Warlords race for power while the final battle looms! (Swords Versus Tanks Book 4) Read online

  Contents

  BOOK 4 Warlords race for power while the final battle looms

  Copyright

  Dedications

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Swords Versus Tanks 4:

  “Warlords race for power while the final battle looms!”

  By

  M Harold Page

  (c) M Harold Page 2015

  Dedicated to technical authors (and other professional communicators) everywhere — it’s probably for the best that our co-workers don’t know what goes on inside our heads, eh?

  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 pillow slips (yes, really), see https://society6.com/lintpress.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Ranulph’s boots hit the heather. He stumbled on the springy surface and looked back up into the night sky.

  Jasmine’s airship buzzed away to became a moving void in the star field.

  Osmund yanked out a handful of heather and wafted it in the faces of the other Northmen. "Smells of home!"

  Thorolf touched Ranulph's arm. "Better move, lord. The Valkyrie may have honour, but her lord does not."

  Ranulph nodded. The second airship had dogged them all the way back from the Land of the Tolmecs. "Which way?"

  Thorolf sniffed the air. "Onto the beach and to the left."

  The other nine Northmen fell in behind Ranulph and Thorolf; an honour guard of survivors.

  It was low tide, so they walked the hard, wet sand just below the line of flotsam and jetsam. Far to the right, moonlight flickered on white wave tops. Ranulph drew his blanket around his shoulders. He could have been a fisherman singing as he tramped back to his croft where a red-haired wife suckled their son and tried not to fret over his late return.

  Steelcutter clanged on a rock. The blade rang out in the dark; the song of Ranulph’s trade.

  They rounded a promontory into a starlit bay. High on the far headland, torches blazed. The wind carried a jumble of voices. "Ragnar’s funeral," said Thorolf. "On the Whale’s Ness."

  "Ten days," said Ranulph. "It’s been just ten days."

  They crossed the damp sand and clambered up the rocky path to emerge blinking into the blaze of torches and the reek of burning whale oil.

  People turned drunkenly and cried out in astonishment. Somebody shouted, "Sir Ranulph!" and the mourners drew apart to let his men pass. Ranulph, ten housecarls at his back, made his way to the tower of wood: a ship’s worth of timber from the royal boatyard.

  Prince Hjalti, King Ragnar’s brother, stood with his back to the unlit pyre. The torchlight threw black shadows from the sharp contours of his face, so that he looked like one of Albrecht’s sketches of Ragnar: the same angular jaw, the same round face, just a little smaller in scale. He scrutinised Ranulph for a moment, then said, "Is my brother avenged?"

  Ranulph bowed. "Lord Lowenstein lives. Most of his followers do not." He flushed despite the cold. He could not bring himself to mention Jasmine. "A portion of revenge, is no revenge," he quoted, which was a simpler truth.

  Hjalti clasped his arm. "Even the greatest of feasts must be enjoyed one mouthful at a time." He turned to his servants and barked, "Well, don’t just stand there. Bring torches for my guests!"

  Lady Maud burst out of the crowd. A tight cap hid her distinctive hair. "Ranulph!"

  Ranulph hugged her to him, clamping her long body to his. His hands drifted down her back. As they reached her girdle, she pulled away and asked, "What of the Lady Jasmine?"

  Of course. Ranulph furrowed his brow. Was Maud his rival for Jasmine? Or Jasmine his rival for Maud? "She is in good health," he said. "And with her people."

  "I know where the magic went," he said.

  Maud put her hands to her ears. "I do not hear you!"

  Two burly housecarls — Hjalti’s men — shoved their way out of the crowd and took up position on either side of her. They eyed Ranulph defiantly but made no move on him. Casually, as if by happenstance, Thorolf and Osmund drifted in to stand to his left and right.

  Ranulph frowned. “What has happened, milady?”

  Maud drew herself up. In her modest clothes, she looked every inch the prim young lady. “I have repented," she said. "And the God of Elements has opened for me a unique path to Salvation. I shall be the Spiritual Mother of an entire nation-"

  "Torches!" cried Prince Hjalti.

  Thorolf took a brand from a servant and handed it to Ranulph.

  He stared at the flame and remembered Maud’s hair billowing on the battlements of Bloodaxe Keep as she cast her magic and brought down the airship. What was all this talk of repentance and being a “spiritual mother”?

  "There will be orations," said Thorolf beside him. His lips twitched in a mirthless smile. "Then the new king will throw the first torch."

  Ranulph turned to Hjalti and bowed. "With your permission, I would like to take my leave of Ragnar."

  Hjalti nodded. "Will you speak?"

  "If you ask it," said Ranulph. But..." Albrecht’s advice would have been useful right now. Subtlety was out, so that left honesty. "But I will speak of war and revenge."

  Hjalti nodded. "I preside over my brother’s funeral. Our castle is in ruins. Our people slain. Speak of war and revenge." He gestured to the pyre.

  One hand clutching the torch, Ranulph mounted the stacked timber. It was like climbing a scaling ladder, apart from the reek of whale fat and peat – and the fact that nobody was dropping rocks on him. As he climbed, he braced himself for the grief. But when he stood at Ragnar’s head, ice filled his veins and he felt nothing but a murderous calm.

  The torchlight flickered across Ragnar’s armour. Behind the eye and cheek pieces of his old-fashioned helm his face was a loose mask, like a mere rag inexpertly daubed with the barbarian's features.

  Ranulph stooped to kiss Ragnar’s icy hand. "Goodbye friend," he said. "On my knighthood, I will drink mead from Lord Lowenstein’s skull."

  Then, on impulse, he snapped the arrow charm from around Ragnar's neck. It was a Thunder God's hammer carved with protective runes, not suitable for a pious knight. "Until then, I shall wear this."

  He looked out over the moonlit Ocean of Thule. It would be a fairer world if there were a Valhalla to welcome Ragnar’s great soul. Surely his prowess showed he had earned a place amongst the Righteous Pagans. We will meet again, my brother, in my Heaven, or in yours.

  Ranulph turned to gaze down on the now silent mourners. "Ragnar was my blood brother. My friend. A great swordsman. A true knight who won honours…" – he used the Western word, since there was no Northern equivalent – "…for the Isles…"

  That glorious tournament season came back. Drinking, wenching, fighting back-to-back. The cold turned the tears into icy claws. Now he had to force the words out. "His maimed corpse cries out for revenge."

  The mourners roared agreement.

  Ranulph let them subside, then continued. "But, Ragnar was a king. He put his people even before his kin. So I will not talk of revenge, but of war."

  Now his listeners shifted and muttered. To the pira
tical Northmen, raiding and feuding were one thing, organised war another.

  "The enemy has no honour, no chivalry, and no limit. Whether we worship one God, or many, we must band together and strike, before the Invaders master magic."

  His words triggered more chatter. The Northmen, he realised, would make up their own minds and take their time about it.

  Ranulph scrambled down the pyre, mistimed the landing, and stumbled. He braced his arms against the stacked logs and struggled to school his breathing. He wanted revenge now, not in months or weeks.

  Hjalti put a hand on his shoulder and offered a horn brimming with mead. "Fine words, Sir Ranulph. They will win you more riches than you can know." He turned to face the crowd. His voice rang out like a pair of new swords clashing for the first time.

  "I will raise a fleet and make an end of this new enemy, not as King of the Rune Isles, but as King of Westerland in right of my future wife, the Lady Maud, daughter of a Royal Duke and heir to the crown!" The crowd cheered and chanted Hjalti’s name.

  Ranulph’s grip tightened on the torch. Had Ragnar’s brother really become an enemy? And what did Maud think she was doing? He turned to Thorolf. "Where does your true loyalty lie?"

  Thorolf’s mouth stretched into a fleeting smile. "Hjalti has his own housecarls."

  King Hjalti held up his hand for silence. "We will trade our old ways for wealth and riches. Every jarl, a duke! Every carl,a baron!" He raised his torch. "This pyre marks the death of my brother and the death of the old ways, but the rise of a new empire." The torch drew an arc of black smoke through the cold air. The whale oil caught. Flames gouted and roared. "Farewell Ragnar!"

  Ranulph hurled his torch and bellowed, "Ragnar!" as if it would bring back his friend. The Islanders took up the cry, and the air thundered with the warrior king’s name. Firelight danced on faces. Women wailed and tore their hair. Men wept and plucked tufts from their beards.

  Ranulph turned from the conflagration. Maud’s pale face rose over the back of the crowd like a second moon, eyes reflecting the flames.

  He glanced around. Apart from Osmund and Thorolf, his men had scattered into the throng. He stooped and yelled in Thorolf’s ear. "Get the rest. Get everything from the guest chamber, especially my armour and the red book. Meet me at the Seasnake. Between the eleven of us, we should be able to handle her."

  Thorolf nodded, tapped the nearest housecarl on the shoulder and cocked his head in the direction of the castle.

  Ranulph gave a mental shrug. Either the housecarls were his, or they were not.

  “What of me,” asked Osmund.

  Ranulph grimaced. There would be no honour in his next action, even though it was duty that forced him to it. “We must rescue Lady Maud.”

  “Rescue..?” Osmund caught Ranulph’s look and dried up.

  Ranulph set course through the crowd, sidling between mourners.

  Maud’s eyes widened. She swayed away, but did not move her feet. Her escort stepped forward to block Ranulph’s path.

  Ranulph punched the nearest hard in the stomach. He doubled over and fell amongst the mourners’ feet.

  Osmund took care of the the second housecarl in similar style.

  Without breaking stride, Ranulph ducked his head, grabbed Maud’s waist with both hands, and threw the girl over his left shoulder. He shifted his grip to her slender thighs and tried not to take pleasure in the softness behind the linen.

  Maud kicked, hammered his back with her fists, then screamed.

  Ranulph strode out for Harbour Bay. He grinned. Nobody would hear her over the din of mourners. Nobody would turn from the pyre.

  As he wound down the cliff path, she finally stilled. "Might one enquire as to our destination?" she asked, her voiced a little strained from hanging upside down.

  "Where would duty take us, but to the Army of Westerland?"

  Maud laughed. "You have lost your wits. Westerland has fallen."

  "I wager there is still the garrison at Middleburgh. If not there, then we shall seek aid in the Empire."

  "But I want to save my soul. I shall be the Godmother of the North."

  Now it was Ranulph’s turn to laugh. "What use your soul if you have no honour?"

  "Pah! Knights!"

  He cleared his throat. "While I was in the Land of Black Glass, I discovered-"

  Maud curled her head off his back and screamed; a calculated sound more like a drawn out note than a cry of distress.

  The path narrowed as it passed under the castle ramparts. Ranulph leaned into the cliff edge and edged along, feeling his way through the soles of his boots. When he reached the broad rock-carved steps, he tried again. "The Tolmecs – the natives – had magic until-"

  Another scream.

  Ranulph grimaced. It seemed that he would have to fight Jasmine’s people without Maud’s magic. At least Hjalti would now arrive as a barbarian invader, and not pretender to the throne of Westerland.

  As he carried Maud out onto the pebbled beach, a chorus of laughter greeted him. The Seasnake was already wallowing in the shallows. At least two score of Ragnar's old housecarls filled the rowing-benches as they had that glorious year when Ranulph sailed to war with his barbarian blood brother.

  He grinned through his tears. "My retinue has grown a little."

  Thorolf's crooked teeth glinted in the moonlight. "I told them that Hjalti would get them killed and that you would make them rich – or get them killed in such a fight that men will sing of it until the dawn of Ragnarok."

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Egality’s policy of retroactively-consensual assimilation of developing peoples is clearly different from Elitist Imperialism. Unlike the exploitative warmongers, we sweep the arbitrary local barbaric customs into the figurative dustbin of history, and replace them with a system of governance based on pure reason, going forward.

  In short, we make a difference.

  — David Hamilton, "In praise of inter-societal redistributive justice," (Egality Information Department, 1931)

  #

  Field Marshal Williams put his hands over his ears.

  It didn't work. The complaints of the burghers filled the Council Chamber until it seemed that even the carved heads on the bench-ends lent their voices to the din.

  Williams frowned. Kinghaven Town Hall might be in a central location, but it made a lousy Regional HQ. It was as if he were the one being hauled up in front of the burghers, and not the other way around.

  Things would be different once the Post Office Engineers got around to removing all the bourgeois frippery – carvings, cushioned benches, tapestries, and all those paintings of fat rich bastards — and replaced the stained glass with more utilitarian Flexiglass. That would teach the proto-Elitist scum.

  Somebody tugged at his elbow. A Post Office Sergeant blinked up at him through thick glasses. She shook her head. "The telegraph wire’s cut in multiple places."

  Williams' mind reeled. There was no chance of contacting Objective One unless the radio reception improved. "Ungrateful barbarians, we should have shot the lot!" His words boomed loud in the now-silent Council Chamber. Shock flitted across the faces of the burghers.

  Williams cursed himself as he fumbled for his little pills. He was used to dealing with savages too ignorant to understand civilised languages. It was bad enough that Hamilton had acquired his own pet king and made himself hero of the hour; the last thing Williams needed was to spark a local revolt. He smiled at his guests. "You are all eligible for the Basic Dole," he said, as if the last two minutes hadn’t happened. "However, you need not concern yourselves with the collateral damage experienced during the Glorious Liberation."

  The leader, and most vociferous troublemaker – Master Timberman — said, "But you said your soldiers would respect property, Milord. And the warehouses belong to us."

  "That remains to be seen." Williams eyed the grizzled merchant while the pill took effect. The man’s head was still bandaged from the fighting. Williams would have had him
shot out-of-hand, along with all the other Proto-Elitists who resisted the liberation. Alas, the Committee had decreed that combatants who were not actually members of the oppressive feudal hegemony must be suffering from False Consciousness. "The socially useful businesses will become State Property," explained Williams. "The Egality will undertake any repairs."

  "But what of us?" blurted another merchant in the outraged tones typical of capitalist pigs watching their unearned privileges vanish.

  Williams didn’t bother to hide his amusement. "You’ll work for the People."

  "You keep saying people," said Timberman, sounding thoroughly out of his depth. "But we are people."

  Williams laughed, enjoying the clarity granted by the pills. "But you hardly work for the Social Good, do you?"

  Timberman looked blank. After a moment he said, "We bring back goods from far places. Why hazard our persons without profit?"

  General Ibis-Bear leaned forward. "I thought this was a spiritual age!" she wheezed. "Is profit is your only motive?"

  Timberman frowned. "I do not understand."

  Was the merchant simply too primitive to grasp the concept of Social Good? Williams rubbed his chin. Hamilton could have answered that question, which was why he had been tolerated for so long. There had to be a way of taking control of the Post Office without causing a mutiny.

  A muddy dispatch rider staggered in. She waved her arms. "Clear the office. Secret stuff."

  As the Carbineers hustled the last of the Burghers through the Council Chamber’s ornate doorway, the rider blurted, "The Gate’s stopped working!"

  The words echoed around the huge room. The medieval faces staring out of every painting and carving now seemed as unreadable as those of the Bunker Thirteen Aliens. When the bullets and gasoline ran out, the Army of the Egality would be lost in a hostile world. Williams shuddered and hugged himself. His colleagues edged closer.

  "There’s more," gasped the rider. "Almost everybody stationed at Objective One is heading this way for an Army Council."

  "Really?" Williams sensed an opportunity and his mood lifted. "The Gate is Postmaster General Hamilton’s responsibility. I wonder what excuse he’ll offer." An impeachment would solve an awful lot of problems. With the Post Office under Williams’s direct control, it would be a simple matter to bully the scientists into repairing the link with home – the thing about experts was they only made progress if you kept them scared.