Vikings battle Zeppelins while forbidden desires spark! (Swords Versus Tanks Book 2) (4 page)

Lowenstein coughed. He turned from his conversation with Prince Hjalti, their host's brother and looked across the table to catch her eye.

Jasmine flushed. Had anybody else noticed she was muttering to herself like an old madwoman? She glanced around and wished she hadn’t.

Ragnar’s hall was too much like one of Rosetta’s wilder compositions. An impossible two hundred bearded barbarians feasted at the great table, presided over by their gigantic chieftain. Mismatched tapestries – some of them charred around the edges — draped the towering walls. It all formed a motley backdrop for a curiosity-shop-full of weapons, some rusty and battered, others ridiculously gilt-dipped.

Inevitably, Jasmine’s gaze floated up to where the dragon’s bony wing touched the eaves. For the hundredth time, she craned her neck and took a good look at the skeleton lashed to the underside of the roof beams. A rusty axehead was stuck in the creature’s skull. The relic had to be a fake… and yet she had seen it somewhere before.

King Ragnar leaned over. Torchlight picked out drops of mead on his bushy blond beard. His eyes blazed. "Ah, Valkyrie! You like grandpa’s trophy?"

"King Bloodaxe," she blurted. "You can't be King Bloodaxe’s grandson!"

King Ragnar shrugged. "Grandson... Great great great grandson. What it matter?" He reached out a massive finger and hooked her drinking horn towards him. His eyes widened. "What this? Empty!" He roared something in Northern. A slave girl scurried up with a jar of mead.

"So," continued the king, big hands absentmindedly toying with the girl's ample breasts. "You know Grandpa’s saga? Great Runecaster. Led folk from lost North Way to Rune Islands, slew dragon, murdered by jealous kinsman."

Jasmine heard herself blurt, "I cried over the opera when I was a girl."

"Is sad story," said the king. "Gods much bastards." He gave her a gap-toothed grin. "Strong sons are a shield. Later we make some?"

Jasmine’s head reeled. Thanks to her trusty coil, they didn't even have to make any kind of son, or daughter. And, the giant barbarian monarch
was
her type. Marcel would have urged her on, with strict orders to report the juicy details. "Um," she said.

King Ragnar looked past her and grinned like a hippo. He shot to his feet and slammed the table with both hands. The shockwave passed down the long boards, setting silver platters bouncing. "Friends!" he bellowed, the expelled breath tickling Jasmine’s cheek.

The hall fell silent except for house gryphons fluttering in the rafters.

"I welcome Lady Maud Clifford! Sir Ranulph Earl Dacre!" boomed King Ragnar. His voice rose to a crescendo. "Drink! Feast! Make cheer!" He drew himself up, as if poised to break into an aria. Instead, the operatic blond giant continued more gracefully in Northern, then finally sprawled into his dragon-carved throne.

Jasmine’s battle-tuned ears picked out heavy, measured tread amidst the hustle and bustle. A familiar clipped voice – this time un-muffled by armour — said, "Your pardon, Milady. His Grace would have me sit at his left hand."

Jasmine shuffled down the bench but kept her eyes to herself. With a creak of wood, Sir Ranulph slipped in between her and King Ragnar, living proof of the Anomaly.

The barbarian monarch reached past Sir Ranulph and laid a paw on Jasmine’s arm. "So, later we have good time?"

"King Ragnar!" barked Sir Ranulph. Then he said something in Northern which sounded a little like, "Fuck off."

King Ragnar laughed, made some sort of joke, and leaned back in his throne.

Jasmine jerked around. "I can look after myself!"

Sir Ranulph’s grimy padded jacket had gone. In its place, the big knight now wore a black velvet doublet with gold braid trimmings and a white shirt. The right elbow was lumpy, as if the clothes hid bandages, and his left ear looked as if a dog had torn off the tip, but it didn’t seem to bother him. His deep brown eyes reflected the flickering torchlight as they must have done the flames of Ilium. She could almost see the glittering armour of the Parvian Cataphracts as they swarmed into the burning city. Had he really hacked a path to the beach and made off with one of the enemy ships, just like in the Edgar Howard Lamb story? She should ask…

Jasmine shook her head, and felt giddy. If the knight had had time to change his clothing, it meant she'd lost half an hour somewhere along the line. When last had she been this drunk?

"Your pardon, Colonel Klimt," said Sir Ranulph. "I have met few lady knights."

"I'm not a knight," she said.
And this is not a game of castles and princesses
.

"So your masters let a lady suffer the hazard of war, but not enjoy its honour?"

"The Egality does not need knights," she said.

Sir Ranulph opened his mouth.

Jasmine got in first. "War isn't about honour. It's just a dirty job, like killing sewer rats."

"But…" The big knight's brow furrowed.

A female voice interrupted. "It was not a rat that gave you that wound on your face." There was a hint of mirth behind the words, like bubbling water beneath thin ice.

A red-haired girl had taken Lowenstein's place on King Ragnar’s right. Not a girl; a Real Princess with unbound hair and a figure-hugging velvet gown, green to match her eyes.

Jasmine flushed and put a hand over the dressing on her forehead. Suddenly she felt too rude and lumpen to speak.

"Suppose," continued the Real Princess with a smile, "the rats were man-sized and armed at all points, would you not honour the rat catcher for his – or her — bravery?"

"Um," said Jasmine.

Lowenstein shot her a stern look. "So, Sir Ranulph. How did you come to meet our host?"

"Ah." Sir Ranulph took a sip of mead. "Near ten years ago, Ragnar and Hjalti were in Regensburg selling rune-etched armour. Hjalti made his fortune. But Ragnar took part in the Emperor’s Funeral Tournament."

Jasmine’s temples throbbed. There was a picture in her
Child’s History of Westerland
; a barbarian in a gilded helmet sporting wings large enough to lift aloft his massive frame, facing off against a fairy-like knight armoured in steel meringue armour, all spikes and flanges. "
And so the Last Knight and the Last Northman became boon companions,
” she quoted.

"Foot Melee!" The king leaned down the table and threw a bone over his shoulder. A house gryphon swooped from the rafters and caught it. "Better fun than fiddle-faddle trading!"

"Trade paid for this feast, dear brother," retorted Prince Hjalti in perfect Western. A big man, like Ranulph, but sharp-faced. Jasmine frowned. When was he supposed to become king? It was hard to imagine Ragnar snuffed out by something as small as a musket ball.

"Ho ho! Truth. But is dull truth." The King Ragnar flung his arm around Sir Ranulph. "This little Toy Knight and me, we batter tiny knights, then make bish bash over spoils. Wrecked armour, made friendship! Good trade, yes?"

"Indeed!" said Ranulph "We passed out propped up one against the other. Now, tell me about…"

The giant king laughed again. "Drank and wenched for
three
days! Passed out again!"

"
Truly a meeting from the Annals of Chivalry
," quoted Jasmine.

The Real Princess giggled and Jasmine felt her cheeks flush.

King Ragnar’s drinking cup crashed against the table, making Jasmine flinch. "So, Toy Knight!" boomed the king. "Tell of how you slaughter Clifford’s whelp."

The barbarians shushed themselves into an approximation of silence.

"Your pardon, Milady," murmured Sir Ranulph. He rose and the hall seemed to shrink. Jasmine stared up at him and gulped her mead. Now another story tugged at her memory.

Prince Hjalti set down his drinking horn. "The tale might not be enjoyed by everybody here." He cocked his head at the Real Princess.

Sir Ranulph frowned and looked over at the red-haired girl.

The Real Princess laughed. "I regret only that you did not also slay my father."

"Go on, Sir Ranulph," urged King Ragnar. "Each cut and thrust! Lord Lionel much famed with sword, yes?"

A verse popped into Jasmine's mind:

Thus quoth Lord Lionel wearily

“For rest and drink I fain”

“An hundred blows I’ve struck at thee”

“And still thou art not slain!”

“Forsooth!” Sir Ranulph did reply

“My arms do likewise fail”

“Lets lay awhile our swords forby”

“And quaff a stein of ale!”]

Jasmine shivered. This was the famous single combat with Lord Lionel Clifford! She used to be able to recite all of the Lord Badminton poem. How many thousand lines? It was going to be a long night.

The big knight drained his mead. "Lord Lionel took the Roof Guard, and I that of Wrath." He drew the horn to his shoulder, as if clutching a sword. "I made a Wrath Strike..." The drinking horn flicked forward, spattering drops of mead. "…he a Parting Strike, the which I took with The Crown and answered with Steelcutter's pommel. And yet he kept his feet. I would that he had not been so brave." Sir Ranulph held out the horn for a refill.

Jasmine glanced around. Apart from Lowenstein, everybody at the top end of the great table seemed rapt. King Ragnar even had his eyes closed the better to visualise the fight. "What then?" he prompted.

Sir Ranulph shrugged. "He, another Wrath Strike – or was it a Parting one? – which I set aside at the halfsword. His helmet sights were not so narrow that Steelcutter did not find his eyes. A Thwart Strike, and I took his head." He sat down.

Jasmine blinked.
Was that it?
The epic combat resolved in — what? "How many blows?" she asked.

"On my part?" Sir Ranulph counted off on his fingers. "Two cuts. One pommel-strike. One thrust." He grimaced. "I had no worship from the deed," he said and hunched over his mutton as if to avoid further discussion.

A flock of butterflies had somehow found their way into Jasmine's stomach.
I am done with the slaying of boys,
he'd said when he spared her.

"You should have taken skull for drinking cup!" boomed King Ragnar. He raised his own dome-shaped vessel. It had eye-sockets. Golden staples spanned a gash in the underside of the bowl.

Sir Ranulph swallowed a mouthful. He smiled wanly. "Some of his retainers had me sore pressed."

"My Lord is reluctant to boast," said the Real Princess. Her eyes became pools of absinthe. "Yet he was not so reluctant to single-handedly charge an army of several thousands!" Her eyelids hooded, as if she had just related a piece of spicy gossip, not a war story.

Jasmine reeled.
Just like the Albrecht painting.
"Bloody Hell! You weren't really in the middle of that lot?"

All eyes turned to her.

"When we got to Castle Dacre," she said. "There were several thousand knights and soldiers milling around in front of the walls." It couldn’t really have happened. Nobody really did things like that. "Were they
all
attacking you, Sir Ranulph?"

Sir Ranulph's complexion darkened.

Jasmine leaned a little closer. Anger? No, embarrassment.

The big knight grimaced. "It was not the wisest of my deeds. I owe my life to Colonel Klimt's war engines, who then collected that debt in the slaying of Albrecht…"

King Ragnar frowned into his mead. High above, in the suspended dragon skeleton, a gryphon squawked and flapped its wings. At length, the giant king said something Northern – Jasmine caught the word "Valhalla" – then downed his mead. "Ha!" He grinned, but not with his eyes. "Albrecht would have made pretty picture of your foolish charge! Much give to see that!"

Lowenstein’s eyes narrowed then his expression softened. "Oh, but you can, Your Majesty!" He turned to Jasmine. "Do you still have that pocket book? Show the picture to our Royal Host… Jasmine?"

Jasmine started. "Sorry." She fished in her tunic pocket and opened the book at the photograph of the Genius’s iconic work. She reached past Sir Ranulph without looking at him, and offered the volume to the blond giant.

King Ragnar’s eyes widened. "Wondrous!" He showed it to Sir Ranulph. "Was like this?"

Sir Ranulph frowned. "My squire's sketch rendered into oils!" He turned on Lowenstein. "What necromancy is this?"

"Not necromancy," said Lowenstein. "Think of it as an oracle. Like the, ah, Oracle Books of the Ancients."

The scientist reached for the volume. But the Real Princess got there first. Her long sleeve caught on the table, revealing a hand’s breadth of freckled wrist and forearm. "I am learned in such things." Her fuzzy red eyebrows lowered as she scrutinised the image. "I have never seen work so fine." She caught the corner between thumb and slender forefinger and turned the page.

And Jasmine remembered.

The Real Princess was
Lady Maud Clifford.
Daughter of Clifford the Foul.
Tragic
daughter of –

Jasmine lunged across the table, but it was just too wide. "Don’t!"

Lady Maud straightened. The colour drained from behind her freckles so they stood out like livid burns.

In front of her lay a photograph of Albrecht’s "
Death of the Enchantress
." Not one of Jasmine’s favourite pictures — beautiful girls being burned alive didn’t excite her very much. However, the Genius had done amazingly well, especially considering he’d been on the run at the time. Even in the black-and-white reproduction, the victim was recognisable.

"I thought I had avoided this fate," said Lady Maud, a tremor in her voice.

Jasmine blurted, "It’s OK. It won’t happen now."

"Well," said Lowenstein loudly. "Perhaps we should discuss our mission, Your Majesty. We must be gone by midnight."

"Have you no manners?" boomed the King. "Is my turn. I tell my latest battle. Is good story…" He sat back in his throne and declaimed, "We hungry, outnumbered, and hung-over when..." he tumbled on in bad Western, waving his meat knife like a sword.

The words washed over Jasmine.

Lady Maud listened, apparently entranced, white teeth nipping at a chicken leg with surgical precision.