Traitor's Blood (Civil War Chronicles) by Michael Arnold

Author:Michael Arnold [Arnold, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton
Published: 2010-08-19T06:00:00+00:00

In the entrance hall Stryker saw Ensign Burton locked in a violent embrace with a thickset pig-nosed fellow. The man was shorter than Burton by a full head, but he seemed proficient with his long sword and the obscenities he screamed, though unintelligible, spelled out his intentions.

Stryker turned to his men. ‘Scatter. Check all the rooms. Skellen?’

‘Sir!’

‘Get outside and make sure no one’s made a run for it.’

The men did as they were told. Stryker went to assist his ensign, but found the way blocked by the only other member of the enemy left standing.

Stryker stepped forward and faced up to the blade-wielding soldier. He was tall, taller still than Stryker, and slashed the space between them in an impressive flourish. It was only when the tall man lunged again, and they closed together for Stryker to block the heavy stroke, that the captain noticed the close resemblance between his immediate enemy and the broad man flailing wildly at Ensign Burton.

Stryker shoved the tall man backwards, but as soon as the defender regained his balance he lurched forward again in a sudden lunge that caught Stryker by surprise. The outstretched sword darted toward Stryker’s belly, its wicked point plunging into its target’s buff-coat, finding resistance immediately. Stryker leapt back, stumbling on a prone body, and barely managed to keep his footing. His enemy’s grin grew broader, all yellow teeth and wide eyes.

Stryker was in pain, for the tip of the blade had found flesh. He was thankful for the excellent padding afforded by his coat, since the worst of the lunge’s force had been absorbed within the tough hide. The lanky defender was closing with him now, waving the tuck from side to side and keeping his knees bent in readiness to launch a killing stroke.

Stryker knew his own reactions were becoming dull, blunted by the pulsating pain. Suddenly, sheathing his sword, he dropped to one knee and scooped up a discarded musket, presenting it at chest height in imitation of the port position. The solid wooden butt pointed skywards, preparing to receive and parry the next blow when it came.

When the defender made his move, it was a low, hard thrust. The tuck again met with resistance in the area already weeping a deal of blood, a dark, almost black stain blooming on Stryker’s coat, but this time Stryker’s jolt backwards just saved him from feeling the metal enter his flesh. Now the defender was off balance, for he had had to straddle the corpse to reach Stryker. He was desperately trying to bring his trailing leg over to Stryker’s side of the body.

Stryker thrust his arms forward, throwing the heavy musket so that it ploughed into the man’s upper body with all the force the captain could muster. His opponent raised his sword, but the musket crashed through his defence, the butt end forcefully meeting the side of his head.

Stryker was advancing as soon as the musket had left his grip. In one smooth motion, the fingers of his right hand closed around the hilt of his sword, the steel hissing its way out of the scabbard.

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