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

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,’ Stryker 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.’
    ‘Then why fight?’
    ‘Because I am a Lutheran, sir,’ Matthias said, his voice made soft by exhaustion. ‘Our reformed church will be obliterated by Rome if we do not resist.’
    Stryker turned his shoulder, sweeping an arm out in the direction of the tumultuous River Oder. ‘Then let us aid your fight.’
    ‘ Danke ,’ Matthias bobbed his