Warlords race for power while the final battle looms! (Swords Versus Tanks Book 4) by M Harold Page

 
    CHAPTER ONE
     
    Ranulph’s boots hit the heather. He stumbled on the springy surface and looked back up into the night sky.
    Jasmine’s airship buzzed away to became a moving void in the star field.
    Osmund yanked out a handful of heather and wafted it in the faces of the other Northmen. "Smells of home!"
    Thorolf touched Ranulph's arm. "Better move, lord. The Valkyrie may have honour, but her lord does not."
    Ranulph nodded. The second airship had dogged them all the way back from the Land of the Tolmecs. "Which way?"
    Thorolf sniffed the air. "Onto the beach and to the left."
    The other nine Northmen fell in behind Ranulph and Thorolf; an honour guard of survivors.
    It was low tide, so they walked the hard, wet sand just below the line of flotsam and jetsam. Far to the right, moonlight flickered on white wave tops. Ranulph drew his blanket around his shoulders. He could have been a fisherman singing as he tramped back to his croft where a red-haired wife suckled their son and tried not to fret over his late return.
    Steelcutter clanged on a rock. The blade rang out in the dark; the song of Ranulph’s trade.
    They rounded a promontory into a starlit bay. High on the far headland, torches blazed. The wind carried a jumble of voices. "Ragnar’s funeral," said Thorolf. "On the Whale’s Ness."
    "Ten days," said Ranulph. "It’s been just ten days."
    They crossed the damp sand and clambered up the rocky path to emerge blinking into the blaze of torches and the reek of burning whale oil.
    People turned drunkenly and cried out in astonishment. Somebody shouted, "Sir Ranulph!" and the mourners drew apart to let his men pass. Ranulph, ten housecarls at his back, made his way to the tower of wood: a ship’s worth of timber from the royal boatyard.
    Prince Hjalti, King Ragnar’s brother, stood with his back to the unlit pyre. The torchlight threw black shadows from the sharp contours of his face, so that he looked like one of Albrecht’s sketches of Ragnar: the same angular jaw, the same round face, just a little smaller in scale. He scrutinised Ranulph for a moment, then said, "Is my brother avenged?"
    Ranulph bowed. "Lord Lowenstein lives. Most of his followers do not." He flushed despite the cold. He could not bring himself to mention Jasmine. "A portion of revenge, is no revenge," he quoted, which was a simpler truth.
    Hjalti clasped his arm. "Even the greatest of feasts must be enjoyed one mouthful at a time." He turned to his servants and barked, "Well, don’t just stand there. Bring torches for my guests!"
    Lady Maud burst out of the crowd. A tight cap hid her distinctive hair. "Ranulph!"
    Ranulph hugged her to him, clamping her long body to his. His hands drifted down her back. As they reached her girdle, she pulled away and asked, "What of the Lady Jasmine?"
    Of course. Ranulph furrowed his brow. Was Maud his rival for Jasmine? Or Jasmine his rival for Maud? "She is in good health," he said. "And with her people."
    "I know where the magic went," he said.
    Maud put her hands to her ears. "I do not hear you!"
    Two burly housecarls — Hjalti’s men — shoved their way out of the crowd and took up position on either side of her. They eyed Ranulph defiantly but made no move on him. Casually, as if by happenstance, Thorolf and Osmund drifted in to stand to his left and right.
    Ranulph frowned. “What has happened, milady?”
    Maud drew herself up. In her modest clothes, she looked every inch the prim young lady. “I have repented," she said. "And the God of Elements has opened for me a unique path to Salvation. I shall be the Spiritual Mother of an entire nation-"
    "Torches!" cried Prince Hjalti.
    Thorolf took a brand from a servant and handed it to Ranulph.
    He stared at the flame and remembered Maud’s hair billowing on the battlements of Bloodaxe Keep as she cast her magic and brought down the airship. What was all this talk of repentance and being a “spiritual mother”?
    "There will be orations," said