Stryker and the Angels of Death (Ebook)

by Michael Arnold

  Also by Michael Arnold

  Traitor’s Blood

  Devil’s Charge

  Hunter’s Rage

  Assassin’s Reign

  Stryker and the Angels of Death

  Michael Arnold

  JOHN MURRAY

  www.johnmurray.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2013 by John Murray (Publishers)

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Michael Arnold 2013

  The right of Michael Arnold to be identified as the Author of the

  Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

  stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any

  means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  All characters in this publication – other than the obvious historical

  figures – are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or

  dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978-1-84854-889-3

  John Murray (Publishers)

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.johnmurray.co.uk

  Contents

  Also by Michael Arnold

  Stryker and the Angels of Death

  The hanged man still twitched as the soldiers filed past. His head was canted to one side, tongue fat and protruding through lips that were as blue as the dawn sky. One eye was bulging open, bright scarlet where the vessels had burst. The other drooped closed to show that life had all but gone.

  The soldiers were grim faced and filthy. Their boots were worn and their coats blanched pale by marching all summer long beneath a merciless sun. They paid the executed man little heed. The kin, it was said, of one of the girls they had ravished in a nameless, worthless hamlet the previous day, he had come to them in the night, armed with a thin knife and a vengeful heart. The pickets had spotted him and he had danced a piss-drenched jig for his trouble.

  The column was short – just thirty-eight musketeers and nineteen pikemen chattering as they trudged, while the four big geldings that carried the company’s more lofty men whinnied and whickered as they loped past the gently swaying noose. The rickety dog cart that carried a barrel of black powder, some musket balls, and several coils of match, creaked and groaned as the bony mule hauled it over the ruts. Everywhere there was dust, a great cloud kicked up by boots, billowing frantically around the small force.

  After an hour’s march the company halted in a small clearing. Three men riding fine horses spurred out from the assembly. They slid down from their mounts and walked eastwards, pushing through the pines and the bracken until they reached the grassy bank of a broad river. It was fast flowing, snaking past them in a deep, gargling, mist-blanketed band that cut the forest in half. They clambered up on to the felled trunk of a half-rotten pine to peer at the water.

  ‘Moczyly,’ the oldest of the trio said. He was also the shortest, the stoutest and the only one dressed in civilian clothes. His cheeks twitched violently beneath a screen of white bristles as his companions stared down at him.

  The man at the centre of the three made a guttural sound in his throat, and through cracked lips spat a wad of phlegm into the water. ‘Mock-shilly.’

  The older man offered a staccato nod that set his loose jowls quivering. ‘Just so, Capitan,’ he muttered in heavily accented English.

  Captain Ferdinand Loveless spat again. ‘Piss-hole of a place.’ Barely taller than the elderly fellow at his side, his shoulders were formidably broad, his clothing heavily patched where an array of lethal weapons had left their various marks, and his face was a horror of ancient scars. He left his vast hands planted squarely on his hips as he stared at the broad river. ‘You’re certain this is it, Herr Buchwald?’

  The civilian nodded his meaty head. ‘I know this land as I know the lines of my own palms, Capitan.’

  ‘I struggle to believe the words of lawyers,’ Loveless replied bluntly.

  ‘Perhaps English lawyers are not as scrupulous as we Germans, eh?’ Buchwald said. He turned back to the water. ‘This is the River Oder. Behind us my homeland, and there,’ he pointed a gnarled finger directly ahead where the gleaming waterway became a frothing torrent as its course was disturbed by something beneath the surface, ‘is the Moczyly Ford.’ He flashed a toothless smile. ‘As promised.’

  ‘It’s a collapsed bridge,’ said the third man, perched further along the precarious trunk. He was younger than the others, with the narrow, beardless face of one not yet out of his teens, but for all that his manner was confident. His body was lean and his eyes were as grey as a wolf’s pelt, shimmering like a pair of silver nuggets against the harsh blackness of his raven-feather hair.

  Loveless glanced at him. ‘Good, Lieutenant. We’ll make a soldier of you yet. Built by the ancients I shouldn’t wonder. Blown up – or blown down – many moons ago.’ It was September, and the port cities on the Baltic coast were cooling rapidly, but here, thirty or so miles inland, the wild landscape retained stifling warmth, and Loveless took off his hat, fanning his face with its wide brim. ‘No matter. The result is that.’ He pointed to the frothy band that bisected the Oder. ‘The tumbledown brickwork looks to have fallen in two parallel lines across the waterway, damming it well.’

  The lieutenant nodded, still squinting out at the bubbling torrent as it collided with the dark shapes of piled stone just below the glassy surface. ‘And forming a shallow causeway between.’

  Captain Loveless sucked at his rotten front teeth. ‘Just so. It is the only viable crossing point for miles.’

  The lieutenant rested a gloved hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘Gustavus means to cross his entire army here?’

  The captain gave an iron-file chuckle. ‘Don’t be a dullard, boy. It’s not wide enough. Would take too long. The fucking Polacks would see us coming and chop us up piecemeal.’

  ‘Then what are we . . .?’ the junior officer began, a thought coming to him as he stared into the thick forest on the river’s eastern bank. ‘We are to meet someone here.’

  Captain Loveless nodded. ‘This latrine of a country is the Duchy of Pomerania, as you should damn well know by now. Gustavus wants it because it sits between the coast and the Catholics as snug as a pizzle in a punk.’

  ‘The perfect bridgehead,’ the lieutenant said.

  The burly captain twirled like an acrobat and jumped down on to the long grass. ‘But Adolphus is stuck. Hemmed inside the Duchy by the enemy states of Mecklenburg and Brandenburg to the west and south.’

  ‘And the villainous Poles assist imperial forces to the east.’ Buchwald glanced back at the river.

  ‘So what must he do?’ asked Loveless.

  ‘He must find a way to break out, sir,’ his youthful subordinate replied.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he wants to win the war, sir.’

  Captain Loveless snorted his disdain. ‘At this moment, Lieutenant, he would not give a goat’s left ballock for the war. He would break free of Pomerania because his army is too large. The Duchy is a wasted land. Raped and ravaged and plundered to its very bones. There is no gold here, nor food. So His Majesty King Gustavus can neither pay his troops nor keep their bellies full. And that is of far greater concern than fighting the fucking Empire.’ The captain unslung a crusty-looking snapsack from his shoulder and delved inside for a moment. ‘He must push out – my guess would be Brandenburg – purely for the resources that region wil
l bring.’

  ‘And hope the Emperor and his Liga allies give him time to scour the land before they bring him to battle,’ the lieutenant said.

  Loveless gave a satisfied grunt as he fished a plug of dark tobacco from the sack, pushing it greedily against the lower gum to the side of his mouth. ‘We are here to collect a man who will aid Gustavus’s plans.’ The captain jetted a brown stream of juice from between his front teeth. ‘The southern border is teeming with troops, so our contact follows the course of the river north in hopes of reaching the ford.’

  ‘A dangerous business,’ the lieutenant commented.

  Buchwald cleared his throat cautiously. ‘The area between my homeland and Poland is not so heavily defended. It is hoped he can reach us without running into . . .’ He paused as he searched for the word, waving a hand in small circles as though he might conjure it by some spell. Eventually he gave a triumphant smile. ‘Trouble.’

  Captain Loveless frowned. ‘It is less heavily defended, Herr Buchwald, because the Empire leaves the Poles to patrol it, but although their number is lesser, their strength is not.’

  ‘I heard the Polish cavalry are deadly,’ the lieutenant muttered, his voice tense.

  The captain nodded. ‘Brutal, swift and brave. The very best. But they are relatively few in number, as our German friend suggests, and their lands are vast. It is hoped any net they have thrown on the eastern side of the Oder will be easy enough for one man to slip.’ Loveless thrust a finger in the direction of the ford. ‘He is due to cross into Pomerania on the morrow. There. And we are to collect him and take him back to the Swedish high command at Stettin.’

  ‘What does he bring that is of such import, sir?’

  ‘Detail of the Habsburg forces,’ Loveless said. ‘Troop disposition, strength, that kind of thing. Essential for Gustavus to know before he launches across the border.’ He scratched at a half-healed scab on the tip of his chin and nodded at the German guide before turning to stalk back through the trees. Pausing briefly to spit, he glanced over his shoulder. ‘Stay put, Lieutenant Stryker. I’ll send a dozen back. Take ’em across the ford and set pickets on the far bank.’

  Lieutenant Innocent Stryker splashed back to the west bank of the Oder as soon as the lookouts had been arranged along the bridleway that plunged into the dense woodland on the eastern side. He cursed softly as chill water doused his hose and breeches. ‘Bloody place.’

  He had been in the service of Sweden for exactly a month, and already he was wondering what the hell he had let himself in for. The Swedish king, Gustavus Adolphus, had come to mainland Europe to make war, and for a soldier of fortune, where there was war, there was work. So the five hundred men of Vincent Skaithlocke’s Regiment of Foot had bade farewell to their erstwhile employers at The Hague, and taken ship through the black depths of the North Sea and into the Baltic, where their salt-stung eyes had mercifully rested upon the port of Usedom in the sliver of land that, Stryker later learned, was known as Pomerania. The Swedish army had arrived just before them and, by the end of July, had taken the Duchy’s capital city, Stettin. But then they had stalled, for though the Swedes had nearly thirty thousand men, most of whom were well blooded in bitter wars with the Poles, they were unaccustomed to fighting such overwhelming numbers. Gustavus had brought his hardened brigades to the war against the Holy Roman Empire and its allies in the Catholic League, and his growing reputation as a commander had doubtless spurred his ambition. But now, he faced a combined Imperial and League threat of more than a hundred thousand men. And if it was daunting for the Lion of the North, then it was utterly terrifying for a nineteen-year-old runaway from the tranquil slopes of the South Downs.

  Stryker clambered back on to the log and stretched, revelling in the rhythmic clicks of his neck and shoulders. Pomerania had been stripped bare by Habsburg troops, and now it played reluctant host to the Swedes and their growing mercenary contingent. The fields were ruined, the grain stores empty and the towns stripped clean. Villagers cowered and wept as they starved. And yet out here, in the vast forests that hugged the River Oder, the lush green of a balmy summer lingered into autumn’s early days. It was hard to imagine the malevolent forces that ebbed and flowed like great tides on the far bank, clamouring for the destruction of the Protestant Union and their new Scandinavian champions.

  ‘Should have stayed in Holland,’ Stryker said aloud. That would have been the safer option, he had no doubt. The Dutch Republic had reached an uneasy truce with Spain, which meant the skirmishes into which he had been thrown upon enlisting with Colonel Skaithlocke had now ceased and there was no more loot. So they had come to Pomerania because the Swedes had entered the fray, and most of Skaithlocke’s murderous crew were ebullient at the prospect of blood, women and gold. But Stryker, still learning his trade as a fresh-faced officer for the man who plucked him from London’s gutters, could not stop his stomach twisting at the thought.

  ‘I hear they ride reindeer,’ a voice sounded at his back.

  Stryker fell off the log, stumbled to regain his footing and only just managed to keep himself upright. ‘Christ, Ensign, you stupid bastard!’

  ‘I . . . I’m sorry, sir,’ the boy blurted. He was a year or two Stryker’s junior, with a thick mop of sandy hair framing a red-cheeked, cherubic face that seemed perfectly round upon his willowy frame.

  Stryker resisted the urge to pummel the ensign into the leaf mulch, and instead turned away to look at the river. ‘Who ride reindeer?’

  ‘The Swedes. Well, the Laplanders.’ The ensign moved to stand beside Stryker. ‘And their Finnish fedaries drink the blood of their vanquished foes and cast heathen spells to turn a battle.’ He chuckled. ‘Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.’

  Stryker looked across at his comrade. The ensign wore clothes that were similar to Stryker’s: dark boots and breeches, a coat of blue wool protected by a sleeveless layer of buff hide, and a wide hat. Yet the hat was of the finest quality, and the coat was slashed at the arms to reveal the bright yellow silk of its ostentatious lining. He might have been the lowliest of the officer ranks, but he dressed like a lord.

  ‘Spare me the poetry, Forrester,’ Stryker growled.

  ‘It’s William Shakespeare, Mister Stryker. I spent a deal of time with a troop o’ players in Southwark before I enlisted. Aim to return to them as soon as I have the funds.’

  ‘I care not for your idle prattle, you little peacock. And as for the Finlanders, Ensign, thank God they’re on our side.’ In truth, Stryker had also heard the tales, and he yearned to see if they were true. Their new Scandinavian masters were a strange breed, it was said. The descendants of Vikings. But he’d be damned before he would discuss such things with this callow popinjay.

  The skinny youth bobbed his head. ‘Captain Loveless sees to the men, sir.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Says he’ll bring them up to the bank for the night. In the mean time, you’re to report if the pickets see anything.’

  Stryker spat his disdain and returned his focus to the fingers of mist that danced like wraiths above the water’s surface. ‘Are we done?’

  ‘May I wait with you? Watch the ford?’

  ‘No.’

  * * *

  Piotr Mikrut inspected the ragged cube of cheese between his thumb and forefinger and leant back in disgust.

  ‘Fetch me some wine, Guido, quickly,’ he snapped, his tone made harsh by the embarrassment of speaking in the unfamiliar language.

  The small boy in green livery, standing silently in the corner, turned on his heels and left the room.

  ‘Your German has improved since last we met, Herr Mikrut.’

  Mikrut stared at the speaker, who now appeared as a silhouette in a second doorway, light flooding in from the corridor beyond. ‘It is still unnatural to me.’

  The silhouette moved into the room, its features resolving as it moved further into the gloomy interior. The man was perhaps of a similar age to Mikrut, touching fifty,
but several inches taller. He had thick red hair and a long white scar that ran from the left corner of his mouth to his left earlobe, forcing him into what seemed like a permanent smile. ‘We can speak in Polish if you’d prefer.’

  The tendons in Mikrut’s neck tensed. He shook his head. ‘No. It is good practice for me. If I am to come here often, I must learn to communicate.’ Often. Goddamned often. That was all he had been told. The authorities at Warsaw were ever vague.

  The tall man bobbed his head piously. ‘An admirable sentiment. It was a hard ride?’

  The muscles along Mikrut’s spine seemed to scream in instant response, but he bit back the pain. ‘I was a cavalryman.’

  ‘Husaria, yes? Like your escort.’

  Mikrut nodded. A detachment of Husaria, the Commonwealth’s heavy cavalry, had accompanied him across the border. Fifty of the finest horsemen Poland had to offer. ‘And you?’

  ‘A mere politician,’ Brehme muttered with a dismissive wave of his hand.

  Mikrut gave an incredulous bark. ‘Before that.’

  Brehme’s thick lips parted in a small smile. ‘Imperial Army. Though that was long ago.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘Now I leave my sword above the hearth and defend my country with the quill. And I am pleased to welcome you to our fine town again. Barwalde is so close to our shared border, it is good for the folk of Brandenburg to see representatives of the Commonwealth. Understand that you are not all savages.’

  Mikrut felt his blood rise, but noticed the serving boy appear hefting a large jug and breathed deeply. He leaned back in his creaking chair as the glass before him was filled. ‘I am honoured to represent Poland and Lithuania, Herr Brehme. And I am here because we share more than a border.’

  Brehme nodded. ‘Our enmity towards the Swedes.’