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.’
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 wag
on.’ 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 causewa
y. 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.’
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