Four foxes, two boars, and an elk. Today had been a good day for Greve Olaf Stenbock, who had just finished his hunting trip and was returning to Jarlsberg castle with his catch and his small band of two dozen retainers. The greve was very pleased with himself. He had not only managed to utilize his hounds to the best of their abilities, hunting foxes, but had also managed to stalk and kill an elk on his own, for once choosing not to enlist the help of a retainer to make the kill easier.

But the sun was setting in the distance, and it was always a bad idea to hunt at night, considering the dangers of friendly fire and the wolves – armed as the group was, God had given the wolf the gift of night-eye, not man. Greve Stenbock did not like the idea of being hunted himself.

The group all rode on horseback at a slow trot, with the dogs, Smaland hounds, running happily alongside their masters, eagerly awaiting the fine meal they would have for doing such a good job.

Suddenly, the dogs stopped and smelled the air. Sensing something odd, the pack rushed ahead of the horses towards the direction of the castle as the dog handlers shouted at them to come back.

The greve had never seen them behave like this before. They were usually very well-disciplined and loyal animals, never deserting the hunting party and certainly never running so excitedly like this. He ordered his men to follow them, trusting their instincts, telling him that something was wrong.

As the hunting party followed the dogs to a small hill that overlooked Jarlsberg castle, the greve noticed large pillars of smoke billowing over the crest of the hill. His heart stopped.

The greve's retainers looked at one another and at him. They knew as much as he did that smoke could only mean destruction. Either a fire raged through the castle or they had been attacked. Everyone preferred to believe the former.

Greve Stenbock raced ahead of the hounds, his retainers trailing behind him, while the dogs barked incessantly, agitated at the sight and sound of the smoke. Thoughts raced through the greve's head like wildfire through a dry forest. What had happened? Who was responsible for this? Was everyone safe? How would he deal with the situation? And most importantly, what had happened to his daughter, Crista?

As he brought his horse to a fast gallop, his heart pounding in his chest, imagining the horrible things that could have happened to his estate while he was gone. He damned himself for prolonging his hunting trip as long as he did. If he could have come back sooner, he would have been there to stop whatever tragedy had befallen his home.

Drawing closer, he smelled an odor that was unfamiliar to him – it smelled very much like rotting meat, but it had a putrid sweetness to it. After riding a few dozen yards nearer towards the scent, he could tell that it was exactly what he had feared. Foreign soldiers were digging a mass grave and looting the bodies of fallen Swedish soldiers just outside the walls of the fort.

The greve brought his horse to a halt and sat in his saddle with his mouth agape. His retainers caught up to him and began whispering words of fear, repulsion, and anger.

The faint sound of boisterous laughter could be heard not too far away. The greve turned in the direction of the noise to see a group of Tatars with their padded clothing and funny fur hats, gathered in a circle around an injured Swedish soldier, limping about, armed with what appeared to be a candlestick.

Without another thought, the greve drew his sword and charged towards the Tatars and their prisoner. He might as well save one soul today if he was not able to save his castle.

The hunting party and its dogs descended from the hill. The Tatars were caught off guard and could not form a defense in time. They called out for help, but their screams were in vain. The only people outside were on the burial detail, and they were on the far side of the castle, where they could not see the slaughter. The greve’s men made short work of the barbarians, slashing their backs with their sabers as they fled. The dogs bit into their necks and heels, while some of the men dismounted to finish what the dogs started. It was all over within the time it took to boil an egg.

The injured soldier wanted to show his appreciation but instead collapsed out of exhaustion.

With his hair matted in blood and his black armor stained with bile, blood, and urine, he was almost unrecognizable. As soon as his face was uncovered, he made a deep gasp for air. The greve recognized him as his garrison commander – Captain Sven Bjornsson. After he had been injured, the Tatars wanted to toy with him until they tortured and killed him. The greve had good timing indeed. If he had not been there to rescue Bjornsson, he would have surely died.

Two of the greve's retainers rushed to attend to him. His eyes were wide in fear and confusion, and he continued to gasp for air. Unable to stand on his own feet, the men had to hold him up as the greve approached him.

“Captain, what happened here?” said the greve, his brow furrowing with both disgust and worry.

The wild-eyed captain turned his head to his greve and managed to mutter, “Polacks... Casimir commanding... Crista captured...” before going limp in the arms of the greve's retainers.

Greve Olaf Stenbock would not stand for this blatant disrespect for both his home and the recently established peace between Sweden and the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. These rogue Polish forces would be brought to justice, if not by their own king, then by the greve himself and an army of Western Europe's greatest mercenaries behind him.