Armoured heroes clash across the centuries! (Swords Versus Tanks Book 1) by Page M Harold

Author:Page, M Harold [Page, M Harold]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Warrior Metal Tales
Published: 2015-09-26T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHT

KINGHAVEN WELCOMES CAREFUL DRIVERS

— Kinghaven Municipal Council, "Road sign" (1911)

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Ranulph halted in mid step.

Like a trail of blood, dried rose petals marked the course of Clifford’s triumphal procession across the Inner Ward of Kinghaven Castle up to the great double doors of Tristram’s Hall. Muted chatter seeped out of the ancient building. Compared to the new Royal Range, the old hall was an over-sized barn, but the oak-shingled roof had sheltered tournaments since the time of King Tristram. If Westerland’s chivalry had a home, this was it.

Ranulph frowned. His homecoming wasn't supposed to be like this.

A spear-butt hammered his shoulder blades. "Move it, warlock!"

For the hundredth time, Ranulph strained against his manacles, but they were rune-etched like Steelcutter, and just as strong.

"Or crawl like a dog!" sneered the younger of the two guards. He jabbed his spear point into Ranulph's left calve. Blood trickled down the back of his leg.

Ranulph dropped into a fighting stance, knees bent ready to uncoil and drive him into action.

Behind him, the company of Royal Archers – the real escort — rustled to a halt. Bows creaked. One wrong move and two dozen broad-headed hunting arrows would end things now: tempting, but suicide was a sin. Ranulph let go of his rage and felt filthy for it. The two guards weren’t even proper soldiers, just varlets from the lower ranks of Clifford's retinue. It was a dishonour to be seen with them, let alone to be paraded as their prisoner.

Ranulph trudged through the ancient doorway. The archers did not follow — was there was not enough space inside the packed great hall? He frowned. Albrecht would have read something else into this… but what?

Familiar scents greeted him: spiced beef, hops, wood smoke, gryphon musk, warm bodies and perfume.

Ten years dropped away.

His second Winter Tournament. The good one. Battered armour, jostling knights, cheering crowds… then blacksmiths prising off his unruned helm so he could accept the trophy.

Only now, it was the survivors of the civil war who crowded together under the gaze of the house gryphons. Any cheering would come later, when Clifford displayed the quartered corpse of the last Dacre.

So much for Ranulph’s return from a decade of war and tournament.

The chattering crowd parted before him.

He picked out old friends, distant relatives, former lovers. Some met his eyes with defiance or sympathy. Others looked away. None had been at the siege of Castle Dacre.

A florid-faced earl wearing the Clifford Red Unicorn blocked his path and made a half-bow. His jowls parted in a gap-toothed smile. "Such a glorious return." A poorly set broken nose made him sound like he had a bad cold. "Your father would have been so proud." His followers snickered.

Ranulph’s fingers curled against his manacles. "Lord Redmain," he said in his outdoor voice. "Now too fat to catch little girls, I see."

"Scum!" The portly earl wound his fist back, then took a mighty swing.

Ranulph sidestepped and put out his foot.

Lord Redmain hurtled past, screamed. There was a dull thud.

Ranulph did not bother to look back.

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