Vikings battle Zeppelins while forbidden desires spark! (Swords Versus Tanks Book 2) by M Harold Page Read Free Book Online Page A

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