Stryker and the Angels of Death (Ebook) Read Online Free PDF Page B

men’s shoulders and muskets he caught glimpses of steel-tipped lances, enclosed helmets and wings. So many damned wings.
    ‘They’re regrouping!’ Loveless called. ‘Reload! Form two ranks!’
    Stryker left the wagon as it continued its painstaking progress across the raised ford. Behind him he heard the splash of feet and he knew more musketeers were crossing the river to join the fight. He reached the captain and drew his blade. ‘Sir!’
    Loveless rounded on him, eyes wild, unbloodied blade clenched tight at his side. ‘Protect the wagon!’
    ‘I can fight, sir!’ Stryker protested, choking back bile.
    ‘Protect that damned spy, Lieutenant, or you’ll answer to me! Get him over to the far bank and send me back my pikes.’
    In that moment, Stryker sensed the bile subside, and with that easing came a swell of shame. Because, as he returned his sword to its scabbard and ran back to the wagon, he could not help but feel relieved. Behind him the wounded men groaned at the sky as they were conveyed to the rear. Loveless was berating and encouraging in equal measure, desperately trying to bring some semblance of order to the musketeers as they awaited the next attack. They formed up in a line across the ford, all thirty or so now, two ranks deep, ramming charges and balls down still-smoking muzzles and frantically keeping matches glowing hot. They knew the fight was not over yet.
     
    Rotmistrz Lujan Antczak was a happy man. He had caught these shabby infantrymen napping, hit them at speed and with force, and now the quarry were in disarray. His instinct was to press on, drop the lances and bring steel and lead to the men at the river’s edge. But he could see reinforcements splashing across the ford, and in their hands were muskets that were primed and deadly.  Years of experience had told Antczak that a musket discharged at close range would pluck a cavalryman right off his horse, regardless of the quality of that man’s armour. Antczak was a hero of the Battle of Stuhm Heath, where he had led a mad charge at a block of Swedish musketeers, and though that day had covered him in glory, the bloody toll suffered by his own men had taught him much. The muskets formed a lock that denied him access to the ford, and before he could finish this morning’s work, that lock would need picking. Sacrifices would have to be made for the greater good.
    Antczak had been one of the first to wheel away from the melee, and now he was back at the treeline, his exultant lancers gathering all around. His helmet encased his skull, save a heart-shaped cut in the middle of the face through which he could see well enough, and he quickly identified one of his more senior men.
    ‘Kumala!’ he called, smelling his own fetid breath against the plate metal, ‘Take twenty men and draw their fire.’
    The lancer responded with a short bow and went about his business. Antczak looked on as the small party was assembled, and then they were away.
    ‘God with you!’ Antczak bellowed at their backs. And he whispered a silent prayer as they galloped towards the water. For the River Oder was the slaughterhouse, and Kumala’s men had become lambs.
     
    Stryker had almost reached the west bank. He glanced up at the spy, then past the wagon to see his comrades on the far bank who had now organised themselves into two neat ranks. Ferdinand Loveless was there, pacing back and forth to the right of the formation, sword raised, broad face set hard in belligerence. The guilt came again as Stryker acknowledged his relief to be away from that dread place, and he resolved never to mention the feeling to another living soul. He had seen plenty of fighting since leaving his peaceful homeland, but this was different. These men – these things – that appeared like demons from amongst the trees had instilled a terror within him that he could never have imagined. Perhaps he had not the mettle for soldiering, after all.
    It was then that he saw another figure