Free Stryker and the Angels of Death (Ebook) by Michael Arnold

twisted to both sides, seeing the men gather at his behest. They had lost friends on this mission, and he spoke aloud as he promised to right those wrongs. Inwardly, he resolved to speak to his master, the politicking snake, Piotr Mikrut, about seeing to replacements. This task was undertaken at Mikrut’s order, and the man owed him compensation. But that could all wait. This morning he had work to do. Antczak spurred forwards, revelling in the raw strength of the beast that propelled him to war. He heard hooves behind, knew that his Banner were in close pursuit, and whispered a prayer.
    Ahead was the ford. At the far end was the wagon, left there to block his path, and in front of it he counted ten men brandishing the long barrels of muskets. Each was cradled in the crook of a tall rest, each trained on the Polish end of the ford. They would present a menace to his riders, for ten muskets meant ten potentially lethal shots, and he knew he would lose men in the assault. Before he reached them, though, he would have to negotiate the pikes. A block of pikemen, maybe a full score though he could not be certain, were grouped a third of the way along the far end of the causeway. They formed a bristling hedge like a gigantic hedgehog, six men abreast, into which his lancers would need to charge. It was a formidable obstacle, but his men were brave and experienced, and they each had their pistols. That was two shots per man, a hundred in all, and fired at close range they would soften the block well enough to open a few gaps. Into those gaps the Husaria would gallop, cleaving more breaches until the pikemen ran away, or leapt headlong into the river. He simply had too many men for them to cope with.
    It was only then, as he was moving to the head of his makeshift column, that he saw the prize. On the wagon, atop its packed rows of hogsheads, stood the man for whom the Husaria had come to this great river. The blue coat, the gleaming bald head rising above the wagon like a beacon. The impudence made his jaw drop. The sheer bloody-minded audacity of the whelp who now commanded the pathetic English rabble was truly astonishing. The boy, Stryker, had not only chosen to fight, but he was challenging the Angels of Death. Goading them by parading Matthias above his feeble defences like a wind-blown flag above a besieged fort.
    Antczak took a breath so huge it made his lungs smart, and dragged his boots back so that his wicked spurs raked livid lines along his horse’s sweaty flanks. It reared, Antczak brayed his delight as the battle fury intoxicated his veins, and then he was galloping. For the river. For a man named Stryker. For glory.
     
    ‘Here they come!’ Corporal Praise-God Sykes screamed. ‘Charge for horse!’
    Sykes was on the left of the block, Stryker on the right. The three rows of pikes rose diagonally at the order, eighteen steel-tipped staves thrust out to meet the first wave of the assault. Stryker watched the men brace themselves, turned his own body to the side as if striding into the face of a gale, and drew his blade.
    The lancers hit home. A pikeman immediately fell, his spear missing its target, allowing the horse to rear and kick his head to a bloody pulp. But the gap closed as soon as it opened, and then the attack stalled. The causeway was wide enough to allow only four horsemen to ride abreast and, though they had vast numbers, the Husaria were unable to outflank the pikes. They pushed in, using their great weight to force Stryker’s party backwards, but the animals refused to slam directly into the outstretched blades. The speed of the charge was nullified almost immediately, reducing the Poles and Lithuanians to stabbing down with their lances, and it became more akin to a battlefield push of pike than a cavalry action.
    Stryker saw Antczak half a dozen horses back. His helmet obscured his face, but his voice was scorched indelibly on the lieutenant’s mind, and Stryker felt his pulse quicken in