Vikings battle Zeppelins while forbidden desires spark! (Swords Versus Tanks Book 2) (6 page)

Jasmine grabbed her ankles and pulled her back onto the bearskin. Her hem rode up, revealing a light linen shift and white silk stockings held up by green ribbons just above the curve of the calf muscle.

Lady Maud was panting with laughter now. She grabbed the book and rolled onto her back. "Were you a man, my honour would be in great hazard!"

Jasmine slid her hands up the Princess's legs. A fine red down covered her calves above the ribbons. It had never seen anything as modern as a lady's razor. "This is a dream," said Jasmine. "Nothing matters in dreams."

"I like dreams." Lady Maud opened her legs as far as the runkled dress would allow. Her thighs were soft and cool to the touch. "Recall you the Dream of Piers the Minstrel?" she asked.

Jasmine nodded. The medieval legend was one of Rosetta’s favourite subjects. "Piers the Minstrel dreams of the olden days at King Tristram’s court," she said, her voice husky. "He spies on Queen Isolde as she bathes, but she spots him and unleashes the Questing Beast."

Lady Maud sat up and drew her legs in. She flipped open the book. "
Printed 1910
. This being the year 1490, I deduce that you are the Dreamer, and I the Vision of Times Past." She snapped the book shut. "What do you say to that, my Modern Lady Knight?"

Jasmine grasped Lady Maud’s ankles. "I say that I don’t see a Questing Beast," she said, then realised what she had half-admitted. She tugged until the girl lay flat on the bearskin rug. Carefully, she rolled up the dress and shift.

"Oh." Lady Maud raised her hips to let the fabric gather at her narrow waist. "But I would question you further!"

Jasmine grinned.
A natural redhead.
"Too bad," she said. "My nanny taught me never to speak with my mouth full."

CHAPTER SIX

God alone knew how the savages came by it — thought Lowenstein as he deflected Prince Hjalti’s questions — but they really did have a proper council chamber. With its panelled walls decked out with sombre oil paintings, and its long polished table carved with mythical beasts, it was a place for statesmen to hammer out treaties, and for kings to plot their metamorphosis into emperors. Neither the knight nor the barbarian monarch belonged here. But Prince Hjalti – as the other timeline proved – was as at home in this room as was Jasmine Klimt in her tanks.

After half an hour, Lowenstein finally managed to broach the subject of his mission. "The Egality…" He suppressed a frown. He had not expected to ever act as spokesman for the mediocratic scum. "
We
have no interest in these islands. Westerland and the Empire, however, are ours. You would be wise to cooperate."

The Earl of Dacre glared at him. "You shall have just enough of my homeland for a decent grave, no more."

Lowenstein met the oaf's gaze and smiled. Legendary hero, perhaps. But still just an ignorant primitive from history's dung heap. "I state facts," he said. "And-" he glanced meaningfully at the King "-an ambassador enjoys a safe conduct, yes?"

King Ragnar nodded. "What you want?" He held up a meaty hand. "Wait, Ranulph. Let him speak."

"Deactivate the runes," said Lowenstein. "Stop them, that is."

"Stop them?" Prince Hjalti set down his drinking horn. His eyes glinted. "How? Erase each and every inscription? Ha!"

Lowenstein considered his reply.
King
Hjalti would always be remembered as a moderniser – best to treat him that way. "Superstitious nonsense," he said. "The runes work because men of power will them to. We ask only that King Ragnar order his people to desist."

Prince Hjalti furrowed his brow. The chamber fell silent except for the hiss of peat in the hearth. At last, he said, "Lord Lowenstein, I think you understand the runes not at all."

Lowenstein rose. "And I don’t think you understand the destruction we can wreak on your little island."

#

The door slammed behind Lowenstein and Ranulph realised this was his moment to ask about the Greater Runes. The snag was, he had no idea where to begin.

Prince Hjalti pushed back his chair. Without thinking, Ranulph followed suit.

"Where are you going?" asked Ragnar, now speaking in his native Northern.

"To escort the ambassador, of course," said Hjalti.

"Pah! He insulted us. Let him slope off like an absconding slave." Ragnar reached for the jug, "More mead?"

Ranulph sank back into his chair and held out the fine Dussianware goblet for a refill. If only Albrecht were here to help him find the right words.

Hjalti sighed. "Not very
statesmanlike
-" He used the Western word, since Northern had no equivalent, "- brother."

Ragnar curled a giant hand around his delicate glass and slowly raised it to his lips. "I was aiming for
regal
."

Ranulph glanced around the Council Chamber. The panelling must have come from Kinghaven, as had the ‘portraits’ of Ragnar’s ancestors. Another generation, and the Rune Isles would be just another kingdom, albeit one with a colourful past. How long before they invited back the missionaries?

Hjalti stalked over to the chamber door. He opened it a crack. "Thorolf. Lord Lowenstein is to have no formal escort, but keep an eye on him."

Ranulph leaned forward. "I..." He said, and trailed off.

Prince Hjalti stooped and threw a lump of peat into the fire. A cloud of embers rose from the grate. "So, Sir Ranulph," he said, still facing the flames. "You’ve bagged yourself a Royal Princess."

Ranulph opened his mouth, then closed it. The prince was his best friend’s brother. He should save his sharp words for real enemies. "Under my protection, Sir, not in any manner ‘bagged.’"

Hjalti turned and grinned at him. With Ranulph still seated, they were almost eye to eye. "Even so, it puts you closer to the throne."

"I am King Edward Lowther’s man!"

Hjalti slipped back onto the bench. "Are you sure your Edward lives?"

Ranulph frowned.

"Go on, Ranulph," rumbled Ragnar between mouthfuls of mead. "It is a good question."

Ranulph’s shoulders slumped. "I do not know. My place was at his side, but…" The room seemed too warm. He loosened his doublet. "The battle was somewhat confused."

"What of the Royal Duke of Highcraig?"

“Clifford?” Ranulph grimaced. Why had he not asked Colonel Klimt? "Clifford was alive when last I saw him."

Ragnar harrumphed. "How alive?"

"Alive,” said Ranulph, “as in I had not quite finished killing him when we were both run over by an ironclad war engine."

Ragnar laughed. "Next time I'll help you. There's this traditional practical joke we call the Blood Eagle…"

Hjalti held up his hand for silence. "If he survives, and Edward does not – what of your loyalty then?"

Since King Edward had no issue, Clifford would… could… inherit the throne. Ranulph grinned mirthlessly. "A crown requires a head to place it on."

Hjalti’s eyes narrowed. "But if you slay Clifford, since you have already slain his son, you would be consort to the heir."

Ranulph half rose from his seat. "Enough!" He turned to Ragnar. "Can you really picture me as a king?"

His blood brother laughed. "Not I, Toy Knight. But then…" He pointed both index fingers at himself then shrugged. "So, what is it that you want of us? More than just a refuge?"

"The Greater Runes," said Ranulph. "Flying ships, tame thunderstorms… all the wonders from your sagas."

Ragnar laughed. "I have seen but one flying ship, and that belongs to your Invaders. If the
Dragon Twins
ever flew from the Rune Isles, they never returned."

"I thought…"

"Ragnar!" snapped Hjalti. "Some secrets are not yours to share."

The giant king thumped the table. "Ranulph is my blood brother."

"But not mine!"

"My friends!" barked Ranulph.

The royal pair snapped their heads around to look at him, then laughed.

"Little Brother," said Ragnar. "Let the Toy Knight speak."

"Look…" The peat hissed in the fire. From behind the ornate door came muffled drinking songs and laughter. Ranulph struggled for the right words. "The Invaders will attack your people sooner or later. You won’t keep any secrets then."

The brothers exchanged a glance. Hjalti sighed. "The Great Runes are lost."

"Guthrum Hairshirt stole them in order to please your White Priests," added Ragnar. "And the Gods did not return the magic, even when our forefathers sacrificed him to Odin."

"No Great Runes," said Ranulph. It was like one of those dreams where he reached for his sword, only to find an empty scabbard.

Hjalti shook his head. "It’s why King Bloodaxe agreed to the Eternal Truce. There was no way of making war anyway." He steepled his fingers. "Aren’t the Lesser Runes enough?"

"Not in a pitched battle, unless you have numbers on your side," said Ranulph. "The Invaders’ guns can tear a man apart without penetrating his armour. And…" Now there was a horrible thought. "What if they bribe or threaten some priests into helping them?"

The brothers shifted nervously. In the Runic Wars resulting from the martyrdom of St Guthrum, priestly blessings had been enough to tip the balance in favour of the knights of the West, and
they
had been armed with mere spears and swords, not guns and ironclad war machines.

"And what…" continued Ranulph. "…happens when their wizards finally turn up? The war engines may not be magical, but they must have been transported using magic."

"Gah!" said Ragnar. "Let’s find some proper magic, then. We should have done that generations ago."

"There’s always the Land of Black Glass," said Hjalti. "If Olaf's saga is to be believed, they have flying stones, demonic hunting packs and such like. Perhaps they could be convinced of the threat."

"Ha! One ship out of twelve completed that voyage," said Ragnar. "And Olaf One-Limb-No-Eyes returned by luck alone. Not an adventure I should like to undertake."

Hjalti nodded. "Currents and shoals, not to mention sea serpents and no guarantee of a welcome when you arrive." His eyes narrowed. "I wager that the airship of the Invaders could take us there. Suppose, when it lands for Lord Lowenstein we slip some housecarls aboard…"

"Hjalti!" Ragnar rounded on his brother. "He is an ambassador."

"He threatened us," said Hjalti.

"Sorry," said Ranulph. "We can do nothing in honour against Lowenstein unless he breaks the truce."

"Hmm." Ragnar’s great brow furrowed. "Will they break the truce? If so, we should be ready to strike back."

Raunlph shook his head. "I cannot believe that Jasmine Klimt would be involved in such an act."

Ragnar grunted. "Well, there’s no hurry. We’ll have all winter for scheming and feasting."

Ranulph rose. "With your permission, I think I shall retire." Perhaps Maud’s grimoire had the answers.

However, when he returned to the hall, Lady Maud was long gone. It was only then that Ranulph recalled trying to kiss Colonel Klimt. Lady Maud had every right to feel insulted, as did the Colonel. No wonder both ladies had retired early.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Outside, Ranulph paused in the moonlit courtyard and waited for his eyes to adjust. He didn’t feel drunk. In truth, he was certain that he had been quite sober all evening. So, why had he tried to kiss the Amazon?

He collected Steelcutter from Thorolf, the chief of the Ragnar’s housecarls who stood guard in the porch.

"Torch, Sir Ranulph?"

Ranulph answered in Northern. "My thanks, but no, Thorolf. I know the way of old." If Jasmine had been a man, her obvious – if imperfect — prowess would have bound them in friendship. Keep the friendship, weave in lust, and what did you have?

He frowned. If Jasmine wasn’t in the hall, perhaps she hadn't retired. If she was in the latrines, he could wait for her return… and then there was always the stables. He had good memories of stables.

Or he could make amends to Lady Maud. She had not objected to sharing the guest chambers with only some easy-going servants for chaperons. She had praised him at the feast. She was proud and wild, and her quick mind drew him as much as her beauty: another friendship wrapped in lust.

He could love either lady.

Somewhere, a whistle shrilled. Ranulph’s hand found Steelcutter.

Thorolf laughed. "Jumpy, Sir Ranulph? That's just Lord Lowenstein looking for his harlot."

Ranulph stiffened. "Watch your tongue, housecarl! That's Colonel Klimt to you."

Thorolf shrugged. "As you wish, Sir Ranulph."

Ranulph relaxed. If Jasmine had wandered off, then his choice was made for him. In the main gatehouse awaited a warm bed, a persuadable lady, and the hope of love.

As he reached the ground-floor entrance, his ears picked up a muffled cry. Almost a scream. Ranulph heaved open the door and made in the direction of the sound. Another cry echoed down the stairwell, then a whimpering groan. Definitely female. Maud was in trouble!

Ranulph thundered up the spiral staircase. With each step, he cursed himself for forgetting that the Invaders were not an honourable enemy. As Hjalti had pointed out, Lady Maud was a possible heir to the throne of Westerland. That made her an obvious target for abduction or assassination. He should have guarded her better.

He burst into the first-floor room, drew Steelcutter, and looked around for Lady Maud.

The noise came from the fireside beyond the great bed.

The embers spilled hellish light on Lady Maud. She lay stretched out on the bearskin like a pagan sacrifice, skirts drawn up to her waist, blood-red hair shimmying as she writhed and gasped in response to whatever it was that Jasmine was doing to her.

Ranulph froze. He wasn’t quite sure what he was seeing, but it
had
to be unnatural.

Lady Maud’s cries ebbed and flowed with no hint of subsiding.

Without changing position, Jasmine brushed her fringe clear of her face and looked up at the sorceress's face — then beyond to Ranulph. She sprang to her feet. She drew her dagger and, with her left hand, flicked back her hair and wiped her mouth.

Lady Maud raised her head, her face was lacquered with perspiration. "Why have you stopped?" She twisted to meet Ranulph’s gaze. "Oh." She struggled to her feet.