Stryker and the Angels of Death (Ebook)

by Michael Arnold

  ‘They claim to have interfered in Pomerania to destabilise the Catholic League and challenge the influence of the Holy Roman Empire.’

  The German glowered. ‘And we in Brandenburg would see them slaughtered for it.’

  ‘But we in the Poland-Lithuania Commonwealth suspect the devil-king Gustavus of harbouring another motive.’ Mikrut considered the German. He had known him for years, and he suspected the sly politician to adhere to more than Brandenburg’s cause. Here was an agent of the Habsburg Empire, if ever Piotr Mikrut saw one. An eel of the most slippery kind.

  Brehme’s hazel eyes narrowed a touch. ‘You fear Gustavus threatens your lands to the east.’

  The Pole nodded. ‘If he is allowed to consolidate in Pomerania, yes. We have wrestled for control of the Baltic over many years. He may use his bridgehead at Szczecin – you call it Stettin – to embroil himself in your war against the Protestant Union, but we believe he has not lost sight of his traditional objective.’

  ‘Whatever our separate grievances,’ Brehme said, tapping the edge of the table with a broad index finger, ‘the consequence, Herr Mikrut, is that we are united against him.’

  Mikrut reached for his glass. ‘The Commonwealth is not directly at war with Sweden or the Protestants in your lands, so we must . . .’

  ‘Tread carefully.’

  ‘Quite.’ Mikrut set down the glass. ‘But I have been authorised to offer support in a more – unofficial – capacity. I am here as an observer on behalf of my masters. But if you require Commonwealth assistance, you have only to ask.’ He folded his arms, yawning beneath Brehme’s gaze. ‘So long as you do not expect us to declare open war.’

  Brehme’s cheek twitched. ‘Not yet.’ He turned away, stalking across the timber floor to peer out of the room’s single window. There he stayed, silent and thoughtful for the better part of a minute, before drawing breath to speak. ‘The Empire requires your help.’

  Mikrut sat upright, surprised. ‘Already?’

  Brehme turned, licked his lips. ‘We have heard tell of a . . . a problem.’ He ran a meaty paw through his copper locks and studied the roof beams for a moment. ‘I would make use of your hussars, Herr Mikrut,’ he said.

  ‘My escort?’ Mikrut asked, nonplussed. He had expected to hear from Brehme’s contacts in Vienna or Bavaria or even Spain. A matter of clandestine messages exchanged over a matter of months. Deals agreed, requests for coin or troops or ships sent back to the Commonwealth for deliberation. Not this. ‘For what reason?’

  ‘A matter of great urgency, requiring speed.’ Brehme spread his palms wide. ‘Is it not true that your hussars are the most able cavalry in all Europe? Every man fears the Husaria.’

  ‘When?’ Mikrut said, pointedly ignoring the attempt at flattery.

  Brehme flashed his urbane smile once more. ‘How long will it take them to saddle their mounts?’

  * * *

  It was late evening, dark in the forest around the village of Moczyly and its little ford, yet the night sky was bathed in a pulsing orange glow. The locals gazed at the ethereal halo from their homes, intrigued by the warm light of the small fires that had been lit beside their great river, but none would venture out for a closer look. The three score soldiers who huddled about those flames were foreigners, here to spill blood and take plunder. They had already stretched a young man’s neck without so much as pausing for thought. The hungry folk of Moczyly would leave them well alone.

  ‘Again!’

  Innocent Stryker stared at the snarling man through a blurry veil of sweat. His eyes stung, his chest felt as though no amount of air could ever bring it calm, and his body ached like it had been broken on the wheel. He dropped his gaze, noticing the rivulets of sweat coursing down his naked upper body, and focussed on the blade dangling in his right hand. It felt suddenly heavy, too much for him to lift, and he let the tip scrape the leaves and twigs at his feet.

  ‘Come!’ his opponent repeated the challenge. ‘Or are you bested, you paper-skulled hector?’

  Stryker forced himself to lift the blade. He blinked away the sweat and glared at the wiry fellow who now began to circle him slowly. ‘Not yet, Sykes.’

  Praise-God Sykes was a mere corporal, but that fact did not quell his sneering venom at all. He grinned, exposing teeth that were small and brown. ‘Good. I do so like to take m’ time when tutoring little sickrels like you, son.’

  Stryker stepped in, dragging the sword level. ‘I am no sickrel.’

  Sykes cackled, his expression demonic in the flickering glow of the fires that fringed their little battleground. ‘Could ’ave fooled me, boy! You’re a skew-fisted striplin’, sir, barely able to lift yer own tuck!’ He broke his step, reversed the direction of the cautious circle, but never paused. He spat a globule of phlegm at Stryker’s boots. ‘Couldn’t stick a kitten in a barrel.’

  When Stryker had received his commission, he had expected to be treated with respect, in line with his status and rank. It had taken less than a week to knock that idea from him. The man who wielded the cudgel was Corporal Sykes, one of Vincent Skaithlocke’s longest-serving ruffians. It was said he had killed a man in a tavern brawl over a whore, fled to the Continent and forged a life where a thirst for violence was the very essence of success. Stryker hated the way the jeering villain would humiliate him and now, as he moved to his right, crouching slightly in anticipation of the next attack, he gathered all of that hatred so that it seemed to dowse his burning limbs.

  ‘I’ll stick you, Corporal.’

  Sykes crouched too. ‘Be my guest, trull’s whelp, but be mindful.’ He waved the tip of his own blade out in front, tracing small circles in the darkness. ‘For pride goeth before destruction.’

  Stryker attacked. He leapt forth, tasting the metallic zing of blood as he ground his teeth, his sword held aloft in both hands. He brought it down hard, pushing all the force he had left into a single blow that would have split the corporal’s head like an axe through a rotten pear had Sykes not danced nimbly to the side. The wiry little man gave a nasal chuckle as his young lieutenant sprawled in the mulch.

  Even as Stryker gathered his footing to spin back he could hear the amused murmurs from onlookers. Furious, he turned and straightened, charged like an enraged bullock, and this time Sykes let him close so that their blades and hilts smashed together in the song of swords that still invigorated and terrified Stryker in equal measure. His year with the regiment had seen more tavern brawls than skirmishes, and he was yet to witness a real battle. What crescendo that song would reach when fifty thousand clanged and scraped in unison, he could barely imagine.

  They broke apart with a massive grunt, each shoving the other back to buy a little time, and Stryker came on again, using his longer reach to hack and slash at Sykes. But the corporal was equal to every blow, and countered every attack with staccato jabs of his own.

  Stryker could feel his arms tire, knew he had precious little time to turn the bout to his favour, and he feinted left, spun right, and slashed down at Sykes in a huge diagonal arc. The corporal’s confident face became taut in that moment, shocked and confused by the unlikely move, and Stryker’s world slowed. For the first time he could see an enemy’s fear. It was strange, an exhilarating thing to behold, and in that moment he knew what it was like to be a real warrior. He heard himself roar, visceral and triumphant, and revelled in the jarring lightning bolt that raced up his forearms as Sykes met the blow with a frantic block.

  ‘. . . goeth before destruction,’ Praise-God Sykes hissed as their faces nearly touched. He twisted his wrists, rolled them savagely to the side so that his sword seemed to slither down the length of Stryker’s with a lingering rasp, and then he stepped back with a grin. ‘And a haughty spirit before a fall.’

  Innocent Stryker heard his blade hit the ground before he was aware that it was no longer in his grip. He stared down at the churned earth and the blade that lay at his feet like a glowing serpent in the firelight.

  ‘That’s Pr
overbs, sir,’ Sykes said. ‘Summink to live by.’

  Already Stryker could feel the blood rush to his face and the knot of sickness tighten in his guts. He braced himself for the jeers, but instead the wiry corporal offered him a quick bow.

  ‘That was good, sir,’ Sykes said.

  Stryker looked up, startled. ‘Corporal?’

  ‘A good fight, sir. You did well.’ He winked. ‘Stupid move at the end, mind. I’d have slain you easy if it were a real brabble. But clever, sir. Very nice footwork, I’ll give you that. Work on your defence for next time, sir. And don’t get too high and mighty. You thought you was winning and your mind wandered. The good Lord was right, sir. Pride’ll get you killed.’

  Stryker watched his corporal stride into the gloomy edge of the clearing, no doubt off in search of some of the bacon that spat and hissed over the fires. He noticed a ripple of applause had broken out from the watching soldiers.

  ‘You did well.’

  Stryker turned on his heels to face Captain Loveless. ‘I did poorly, sir.’

  Loveless had evidently been engaged in his own sword practice, for he was stripped to his shirt and his face shone with sweat. ‘You lose focus too easily. You are too angry. You have good hands, fast feet, yet you fight like a butcher with a cleaver.’

  Stryker gritted his teeth as he remembered the insults. ‘He mocks me.’

  Loveless laughed. ‘Aye, that he does.’

  ‘I do not like how he addresses me, sir,’ Stryker persisted.

  The captain shook his head impatiently. ‘This is not the king’s household guard, Lieutenant. The rules of polite society do not hold here.’

  ‘But I am an officer, sir,’ Stryker went on belligerently. ‘He is a bloody corporal.’

  Ferdinand Loveless held up a big hand for silence. ‘Colonel Skaithlocke needs leaders, lad, not strutting debauchees. He needs fighters out here. Men who have skill with their blade as well as their prick.’

  ‘I would fight well, sir, you know I would.’ A simmering annoyance boiled to the surface of his mind then. ‘I am no dandy.’

  ‘If you speak of young Forrester,’ Loveless retorted sternly, wagging a finger of reproach in Stryker’s face, ‘I suggest you have a care. He is not so pathetic as you imagine.’

  Stryker rolled his eyes. ‘He would rather be bumpsy in a brothel than fight a war, Captain.’

  ‘As would I, Lieutenant. Look past his rakish manner, lad.’ The captain turned away, stalking back to whichever fire he had ordered lit for his comfort. ‘And as for Sykes,’ he called over his thick shoulder, ‘he is here to teach you.’

  ‘Teach?’ Stryker blurted, trotting in his commanding officer’s wake. ‘He humiliates, sir. Names me puny, stripling, whore’s babe. It is no way to speak to an officer.’

  Loveless stopped. ‘Then tell him, Lieutenant,’ he said in exasperation. ‘When next you fight, stick him on his arse and show him you are in command.’

  Stryker bit his lip. ‘He is too good, sir.’

  ‘And that is why Colonel Skaithlocke and I would have you drill with him. You are young, and you are already a good soldier. With Sykes’s help you will be a proper killer, Stryker. Your men will follow you to hell and back, and your enemies will fear you.’ He placed a heavy hand on Stryker’s shoulder. ‘But not yet.’

  Stryker stared into Loveless’ dark eyes, watching the flames swirl across them. ‘You want leaders, sir. Give me a chance. Let me lead the men.’

  Loveless smiled. ‘Your chance will come, Stryker. Of that you can be certain.’

  * * *

  The wagon appeared around mid morning, as the last of the night’s fires cooled and the stubborn vestiges of river mist had been seared to nothing by the gathering sun. It creaked and lolled out of the forest along a desiccated bridleway on the Oder’s east bank, big wheels bouncing from one dried rut to the next, a pair of disgruntled palfreys braying in discord out front as taut traces jerked and slackened in time with the vehicle.

  The pickets had sent for Loveless as soon as they had heard the wagon’s approach, and the captain, along with his lieutenant and a score of dusty musketeers, was now on the east bank. He held a perspective glass to his right eye, training it on the vehicle that struggled beneath the suffocating canopy, jaw moving frantically as he chewed another wad of sotweed. ‘Just two.’

  ‘None in the rear?’ Stryker asked.

  Loveless shifted the leather-bound cylinder a touch so that he could inspect the back of the wagon. It was clear that the vehicle was packed tightly with its cargo of hogsheads, for they barely moved as the platform rocked violently below, but still he lingered for another second. Eventually he lowered the glass. ‘No one else. Just the driver and the fellow beside him.’

  They waited as the wagon came closer. It seemed to hit a deep rut, for it lurched violently to one side, the opposing flank rising into the air, wheels spinning manically. The hogsheads moved now, rattling like powder flasks on a bandolier as the horses whinnied in fright. The driver cursed viciously in German, lashed the reins at the beasts’ backs with an expert flick of his wrists, and somehow regained control, the flying wheels hitting the hard ground and carrying the wagon from its predicament with a jerk that had the two men grasping the driver’s bench for dear life.

  Loveless issued an amused snort. ‘That one’s looking nervy.’

  Stryker let his gaze slide from the angry driver to the man seated to his left. He was middle-aged, bald as an egg and broad as one of the barrels at his back. His eyes, Stryker now noticed, were shut tight, and his lips worked in what looked to be silent prayer. ‘Aye, sir. That our man, d’you reckon?’

  ‘I’d place a few ducats on it.’ He turned to his second-in-command. ‘Go and fetch ’em, Lieutenant.’

  Stryker’s heart turned into iron, its pulse like a hammer against his ribs. ‘Me, sir?’

  Loveless spat a long stream of tobacco juice on to the hard earth. ‘You’ve done well for me so far, lad. You wanted a chance. Here it is. Take the men, get down the road and bring this bugger back to me.’ His small eyes flickered back to rake across the twenty musketeers standing implacably by. ‘Not a difficult assignment, Lieutenant, but I should like to see how you command these ruffians.’

  Stryker glanced furtively at the ranks. Ruffians they were. Mercenaries now, but God only knew what they had been before, back in England and Wales and Scotland. Murderers, thieves, rapists to a man, he did not doubt. That was what had brought them here, after all. Plucked out of the gutter by Vincent Skaithlocke, the formidable English warlord, promised as much plunder as they could carry, and a chance to evade King’s justice at home. They were not righteous men. No gallant knights or holy warriors. They were the very lowest form of humanity, hard and cruel, fit for nightmare.

  Stryker was one of them. He had been in the process of lifting Skaithlocke’s purse when the man had snatched his wrist away with that big paw of his, near snapping it in half, and offered him an opportunity he could not refuse. Soldier or noose. It had been as simple as that, and Stryker had taken the colonel at his word. What he had never fully understood was why Skaithlocke had seen fit to offer him a commission. Perhaps, he often wondered, the mercenary had seen some spark of potential, or was it simply the fact that Stryker had received a modicum of education? At the time, Skaithlocke had said it had been like looking through a window at his own past, but Stryker could not fathom such whimsy.

  Now, with the River Oder rushing in his ears, he stared into the faces of the men he was to command. He might have come from the same place as many of them, but he had seen just nineteen years, while most were in their thirties. Experienced, granite hard and hostile.

  He swallowed hard. It felt like thorns had grown in his gullet. ‘Aye, sir.’

  Loveless raised a single black eyebrow. ‘Or you may step aside if you are not a match to the task. Ensign Forrester waits with the rest of the men on the far bank, but he’d seize the reins, I’m certain.’

  ‘No,’ S
tryker snapped, and immediately felt himself colour.

  But Loveless simply grinned. ‘Good. I’ll return to the company and await your arrival.’ He clicked his tongue as though coaxing an animal. ‘To it then, lad.’

  Stryker adjusted the wide hat so that it sat atop his head at a suitably rakish angle, planted his left hand on the hilt of his sword, and strode purposefully forwards. For a heart-stopping moment he wondered if the twenty weather-beaten musketeers would so much as move, but then he heard the telltale jangle at his back as they made to follow. He did not turn, lest they saw the trepidation etched into his cheeks and brow.

  The wagon was eighty yards off, still lumbering up through the trees. Stryker did not wish to be so far from the main force but, as he hoped, the wagon trundled the final distance in a matter of a minute or two, and Stryker’s unit had advanced to meet them. The driver waved, a gesture Stryker acknowledged with a tight bow, always keeping his gaze on the passenger. ‘The river runs deep this time of year.’

  The sheen of sweat that glimmered across the passenger’s bald head might have been attributed to the warmth of the day, but the way his fingers seemed to play in his lap spoke volumes. He was very pale, his dark eyes sunken and lustreless, his broad shoulders exaggeratedly hunched as he attempted to retract his neck in the manner of a turtle. He looked sharply at Stryker, speaking in English. ‘But the fish are plentiful, praise God.’

  Stryker nodded, satisfied that the requisite field words had been exchanged. ‘How now, sir. I am Lieutenant Stryker.’

  ‘With the Swedes?’

  ‘Aye. Here to see you safe across the water.’

  ‘My name is Matthias.’ The bald man shut his eyes as though in prayer. ‘Thank King Jesus we have reached you,’ he muttered, the words heavy with the accent of the Germanic states. ‘I have travelled far.’

  Stryker flashed a deliberately confident grin. ‘And now you are safe, sir.’

  Matthias’s eyes flicked open. ‘Never safe, Lieutenant. Never. This continent has plunged itself into anarchy. Whole towns fall by the week. Ravaged by one passing army, slaughtered by the next. There is no end to it.’