. "In fact..."

Jasmine held up her hand. She stood for a moment rearranging her plans and juggling what she had. "Wait until the natives are stuck against the river then try again… What?”

The Abbot was looking past her in the direction of Holy Mount. “Can’t you feel it, Field Marshal? Doesn’t that look wrong to even you?”

Jasmine turned.

The fog bank that covered the Ocean of Thule was extruding a dense finger to precisely cloak the ridge leaving the river bank bare of even a hint of mist.

Her eyes narrowed “Fuck that’s odd!”

“I said as much,” said Ibis-Bear. “My third eye…”

“Odd?” shrilled the Abbot. “That’s necromancy at work.”

“Maud!” blurted Jasmine.

“Yes,” said the Abbot. “The Notorious Witch Maud Clifford.”

“The
Nhag R'Shanmash
!” gasped General Ibis-Bear

The Abbot and Maud both turned to look at her. When she said nothing, Jasmine rounded on the sinister cleric. “Well you’re the fucking god-botherer. Do something the fuck about it.”

The Abbot’s eyes burned. “I shall take such of my priests who have come to themselves and sweep away this blasphemous miasma.” He made the gridiron gesture. “The girl is a fool! Even a disgraced nun should know that her necromancy cannot overcome us.” He turned and strode out toward the next gun crew where one of the priests was still standing.

“Wait,” said Jasmine.

The Abbot turned. “Field Marshal?”

“I don’t trust mistakes made by clever people. Take some Post Office Security workers with you. And capture her alive - she’s heir to the throne of Westerland.”
And because I want her for myself?

“I’m going with them,” said Ibis-Bear. “I simply must. To ensure she’s treated properly.”

Jasmine gave her a hard stare. “What is a
nagger mash
?”

Ibis-Bear leaned over from her horse and treated Jasmine to a condescending smile. "The
Nhag R'Shanmash
. Last of the Sacred Mother Line of Earth Priestesses."

“
Maud?
Lady Maud Clifford?” asked Jasmine.

"Oh
yes
!" cried Ibis-Bear, beads rattling as she hopped from foot to foot; a lumbering parody of an excited child. "When the Committee set out to choose a destination date for the Trans-Temporal Liberation, I knew it was my destiny to rescue Her. I... pulled strings. Called in favours. This is as far back as we could come, but it will do."