Stryker and the Angels of Death (Ebook) (7 page)

Lujan Antczak’s armour jangled as he stepped forwards a pace, wings rustling. ‘Then you will be forced to fight in the river.’

‘I’ve always enjoyed a swim.’

‘Now listen here!’ Stryker bellowed as his men gathered about him. ‘We hold this damned ford!’

He had turned his back on Antczak, leaving the lancer to wade back to his waiting horsemen, and now he and the remnants of Loveless’ Company of Foot joined to plot their next move. Except they were no longer Loveless’ company, they were his, Stryker’s, and he had to remind himself to release each breath he took, lest he pass out from the shock of it.

‘Hold, sir?’ one of the men bleated worriedly. ‘They’ll cut us to shreds!’

Stryker was pacing towards their German contingent, but he paused to look at the plaintiff pikeman. ‘What would you have me do?’

‘Run, sir!’ the man almost wailed. ‘We’ve got the wagon.’ He nodded in the direction of Matthias. ‘Got what we came for.’

‘But he is what the lancers have come for too. If we abandon the ford,’ Stryker pointed across the rushing water, ‘they will canter straight over it and set about us. And we’ve beaten him back once already. There will be no quarter a second time.’

‘Then give him the fuckin’ German,’ the pikeman persisted. He swept his arm in an expansive circle to indicate the assembled throng. ‘We’re here for the loot, sir. To get rich and swive a few bitches while we’re at it.’ He shook his head. ‘Not this, sir. Not self-blinkin’ murder.’

A low mutter greeted his words, growing like a distant storm into a rumble that seemed to rattle through his ribs. Stryker’s skin prickled with sudden sweat and his throat became tight. Forrester shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other. What would Loveless have done?

‘Silence!’ Stryker snarled. He licked his dry lips. ‘Silence I say, God damn your spavined hides!’

To his surprise, the murmuring fell to a near hush, but the faces of those who returned his stare were not friendly. They were the cruel, weathered faces of men who had seen and done unspeakable acts in this war, and he wondered just how black their souls really were. It would have been so easy. A quick blade in the throat, another for Ensign Forrester, and two more stinking bodies upon which the creatures of this dark place might feast. But no one moved. They were hesitant, he supposed, because he was still an officer, despite his youth, and because they must have known that Loveless had respected him. Perhaps that was what kept him alive. Rather than back away from the mob, Stryker stepped closer, drawing his blade as quickly as he could, sliding it free with a sharp rasp. ‘Captain Loveless is dead,’ he said, eyeing each man in turn down the length of the steel. ‘In such an event, his lieutenant must take command, discharging the captain’s orders as they were first intended. Loveless was sent here to take the man Matthias safe back to Stettin. He fought and died for it. As second-in-command, I am willing to do the same. And as
my
men, you will do as I damn well say.’

Silence followed. It was a gamble that relied upon the notion that these hard fellows would support a strong leader. One who would stand up to them, regardless of age or experience.

‘They are too good for us,’ someone said, receiving a handful of agreeing growls for his trouble.

‘No, they are not,’ Stryker replied firmly. ‘They are not demons, nor angels nor woodland bloody banshees. They are men. Polish and Lithuanian men. The wings they wear have not grown. They have not sprouted like weeds from their flesh. They are goose, like as not, stuck together on a couple of twigs and fastened to their armour.’

A short man with red hair, cheeks crammed with freckles, stepped out from the crowd. ‘The lancers are feared, sir.’

‘Not by me, Billy,’ Stryker said. He looked around at the men. ‘Not by us.’

‘Do they join the Liga?’ another voice shouted.

‘No,’ came a reply from one of the pikemen, ‘they ain’t supposed to be here.’

‘Catholic League or Habsburg Empire,’ Stryker replied, ‘what does it matter? They are not supposed to be here, and yet here they are.’ He swept the sword down in a scything arc that sang as it cut the air. ‘And we will bloody well fight them.’

The men muttered their response again, but this time the pitch was strangely higher. Stryker caught Forrester’s eye and realised that although he would probably die this day, it would not be on an English blade after all. He found the leathery face of Praise-God Sykes. ‘Corporal, prepare the men. Pikes at the entrance to the ford, muskets set on their flanks. They threaten to attack tonight, but I doubt he’ll risk his horses on that rubble in the dark. But be vigilant nevertheless.’

‘Sir,’ Sykes responded, and Stryker breathed a secret sigh of relief, for Sykes’s support would prove invaluable.

‘Billy,’ Stryker said as he sheathed his sword.

The redhead stepped forth. ‘Sir?’

‘Take my horse. Ride hard back to Stettin. Find the colonel. Tell him to bring the rest of the regiment down here.’

‘They’ll be too late to help, sir.’

‘Like as not.’ And Stryker turned to walk back to the river.

Rotmistrz
Lujan Antczak watched and waited. Night had fallen as his men had fed and watered their mounts, and now it was too dark to attack. He had told the boy Stryker that a night assault would be the Englishman’s undoing, but that was mere bluff. He wanted the mercenaries to keep wide-eyed during the darkest hours so they were exhausted come sun up. He strolled alongside the Oder. At the ford, a party of his men were dragging corpses into a neat line, clearing the way for the horses in the morning. A morning that would see the River Oder run red with English blood.

Innocent Stryker walked between the circles of men, catching the occasional eye and returning the occasional nod. A soldier’s camp was often a place of fun. As night blackened the hills and trees and roads, those weather-hewn men who had been forced to march through beating sun or hammering rain would be given the chance to rest, would light fires and warm their bones and roast a hare or two. They would tell tall tales as fiddles played joyful reels and men laughed to the stars and drank to another day survived. But this camp had none of that. It was a place of eerie silence, of fires that illuminated strained faces and of men who could not remember their stories or their jests.

He had less than thirty left, including himself, Forrester and Sykes. Not enough to hold back the coming tide, but he appreciated their loyalty. They had decided to stay, for better or worse, to follow their new officer who had never seen a battle and who could not even grow a beard, and he could not tell them how much it meant to him.

Stryker found Ensign Forrester by the riverbank. Together they stood for several quiet minutes, staring out into the black abyss, training their eyes on the spectral figures that moved amongst another range of small fires, wondering which man would be the one to deliver the killing blow come dawn.

Footsteps sounded behind them and both men spun round.

‘My apologies for startling you,’ the features of the lawyer, Buchwald, resolved before Stryker.

Stryker waved him away. ‘No matter, sir.’

Buchwald seemed awkward, wringing his hands. ‘I would speak with you, Lieutenant.’ He glanced at Forrester. ‘Alone.’

‘You may say whatever is to be said,’ Stryker replied. ‘Ensign Forrester is my second here.’

Buchwald’s eyes darted from one to the other, and he swallowed. ‘As you wish.’ He seemed embarrassed. ‘I would ask you to surrender.’

‘Oh?’

Buchwald wrung his hands again. ‘The
Husaria
are not forgiving. They have too many men. You might make things,’ he looked up at the smoke-misted moon as he searched for the word, ‘
difficult
for them in crossing the ford, but you know you cannot keep them at bay for ever. They are too many. We too few.’

Stryker sighed heavily. ‘I am afraid the die is cast, Herr Buchwald. I have offended their leader. If we surrender now, he will kill us all, like as not.’ A thought occurred to him then, and he brightened. ‘But you have nothing for which to remain, sir. You were to guide us here, and you have. Leave now, while you still can.’

‘No,’ Buchwald shook his head rapidly, jowls shaking, and turned to move back into the deeper dark.

Forrester whistled a soft ditty. ‘If I were him,’ he said when the last lingering note had faded, ‘I’d be long gone.’

Stryker shrugged. ‘Perhaps he does not wish to risk the forest at night. It is dangerous.’

Forrester gave a snort of amusement, pointing out towards the Polish camp. ‘Not as dangerous as that lot, I’d wager.’ He fell silent for a few seconds, gnawing the inside of his mouth. ‘How will we stop them, sir? He is right. If they charge across the ford, our pike and shot can only delay them. We have not the numbers. Not any longer.’

‘Truth told, Ensign, I am not certain. We will move the wagon up on to the causeway. It is not wide enough to block the whole ford, but it will break up their charge.’

Forrester nodded. ‘That is something, I suppose.’ He straightened then, rolling his shoulders and taking a deep breath. ‘I would take a squad over the river, sir.’

Stryker stared at his subordinate in surprise. ‘No.’

‘Under cover of night, sir,’ the ensign pressed. ‘Give me a dozen men, and I’ll slit as many throats as I may.’

‘Do not be a fool, Forrester. I cannot spare the men.’

For a moment the two officers stared at one another, before Forrester turned back to the river in dismay. ‘I know what you think of me. A foppish stripling. Some lordly buffoon playing at soldier. Perhaps you are right in part.’ He looked up defiantly. ‘But not the whole, sir. Not the whole. I would prove that to you.’

Stryker considered the challenge, and could not help but see an image of Forrester on the far bank, barking orders at men old enough to be his father in the face of a charging column of lancers. He remembered his own bowel-loosening horror at joining the fight, and could not bring himself to look Forrester in the eye. ‘It is proven,’ he muttered.

Forrester sighed heavily. ‘What a strange grave this place will make. I did not expect to die here.’

‘I confess I imagined you in a more scholarly life,’ Stryker answered.

‘That was indeed my lot not so very long ago, sir,’ Forrester said. ‘I was a student in London. Dancing and drinking and having a merry old time, I can tell you.’ He clicked his tongue at a sudden memory. ‘And the Winchester Geese, sir. By God, they were the prettiest things you ever did see, I swear it.’ He shrugged shyly. ‘That was
why
I enlisted, truth told, for I’d soon squandered Papa’s money.’

‘Your father funded such a life?’ Stryker asked in bafflement.

‘In a way,’ Forrester muttered, attention returning to the river.

Stryker felt the corner of his mouth twitch. ‘He did not know, did he?’

Forrester’s head shook slightly. ‘Thought I was studying hard, sir. And I was, of course.’ His ruddy cheeks seemed to glow, despite the dark. ‘Studying wine and theatre and women. When the money dried up I could not face Papa, so I took ship. Fortunately Colonel Skaithlocke was in need of educated men for his commissioned positions. I dread to think what might have become of me if I’d found myself in the ranks.’

‘Eaten alive,’ Stryker said, and they both laughed.

‘I rather think you’re right, sir. Might I ask . . .?’

‘I was in London too,’ Stryker replied. ‘Lifting purses.’

‘Good God,’ Forrester exclaimed. ‘A thief?’

‘Aye.’

‘But you have your letters, sir, do you not?’

Stryker nodded. ‘I am from Hampshire. The Downs. Father was a wool merchant. Respectable roots, Ensign, if humble enough, and yes I was taught my letters.’

‘Yet you fight like a . . . I don’t know . . . a cornered badger, sir.’

Stryker laughed again. ‘Thank you, Forrester, I think.’

‘I am serious, sir. I have seen you at drill with Corporal Sykes. It is not as easy for him to best you as he makes out. Besides, you showed your colours today. You did not lose your head when so many others might have. Bringing up the pikes saved our skins. I know I would not have done so well.’

‘You underestimate yourself,’ Stryker chided. He thought back to the bloody fight and those moments after the musket volley had allowed the
Husaria
a clear chance to strike. ‘I have a confession, Ensign.’

‘Oh?’

‘I was safe with the wagon when the hussars hit home. Ordered there by Loveless.’

‘Why did you come back?’

‘Because I saw you,’ Stryker said, and the honesty did not negate the guilt, as he had hoped it might. ‘To my shame, I saw you fighting. I was jealous, Ensign. Envious of your courage.’

Forrester simply smiled. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘You thank me?’

‘You are a good leader, Lieutenant Stryker. I shall take it as a compliment. After all, we are to die in the morning.’ He squinted at the shapes on the far bank. ‘Winged Hussars. Never thought I’d get to see them up close.’

‘Was today close enough for you?’ Stryker scoffed.

‘Aye, sir,’ Forrester chuckled ruefully. ‘Quite close enough.’ His face dropped suddenly, losing its almost perpetual joviality. ‘Is it wrong of me to wish – in some small part – that you had done what Herr Buchwald asked?’