Vikings battle Zeppelins while forbidden desires spark! (Swords Versus Tanks Book 2) (9 page)

An Air Marine crossed her line of fire. The other woman side-stepped the sword and stabbed her bayonet into the barbarian’s stomach.

The blade snapped. Then the sword whirled around tracing red lines in the air. The top of the woman's head flew off like a discus.

"Bastard." Jasmine fired. All noise ceased. The draught whisked away the white smoke. The mail held, but the chest caved and the barbarian went down.

A siren screamed, the signal to abandon ship. Crew on the fringe of the melee made for their parachutes. The ship veered and lost headway – nobody was piloting – and the wind howled through the main deck.

Sir Ranulph burst through the chaos. His brown eyes found her, even as Steelcutter snapped forward, cutting an Air Marine in half at the waist. Internal organs glistened. The two halves of what had once been a human being toppled in opposite directions, connected only by steam rising from the innards. The big knight advanced between the quivering joints of meat.

Jasmine pumped the Stormgun, jerked it in his direction, curled her finger around the trigger, growled, "Bastard!"… but the word came out half-hearted. The heavy gun barrel dipped.

And Sir Ranulph was on her.

With a yell, Jasmine hauled the weapon back on target and fired: a neat heart shot.

But Sir Ranulph wasn’t there. The heavy slug ricocheted off a structural girder and punched a hole through the decking.

Ranulph’s sword whirred.

Screaming, Jasmine met the blade with the wooden stock of her Stormgun. The impact thrummed through the weapon.

Her hero’s fist filled her vision.

CHAPTER TEN

Ah! To be blessed by daily communication from the Serene Spirits of the Air!

— Stella Ibis-Bear "My Little Book of Wisdom" (Enlightenment Press, 1910)

#

The Sylph tore free of Maud's mind, leaving an odd, empty space. The wind tugged her hair out over her face towards the moonlit ocean. She steadied herself on the battlements and relished the cold shock on her palms.

Maud didn’t feel magical any more, just breathless with joy. She was probably the only person alive to extract three wishes from a Sylph.
The Last Sorceress
had a certain ring to it. Her numbed lips stretched into a grin. Perhaps somebody would compose a ballad about Sir Ranulph and herself.

In the distance, the airship whirled off into the sky. In its wake it scattered strange white mushrooms. Beneath each, a little figure dangled, wriggling and kicking until the wind hurled the man — or woman — into the black waters of the Ocean of Thule. Maud shivered and hugged herself against the cold. Not a good way to die. Sir Ranulph had better keep Jasmine safe and sound. Certainly, he did not have control of the airship.

Maud sighed. It was time to get out of the cold and search her grimoire for a way to bring them both back. She turned to the stair turret.

An icy hand shoved her between the shoulder blades. The door banged shut.

Maud stumbled. She put out her hands and winced in anticipation of stone on frozen fingers.

A gale furled around her, broke her fall, then hurled her off the battlements, into the night sky.

Maud plunged through the darkness. Mocking laughter, sinuous and breathy, filled her mind. Flames billowed bellow her. Smoke enveloped her. A dark shape hurtled closer. Screaming, she flailed her arms and legs.

Stone roof tiles slammed into her chest, crushed the breath out of her. Now screaming soundlessly, she slid down the wet roof towards the edge.

Her slippered feet caught in the gutter.

Maud managed a breath of smoky air. It made her ribs hurt, but it proved she was alive. Very carefully, she squirmed onto her back and looked down.

In the flickering light from the burning great hall, the big lead gutter seemed solid enough, albeit in need of a clean – it was full of soggy old bird nests and her new velvet slippers were ruined. Far below, the flames danced, and Islanders cast wavering shadows as they dug through debris and hauled away the injured and the dead.

Fear thrilled down Maud’s spine. She was horribly high. On the roof of the watch tower of the Ragnar’s shattered keep, to be precise. It was no longer burning, being mostly of stone, but the Invaders’ petards had destroyed the roof and reduced half the structure to rubble.

No rescue until the morning, then.

Rain hissed on the slates and stung her face. She shivered and settled down to one of Sister Mary’s meditation exercises. Slowly, she drew in her focus, gathering her power into her centre. Now she had to-

-the wind yanked her legs out from the roof. The gutter grazed her backside and scraped her back. Her feet shot towards the void.

Not fair!
She had only just started on her adventures.

On instinct, Maud twisted. Her fingers ploughed through the old nests and dirt and closed around the lead rim of the gutter.

Somewhere in her mind, the Sylph tittered. Airy claws shredded her dress, tore at her shift, sucked her slippers from her feet. Slowly, the spirit stretched her out from the gutter so that she hung over the courtyard like a back-to-front gargoyle, her right arm taut as a bowstring. Agony blazed up and down the over-extended limb, but she would not let go.

The rain drilled her back. The dress soaked up the water. Her trailing velvet sleeves became as heavy as knightly mail. Maud strained to get a second hand onto the gutter. Her fingertips brushed smooth lead.

The sylph whirled her into the sky. The stars spun. Nausea spiralled through her skull.

It was just toying with me
.

Maud closed her eyes, blocked out the external sensations, and concentrated on the rest of her body: the icy agony where the roof had bruised or gashed her cold flesh… the thrum of excitement up and down her spine… the cramp in her right hand which still grasped at bits of bird’s nest.

Ah.

Fighting the outwards tug, Maud drew in her arms. Without loosening her grip, she used her left hand to probe the debris. Her numb fingers discovered something soft.
Please let it be a feather.
She clamped it between thumb and forefinger, and let the rest fall away. Then she poured her soul into her inner voice.

O Xarxxel!

Hear thy mistress, Rebellious Sylph!

I crush thy heart in my hand!

She squeezed the feather.

The sylph’s mind-scream skewered her temples. The spinning stopped and she fell. The air tore at her hair and plastered her sodden gown to her cold skin.

Set me down safely on Earth,

Or I will give you unto the Kobalds,

To suffer vile pleasures,

To feel their muddy hands,

She twisted the feather and smiled.

Flexing in your secret places.

The descent slowed. Below, the full Moon lit a rough, pummelled landscape. She glimpsed a shattered church tower rising from a patch of woodland, then her bare feet landed on scratchy heather.

The world pirouetted around her.

Maud dropped to her haunches and inhaled the damp heather-flower scent until the dizziness abated. With great care, she peeled off the wet velvet, forced her aching body upright, and brushed the dripping hair from her face.

Blinking away the rain, she surveyed her surroundings. A faint glow outlined a jagged ridge that reared up through a sheet of moorland. Ragnar's castle must be on the other side. She was cold and soaked, but at least she wasn’t in the Archbishop's dungeon. A fire probably still burned in the gatehouse guest chamber. A short walk, and she could lie on the bearskin rug and think of Jasmine and Ranulph while she warmed up.

She trudged towards the light, planting her stockinged soles flat with each step to spread her weight on the heather. She had gone no more than fifty paces when the air tore at her hand. The feather whipped away into the night.

Maud screamed.

The sylph laughed, and lashed her with rain. The attack stung her face and lashed a flap out of her shift, exposing a breast.

Covering herself with one hand, Maud turned away from the assault.

The sylph clawed her bare legs and ripped half the shift from her back. Now the spirit’s icy fingers scowered her skin through the remnants of her clothing, leaching her body heat. Whimpering, she hunched down and stumbled away from the pain. The cold would kill her before she reached the ridge… such a stupid, pointless death –
and
half-an-hour from a warm hearth.

Maud stubbed her toe and splashed face first into a stream. The ice water shocked her out of self-pity, and into anger. She – Lady Maud Clifford, daughter of a Royal Duke — was being herded like a hunted deer.

The grimoire had an entire chapter on Wards and Defences. A pity she’d not bothered to read it. But if she couldn’t banish the sylph, perhaps she could hide.

"Dark Homunculus,

"I invoke thee,

"
Cloak me off from mortal sigh — "

The Sylph rolled her into the stream. The cold punched the breath out of her.

Gasping, Maud crawled out of ice water, tried for her feet, then fell into a waterlogged pothole. She curled up in the mud and lay there shivering and panting. Who was she deceiving? She was just a foolish girl who had earned death by dabbling with powers best left alone.

The Sylph raked her, shredding away what was left of her shift.

Now she was too cold even to shiver. She closed her eyes and waited for the world to go away. She hadn’t felt this small since her first day at the Blessed Sisters, scared of the dark in her little cell. But there was the prayer Sister Mary had taught her. Might that work?
Harm me not, vile spirits, for I am in the embrace of the God of the Elements, the Eternal Holy Father.

The hostile air whistled and howled, but it no longer seemed to touch her.

She recited the prayer aloud.
"Harm me not, vile spirits, for I am in the embrace of the God of the Elements, the Eternal Holy Father."

Dripping, naked except for her silk stockings, Maud somehow found the strength to stand. She paused for breath, and the wind returned.

"Damn you!” She repeated the prayer, this time louder and with more certainty.

In the half light, she could see that the prayer had not banished the sylph. A vortex of loose heather and twigs roared around her. As long as she kept chanting, she was safe. But could her voice last until dawn?

What she needed was a sanctuary… a church.

Maud set out towards the wooded hillside, and did her best to ignore the pain in her feet and the cold wracking her limbs.

Then she understood. She had prayed, and God had aided her. God existed after all. That he had answered her only meant the Church was right – the Lord helped those who called upon Him, even the damned.

Deep down, Maud knew that there was a Circle of Hell just waiting for her. There was only one way to save herself.

Dawn found her fighting through the trees, babbling the prayer like an old mad woman. Each repetition sapped her mental strength, while around her, the sylph tore up undergrowth, ripped off branches and girdled her with spinning leaves and rippling brambles.

She collided with something hard. The chapel. Open to the elements perhaps, but still a holy place with a simple stone table as an altar. She edged around it until she found a gaping doorway. She wove through charred roof beams and rotten debris, and finally put her hand on the altar. "Sanctuary!" The words came out as a croak. She could chant the prayer no more.

Stones cascaded from the walls. A pebble clipped into her arm.

Whimpering, she huddled under the altar. Rocks and God-knew-what else slammed against the slab altar top.

This was holy ground!

Maud drew in her legs and squeezed further under the altar. Screwing her eyes shut, she visualised the convent library with the daylight streaming in through the stained glass windows, books laid out on the work tables, a blank sheet of paper before her, and a quill in her hand.

The nib scratched out a florid, “So?”

Outside the library, stones clattered. The window rattled and bulged.

Maud ignored it all and focussed on the single word. “So,” she said aloud. “So…?”

The chapel was supposed to be holy ground, but was open to the sylph… just as her magic had worked in the convent, and in St Ignatius’s Cathedral after the Invaders had desecrated it.

“So?”

So
, there was nothing permanent about consecration.

The library shuddered and Maud was dimly aware of a huddled girl with chattering teeth and shivering limbs.

She dropped down a line and inscribed, "However?"

However
, Maud had broken the rules and read above her grade. She knew the Rite of Consecration. Perhaps just this once…

Maud rose from the desk and glided out of the door, not into the Scriptorium of far away convent, but instead back into the ruined chapel, complete with a pair of stockinged legs just visible under the altar, but no sylph, no magic. Somewhere, the wind roared, but everything in the chapel was solid, normal, immovable…

Her quavering voice came from under the altar.
"God of the Elements, Eternal Holy Father, let this place be as you willed it, no more and no less. No will but yours, no spirit but yours, no power but Nature and the human hand
."

She repeated the prayer, putting the last of herself into it.

The wind stopped.

The girl unfolded herself from the altar, bedraggled, but alive. She stooped to pull her stockings up over her long shins and gave Maud a mischievous smile through a curtain of bedraggled red hair.

“I wonder if anybody has ever…” Maud took a step forward- —

— and found herself in the dark, bruised, scratched, cold, but very much alive.

Her words returned to mock her:
I am already damned, unless you think me capable of living the life of a penitent ascetic.

Maud picked herself up. "I found magic when none said I should,” she declared. “Now I shall find salvation when none said I could."