Stryker saw Lujan Antczak in the midst of his force, and he shoved his way out through the pikes. Antczak saw him too, kicking forth so that he might cut the Englishman down. Stryker knew that he was no match for a man on horseback, so he took a knee, gripping his sword in both hands and carved it across his front, parallel with the ground. The stallion screamed as the steel carved a crunching path into its fetlock. It tried to rear, but blood was spouting freely, spraying Stryker from hat to boots, and then it was falling, tumbling in a storm of whinnies and thrashing hooves. Stryker rolled clear. He saw Antczak fall. The battle raged around them, but none seemed to notice the two officers in their private duel. Antczak was up first, untangling himself from the stirrups and lurching at the younger man with a guttural cry that might have struck fear into Stryker’s heart on any other day. But Stryker could smell blood now. It was all around, filling his nostrils, infecting his mind, and he saw only his enemy in the melee. Antczak careered into Stryker, taking him in the chest and thrusting him on to his back. Stryker could do nothing but fall to what must be his death. Both men had lost their swords in the confusion, and Antczak clawed at Stryker with fingers as strong as iron, gouging at his eyes with his gloved hand so that Stryker was sure they would burst like punctured wine skins. With his other, gauntleted fist he bludgeoned the Englishman’s cheeks, mouth and nose, and Stryker heard himself snarl like a rabid dog, his mind whirling and his arms burning as they fought for purchase. He threw himself to the left. Antczak let him move freely and, as Stryker found himself on top and then beneath the cavalryman, he realised that the momentum of his opponent’s armoured body had carried the Pole all the way back to the ascendancy. Stryker was winded by the move. He groped at Antczak’s face, but the Pole swatted him away, hitting him again with the solid gauntlet. Stryker slumped back, his feeble arms sliding away from the glowering face as Antczak slipped his hands down to encircle the lieutenant’s throat.
The wings on the cavalryman’s back had been charred to ash by the explosion, and instead of feathers, Stryker’s fingers hit upon the wooden frame. He gripped it, braced for death, but it gave way suddenly, splintered, he supposed, by the roll, and made brittle by flame.
Antczak laughed as he squeezed. Stryker had nothing left. Nothing at all. So he stabbed. The first blow caught Antczak’s neck and, though it did little damage, it made the hussar wince and jerk his head back. Stryker saw the gap, brought his arm between them, and stabbed again, this time straight up at the cavalryman’s face. He did not aim. The air had been throttled from him, and with it, his strength, but the sharp end of the blackened splinter hit Antczak’s cheek, ricocheted upwards across the skin and sank deep into his right eye.
Rotmistrz Lujan Antczak did not scream. He froze above Stryker, sighing deeply, and then his jaw fell open and his fingers loosened. Stryker bucked underneath the armoured soldier, and Antczak collapsed on to his back, the charred stump protruding like a giant splinter from one eye, his other staring lifelessly up at the Pomeranian sky.
Stryker spluttered uncontrollably, rolled on to all fours and vomited. When it was done, when his stomach griped with emptiness and his mouth was sour, he realised that the din of the fight had melted to almost nothing. He looked up to see Forrester, Sykes and Matthias. The pikemen and musketeers were beyond them, busily looting the corpses, but no horsemen could be seen.
‘Gone, sir,’ Forrester said.
Stryker sat up. ‘Gone?’
‘The blast killed most of the buggers,’ the ensign elaborated, ‘and the rest knew they were beaten as soon as our pikes caught ’em on both flanks.’ The youngster grinned. ‘You did it, sir.’
Stryker spat the last vestiges of vomit on to the bloody ground. ‘We did it, Lancelot.’
Matthias stepped forwards. ‘Thank you, Lieutenant Stryker.’
Stryker nodded, too exhausted to think of anything worth saying. A single white feather danced before him as he stared at the grass, twisting in the whispered breeze, and he scooped it up.
‘The colonel will be on his way, God willing,’ Forrester said. He stared about at the carnage. ‘What’ll we tell him?’
Stryker struggled to his feet. Bodies lay everywhere, most around the smouldering skeleton of the wagon. ‘We’ll tell him that we met the Angels of Death.’
‘And?’
He turned the feather, mesmerised by its pristine beauty amongst the horror of the forest. ‘And we clipped their wings, Lancelot. We clipped their wings.’ He could not help but smile, because he had fought and he had won. Innocent Stryker was a soldier.
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