Stryker and the Angels of Death (Ebook) (6 page)

Stryker felt himself colour. ‘Too late.’

‘How many did we lose?’

‘A handful,’ Stryker lied. In truth it had been more costly than he could have imagined. Both sergeants were gone, as was one of the company’s pair of corporals, while they had lost eighteen musketeers and a pikeman.

‘You have the spy?’

The question surprised Stryker, for in the chaos he had completely forgotten the reason they were at Moczyly and its godforsaken ford. He glanced across to where the three Germans – Matthias, Buchwald and the driver, Sammer – waited together. ‘Aye, sir, we have him.’

‘Then it was not too late.’ Loveless bolted upright, the sudden spasm making Stryker jump back in surprise. The assembled men gasped, but then his thick jaw fell open like a drawbridge and a steaming torrent of crimson vomit spewed over his chin and down his coat. He collapsed when it was done, his breaths markedly more laboured. ‘Be sure an’ tell her I miss her.’

Ensign Lancelot Forrester, his forehead scored by a livid gash, stepped forward. ‘Tell who, sir?’

Loveless rolled on to his side, bringing his knees up to his chest. ‘Mother, o’ course.’

Forrester caught Stryker’s eye. ‘He swoons, sir.’

Stryker had seen a man in his death throes more times than he ever cared think upon in his short service with Skaithlocke’s Foot, and yet somehow he had never thought such a fate would befall the walking wall of granite that was Captain Loveless. And yet here he was, balled up like a newborn, blood pooling around him, whimpering like a whipped pup and calling for his mother. He steadied himself and cleared his throat. ‘I’ll tell her, sir. I’ll tell her.’

Loveless gave a high-pitched mew that sounded almost like a child’s laugh. ‘Thank you, Stryker. I should like to try one of her Lombard slices too. Would you send for one?’

‘I will, sir. That I will.’

‘Good. You’re a good lad. A good officer.’

Stryker found himself inspecting his filthy boots, for he could not look into the face of their stricken leader. He wondered if the others could read his shame.

‘Gone, sir,’ the deep voice of Praise-God Sykes cut through his reverie. ‘He’s gone.’

Stryker knelt beside the captain, felt for the thick wrist, then probed at the bestubbled neck. He swept his palm across the captain’s face to push closed his lifeless eyes, and twisted back to look at the corporal. ‘What now?’

Sykes shrugged. ‘What say you, sir?’

In that second Stryker wished the Oder would break its banks and carry him away. He had lamented losing Loveless, for the war-hewn captain was his leader and mentor, but never had he considered the implications as second-in-command. He felt his insides twist. ‘What say I?’

‘The company’s yours, sir,’ Sykes confirmed what Stryker dreaded. ‘What’s left of it. ’Til we get home, that is.’

‘We fight the buggers,’ another man barked, his voice a strange mix of hard warrior and soft youth.

Stryker rounded angrily on the speaker. ‘Hush your mouth, Ensign Forrester!’

Forrester stepped forth, his round face crimson. The ensign had fought well, and though Stryker had been the one to deploy the pikes, it had been Forrester who had held back the Polish tide when Loveless had fallen.

‘
Ja
, Herr Stryker,’ a voice belonging to Pomerania saved Stryker from an uncomfortable confrontation. ‘I am with you. They will kill us. Kill us all.’

All eyes turned upon the lawyer, Buchwald, the man who had guided the company here in the first place. Stryker glanced at the men, seizing the opportunity to rid himself of prying eyes that he suspected were judging his ability to lead even before the captain’s corpse was cold. ‘Leave us.’

‘They will get across this ford, sir,’ Buchwald pressed when only he and Matthias were left with the two officers. He offered a staccato nod in the spy’s direction. ‘We must give them this fellow and return with our skins. I beg you.’

Matthias’ jaw dropped. ‘Give them? Who are you to offer me up to— ’

‘Enough,’ Stryker snapped, holding up flattened palms for peace. He turned to stare at the river. It rushed over the ford in a frothing torrent, and he was glad of its power, for it meant that his enemies could cross nowhere else. They thronged the far bank, moving back and forth beside the water like hungry lions in a cage.

‘Of all base passions,’ Lancelot Forrester muttered, ‘fear is the most accursed.’

Stryker looked across at him. ‘Ensign?’

‘
Henry the Sixth
, sir. Part One. Should we fear these fellows? Ones who would ride to battle so feathered?’ The fresh face creased in scorn. ‘Christ, sir, I’ve seen more fearsome beasts at the London playhouses.’

‘Why don’t you stand at the rear, Ensign?’ Stryker said irascibly.

Forrester’s face flushed. ‘Sir, I . . .’

Stryker saw the unswerving belligerence in the ensign’s expression and suspected that the contrast with his own emotions might be too stark for the men to miss. ‘Did you not hear me?’ he blustered. ‘Have you wool crammed in your ears, boy?’

Forrester stepped back. ‘I am second-in-command here, sir.’

‘You are nothing, sir,’ Stryker bit back caustically. ‘A stripling. A fop. A creature of fine words and manners but nought of use.’

Forrester’s thin neck convulsed as he swallowed thickly. ‘I am a soldier, sir.’

Stryker forced out a bitter chuckle. ‘You are a mouse before a troop of fucking cats, Forrester.’ He waved a hand at the malevolent ranks on the opposite side of the river. ‘Go parlay with them if you wish. Speak of your friend Shakespeare and see if they do not stick a lance in your belly for the trouble.’

The shout came from across the Oder, making everyone start, all eyes darting to rest upon the figure who had walked his mount to the edge of the bank near the ford. Without needing an order, a handful of musketeers moved out on to the tumbledown causeway, training their long-arms on the rider, who calmly handed his lance and helmet to a waiting aide and raised both hands in supplication. One palm was swathed in leather, the other in the metal of a glinting gauntlet, and he made a funnel of them around his lips, shouting again, though the words were no more intelligible to Stryker than the babble of the Oder.

Stryker went to the ford. He pointed to the frothing causeway and stepped out, gasping a touch as the cold water seeped into his boots. A mix of both satisfaction and trepidation hit him as he saw that the hussar had dismounted and was striding out. The man was dark haired and tall. Stryker guessed that he was lean, though it was difficult to tell beneath all that armour. The cavalryman strode confidently enough, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, and Stryker found himself wondering how difficult it must be for a man to walk with great, white wings strapped to his back.

The gentle sound of splashing reached his ears from behind, and he twisted to see that Forrester had accompanied him. He glowered, but the ensign stared back stubbornly.  It was no time to present their division to the enemy.

‘You are Polish?’ Stryker said to the armoured cavalryman when they met, ten paces apart, in the centre of the ford. Stryker had had to weave between his poised musketeers to reach this spot, and he was relieved to know that their muzzles would still be resting on the man he now faced.

There was a short pause followed by a nod. ‘And you English,’ the cavalryman said, his manner stilted as he negotiated a language not his own. ‘Mercenaries,’ he added as though the word itself tasted rotten on the tongue.

Stryker stared at the man before him. At the ice-blue eyes, the armour and the huge wings that he now noticed were spattered with little flecks of scarlet. He felt his pulse quicken, for this was a hard man. Stryker ground his teeth so that his jaw hurt, forcing his heartbeat to slow a fraction with each deep breath. ‘Why did you attack us?’

The cavalryman placed his gloved hand on his chest. ‘I am Lujan Antczak. I command these men.’

‘Stryker.’

‘Captain? Major?’

Stryker could not prevent his eyes from falling to the water between them. ‘Lieutenant.’

‘And I am Ensign Forrester,’ Forrester’s high-pitched voice chirped at his back.

‘Ah,’ one of the hussar’s thin eyebrows formed an arch. ‘I saw your leader fall, of course. My sympathies.’

Stryker looked up and thought he saw a smirk. ‘Shove it up your arse, Ant-Shack.’

Antczak seemed amused. ‘Come now, my young friend.’ He laughed. ‘We are not at war, you and I.’

Stryker spat. ‘Could have fooled me,
friend
.’

The lancer watched the globule of phlegm play in the eddying rock pools at their feet. ‘An unavoidable skirmish,’ he said eventually, ‘to let you know that I will fight if necessary.’ His blue eyes drifted beyond Stryker’s shoulder to where the English contingent gathered on the western bank. ‘How many did you lose?’

‘Ten,’ Stryker lied as he had to the dying Loveless. It had been twenty-three including the captain, but he did not have any more men to spare for burial detail, lest the Poles made a sally over the ford, so those corpses lay stiffening even now amongst the trees.

Antczak smiled, baring teeth that were neat and white. ‘I think more.’

‘Think what you like,’ Stryker said. He squared his shoulders. He was terrified, but he’d be damned before he let Antczak know that.

‘Oh, I shall,’ Antczak replied. He plucked at the fingers of his glove, pulling it free so that he might gnaw at his thumbnail. ‘You are outnumbered and frightened, but that does not mean I wish to fight. I am not here for you and your men, Lieutenant Stryker.’ His eyes flickered past Stryker again. ‘Give me the wagon and you’ll march away with your insides,’ he pursed his lips in thought, then grinned, ‘on the inside.’

In that moment every fibre of Stryker’s being screamed at him to accept. But the men were watching. Forrester was watching. He brandished a smile of his own. ‘Seems a fair deal,’ he answered brightly. ‘I don’t need it.’ He turned to Forrester. ‘Fetch the cart, Ensign.’

Antczak cocked his head to the side. ‘I will require the men too. The driver and his passenger.’

‘Oh?’ Stryker said in mock surprise. ‘A pair of simple merchants?’

Antczak sighed. ‘If they are simple merchants, my young friend, then I might ask why you would risk the lives of your men to protect them. My quarrel is not with you, boy, and I regret the death of your leader. But I will do what I must. Give me what I ask, and I will give you life.’

‘And what, pray,’ Forrester chimed before Stryker could reply, ‘will you give us should we refuse?’

‘What a stupid bloody question,’ Stryker hissed.

‘Not death,’ Antczak said slowly, eyes never leaving Stryker’s face. ‘Worse than death. We are
Husaria
. Winged lancers. The eagles of steel and blood. The angels of death.’ He thrust out a hand, levelling his forefinger at Stryker’s chest. ‘And we will make you wish you
were
dead. That is my promise to you.’

Stryker twisted back to meet Forrester’s gaze, but instead of seeing fear or contrition he saw strength. He held the ensign’s calm stare for a heartbeat before turning back. ‘The driver and his fedary seem pleasant enough, Mister Antczak,’ Stryker replied in as jaunty a tone as he could muster. ‘Therefore I’ve not the mind to acquiesce to your request.’

Antczak might not have grasped all that was said, but he understood well enough, for his eyes narrowed to slits, all pleasantries vanished on the gentle breeze. ‘Then you are a fool.’

Stryker was frightened. Terrified. But something in the lancer’s arrogance irked him. The blood-spattered feathers were a looming reminder of the price his comrades had already paid for Matthias and his precious intelligence. Ferdinand Loveless had been a soldier – a real soldier – and he had died for this mission. Stryker realised that if he ever wanted to follow in his gruff mentor’s footsteps, now was the time.

‘We turned you back once,’ he said as coolly as he could, though sickness danced madly about his guts.

Antczak spat, betraying just a trace of anger. ‘You think we could not have bested your handful of pikes had we wished? I spared you then. I will not be so kindly a second time.’

Stryker shrugged. ‘Best them, sir, and my muskets will shred your bloody duck feathers.’

The Pole visibly bridled. ‘You do not have enough men left.’ He nodded past the officers to their raggedy ranks on the far bank. ‘Half your force lies carrion for the wolves. We will come at night, clothed in darkness. We shall overwhelm your pikes and then your shot and gallop on to the far bank. You will be crushed like insects.’

Stryker felt his hands tremble and he secreted one behind his back. The other he planted firmly on his sword hilt. ‘Try me.’

Antczak evidently misread the move for bluff defiance.  His jaw quivered as he ground his teeth. ‘We will come for you, Lieutenant. We will smash through your men, impale you on our lances and push you into the Oder’s chill depths.’

‘And we,’ Lancelot Forrester piped from behind his new commander, ‘will resist you until the last of us falls.’

Stryker turned to give Forrester a curt nod. For the first time he was pleased to have his exuberant confidence. He prayed that it would be infectious. He forced a smile at Antczak. ‘You heard him, sir.’