Warlords race for power while the final battle looms! (Swords Versus Tanks Book 4) (6 page)

Her father’s head whipped around. "You!" He turned to face her. He was as tall as her and Maud could see herself in his freckled face and red hair. However, his green eyes offered only hate and disgust. "Come to proffer a malediction?

"No Father, I have come to make my peace with you. Does not the scripture say,
Let not child spurn sire
?"

"It also says,
Let child abide by the sire’s judgement. Go where he says. Marry where he wills.
" He held out his hand for his weapon – an unruned longsword from the municipal arsenal: God, not magic would decide this fight. "Do not quote scripture at me, harlot."

Rage flashed through her. "You…"
Neglected my mother. Would have married me off to the man who tried to rape me. Consigned me to a loveless convent…
But the scriptures said nothing about a father’s will being just, only that it should be obeyed without question. "…are right, Father. Forgive me." She knelt on the pebbles.

He turned away, and lashed the sea breeze with tight practice cuts, crunching from foot to foot.

The damp seeped through her gown and petticoats, and into her woollen stockings. She shivered but said nothing.

At length he handed the sword to his squire and regarded her. "You cursed me when I gave you to the Sisters. But, what other course was there? You were bedding all and sundry – even freebooting savages from the Iron Horde. Hardly a good daughter."

Maud frowned.
I just wanted to be unmarriageable.
At least that had been the start of it. Then it had been the adventure, and finally the pleasure. She flushed despite the cold.

He flexed his fingers. "Then you were caught committing sorcery and... other acts. Did you not think of the effect on my position? Even so, you should have trusted your father." He dropped to his haunches and looked her in the eye. "On my honour, I planned to save you from the stake."

Maud flinched. Jasmine’s book had already shown her her fate. Even so, she knew what the Scriptures demanded. "But I am repentant now, father," she said as meekly as she could. "I am your daughter, obedient in all things."

He cupped her chin with his cold hands. "Rise, daughter and let us embrace."

She let him hug her, and felt only a mechanical stiffness. There would be warmth later, she promised herself. Until this moment, she had never really had a father.

"I had thought to legitimise one of my bastards," said Father. "But now I see I have a true heir."

The squire coughed. "Your Grace, it is almost time."

Maud’s stomach lurched. "Do not fight Ranulph."

Father drew away. "Afraid for your lover?"

"Afraid for you. Death does not walk with Sir Ranulph, he looks on, taking notes."

Father smiled sadly. "If I do not fight, I lose everything."

"No Father. If you
do
fight, you will lose everything — apart from your soul, and your daughter’s love, of course."

He took her hands. "Not if you help me, Daughter."

"I could beg Sir Ranulph to give you quarter. If only you had given his kin a clean death."

Father shrugged. "They were traitors, as is he. Yet he is younger and stronger than I."

"Take heart. God will decide the fight."

"Then why train with swords, or warm up the sinews before combat?"

Maud groped for an answer.

"And why do you fear for me?" asked Father.

"Because…" she began.

"Because you know that God helps those who help themselves." He cocked his head at his squire, who fished in his belt purse and produced a small vial. "This," said her father, "Will even things up, if only you will put some in his water." He unlaced her fingers and placed her hand on the glass container.

Maud took a step backwards. "You ask me to poison Ranulph?"

Father looked shocked. "You are my daughter! What of obedience?"

She retreated another step. It was as if Ranulph had already killed him. "I cannot weigh one sin against another."

"Then be damned like your mother!" hissed her father. "Only it won’t be a pillow in the face that sends you to Hell. Do you think those barbarians will protect you once I have slain their chief?"

Maud turned on her heel and stumbled away. She could not return to Sir Ranulph. There was nothing left to do but kneel at the water’s edge and pray.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Trumpets.

Tom winced. "Marcel wake up. It’s reveille." His own voice came out slurred. They must have been drinking all night. He was cold too. And he hurt in a numb kind of way. All over.
Must have been one of those rough sessions
.

More trumpets.

Tom opened his eyes and the world opened before him like a movie – a beach crammed with heralds, gaily dressed nobles, and milling commoners. More like Grand Opera, since everything was in colour.

And he was naked strapped to a ladder.
Why am I still alive?

Up by the Royal Stand, white grains marked out a circle. He forced his head around, letting his ethnographic training take his mind off the pain.
Salt, the oldest demon repellent
.

And there was the knight – Sir Ranulph Dacre – just as big without his armour.

Both men approached Edward and saluted with their longswords.

Ranulph twirled his between finger and thumb and boomed. "Do I use this to pick my teeth or darn my hose?"

The crowd laughed.

Beside him, Clifford looked like two beanpoles bound together with twine. Just weeks ago, Tom would have expected the bigger man to win. But now he knew a little of Edward's favourite art, he was not so sure.

Chanting priests leading the way, the swordsmen processed down the beach to the fighting ring. Each went to opposite sides and stepped over the salt.

Trumpets blared.

Both dropped into a warrior's bent-kneed stance, raised their swords over their rear shoulders and —

#

Ranulph drew the longsword back and took the Roof Guard, point to the sky, ready to strike. He missed the heft of Steelcutter, but any sword would do as long he could drive it into Clifford's body as so fulfil the vow to look on his enemy's corpse.

Clifford seemed more used to the shorter weapons. Mirroring Ranulph’s guard, he circled confidently, his green eyes fixed on Ranulph, nothing in his posture giving away what he was about to do.

He trains unarmoured
, realised Ranulph. Like Ranulph's father, the duke was far more likely to face blades in the court than in the field.

... strange to feel so calm, with Clifford just outside his reach. But the anger was there, deep down, where Ranulph needed it. He threw a diagonal Wrath Strike at Clifford’s head and pivoted forward behind his blade, away from all conscious thought.

Clifford returned the diagonal blow, but aimed at Ranulph’s sword.

The swords sang. Ranulph’s bounced off to the side. Clifford’s lanced up at Ranulph’s throat.

Ranulph swatted aside the incoming weapon and used the momentum to twitch his sword back around at his enemy's face.

Clifford flexed and the tip whirled past. Ranulph had judged the distance for a greatsword, not a longsword.

Even as the realisation hit, Clifford's blade followed behind Ranulph’s, and delivered a slice to the forearms.

A woman screamed.

Now fear and rage mingled. Ranulph was fighting with an unfamiliar weapon against a skilled enemy. And God really must be on Clifford’s side this time. Ranulph wrestled the unfamiliar thoughts back behind his wall of ice and raised his sword back into Roof Guard.

Clifford backed out of range, raised his fists and pushed out his sword in a defensive Ox Guard, with his crossguard protecting his head.

What was he waiting for? Ranulph made to draw back his sword, but a numbness had wrapped itself around his arms, weighing down his movements.

Clifford’s blade was poisoned.

#

— and Tom recognised the Roof Guard.

He watched as the two men circled, swords held like shouldered carbines.

Sir Ranulph sprang forward. The blades clanged... whirled. Clifford sprang clear, leaving the giant knight with blood dripping from his forearms.

The giant knight staggered, as if drugged or dying.

#

Ranulph struggled to keep his longsword steady. He could cry foul, but nobody would believe him. And that would mean breaking concentration. He’d lost speed, and precision. What could he — ?

Clifford blurred forward.

Ranulph managed a very basic block.

Clifford’s longsword twisted around his. The reverse edge bit the back of Ranulph’s shoulder. As the Duke retreated, he yanked the blade back in a nasty draw-cut. The pain flared, then dulled, all but extinguished by the poison.

A fool is he who defends only
. And Ranulph was going to die a fool in everybody’s eyes.

With a roar, Ranulph followed after. It should have been a neat step and
slice
, catching Clifford’s hand as he withdrew. The blow landed on Clifford’s sword, knocking it off line. Carried by his own drugged momentum, Ranulph pivoted forward, uncurled his left hand from the grip and reached for Clifford’s wrists.

Clifford sprang back and Ranulph’s unprotected hand grasped the blade instead. The pain barely registered through the haze. He had his longsword ready for a pommel strike, but Clifford’s face was already out of reach. Instead, he released his enemy’s blade and slashed down.

Clifford dashed the blow aside and drove his own sword into Ranulph’s belly.

Ranulph’s flesh parted. Clifford’s point tore through his entrails. The useless longsword crunched to the pebbles. Hot blood cascaded down his legs.

He should have been in agony. Instead he felt just a great sadness.

Clifford released his sword and caught Ranulph’s face. He planted a kiss on his lips. "Please convey my regards to your father in Hell."

Ranulph’s rage flared, burning away some of the haze. He ducked his head forward, and smashed his forehead into Clifford’s aquiline nose.

Clifford staggered back, blood running down his face.

"Convey them yourself!" said Ranulph, and wondered why he barely felt the impact.

Clifford’s drug must be a very powerful anaesthetic.

Ranulph grasped the sword where it entered his stomach, and wrenched it free. Still clutching the weapon by the blade, he heaved it up over his head and swung it back down like a hammer.

Clifford’s green eyes widened. The crossguard thocked into his forehead. The steel prong punched through the bone and buried itself in the brains beneath.

Ranulph released the blade and stared at the great slashes on his hands. As if weighed down by invisible armour, he swayed to face the Royal Stand.

Behind him, a body crashed to the stony beach.

Ranulph’s legs twisted and he ploughed into the pebbles. Somehow he couldn’t make his limbs roll him over so he could see Clifford. But the sea breeze brought him the distinctive shit-stench of a corpse’s voided bowels. His numb lips oozed into the ghost of a grin. God had granted him the victory, but at the price of violating his vow: if he looked on Clifford’s corpse, it would be from Heaven.

Father, I have avenged you.

CHAPTER NINE

Sir Ranulph lay slain.

Chivalry shattered,

Lesser men could not gather the scattered shards.

— King Ragnar of the Rune Isles, "Lament" (trans Badminton, Gryphon Press, 1890.)

#

Maud mustered all the authority of the Church and ordered, "Unhand me!"

Sir Ranulph's barbarians just tightened their grip. She kept pace, striding out against the constriction of her sodden skirts. "I shall scream!" When they didn’t respond, she screamed then glanced around to see if anybody had noticed.

The beach in front of the Royal Stand was a muddle of fighting Westerland nobles. Redmain crossed swords with De Lucy, Multon with Harclay, Maxwell with Hume. Her father’s death had unleashed all the old feuds. Nobody that mattered had time to think about her.

"Damn you." She let herself go limp – hardly dignified, but the only choice left.

Her Northman captors didn’t even falter. They dragged her onwards, so that her boots dug furrows in the gritty pebbles.

With a screech, she drew in her legs and righted herself. "Uncouth savages! Scum! Hell-bound heathens-"

Sir Ranulph smiled up at her, sweat-drenched face as pale as a dying child. "Not the parting I had planned…" He winced. "Lady Maud. God gave me victory, but punished me for my perjury."

"It was my fault," she blurted. "Father asked me to drug you. I should have deduced that he would poison his blade."

The dying knight shook his head. "I should not have let him get in that cut. I…"

The yells and clangs of battle became deafening. Maud knelt beside the dying knight and tilted her ear to his mouth.

"…a better death… than Albrecht…" He trailed off. His eyes closed, but his breath yet steamed from his lips.

Somebody thrust an object into her hands – her grimoire. She made to throw it aside, but Thorolf’s gnarled fingers closed over hers. He pushed his face close and growled, "Heal him."

She shook her head. "I have renounced Necromancy and all the Devil's other works."

The barbarian’s mouth twitched into a mirthless smile. "Then we shall take you from this place. And when we are done with you… place you at our Chieftain’s feet so that the flames will bear you to be his handmaiden in Valhalla.

"One way or another, it seems I am fated to burn." Maud straightened. "You can despoil my body, but not my soul."

Thorolf drew his single-edged war knife. "Hold her boys!" he said, still speaking in Western. They pinned her arms. "Let’s see if she’s as stubborn with only one tit."

Sir Ranulph barked, "On my honour, unhand the lady!"

Maud shook herself free.

"You are in holy orders still," said Ranulph, his voice failing. "It has been months since I made confession."

Maud dropped to her knees and signed herself.

"I have…" said Ranulph. "Slain… some men." His brow furrowed. His eyes blazed, as if he were holding back great pain. "Taken part in more than one tournament," he continued. "Debauched… some virgins. Consorted with more than one harlot." The words kept coming, punctuated now by great breaths. "Twice knowingly stood champion for a sodomite. Befriended the heathen. Loved a nun… " His head sank onto the rolled cloak.