Warlords race for power while the final battle looms! (Swords Versus Tanks Book 4) (3 page)

Edward halted and looked straight at Tom. He mouthed,
I forgive you
. A soldier slammed her carbine-butt into the young king’s back.

Tom’s hand tightened on the throttle. The engine roared. The bike lunged. The escort broke ranks and scattered. Tom swerved past Edward and brought the machine back around in a screech of tyres. A Carbineer raised her weapon. "Hold it there!"

Tom slowly raised his hands. What had he he expected to achieve?

Behind her, Edward twitched his shoulders. Wrists trailing shredded rope he clapped his hands above his head and cried, "
King of the Air! Into your kind keeping, I gave my shining sword. Now with this sacrifice...
" He made a fist and hammered it into the back of the woman’s neck.

Her eyes went blank. She toppled without a word.

It would do no good. The escort closed in, bayonets fixed. Tom forced himself to watch. This was all his fault, after all.

"
I bid you return my sword to my grateful grip."
Instead of defending himself, Edward raised his hands and clapped them above his head. There was a
whoosh
! and a longsword appeared out of thin air. He grasped it.

A fence of bayonets contracted around the young king-

And Edward
moved
through them.

Steel flickered. Blood sprayed. Corpses sprawled on the paving slabs, and the young king had a black square all to himself.He took a running leap and swung up into the saddle behind Tom. He wrapped an arm around his waist. "Well, Sir Tom? Are you rescuing me or not?"

Soldiers pointed carbines. Tom looked at them, puzzled. Then something plucked at his sleeve, leaving a neat hole through the fold. He opened the throttle wide and plunged into the field-grey mob, creating a human bow wave.

A Carbineer dropped to one knee and levelled her weapon.

Tom drove straight at her.

She dived clear, but the knee-guard clipped her legs. The bike jumped and, tyres squealing, skidded sideways across the giant chessboard. Edward’s arms tightened, crushing Tom’s lungs.

Gasping for breath, Tom turned into the skid and threw his weight to the side. They righted. He changed up a gear, launched the bike towards the edge of Cathedral Square. Now Tom hunched forward, weaving the bike between stragglers. The battered buildings blurred closer. Tom picked a gap and threw the bike into a narrow street. The urban canyon channelled the engine noise, turning it into a thundering heartbeat.

A corner opened out onto a straight section – a small marketplace. At the far end, a dozen blue-uniformed Security Workers sped to meet him: nippy little two-stroke motorcycles whining like salon hairdryers.

Tom yelled over his shoulder, "Hold on." He swerved into a side street and wove between panicked natives.

The wall to his left exploded. He looked up. Airship 03, the scout model, hovered low over the medieval city, pouring lead into streets. Civilians jerked and crumpled, their bodies shredded.

Tom hauled the bike around, changed down and rumbled into a gloomy alley. The overhanging buildings provided cover from the airship. But his quivering wing mirror showed the Security bikers ploughing after him.

Tom picked an even narrower alley – a mere crevice between wattle and daub walls – and plunged into the shadows. A tight bend forced him to brake and change down. Now, big single-cylinder engine thumping like a bass drum, he inched the machine forward, brushing his shoulder on ragged masonry and wooden supports.

Edward shouted in his ear, "You have lost them."

"It’s not that simple." Tom tried to picture the map of the city. There was no possibility of escape through the main gates, but perhaps one of the breaches was unguarded. "Which way to the sea?"

"Straight ahead, I think."

The alley opened into the Harbour Market; deserted at this time of year. Off to the right, a rubble-strewn breach gaped invitingly. Tom began to pull the bike around.

The Security Workers buzzed out of a parallel alley, cutting them off.

Tom wrenched the handlebars back towards the forest of masts. Fifty metres ahead, the city walls met the Ocean of Thule and extended into a long stone mole with fishing boats tied up along its length. A squat fortified lighthouse rose like a hammerhead from the end.

He opened the throttle wide and they rocketed between lobster pots and fish carts.

The Security Workers didn’t have passengers, but – thanks to Marcel – it was Tom who had the better tuned engine. Gradually, as the seconds stretched out like hours, Tom pulled ahead of his pursuers. The tyres mounted the smooth flagstones of the mole. The bike picked up speed and the masts of the fishing boats flew by.

Tom hurtled along the narrow walkway, faster and faster. Sea spray misted his goggles. The tower at the end of the mole grew ever closer. In a few seconds they would plunge into the ocean. But as the edge approached, his fingers clenched on the front brake. Tyres screeching, the bike whirled to a stop facing the Security Workers. They waited at the head of the mole.

Trapped.

Tom twisted to face his passenger. "Sorry Edward."

Edward laughed. "For my part, while I live I will fight." He brandished his sword one-handed. "Let us make a pass of arms!"

Without stopping to think, Tom ducked low over the handlebars to give Edward a clear field of view, and set the bike thundering back down the mole towards the Security Workers.

Some tried to turn their bikes, others jumped free and fled on foot. The sword caught one under the chin. Another vanished off his bike. Blood misted Tom’s goggles. The front wheel bumped over something and they were airborne. The engine screamed as the revs jumped up. A heartbeat later, they bumped to the ground next to the breach.

Tom stood up on the pegs and scrambled the bike up the rubble and out of Kinghaven.

Bullets cracked. Mud splashed. The scout airship had spotted them. Tom zigzagged as randomly as he could, each turn pulling his body left and right, making Edward’s arms tighten on his waist. Then the autumn-brown Royal Forest enveloped them.

Edward shouted in his ear. "Left! There’s a hunting track."

They flew along under the russet canopy, leaving behind everything that was modern, or even human. It was as if the Egality had never been.

CHAPTER FOUR

It was only after an hour of hard driving that Tom dared to stop. The woods were almost silent save for the distant whine of the Security men's two-stroke engines.

"It will be a long chase," said Edward.

"Not so long," said Tom, wiping his goggles. "This is the Cruiser, not the Urban model." He dismounted. "Also, I have spare fuel and they have not." He checked the bike, then rummaged in his saddle bags while Edward cleaned his sword.

Tom found himself staring at his signed edition of
Mountain of Solitude
— a present from Marcel. Way too heavy to carry, but he could not make his shaking fingers uncurl from the spine.

Edward caught his wrist. "As I fled your embrace, I thought on your words, then of all the cities, boroughs, villages, castles and monasteries of my kingdom, and how in each one, there were men who are alone, even in the company of their friends. I cannot believe that God would create us just to suffer in this world and the next. And these people are my subjects – my responsibility. And... I am not saying this well." He kissed Tom hard on the mouth, his soft blonde beard snagging in Tom’s stubble

Tom’s head spun. The book fell to the mud. He returned the kiss, anchoring himself against the maelstrom of grief and confusion. But a thought forced him to pull away. "Why did you surrender to Smith?"

"To
Hamilton
. Smith now languishes in prison. You sang the praises of the Egality so well, that I dismissed Smith as the rotten apple in the barrel—that is until your Field Marshal Williams sent men to slay me." Edward laughed. "And I thought Westerland court politics were lunatic! At least as King I may do some good. The rank of Citizen transpired to be a death sentence."

Tom sank to his haunches. He brushed the mud from the book. "I can’t go home now."

Edward knelt next to him. "I shall make what recompense I can."

"Let’s take off. Lose ourselves in the Empire. You could set up as a fencing master. When the Egality arrives, we’ll just be a couple of locals."

Edward laughed. "Tempter." He sobered. "But I must live and die a king." He placed his hand over Tom’s, as if they were taking a vow on the Scriptures. "Take me to Middleburgh, my love. I am Duke there in right of my mother. If the Army of Westerland has rallied, it will be in that city."

Tom stared down at Edward’s hand. Could he really bring himself to help the enemy leader back to his army? He reached into his jacket, and unfolded the map. "There are soldiers at Holy Mount, so you can forget the coastal road." Discussing practicalities wasn’t the same as agreeing to help.

"A fine map indeed." Edward traced the river through the mountains. "Too far east, and we’re in the Land of the Psalmists."

Tom pointed to a fortress symbol just on the Westerland side of the Psalmist border. "Gorebridge Castle. It’s safe pending a Best Practice Review of Assault Doctrine." He felt his cheeks colour. Now he was giving away military secrets.

"Ah, but are the Redmains of Gorebridge loyal to my uncle or to me?" Edward rose without using his hands to touch the ground. "No matter. We do not need a ford or a bridge – a boat will do just as well." He swung into the saddle.

Tom stared up at his new lover. Even in doublet and leg-hugging hose, the blonde king looked as if he belonged on the motorcycle.

Edward blushed. "What?"

"I’d love to take you home, Ned," said Tom.

"To your mother?" asked Edward.

"No — idiot!" Tom laughed, and it felt good. "Get you your own motorbike. We could hit the Autobahns, drive forever."

"I shall make that a condition of a general peace," said Edward with false brightness.

One by one, Tom laid fallen leaves on the book. It took twenty to bury the volume. Then he forced his stiff legs to straighten and climbed on in front of Edward. The King’s arms wrapped around his waist.

Tom took a moment to savour the bear hug, then lowered his goggles and kicked the engine into life. "To Middleburgh!"

He’d followed Marcel into the Egality. Now he was following another lover into another cause. He could no more escape his nature than could Edward.

#

A day of hard driving later, Tom emptied the spare can. "The countryside seems deserted."

Edward laughed and pointed. A column of smoke rose from somewhere beyond the horizon. "I thought you‘d noticed the beacons. Apparently our mode of transport causes trepidation."

Tom carefully strapped the empty back into place – if he was lucky he could find some pure alcohol to fill it. Egality engineering tended to make up for Egality logistical incompetence. "At least we have clear roads."

They topped a rise. Now a coastal plain stretched out before them. As it met the Ocean of Thule, the strip cultivation gave way to a great city. For an instant Tom imagined they’d slipped back across time and were home. Then he picked out the crenellations and conical tower tops of the city walls.

As they hurtled across the empty plain, what Tom had taken for arrow loops resolved into full-sized windows. Just the gatehouse alone was as big as Castle Dacre’s keep.

The drawbridge was raised.

He came to a stop at 100 metres, well inside bow range, and took off his helmet. "What now?"

"Don’t worry, if they meant to, they would have started shooting by now." Edward gave him a hug. "You, my love, must do the office of herald."

Tom had a vision of himself in a silly tabard. He laughed. "What do I say?" he asked, and realised he was whispering. This was like being on stage, though the audience was cringing somewhere behind the battlements.

"Just announce me," said Edward. "His Majesty, Edward Lowther, the Ninth of that Name, King of Westerland, Duke of Middleburgh in right of his mother."

Tom swung off the bike, took a deep breath and, in a very loud voice, did as he was asked.

Ten minutes ticked by on Tom’s wristwatch. The situation, he realised, was outwith the cultural scripts of the Middleburghers.

"Oh come on!" he called. "If we had come to attack you, don’t you think
the two of us
would have
already
started raping and pillaging?"

"What are you doing?" hissed Edward.

"My job," replied Tom in a stage whisper. "Sometimes people need a nudge."

"I do not understand. But I trust you."

A tonsured head bobbed over the battlements. "Get ye gone, evil warlocks or demons or whatever ye be. In the name of the Holy God of the Elements blight not our land..."

Tom shook his head. "What the fuck?"

Edward laughed. "They are exorcising us."

"At least they’re not shooting."

"True. It is my turn, I believe." Edward stepped forward and unsheathed Skyblade. He spoke with perfect voice projection, overwhelming the clamour of the priests like a tank unit rolling over insurgent primitives. "Do not try my patience."

The priest halted.

"Bring out relics for Us to kiss, and see whether We turn to ashes. And bring out those of Our subjects who will recognise Our face."

Another tense ten minutes. Finally, the drawbridge dropped and a dozen richly dressed men crossed the moat, trailing a body of men-at-arms. A wiry red-haired man strode in front of the procession, Red Unicorns embroidered on his cloth of gold over-coat, an ornately scabbarded longsword bouncing at his hip.

Edward’s shoulders slumped.

"What’s wrong?" asked Tom.

"It is my uncle, John Clifford, Duke of Highcraig."

A hundred kilometres’ worth of aches and pains caught up with Tom. He had rescued Edward from death, only to deliver him to a man destined to murder him.

Edward drew himself up. He jiggled his shoulders the way Marcel used to before a fistfight. Then his right hand dropped to Skyblade’s hilt. "I think I shall simply cut him down out of hand."