Free Assassin's Reign: Book 4 of The Civil War Chronicles by Michael Arnold Page B

replied.
    Crow glanced back at him. ‘Aye, Samuel, that he was.’ He looked at Stryker. ‘Did you ever meet Carlo Fantom, Captain?’ When Stryker nodded mutely, the colonel went on. ‘He was a superior cavalryman, none could deny it. A Croat, I believe. Veteran of the Low Countries, like yourself, and a notorious killer. Again, like yourself.’
    ‘Sir, I—’ Stryker began.
    ‘But,’ Crow cut him off sharply, ‘he overreached himself, didn’t he? A devil in a man’s clothing. A beast who fed on slaughter and rape. His own army – this army, Stryker – had him dancing the noose-jig for his evil ways.’
    Stryker shook his head defiantly. ‘Fantom was a ravisher, sir.’
    ‘And you are a murderer, sir,’ Crow replied slowly.
    Stryker’s first instinct was to dive at the ruddy-cheeked colonel, beat him to a pulp with his fists alone. His mood of late had been volcanic, and he was inclined to let it erupt. But the exaggerated clearing of Forrester’s throat somewhere at his back made him think twice, and he managed to rein in his temper. Reluctantly, he snatched off his hat and dismounted, fixing his gaze on an invisible point just beyond Crow’s shoulder. ‘I had hoped,’ he stammered, his heart thumping each word up to his mouth.
    Crow’s blue eyes, small and malevolent, searched Stryker’s face for what felt like an age. ‘Hoped?’ he echoed the word with a malicious grin, stepping closer so that Stryker could smell his acrid breath. ‘Hoped, you say? And what had you hoped, Captain? That I had forgotten you? Forgotten your arrogance, your smug smirk? Forgiven you the casual murder of my sons?’
    The mention of that fateful night in Cirencester brought whirling memories to the fore. A pair of yellow-coated brothers had died in a makeshift stable, one at the end of Stryker’s sword, the other impaled on a pitchfork wielded by Sergeant Skellen. Stryker remembered their eyes, glinting with such malevolence. Like their father. ‘Saul and Caleb Potts were—’
    ‘Were mine!’ Colonel Artemas Crow erupted in sudden, spittle-drenched rage. He took a pace forward, as though he would lash out. Instead, he levelled a quavering finger in Stryker’s face. ‘They were mine, you cur,’ he hissed so that only Stryker might hear. ‘Not my heirs, certainly, but my flesh. My blood. And you stole them from me.’ He turned back, raising his voice. ‘Here, my lads, is the murderer of poor Saul and Caleb! The killer of brave Major Edberg. Look upon him as you would Satan himself.’
    ‘Colonel,’ one of the dragoons, still mounted, kicked forward, drawing his carbine in the same movement. He said nothing more, but Stryker saw the look on his face, and unsheathed his sword.
    Crow smirked as more of his men brought weapons to bear, urging their horses on until they formed a rough crescent around colonel and captain.
    Stryker lifted his blade, letting the tip dance in the air in front of the animals’ faces. He knew it was a feeble gesture, for the dragoons were seated high and hefting muskets and pistols, but he would be damned before showing his apprehension to Artemas Crow. ‘One at a time,’ he said, feeling reassurance in the arrival of Skellen and Forrester at his back, ‘or must you hold hands?’
    To his surprise, Crow began to laugh. It was a sound he had not heard before, and its screeching tones were even more penetrating than his speaking voice. ‘Hold!’ he ordered, raising an arm to curtail the ambition of his yellow-clad disciples. ‘Not here, my lads. Not now.’ Crow threw Stryker a derisive sneer. ‘Put that little hanger away, Captain.’
    Stryker hesitated at first, but the evident cessation in hostilities gave him pause for thought. To be seen holding a blade before a senior officer was not wise, and he gradually lowered the point to the throat of his waiting scabbard.
    Colonel Crow spun abruptly on his heels and stalked back to his horse. ‘No, sir,’ he declared when he had