Pyramid of Blood (Swords Versus Tanks Book 3) Read online

  Contents

  Book 3 PYRAMID OF BLOOD

  Copyright

  Dedications

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Swords Versus Tanks 3:

  Pyramid of blood!

  By

  M Harold Page

  (c) M Harold Page 2015

  Dedicated to my old High School English teacher, Mrs Weatherston. She didn’t like speculative fiction but took us seriously when we defended it. Actually she took us seriously in general, which was — in hindsight — a special thing and I wish I had said thanks.

  As always, with special thanks to the eagle-eyed Neil MacCormack for yet more editing help.

  Cover art (c) Cassie Mayo 2015. http://www.lintpress.com/ For Swords Versus Tanks merchandise, including coffee mugs and (I kid you not) shower curtains, see links on her website.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Colleagues! It is time for plain speaking. Going forward, Integration Workers pro-actively leverage our ongoing commitment to the process of identifying and securing a synergistic multi-functional strategy for realigning – and integrating (pause for laughter) — key indigenous opinion-formers, especially those occupying critical nexuses in the existing, though outmoded, social stratification.

  — David Hamilton, speech notes for "The Integration Triangle" (presented to the People’s Committee, 1925)

  #

  Tom leaned out of the unglazed window and feasted his eyes.

  Below in the training courtyard, Edward stood with raised sword. The youth circled the wooden stake – the pell — his wiry body stretching and contracting with each nimble step. There was something about tight medieval costume which turned young men into dancers.

  Tom leaned further out. Marcel would have appreciated this. The sadness rolled over him. He tried not to react; just let the feeling ebb and flow.

  The sword snapped forward. Edward whirled and the blunt edge barely touched the wood. His arms worked like opposing pistons. The sword whipped around and just as he sidestepped… tapped the other side of the pell.

  Tom found that his mouth had gone dry. He knew the sword was designed to maim and kill – he’d seen the bodies of fallen Force Application Workers — but Edward made it look graceful.

  It wasn’t just the power, it was the control. Even with the blunt sword, Edward could have knocked a lump out of the wooden post. It was the sort of control that Marcel had had: he could kill a man without breaking sweat, but hold Tom’s hand through the nightmares.

  "So, is there a point to this?"

  Tom turned and found himself facing Postmaster General Hamilton. He opened his mouth to ask whether there was news of the expedition — Jasmine had been gone a week now.

  Smith edged out from behind Hamilton. His face was a study in concern, but his single eye twinkled with glee. "Sorry Tom, you never explained it to me so I didn’t know what to say."

  I never explained because you were too busy by the fireside drinking moonshine liquor and scheming with your friends. Tom gave his best smile. "Isn’t it obvious?" He laughed. "We can’t bully him into being a friend of the Egality."

  Hamilton put a hand on Tom’s shoulder. "We don’t need friendship, right now, Tom, just acquiescence to the Will of the People. Smith has assured me that he can bring Edward around more with efficiency using… a shock treatment."

  Tom resisted the urge to turn away. He wanted to trust Postmaster General Hamilton, really he did. "But we’re the good guys. We don’t violate people’s rights."

  "Not officially," said Hamilton. "But sometimes the rights of the individual are less important than the needs of the many. A full commitment to this war entails many sacrifices so that we can reach our key objectives going forward. With deliverables such as…."

  The words washed over Tom and were meaningless. He’d once had a john like that: long, convoluted words lashed into a makeshift justification for illegal acts of lust.

  Stomach churning, Tom edged back from the man he had once admired. It was true. No hidden meaning, no high thoughts. Just verbiage, or – as Marcel would say in his Saumurian accent — Bullshit.

  Tom nodded as if he had listened carefully to every word. “Of course. It just seems a shame.”

  “Shame?” said Hamilton.

  That we can’t do this again because you haven’t paid me, thought Tom. But that was how it used to go. He was no longer working the street. “That we’ll lose his charisma,” said Tom. “Imagine if he came to us willingly… him standing on the podium next to you, renouncing his crown… praising the work of the Post Office.”

  Hamilton glanced into the courtyard. His eyes became far away and Tom knew that the Postmaster General was calculating the political advantage he might gain. The word was that he and Field Marshal Williams had fallen out over Jasmine’s fate. Sooner or later there would be a showdown.

  Edward made an entire circuit of his wooden post, switched to an odd crooked kind of strike and continued. Meanwhile Smith scowled and fidgeted, rubbing at his remaining eye which seemed to have some kind of infection.

  At last, Hamilton said, “He does have a certain primitive magnetism. You have one week. Can you do it, Tom?”

  No! “Yes, of course,” said Tom. “Smith’s skills will not be necessary.”

  Hamilton nodded. Without a word, he marched out of the room.

  "Asshole," said Smith then followed after his political master.

  Tom returned to the window.

  Edward was looking up at him. "I thought you had grown tired of watching, Sir Tom!"

  "I was in conference," said Tom. He felt his face flush, and cursed himself for being unprofessional. He doubted a medieval king would take kindly to being ogled by another man. "I do enjoy watching. You make it seem easy, but I bet it’s harder than it looks."

  "Come down and I shall school you in the Knightly Art," said Edward. "I tire of solitary practice, and my guards have no taste for such manly play."

  The sword filled Tom's vision. This was the opening he needed. But blunt or not, that was still a blade. He shuddered.

  #

  Holding his breath, Tom curled his cold fingers around the sword grip.

  "Hands a trifle further apart," said Edward. "That’s it." He released the blade. Now Tom had the full weight of the weapon.

  The memories flooded back. The sword clanged on the damp flagstones. Tom just stared at it, one hand to his face. His tan hid the hairline scars, but when he came close to blades, the old wounds itched as if only just healed.

  Edward tilted his head. "You are unhappy with swords?"

  Tom nodded. "Blades," he gasped, then remembered to breathe.

  Edward said nothing, waited, concern in his blue eyes.

  Tom forced himself to add, "I got sliced up when I was young." Arrested on my hospital bed, dragged off to the Institute. Gangbanged by guards.

  Edward retrieved the weapon. "Swords have a wrong end and a right end. It is good to fear the former, but better yet, to master the latter."

  Tom gave a half-smile and took hold of the sword. "Marcel more or less said the same to get me onto the pistol range."

  "Marcel?" asked the young king. He let go.

  This time Tom managed not to drop the sword. It was blunt after all. Just a flattened metal bar, really, he told himself over the hammering in his temples. "It’s much lighter than I expected," he said. "One k
ilo, perhaps?"

  "Not as light as Skyblade."

  Tom had read the briefing. "The royal sword. We've got leaflets and posters out. Somebody should have handed it in by now."

  "Do you think I left it on the field?" Edward laughed. "Like King Tristram, I cast it high into the sky." He sobered. "Tell me about this Marcel."

  Tom’s shoulders slumped. "I…"

  Edward held up his hand. "No, on second thoughts, do not. I know that look. I will not trespass on your private grief." Edward moved and somehow took the sword back. "Now I shall teach you to step properly."

  It took most of the afternoon to get the hang of the strange pivoting lunge which put the strength of his body behind the cut. As the sun set over the spired rooftops, Tom stooped to knead his own thigh muscles. "Ouch."

  Edward’s eyes twinkled. "Almost adequate," he said. "On the morrow, I shall teach you the Roof Guard and the Strike of Wrath." He bowed, "If it please my noble captor?"

  "You’re enjoying yourself," accused Tom.

  Edward grinned. "If not a king, then I would, I think, find happiness as a fencing master."

  "You don’t have to be a king."

  Edward looked him in the eye. "Your pardon, Good Sir, but you would say that, would you not?"

  Tom forced himself not to look away, then found he could not escape the youth’s gaze. He stood in the icy courtyard, sweat cooling on his body, transfixed. Something about Edward could not be refused, something which had found its way into his heart while the lesson distracted his brain.

  "Enough!" said the young king. He gestured at the shotgun-toting Security Workers. "It grows too dark for swordplay, and my guards seem restless."

  Tom stumbled after him. Marcel’s voice whispered in his ear; Mourn by living.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Jasmine prised open her left eyelid and saw clouds. The world was no longer spinning, just gently rocking from side to side. She was propped up against the Flexiglass wall of the Control Car. Icy blue light flooded through the frost-coated windows. She shivered. "Why’s the heating off?"

  Somebody pressed a canteen to her lips. "Drink," barked Sir Ranulph.

  Jasmine flinched. She felt as if she’d been run over by tank. "What hit me?" She squinted up at the mountainous knight and grinned. "I guess you did."

  Sir Ranulph just glowered at her from behind a veil of condensed breath. A blanket covered his broad shoulders like a cloak, but did not hide the oily bloodstains on his black velvet doublet.

  They’d almost kissed in Ragnar’s Hall. And then she’d helped to kill his friends. No wonder he’d hacked a path to her – she’d have done the same for Marcel. "Why did you spare me?"

  Sir Ranulph just looked at her.

  Jasmine drew in her legs and discovered somebody had wrapped her in a blanket. Could she stand without vomiting? She shuffled her feet and rubbed her palms together. It was hard to think when she was so cold despite her fur-lined jacket. "Why am I separate from the other prisoners?"

  "What prisoners?"

  Jasmine struggled upright and mounted the first two steps out of the cockpit so she could see into the airship's Main Deck. Perhaps thirty mailed Northmen huddled together, wrapped in their own steam. There was no sign of the rest of the crew — unless you counted the patches of gore, and the severed hand lying forgotten against the aft bulkhead.

  The airship twisted. Jasmine’s legs gave. She jumped clear of the steps and propped herself up on the back of the pilot’s chair and clutched the cold leather. "Is Maud alive?"

  "Not of your doing," said Sir Ranulph.

  Jasmine glanced at the barbarians. "I was just following orders."

  "A common soldier’s plea," said the big knight.

  Something stung her bruised eye. She rubbed at it and found tears. She tried to feel defiant, but her courage was built on tales of the man who now stood over her, condemning her with every word and gesture.

  "It is I who should weep," said Sir Ranulph. "You murdered my blood brother, and near did the same for Lady Maud, even though you had…" He hesitated, as if trying to find the right word. "…lain with her."

  Jasmine opened her mouth to blurt that she had warned him by bombing the keep first. But that would mean admitting to having her hand on the bomb release.

  Broken glass crunched. Thorolf loomed over the lip of the Control Car. He leered at Jasmine then spoke angry words in his own language.

  Jasmine shrank against the chair. The only weapon within reach was the greatsword hanging in a loop on Sir Ranulph’s hip. But she was in no state for a fight.

  Sir Ranulph shook his head and snapped something in Northern.

  More barbarians joined Thorolf in looking down at her, so that the Control Car felt like a dockside fight pit.

  Sir Ranulph responded scornfully, then laughed.

  Muttering, the barbarians backed away out of sight.

  "Cheers," said Jasmine.

  Sir Ranulph glowered. "Do not taint me with your thanks. You live because I suggested that you could pilot this vessel."

  Sooner or later, Airship 02 would catch up. It was bigger, with a longer range. Instead of bombs, it carried a full complement of Air Marines. "No problem."

  An axe projected from the control panel like a surrealist sundial. She squeezed past the haft and into the pilot’s chair. Immediately she understood why they were so cold: the emergency ballast drop had given the airship a positive buoyancy. When they hit 3,000 metres, the auto-vent would have triggered, returning the vessel to neutral buoyancy. Now they were 2,500 metres above the black water, drifting — she checked the compass — south-west, out over the Ocean of Thule.

  Something that was not a whale breached the cold waves then snaked back into the depths.

  Jasmine shuddered.

  "Well?" said Sir Ranulph, over her shoulder.

  Thanks to two years as an Air Marine lieutenant before transferring to tanks, Jasmine had basic pilot training. That should have been enough since Egality engineers always made everything idiot-proof – literally, since insisting on expert operators was one step away from Elitism. Unfortunately...

  Jasmine fought to keep her face bland.

  The heating was off because the batteries were flat. The batteries were flat because the engines weren’t running. And, the engines weren’t running because the axe had set off Fuel Tank Two's jettison mechanism. She winced. That also explained the speed of their ascent.

  She checked the gauges.

  The pilot had switched tanks before entirely exhausting Fuel Tank One.

  Sir Ranulph gave a harsh laugh. "You have the countenance of the forgetful squire who tried to pass off an old bucket as his master’s tilting helm."

  "Fuck you." Jasmine opened the throttle and thrust forward the joystick. The airship tilted and dived towards the waves. She glanced at the knight. He looked… surprised. She couldn't help grinning. "Where to?"

  "The Land of Black Glass."

  Jasmine's eyes widened. "The Tolmec Empire?"

  "So you know the country?"

  "A little," she said, which was sort of true.

  She considered the instrument panel. There was barely enough fuel for regular bursts to correct the altitude and course, but the air currents were taking them that direction anyway. "OK." If Airship 02 didn't catch up, Sir Ranulph could have his chosen exile — at least until the Egality reached the place. It wouldn’t earn his forgiveness, but it might make her feel better about herself.

  "You'd better let me train your men in Landing Drill."

  “Landing?” asked Ranulph.

  “We don’t have enough fuel to mess around with the elevator bucket,” said Jasmine. “When we arrive, we’ll need to tie down the ship and look for fuel.”

  #

  Five days later, Ranulph wiped his brow then grabbed the pilot’s seat and hauled himself upright.

  Beyond the cracked windows, swirling black clouds smothered the sky. The storm had dragged them south, smothering them in hot,
damp air so that the Northmen stripped to their braes.

  Jasmine stirred on her pallet.

  Ranulph perched on the chair back and watched, as he had every night since Jasmine had shown him how to draw a screen over them so they could set up camp in the privacy of the airship’s Control Car.

  The half-light smoothed away the female soldier’s lines, lending gentility to her round face. Her unbound hair lay off to one side like a fur pelt. Even with the black eye and strange dressing stuck to her forehead, it was hard to think of her as just a common soldier.

  Jasmine groaned. She kicked off her sheet and stretched out her short legs. Her grey livery shirt reached only halfway down her thigh, leaving her limbs scandalously naked. The curves were feminine, but moulded from muscle.

  Despite himself, Ranulph crouched down next to her. She was more than a common soldier. She'd taken the housecarls through her "Landing Drill" with all the assurance of an Ilian officer training barbarians to use siege engines. And, she really was built for prowess.

  A pity she fought so badly.

  In the breach at Castle Dacre, he’d been too tired to really notice. But now he’d seen enough to know that she had no control. She had to work herself up into a berserker rage in order to face combat. Ranulph grinned. A month as his squire would sort that out – but, imagine the outcry in chivalric circles! The grin faded. Even proper training could not restore her honour.

  But if she was so despicable, why was he stroking her hair? Ranulph stared at his hand. He was not sure how or when, but his fingers had found their own way into her soft tresses.

  The Amazon sighed and mumbled, "Georgina."

  Ranulph held his breath but could not find the will to stop.

  Her hand snapped out and caught his wrist. Still clamping his hand, she sat up. "Now I have to buy your protection with my body? So much for your word."

  "I did not think you set such store by your honour."

  Jasmine shrugged her shoulders. "Let’s get it over with, then." She rolled onto her back and – catching him off balance — dragged him over her. As hard-muscled as any warrior, she took his weight without a murmur.