Pyramid of Blood (Swords Versus Tanks Book 3) (2 page)

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.

Now there was only her shirt and his linen braes between them. Of their own accord, Ranulph’s hips twitched, pressing into the softness between her thighs. He raised himself up on his arms. "This was not my intent!"

Jasmine’s knees clamped his legs. She squirmed under him. "Like I can’t
feel
your intent?"

Ranulph strained to pull free. "Milady, I apologise. I was enchanted… I…" What was the truth? "I succumbed to base lust, but meant no harm."

"And that makes it better?" said Jasmine. She knocked out his elbows. His chest slammed into hers. A soft landing for him, but it forced a gasp from her lungs.

Ranulph seized the moment and rolled clear.

But the soldier-woman clung to him and landed astride his loins. "Come on!" she said. She ground her hips. "This is what you wanted."

Ranulph squirmed and bit back a whimper. "Were I as bad as you paint me, I would still be better than you."

Her hand flickered. Ranulph raised his arm too late. He turned away, but the blow landed as a slap.

"Bastard!" she said, and slapped him again. "You’re a cold-blooded killer. How dare you make me feel bad!"

He caught her wrist. She grunted. Her muscles twitched uselessly. "Killing is killing," he said. "Whether in cold blood or hot."

Jasmine rose up on her knees and leaned over him. "The armour is shining, but the men inside are butchers!" She swung her free hand.

Prepared this time, Ranulph pinned it with his right. "Enough!" He raised his head and looked her in the eye. "I have never knowingly slain an innocent or violated a truce.”

“You sailed with King Ragnar,” shot back the soldier woman. “Northmen have pretty ships but they’re just rapists and slavers when they’re not robbing people.”

“Yes,” he said without letting go of her wrists, “that is their nature. However, when I sailed with Ragnar we were mercenaries defending Ilium against the Parvians.
You
, Milady — without so much as a challenge — connived at the dropping of petards on those who had shown you only hospitality and good cheer."

She blinked down at him, as if
he
were the one who spoke mangled Western. Then she gave a little start. The tension went from her outstretched arms and the pride left her face. The muscles were still there, but now some malign enchantment had transformed the magnificent Amazon into a bedraggled plough-girl. She sat back on his hips, a dead weight now. "Stupid bastard," she sniffed. "Why do you think I whacked the keep first?"

A great sadness welled up in Ranulph’s chest. He did not want to have to kill this woman, but Ragnar must be avenged. Very carefully, he asked, “Were you controlling the petards?”

Her eyes flickered to where Steelcutter hung lay. When she spoke, her voice was level and devoid of emotion. “Only the first one,” she said. “When I hit the wrong target to give you some warning, Lowenstein decided to put a professional back in control.”

Ranulph released her wrists. "Your warning shot was as good as a challenge. It saved Lady Maud and all but saved Ragnar. Why did you not tell me?"

"And 'fess up to pulling the lever?" she said, now sounding like a little girl.

Ranulph drew her down to rest her head on his chest and held her as tight as he dared. "There now."

"Bastard!" She gave a shuddering sob. "Don’t be nice to me. I helped kill your friend."

"You did all that a knight would do when given immoral orders by an unworthy lord," he said, and realised he believed it.

"No kidding?" she sniffed, burying her face in his shoulder.

"Truly."

Jasmine lay still, her hot weight slowly crushing the air out of Ranulph. Just as he was considering polite ways to shift her, she sighed and sat back on his thighs.

Eyes twinkling, she grabbed the hem of her grey blouse and tugged the garment up over her head, unveiling smooth olive curves covered only by her strangely form-fitting undergarments. She reached behind herself and her breasts swung free, as inviting as cold apples on a hot day. She shook out her bushy dark hair and grinned down at him.

In the windows behind her, lightning laced the billowing storm clouds.

Ranulph frowned up at her. "What about Maud?"

Jasmine laughed. "What, Big Guy? Afraid of being second best?"

"No, I mean..."

A volley of raindrops battered the windows of the Control Car, turning it into a drum.

Jasmine grinned and shook her head. She placed his hands on her hips.

He moved to caress her, but her damp skin clung to his palms. Instead, he patted his way down to the waist of her odd woman’s braes and tugged. The strange fabric merely stretched and pinged free of his fingers.

"Ouch! Bloody primitive," shouted Jasmine over the rattle of the rain. She rolled off onto the blanket, drew in her legs and pulled off the garment to lie there shamelessly naked. "Better?"

Ranulph flinched. Ladies did not behave like this. Before he could flag, he tore at the drawstring of his braes and kicked them away.

The soldier woman greeted him like an old lover and the hot scent of her body enveloped him. She sighed, tickling his ear with her breath. "At last!"

He raised himself on his hands so as not to crush her.

"What
are
you doing?"

"Milady, I am better built for making war than love."

Her flushed face broke into a wide smile. "I'm built for both, Sir Ranulph." She drew him down.

CHAPTER THREE

Tom raised his sword and cocked his fists back to his rear shoulder. "Roof Guard!" He inhaled and the buzz of thoughts faded. Now there was just the sword, the wooden pell, and Edward’s remembered voice,
Imagine a thread connecting your sword to the target
.

Exhaling, Tom cut and stepped. The practice sword snapped diagonally forward. Just as his foot landed, the blunt edge rapped the pell, setting a fusillade of echoes bouncing around the castle buildings. Squawking roof gryphons fluttered into the dawn sky. A perfect Wrath Strike.

Now with arms extended in Long Point Guard, Tom pushed the pommel, levering the blade back, and, with a change of feet, delivered a steep cut to the other side of the battered wooden post. "Take off!"

Springing out of range, Tom sawed the blade across the pell, dragging his fists back to his hip so that the sword covered his body
and
also threatened the eyes of his imaginary — but now bleeding — opponent. "Plough Guard!"

He contemplated his efforts. "That’s one dead wooden post." Edward would be impressed – when he bothered to turn up.

Tom lifted the blade into Left Roof Guard and repeated the exercise. It was easy to sink into the rhythm:
Left Roof Guard, Wrath Strike to Long Point, Take Off, Plough Guard, Right Roof Guard, Wrath Strike
…

He paused for breath. "I’ve really got this!" He should have – he’d been doing it for three days. If he was lucky, his self-appointed fencing master would teach him some drills to go with the other strikes. And perhaps he in turn could talk some sense into him.

He glanced around.

There was no sign of Edward’s guards. The Royal Castle was peaceful except for the cries of the roof gryphons as they settled back into their roosts, and the constant thud-thud of the generator.

Perhaps the young king was sleeping late. They’d talked and drank long into the night swapping life stories… well, modified versions at any rate.

A muffled cry broke the tranquillity. Tom looked for the source. The Armoury door was half open. Odd — modern padlocks should have sealed the place.

Tom rested the blunt sword on his shoulder and edged across the courtyard. "Edward?"

A blue-uniformed Security Worker emerged from the arched doorway. The man folded his arms across his chest. "Bugger off, rent boy."

Edward’s voice echoed from somewhere within. "Unhand me, varlet!"

The Security Worker leered. "Unless you want to watch-"

-and Tom hit him with a Wrath Strike. The blunt sword slammed into the collar bone. There was a crack like a pistol shot.

The man collapsed into the doorway. He twitched. A pallid hand groped for the injury, then flopped onto the flagstones. Vomit pooled at Tom’s boots and a burbling keening assailed his ears.

Tom stared. It had just seemed the right thing to do. It
was
the right thing to do. But his victim wasn't supposed to lie there in messy agony. He bent over his victim. "Sorry. I'll..."

From within the building came Edward’s bellow; "Fellator of lepers! Abuser of goa-" A grunt interrupted the tirade. Several men laughed.

Tom rose and shoved his way into the gloomy interior. The doorway threw faint light on racks of spears and odd-looking polearms... sharp, but nothing he knew how to use.

A brighter light came from a narrow opening in the corner. Tom worked his way through the stacked weapons and found himself at the top of a spiral staircase. From below came an animal cry.

Tom hurled himself down the stairs and burst into a vaulted room. Four Security Workers stood around Edward and Smith. The young king lay face-down over a barrel, the remnants of his hose in strips around his ankles, a gag tied between his teeth. Smith stooped to apply his utility knife to the youth’s linen under-shorts.