Vienna, Holy Roman Empire

The clip-clopping of two horses echoed through the alleyways of Vienna's slums. It was around dusk, and the shadows of the horses and their riders hugged the cobblestone walls. The riders, one attired in a shining black suit of armor with a blackened, visored armet helmet, and the other clad in a puffed-and-slashed doublet with red and black stripes and a wide beret, conversed in a relaxed tone as a gaggle of beggars, thieves and homeless men trailed behind them.

“The Catholics are doomed to failure,” said the armored rider on the left in German. “Who do they have supporting them? The Catholic League? Spain? These Holy Roman idiots?” His voice raised with the mention of each faction.

“Be careful, Otto, your accent is showing,” said the comparatively plainly-dressed rider on the right, softly, “Do you want everyone to know that you are a damned Saxon? You may speak the same language as these Austrians, but remember that your states are at war.” he continued as he glanced behind him to once again take account of the number of vagrants that they had brought with them. There were fifty-two.

Otto Koenigsherr and Gunther Jaeger were recruiters for Talbot Company, and they had been looking for fresh recruits within the Holy Roman Empire for two weeks. In the past, the two had worked as individuals, with Otto recruiting men from his homeland in Saxony while Gunther recruited from his place of birth in Bavaria, but now they had been ordered to work together and recruit men from Austria. So far, they had picked up a good number of men. The streets of the big cities were always littered with undesirables that reeked of the filth of the gutter who had death and disease hovering over their heads. These men were the opposite.

Otto was the son of a minor Protestant noble. Instead of investing his inheritance to grow his father's estate, the young Koenigsherr instead spent it on a fine suit of armor, a horse, and the best weapons he could arm himself with to participate in the wars of religion that raged throughout Europe. A cushy life on a country estate had no appeal to him. He preferred the excitement and romance of living a life out in the field with his brothers in arms and fighting for his coin instead of waiting for it to pour in thanks to the sweat and toil of other men.

Gunther Jaeger was a Catholic and a son of Bavaria. Originally the older of two children in a family of butchers, he, unlike Otto, did not choose to search of fame and fortune, but was instead impressed into the service of a mercenary group – the Talbot Company, just as he was doing to the men trailing behind him. Initially, however, due to his social status, Gunther was assigned as a lowly pikeman in the infantry.

In due time, though, he had proven time and again that he was not only one of the most difficult men to kill, but also one of the coldest and most calculating soldiers that his commanders had ever seen. He spoke little and preferred to lead by example, and this had earned him his place as a drillmaster in the company.

Fate had brought the two men into the service of the Talbot Company. Otto had deserted his unit after fighting alongside the Swedish at the Battle of Breitenfeld when the entire Saxon force was routed by a Catholic army flying the colors of the Holy Roman Empire. It was only later that Otto had found out that the Swedish had won the battle, and refused to rejoin his regiment in shame. He instead opted to join a company of free cavalrymen, who fought under no flag and for no cross. These men, he soon found out, were mercenaries for the Talbot Company.

It was here that he met Gunther – a low-born who had far more battlefield experience than he did, and whom he was instructed to treat as an equal. Although Otto's status permitted him to be the captain of a cavalry troop, he had no problem being put on equal footing as the man who trained all new recruits.

“Oh, it does not matter, Herr Jaeger,” Otto said, dismissively. “I will end up killing a few of these Austrians eventually – or their sons, or their brothers, or their children. It would only hasten the process if they attacked me now.”

“Oh yes, I relish the thought of being chased by every man in the city on top of the entire city watch, and possibly every dog from here to Liesenpfennig!” Gunther remarked with a snarl. “Your rashness will be your undoing. I suggest that you reign yourself in.”

Otto dismissed his colleague with a wave of his gloved hand.

“Give me one good reason why the Catholics would be able to win. Just one,” said Otto as they turned the corner into a wider main street.

“The Spanish can...”

“The Spanish still believe that we are in the previous century, my friend. Their army is composed primarily of men who fight in antique dress, and whose tactics could be thwarted by a general with half the brain of an ape.”

“I was going to say that the Spanish can buy their way out of this war.”

“How do you suppose they would do that? Oh, look.” Otto said, cutting himself short as he saw a beggar curled up on the side of the street. “You there! Get up! Enlist in the honorable Talbot Company for four florins a month or die in the streets like a rat! The choice is yours sir!”

The disheveled beggar opened his weary eyes and looked up at the soldiers. He hadn't had anything to eat in days, and this was foremost on his mind.

“Good and kind sir, do you have anything to eat?” he said, his voice quivering.

Otto dismounted and strode over to the beggar, picking him up and standing him upright. “By God, you can stuff yourself with bread all you like when you join the company. Sometimes there will be sausage as well.”

The mention of free bread and sausage was enough to make the beggar's heart skip a beat. It was either that or the muscle atrophy. He opened his mouth in a near-toothless grin and said, “Will I be clothed, fine sir?”

Otto struggled not to back away from the foul-smelling breath of the beggar and replied, “Oh, oh yes. Only the sturdiest raiment for company men. We will clean you up, put some armor on your chest, sir, and the ladies will flock to you.” Otto rolled his eyes at his own comment. The man was in shambles. Even if they cleaned him up with all the soap in Europe, the stench of his breath would still be enough to put down an ox.

“What must I do for all this, sir?” said the beggar, almost pleadingly. He had lived almost his entire adult life out in the streets, and to him, this was the opportunity of a lifetime. No more stealing from honest, hardworking merchants, no more begging for coin, and no more rats for supper.

“Write down your name and make your mark on this roster.” Otto said, handing the beggar a piece of charcoal and a book full of names.

The beggar stared at the book. His lips quivered – the one chance he had of getting out of this life and all he had to do was write his name – something he never learned how to do.

“Oh I see,” said Otto, “Tell me your name, and I will write it down for you. All you will need to do is make your mark.”

“Friedrich.”

“Surname?”

“What is a surname, sir?”

“... I see.” Otto muttered, simply scribbling 'Friedrich of Vienna no. III' in the roster, since there were two other men named Friedrich that they had recruited that week, neither of whom had family names.

Handing back the roster to Friedrich, Otto told him to make his mark, and he did so by holding the piece of charcoal like a knife and making a large X where Otto had indicated.

“Congratulations, my good man,” said Otto with a smile, “Welcome to the company. Now fall behind with the others.”

As the beggar ran behind them to join the other recruits, Gunther made a change to a roster of his own and added one more mark, making a total of fifty-three, one for every recruit.

“Do you know why your men were routed at Breitenfeld, Herr Koenigsherr?” said Gunther as he looked up from his roster.

“Yes,” replied Otto, mounting his horse. “Because the officers put in charge over us were idiots and bed wetters, more suitable to an army of dolls and children's toys rather than regiments of horse and foot.”

“Herr Koenigsherr,” Gunther said, looking Otto straight in the eye, “the periodicals that mention the battle, written by the Swedes – whom may I remind you won that battle, mention that their flanks fell on account of 'Saxon troops of questionable quality'.”

“I would watch my tongue if I were you, sir.”

“Do not think that this is a personal attack on your own valor or strength of arms, Herr Koenigsherr. I wished to merely state the fact that the soldiers that your countrymen fielded at Breitenfeld were exactly like these men. You Saxons fed them, gave them armor and weapons, yes, but your officers severely neglected to instill in them the discipline that is essential for a regiment to function. This will not happen with these men.”

Otto scoffed, “Oh? Why do you say that, Herr Jaeger? Even with you training them, I can plainly see that these men are more suitable to be cannon fodder rather than soldiers. None of them have any intelligence; I am absolutely sure none of them have held a weapon before, and I guarantee that they have no experience with even the most basic principles of drill.”

“Perfect. Tabula rasa.”

“What was that, Herr Jaeger?”

“It is Latin for 'blank slate'. A man cannot make any bad habits if he has never acquired them.”

The two riders and the men behind them approached a large building, built like a tavern, but with a stone wall surrounding it, built with embrasures – small windows that allowed weapons to be fired out from behind the wall. This was Talbot Company's Austrian guild house.

“Welcome to your new home, gentlemen,” said Otto as he led the new recruits into the gates.

No sooner had the men entered the guild house's main hall than they were grabbed by other company men in uniforms, who stripped them of their rags and herded them into an open courtyard where they were doused with buckets of cold, soapy water to get rid of their stench.

The reception process had begun. The men would later be deloused, shaven, and equipped with fresh clothes and the white sash of the Talbot Company. Gunther would soon resume his duties as drillmaster and would beat the discipline into them until either exhaustion or death claimed them.

His men would not break like the Saxons at Breitenfeld. They would advance in their formations even as musket balls grazed their cheeks or as their friends died around them. They would come to fear the wrath of their commander more than the enemy, and the sound of his voice more than musket fire. This is what Gunther had been doing for years to all sorts of men – city dwellers and country folk alike. They would no longer be artisans, shoemakers, carpenters or farmers – they would be soldiers: disciplined, fearless, and violent. This is what the company expected of them, and this is how Gunther would mold them to be.