Stryker and the Angels of Death (Ebook) (2 page)

‘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.’

‘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.’