Stryker and the Angels of Death (Ebook) (8 page)

Stryker blew out his cheeks. ‘Not wrong, lad, but hardly worthwhile, for there is no alternative. He wishes me to retreat, but Antczak will never let us leave with our skins intact.’

‘You misunderstand me, sir. Not what he asks now, for I see you have no choice. But before we parlayed with the Pole, when Buchwald told you to give up Matthias.’

It had all been so chaotic in those blurry, blood-soaked moments after the fight. Left in charge of a broken and disoriented mob, Stryker had not the time to consider things properly. Buchwald had pleaded with him before Stryker had stridden out to meet Antczak. ‘He did ask me to give up Matthias, didn’t he?’

‘Aye, sir.’

Stryker scratched at a dried patch of skin on his cheek, realising as it peeled away that it was a globule of another wretched man’s blood. Something tugged at his mind, something he could not shake. ‘Come with me.’

They found Buchwald slumped against the foot of a gnarled tree, his hat slanted over his eyes as he slept. His stout legs were thrust out, one ankle crossed over the other. Stryker kicked them hard.

‘Get up,’ Stryker ordered.

The German scrambled to his feet, chest heaving frantically as he held up shielding palms. ‘Lieutenant? Is everything in order?’

Stryker stared into the older man’s face. ‘Before the parlay, Herr Buchwald, you told me to give Matthias to the cavalrymen.’

Buchwald’s withered jaw worked like that of a landed fish. ‘What of it?’

Forrester moved up to Stryker’s left side. ‘What made you say that? How did you know he was the quarry the Poles hunt?’

The man who had guided them to Moczyly tried to brandish a calm smile, but the strain was etched into every line at his mouth and eyes. ‘I . . . I simply meant that they were clearly looking for
something
. The drink perhaps. Soldiers love palinka. It is so strong and . . .’

‘Sykes,’ Stryker cut in. ‘Take him.’

Out of the shadows came the stocky frame of Corporal Praise-God Sykes. His face was grim as he took the German by the shoulders.

‘What is the meaning of this, Lieutenant?’ Buchwald protested, though he could not move in Sykes’s vice-like grip.

‘The meaning, Herr Buchwald,’ Stryker said, ‘is that they were not after strong liquor. They were chasing Matthias. And you knew it as soon as they came out of the trees. How could you have known, unless you were aware of their plans? Of their presence in these woods?’

‘He knew?’ another voice joined the group. It was the spy himself, eyes flickering between each of the men.

Stryker looked at him. ‘This man betrayed you, Matthias. He works for the Habsburgs or the Liga or one of the damned Catholic states.’ He shrugged in exasperation and turned to Buchwald. ‘I care not which, sir. But you knew our purpose here, and you somehow sent word to Antczak’s masters, who, in turn, sent him.’

‘The first thing we do,’ Forrester muttered softly, ‘let’s kill all the lawyers.’

Buchwald’s shoulders suddenly sagged and his face drooped like an empty sack. ‘The Swedes,’ he muttered in a low voice. ‘They would have Pomerania part of their villainous northern empire.’ He shook his head. ‘I will not allow it. I will never allow it.’

Matthias stepped towards him, bald head glowing in the wan firelight. ‘Traitor.’

‘You are the traitor,’ Buchwald spat in acid retort, ‘working with these dogs. They kill and rape and steal.’ He spat at Stryker with sudden venom. ‘That poor boy you hanged. You are evil men.’

‘Truss him up, Corporal,’ the lieutenant said to Sykes, but his focus seemed elsewhere.

Forrester followed Stryker’s gaze. ‘What is it, sir?’

‘The palinka,’ Stryker said.

‘What of it?’

‘It is strong,’ Buchwald said. He glanced in the lawyer’s direction. The man was already being bound to one of the stouter trunks by leather straps.

Matthias came to stand beside Stryker. ‘
Ja
, Lieutenant. That is true.’

Stryker looked at the spy. ‘How strong?’

Rotmistrz
Lujan Antczak sniffed the wind. Dawn had come, and with it the light mist that obscured the surface of the River Oder each morning. He stared through it, noting the current, measuring the width of the accidental causeway in his mind’s eye. It would do, despite the wagon that had been dragged into the shallows at its far end. It was a final gesture of defiance from the Englishmen, and he inwardly saluted it. At least they were intending to fight. Slaughtering an enemy in cold blood was never as satisfying as hunting him down.

Antczak clambered on to his black stallion as the sun climbed higher. It was time. He shook his shoulders to check that the wooden frame was securely fixed, its large white feathers almost glowing in the new light, and crammed on his helmet. He held out his right hand to take the lance that was duly proffered. It felt perfect in his grip.

He twisted to both sides, seeing the men gather at his behest. They had lost friends on this mission, and he spoke aloud as he promised to right those wrongs. Inwardly, he resolved to speak to his master, the politicking snake, Piotr Mikrut, about seeing to replacements. This task was undertaken at Mikrut’s order, and the man owed him compensation. But that could all wait. This morning he had work to do. Antczak spurred forwards, revelling in the raw strength of the beast that propelled him to war. He heard hooves behind, knew that his Banner were in close pursuit, and whispered a prayer.

Ahead was the ford. At the far end was the wagon, left there to block his path, and in front of it he counted ten men brandishing the long barrels of muskets. Each was cradled in the crook of a tall rest, each trained on the Polish end of the ford. They would present a menace to his riders, for ten muskets meant ten potentially lethal shots, and he knew he would lose men in the assault. Before he reached them, though, he would have to negotiate the pikes. A block of pikemen, maybe a full score though he could not be certain, were grouped a third of the way along the far end of the causeway. They formed a bristling hedge like a gigantic hedgehog, six men abreast, into which his lancers would need to charge. It was a formidable obstacle, but his men were brave and experienced, and they each had their pistols. That was two shots per man, a hundred in all, and fired at close range they would soften the block well enough to open a few gaps. Into those gaps the
Husaria
would gallop, cleaving more breaches until the pikemen ran away, or leapt headlong into the river. He simply had too many men for them to cope with.

It was only then, as he was moving to the head of his makeshift column, that he saw the prize. On the wagon, atop its packed rows of hogsheads, stood the man for whom the
Husaria
had come to this great river. The blue coat, the gleaming bald head rising above the wagon like a beacon. The impudence made his jaw drop. The sheer bloody-minded audacity of the whelp who now commanded the pathetic English rabble was truly astonishing. The boy, Stryker, had not only chosen to fight, but he was challenging the Angels of Death. Goading them by parading Matthias above his feeble defences like a wind-blown flag above a besieged fort.

Antczak took a breath so huge it made his lungs smart, and dragged his boots back so that his wicked spurs raked livid lines along his horse’s sweaty flanks. It reared, Antczak brayed his delight as the battle fury intoxicated his veins, and then he was galloping. For the river. For a man named Stryker. For glory.

‘Here they come!’ Corporal Praise-God Sykes screamed. ‘Charge for horse!’

Sykes was on the left of the block, Stryker on the right. The three rows of pikes rose diagonally at the order, eighteen steel-tipped staves thrust out to meet the first wave of the assault. Stryker watched the men brace themselves, turned his own body to the side as if striding into the face of a gale, and drew his blade.

The lancers hit home. A pikeman immediately fell, his spear missing its target, allowing the horse to rear and kick his head to a bloody pulp. But the gap closed as soon as it opened, and then the attack stalled. The causeway was wide enough to allow only four horsemen to ride abreast and, though they had vast numbers, the
Husaria
were unable to outflank the pikes. They pushed in, using their great weight to force Stryker’s party backwards, but the animals refused to slam directly into the outstretched blades. The speed of the charge was nullified almost immediately, reducing the Poles and Lithuanians to stabbing down with their lances, and it became more akin to a battlefield push of pike than a cavalry action.

Stryker saw Antczak half a dozen horses back. His helmet obscured his face, but his voice was scorched indelibly on the lieutenant’s mind, and Stryker felt his pulse quicken in response. He cursed his fear and bellowed at the men to press back against the hussars. But they were losing. Of course they were losing. There were just too many of the winged killers for seventeen pikemen to hold.

‘Now, sir!’ Ensign Forrester’s voice screeched at his back.

Stryker glanced over his shoulder and nodded. When he turned back to the fight, he raised his sword and screamed, ‘Down! Down!’

The pikemen fell. Every man dropped into the shallow water as though the bones had been sucked from his legs, lying flat, face in the chill Oder, body grinding against the stones.

And the volley exploded. Forrester had waited until the last man was clear and given the order to fire before the lancers could trample Stryker and his squad. The ten muskets blasted forth, engulfed the ford in acrid smoke, and plucked the front two rows of horsemen clean into the river. They screamed for the briefest moment, and sank without trace, hauled down by their exquisite armour.

The cavalrymen stalled, some turned, other tried to press on against the will of their mounts. Stryker seized his chance and ordered his pikemen to their feet. They scrambled up, shouldering pikes and turning back to the bank. One was too late, and he was skewered in the back by a horseman able to recover his wits, the lance bursting out through his ribcage, its pennon dyed from white to red. The rest made it quickly back, filing left and right past the wagon in the wake of Forrester’s musketeers.

Stryker reached the west bank, revelled briefly in the hardness of dry land beneath his feet, and turned to count the men. They had lost just two pikemen, and that was a blessing, but now the real work would need to be done.

‘Reload!’ he bellowed at the musketeers. ‘Reload your pieces!’ He hailed Forrester with a frantic wave.

‘Sir!’ the ensign snapped.

‘Ready?’

Forrester nodded. ‘Take half the pikes into the trees.’

‘Eight men,’ Stryker agreed. Christ, but it sounded so feeble.

Forrester seemed to read the anxiety on his face, for he offered a thin smile. ‘Good luck, sir.’

Stryker returned the words and ran back to the bank. The lancers had reached the wagon but, as he had hoped, they had striven no further. They swarmed around it, jabbing skyward with their lances and crowing their triumph as the man perched on the barrels screamed at them in German. The Poles laughed. Perhaps they did not understand his words, or perhaps the fury of victory had deafened them. Stryker did not care.

He looked to his two small units, one bearing pikes, the other muskets, who Praise-God Sykes had organised a few paces into the clearing beside the riverbank. ‘Close up!’ he shouted. ‘Stay together!’

The pikemen were ready, the long shafts braced at the instep of each man’s rear foot, tips angled up to meet any charge. Next to them were the musketeers, few in number, but primed and deadly. Their lips seemed to be working madly, every one of these granite-hard men whispering his own silent prayer.

And then the noise about the cart seemed to change. The timbre of the Polish riders’ crowing was different, indistinct but definite, like the changing of the wind. They had realised their mistake. Antczak would be there, leading his men to their victory, and he would know that the man on the wagon was not Matthias, but an impostor, dressed in the spy’s clothes, head shaven to a clean baldness to complete the deception. Perhaps he had even noticed the man’s hands had been bound at the small of his back. Moreover, perhaps Antczak had noticed that the twine wound so tightly at his wrists was a length of match cord.

‘Now!’ Stryker screamed. ‘Now! Now! Now!’

He did not look back to where the musketeer pulled his trigger, for the deafening crack told him the deed was done. He simply stood and stared as the lawyer, Buchwald, doubled over, a wide hole torn in his chest, and he prayed to God that the match still smouldered.

The blast was louder and brighter than Stryker could have imagined.

He had seen black powder at work when ignited in a compact environment, such as a grenado or petard, and knew that it could be devastating, but he also knew that left loose in a barrel the grains would only flash and burn. It would be bright and hot and dangerous, but it would not explode. And that was why he had placed charge in the midst of those other vessels, the hardy hogsheads that were heavy with liquid. It started small, the match dangling from Buchwald’s pinioned wrists catching the piled powder with a hiss and a roar, but then the flame found the first consignment of palinka, and then the next and the next, and the potent spirits took up the spark like Greek Fire of old. They leapt out, licking and lashing in tongues of flame, turning the air about the wagon to an irresistible heat. And then the wagon erupted. It consumed Buchwald first, the traitor vanishing in an instant like a heretic at the stake. Stryker shrank away, stumbled on to his haunches, saw that the
Husaria
could not flee, for they were too close to the clouds of orange and red and green fury, and he could only wince as the brightness took hold, blinding him as his face felt the heat.