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

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