Pyramid of Blood (Swords Versus Tanks Book 3) (3 page)

Tom’s boots clattered on the stone floor.

The men turned, smiling like little boys sharing a prank. Smith’s white underwear bulged through gaping flies. "Come to join the fun?" he said.

Tom swallowed and loosened his fingers on the sword grip. "What the Hell are you doing?"

Edward strained against his ropes and growled against his gag.

"Doing what needs to be done," said Smith, ignoring the king’s struggles. "There’s a war on, remember?" He winked his remaining eye. The others edged forward on either side of Tom.

"Field Marshal Williams will have you all shot."

Smith smirked. "If we break little Eddie, the old fart will be out of a job." His eye flickered to Tom’s left.

Tom pivoted and swung the sword.
Wrath Strike!
A man grunted and crumpled. As of its own volition, the sword came up —
Take off!
— then down again. A scalp split. Blood spilled in the electric light — Amazing what damage a blunt sword could do. Tom pirouetted –
Thwart Strike!
– and cracked a skull.

The fourth man went for his gun.
Crooked Strike!
Tom smashed his arm. Now just Smith remained.

Tom’s gorge rose. Four men sprawled on the stone floor: two concussed, two with broken bones, judging from the mewling. And he had no recollection of how he’d done it. He raised the sword, but now his hands were shaking.

Smith whimpered. His fingers uncurled. The knife clattered on the stone floor. He raised his arm over his face. "You wouldn’t hit a one-handed man?"

Tom felt the strength return. If the hideous little man thought he was in control, then it must be true. "Pick up the knife and cut the king free."

Smith squatted to retrieve the knife. Gingerly, he parted the ropes around Edward’s ankles then his wrists. The king didn’t move.

Tom took a step forward. "Edward!"

Edward’s hands came free and he stood. Terrible welts marked his wrists. His hose pooled around his ankles leaving his muscular legs bare. But somehow, he now dominated the vaulted room.

Smith backed away, slicing the air with the knife.

"Careful Edward!" said Tom. Chances were, the little man knew what he was doing.

Edward stepped out of his hose so that he stood in just his long linen shorts. "Now, Sir Tom, let us test your friendship."

Smith lunged. Tom opened his mouth to cry a warning. Edward
moved.
Smith sailed past.

The young king shook out his limbs and grinned. "A one-eyed, one-armed knifeman against an unarmed man," he said without taking his eyes of the Smith. "A fair fight, would you not agree, Sir Tom?"

"I should say so," said Tom.

Smith lunged, this time slashing as he came on. "Elitist cocksucker!"

Edward pivoted into the attack. He blocked with his right forearm against Smith's wrist, and drove a left hook into his abdomen. The stench of urine filled the air. Smith stumbled away, the exposed fold of underwear now dripping yellow liquid. Again the knife clattered on the floor.

Smith went for his gun.

Edward pawed the firearm out of the little man’s hands. "Pick up your blade."

Smith’s eye narrowed. He ducked to retrieve his knife. As he straightened, he sprang forward and repeated the lunging slash.

Edward pivoted into the attack. This time, Smith was ready for him. The cut snaked into a thrust. The knifepoint jabbed towards Edward’s groin.

With a gasp, Tom took a step forward.

Edward slapped the blade away. His other hand chopped into his opponent’s throat. Smith swayed but did not drop his weapon. Edward’s knee came up just as his back leg straightened. Something crunched. Smith crashed onto the stone floor and lay there, immobile.

The young king turned to Tom and gave a half bow. "My thanks, Sir Tom."

Tom blurted. "Marcel would have been impressed."

"As was I by your swordsmanship, though I confess, bound as I was, I must judge your technique by its results." Edward tensed his shoulders then wriggled his fingers. "I would not ask you to break your allegiance and contrive my escape. However, it would seem that I am no longer safe here."

"We’ll go to Field Marshal Williams,” said Tom. “This is just the excuse he needs to get rid of the Postmaster General."

"Do what you must." Edward put a hand on each of Tom’s shoulders. "Know that I account you a worthy friend." He pressed his lips to Tom’s.

The Kiss of Peace
. Just a chaste gesture. But, somehow, Tom’s tongue escaped and brushed the young king’s teeth.

Edward sprang back. "What’s this?"

Tom felt himself blush. "I’m sorry. Amongst my people, a kiss means something different." His gaze dropped. Medieval linen underwear left little to the imagination. "You know what I mean."

Edward’s face set. His cheeks went white. "I had thought you my friend. Now it seems you plot to debauch me."

Terrified
, realised Tom. What was it the Westerlanders did to that king who took a male lover? Something involving red-hot pokers. And Tom had just made things worse. "You are not alone, Edward," he said. "One man in out of every twenty is like us. And what is the harm?"

"You will burn in Hell! And you would have me join you?"

"Crap!" Tom bit his lip, then tried to speak more softly. "What kind of bastard God would rule by torture, or create you to be so unhappy?"

Edward put his hands over his ears and backed away. "I do not hear you!"

The young king whirled away and pounded up the stairs.

"Edward!"

Tom ran after him. But as he burst into the courtyard, he stubbed his toe on the man who had tried to bar his entry to the armoury. Flies covered the corpse's unlidded eyes.

A shudder ran up from Tom's legs and into his stomach. He threw up onto the cobbles.

He screwed up his face and pinched the bridge of his nose. There wasn't time for this now. He had to save Edward. Wheezing now, he set out for his motorcycle. He was still out of breath when, half an hour later, he scurried up the Town Hall steps.

A Carbineer barred his way. She listened to him in silence then folded her arms. "Do you think I was born yesterday? It just came over the radio —
Citizen
Lowther has declared his support for the Egality."

A hand gripped Tom’s shoulder. "Integration Worker Fenland? You are under arrest for murder and treason."

CHAPTER FOUR

Afterwards, Ranulph drank in the scent of Jasmine's hair as she lay with her head on his shoulder. Beyond the crystal walls, the rain slackened off. The storm was saving itself for later.

"I’ve imagined it like this for years," she said and kissed his neck. "And that was even better that I imagined."

Ranulph rolled to face her and banged his knees on the control apparatus. "Years? But we met only weeks ago."

"Where — when — I come from, you’re a legend." She sat up with her back to the Control Car's transparent walls. Behind her, rents in the clouds exposed sheets of rippling water. She smiled at him, unconcerned by the way that less than a finger's breadth of the oddly flexible glass separated her from the dizzying fall to the cold ocean below. "Bigger than King Tristram even." A blush shone through her olive skin. "All thanks to Albrecht’s paintings. You were – are –
The Last Knight
. Everybody knows your story."

Ranulph frowned. He’d never doubted Lady Maud’s explanation, but the Future had seemed no more substantial than a fairy kingdom. Until now. Ranulph thought of Albrecht’s cold body laid out in Castle Dacre’s chapel. "It was a better ending without your war engines," he said.

"I prefer this version. Maud doesn’t get burnt, and you got to be my
First
Knight."

And now he had to ask: "Do I have a grave?"

Jasmine’s face froze. She drew back slightly. "No. Clifford the Foul had your body fed to the gryphons." She extracted the book from her bedding. She opened it at the picture of Ranulph outside Castle Dacre. "It’s a big canvas. At least twice as tall as you. They show it just three times a year, and thousands of people queue up each time.
Dacre's Last Stand.
What more could you want?"

"But Albrecht is dead." Ranulph heard the raw edge in his own voice, but continued regardless. "There was no Last Stand. You killed my fame."

"Not when-where I come from." She touched his cheek. "Our worlds are both real, just yours has a new future." Despite the wilting heat, she seemed to glow.

"I will carry many regrets into this new future of yours," said Ranulph. "But I will not regret that we have lain together."

“Not that we did much actual lying down,” said Jasmine. Her wide mouth creased into lewd grin, and he wanted to mount her and start again. "I’ll come and find you once things have settled down," she said and reached for her shirt.

"If we both survive."

She looked puzzled. "I thought you wanted to go into exile?"

"I intend to beg aid from the people you call the Tolmecs."

Jasmine's dark eyes widened, then narrowed. She rolled to her feet. "You fucked me, even though we might have to kill each other?"

"On my honour, no!" Didn’t she understand? He stood up so he could look her in the eye. "I will always be able to best you without doing you harm."

Jasmine slid her left foot forward. If she raised her fists, the naked woman would almost be in a boxing stance. "You cocky bastard!"

Ranulph laughed. It was impossible to take her seriously. "You are brave and you are skilled in arms. But you fight like-"

"Like a girl?" Jasmine threw a right hook, putting her whole body into the attack.

"No." Ranulph deflected the attack with his left hand, pinned her wrist and pushed it back over her shoulder. He leaned on her, slowly forcing her against the window, savouring her damp skin on his. He grinned, "Like an angry gryphon in a sack."

She grunted and tried to squirm free, only to land on her shapely backside. She glared up at him. "At least I’m not a cold-blooded killer."

Ranulph released her, retreated a safe distance and bowed. "Milady, I believe this is where our conversation started."

Jasmine laughed. "Shit! We must look stupid." She held out her hand. "Let’s go back to being worthy enemies."

With a pang of regret, Ranulph helped her up. She shook his hand solemnly.

The flimsy screen above their heads tore.

Jasmine’s gaze flickered up over his right shoulder. "Oh bugger!"

Thorolf glared down at them from the rim of the Control Car. He looked hot and uncomfortable in his mailcoat. Behind him loomed more armoured men.

#

Ranulph's hand dropped to his hip, seeking Steelcutter. But he was bollock-naked and the blade lay on the deck next to the makeshift bed. He gave a mental shrug and sprang up the steps. The mailed Northmen gave way so he could stand amongst them – a good sign.

Thorolf stepped out to block his path. "We are trapped between sea and sky, drifting towards the Realm of Fire. We must feast on what food remains then fight to the death while we have the strength. You must send the last man to Valhalla."

Another warrior pushed past Thorolf, sword drawn. "But first the Truce Breaker must suffer the Blood Eagle."

Ranulph gave his most convincing yawn. "Sigurd, you must know that Jasmine is a lady, and so not subject to the rules of war."

"If not a warrior, then she’s spoils of war – a foretaste of Valhalla," said Sigurd.

“It is our turn with the wench!” said Osmund.

The others growled assent.

"I can guess what they are saying," said Jasmine, from down in the control car. She sounded cool despite her predicament. “Tell them they’ll have to kill me first.”

Ranulph shook his head.
No damsel in distress
,
she,
he thought. Without drawing breath, he kicked out Sigurd’s knee.

The blond housecarl toppled into one of the strange apparatuses and slumped down to sit against it, moaning and clutching his leg.

"The lady is under my protection," said Ranulph.

Thorolf's face twitched into a rictus smile. He raised his sword.

Ranulph pivoted forward and caught Thorolf’s wrist. Another pivot put him behind the housecarl, arm clamping the man’s beard to his throat, the mail rough on his bare skin. "Shall I break your neck, or merely slit your throat with your own steel?"

Behind, from down in the control car, Jasmine said, "Nobody kills for me."

Ranulph shrugged. "As you wish, Milady." He threw the housecarl over his hip — the man’s belt snagging painfully on his raised thigh. "You have Milady to thank for your life."

Ranulph strode into the gloomy main deck, arms wide. "Are there any other challengers? Look – naked man! No weapon!"

The housecarls shuffled back. The heaviest of them was a little slow. Ranulph pawed the sword from his hand. The weapon rattled on the deck like a coin on a polished tavern table. Ranulph trapped it with his bare foot. "Come and take it back, Osmund."

The slab-like Northman grinned and shook his head.

"I don’t know about you gentlemen," said Ranulph. "But I’m sworn to avenge King Ragnar. There will be no giving up until I say so."

The housecarls lowered their swords.

A scrape of steel set Ranulph whirling to face a new threat.

Thorolf was on his knees. He offered Ranulph his blade, hilt first. "A warrior without a chieftain is a sword without a hand to wield it. I will follow you in war and peace."

Ranulph considered the kneeling housecarl. "Are you worthy to wear my livery?"

Thorolf twitched a smile. "I will learn to be."

Ranulph accepted the sword, flipped it and handed it back. "Very well, Thorolf. I shall be your good lord."

With a rustle, the remaining housecarls knelt and proffered their hilts.

"Do you not want to serve Ragnar’s heir?"

Sigurd, now favouring his uninjured leg, shook his head making his lank pigtails writhe like a pit of vipers. "Prince Hjalti — if he lives — has his own housecarls, and few of us are from the Rune Isles. We would rather follow a warrior we know and trust." He knelt, wincing as his bruised knee touched the deck.