Livonia, Swedish Empire

After days of marching through hostile Lithuania without encountering serious resistance, Talbot Company was now within the borders of friendly Livonia, a vassal state under the rule of the Swedish king. Jarlsberg Castle beckoned to the company.

Otto Koenigsherr and his cavalrymen were on an advance reconnaissance patrol, marching several yards ahead of the main body of the company. The memories of the village still distracted him as he walked through the cool pine forest, looking for signs of enemy troop movement. He hated the silence. In his state of sobriety, sometimes the screams of dying children would jump out of his head and project into the world around him.

The cavalrymen approached a clearing that led into an open field with low rolling hills dotted with white and yellow flowers. Beyond the hills, a structure broke the straight line of the horizon: Jarlsberg.

At long last, Talbot Company had reached its destination. After this battle, every man would either return home or return to his maker. The sense of finality made Otto hold his breath in a moment of tension.

There was something else he saw on the horizon. Banners waved in the cold Swedish breeze, displaying a gold cross on a blue field. The Swedish regular army had already arrived. Hundreds of men and horses had mustered outside the castle, waiting for Talbot Company to arrive so that, hand-in-hand, they would be able to drive the Polish into the dirt.

However, the sight of the Swedish colors made Otto wince. The last time he had seen them was at Breitenfeld, where he fought under the command of their king. He had deserted them during that battle, and the colors brought back painful memories. He was doubtlessly thankful for their presence as allies but prayed that no one would recognize him and call him out for his cowardice.

“Sergeant,” he called out, his eyes still fixed on the Swedish flags, “Ride to Colonel MacRae and tell him that we have reached our destination at last. I shall ride to the Swedish commander and announce our arrival.”

A few yards away from the Swedish main camp, Captain Henri Andersson and a small entourage of riders patrolled the forests surrounding Jarlsberg, ostensibly looking for deserters.

However, this was all part of Henri’s plan. The night before, he had encouraged several of his men, all Finnish cavalrymen like him, to “desert the camp” so that they could meet in secret to plot against their Swedish oppressors. They were reported as missing the next morning and Henri had been ordered to bring them back to justice.

The bird call of a little grebe rang through the woods. This was the signal that the band of saboteurs had agreed on. Since grebes lived near water, there was no danger of being confused with the genuine animal, unless one were a keen listener of birds.

Henri and his men hastened towards the sound and found themselves in a small clearing, met by a dozen men gathered around the ashen remains of a campfire.

“Greetings, you fuckers.” Henri said as he and his men dismounted. “Today is a fine day for subterfuge. You know why I have gathered all of you here.”

“You promised us an honorable way to get out from under the hand of the Swede.”

“I never said the word honorable.” Henri said, waving his finger, “However you are correct. Tonight we plan our escape. You may be wondering – without the army, where do we go? What do we do?”

Heads nodded all around him.

“Fellows, are you not aware that all of Europe is wading up to its flesh pole in war? The opportunities for work in any of the free companies are vast, and if you desire to fight no longer, many villages have labor shortages thanks to the men being called up to fight. Our location and timing could not be more perfect. All we have to do is flee west. Poland itself will act as a vast buffer zone between us and the Swedish devils. Who wants to go to fight in the Netherlands? I know I do.”

The men murmured in agreement.

“So, the plan is simple. The Swedes need food and ammunition, yes?” Henri gestured to one of the soldiers that had ridden in with him – an older man with a bushy blonde beard, “This is Sergeant Koskinen. The Swedes made the mistake of entrusting their supplies to a Finn. He will make certain that our Swedish lords know the full extent of our displeasure.”

“It is our goal to keep at the siege for as long as possible,” said the sergeant, “To achieve this end, we must destroy our own artillery. I have placed impurities in all the charges of our cannon so that when they are fired even once, the guns will explode and be rendered useless. Stay away from our artillery. As far as the matter of food – do not drink the mead.”

An angry clamor began to rise among the men.

“Unless you want to shit yourselves, speak to Satan himself, and possibly die a slow and painful death, stay away from the mead. I have mixed the essence of devil’s trumpet into the barrels, which is masked quite nicely by the flavor of honey. Greve Stenbock intends to open the casks right before we assault the castle. When the Swedes drink the mead, they will believe that the grass is speaking to them and that they are falling into the sky. The cheap beer that they have us drink, however, is safe for consumption.”

“Thank you, sergeant,” said Henri, “Your heroic efforts will be sure to make this day will be memorable and entertaining. Men, once the Swedes are distracted by all this chaos and madness, we are to flee the field and head due south to the Lithuanian border. We will meet at the wooden church in the town of Joniskis, and from there we will begin our new lives. Does anyone have any questions?”

The soldiers said nothing, but all voiced their silent approval in their unique Finnish way.

“Good. Now, bind your wrists and let us tie you to the horses. You must look distraught and defeated for the Swedes to believe that we have caught you.”

Otto Koenigsherr’s mind raced with thoughts of uncertainty as he rode at full gallop alone towards the Swedish camp. What if they recognized him? Would he be arrested on the spot? Executed perhaps? What if the king himself was there?

“Think positive.” he said to himself. The absolute best outcome was for no one to even acknowledge his presence. This was extremely doubtful. His black armor stood out even amongst Talbot Company’s cavalry.

As he rode up to the perimeter of the camp, a Swedish soldier yelled at him to come to a halt. He obliged and pulled on the reins of his mount, causing it to kick up dirt and huff loudly, flaring its nostrils and shaking its head.

After a brief exchange with the soldier, Otto was escorted to the Swedish command tent. He could not help but notice that he turned heads as he passed, in the way that a crowd in a marketplace looks at a known miscreant. His armor betrayed his nationality, and the men’s icy stares were making it clear that they did not trust Saxons.

The command tent was larger than the others, decorated in the Swedish national colors of blue and yellow as opposed to the tan or white of the common tents that surrounded it. A banner bearing the coat of arms of the Stenbock family – a rearing black he-goat on a yellow field – waved about on top of the tent.

Otto threw back the flaps of the tent and entered to find Greve Olaf Stenbock and his officers hunched over a map with wooden pieces decorated with Swedish, Polish, and Talbot Company symbols. They were discussing the critical role of cavalry, as their backs were turned to him. Engrossed in their meticulous preparations, they did not notice him enter. Greve Stenbock addressed his officers,

“My lords, it is safe to assume that Talbot Company will always have the numerical superiority. This is especially true now that we have potentially lost a dozen of our Finnish Hakkapeliitta to desertion. Hopefully, Captain Andersson can find them in time. Now…” the greve took one of the wooden pieces decorated with the Talbot Company dog’s head and placed it on the right of a long line of mixed Swedish and Talbot Company pieces, “Assuming that their cavalry has enough strength to break through the enemy’s defense, we will put them on our right flank to crush the enemy’s left. Remember, my lords, that I desire a strong right above all things. Our left flank will be allowed to falter.”

“A sound plan, my lord,” said Otto in French, breaking his silence.

“Who are you?” said the greve in the same language.

“I am Captain Otto Koenigsherr, my lord.” he said with a low bow, “I represent Talbot Company’s carabineer cavalry troop.”

“I am Greve Olaf Stenbock.” the greve replied, looking Otto up and down, “It is good to meet you. Forgive me for saying this, but I believe I recognize your armor.”

Otto said nothing, but watched as the greve’s expression suddenly changed from neutral to irritated.

“You’re a damned Saxon, are you not? Do not deny it, man.”

“I am, my lord.”

“I fought alongside the Saxon cavalry at Breitenfeld.”

Otto gritted his teeth.

“You were all cowards and you almost cost us the battle. If it were not for the personal bravery and tactical brilliance of our king, that rout would have cost us the battle!”

Otto still refused to say anything.

Greve Stenbock grumbled, “What is Talbot Company’s cavalry force composed of, pray tell?”

Otto replied in a near whisper, “Some Polish and Russians, but mostly Saxons, my lord.”

The greve clenched his teeth and turned back to his officers.

“In light of recent information given to us by the commander of our mercenary cavalry, we must rely on our own Hakkapeliitta for flanking maneuvers. Talbot Company’s cavalry, although more numerous than our own, must be kept in reserve. I will not risk another rout here.”

Otto sighed in resignation.

“Is there anything else you wish to say to us, Captain Otto Koenigsherr of Saxony?”

“Yes, my lord.” Otto replied, suddenly standing tall with pride, “Talbot Company has a little over a thousand men under arms, at least double the size of your forces. We will not disappoint you.”

Otto’s words were punctuated by the gradually loudening rhythmic beating of Talbot Company drums signaling the company’s approach.

“And we are commanded by the finest officers in Europe.”

While Otto sweat under his armor as he tried to project an air of confidence, outside MacRae grinned in actual pride as he rode in front of his great mercenary horde pouring out of the tree line. Gunther, Don Alfonso, Warwick, Bjornsson, and even Sophia rode behind him, all sharing the same grim expression born from weeks of violence and suffering. All of them knew that all their training and hardship would culminate in this – an assault on a pile of bricks and earthworks, defended by a lunatic who believed himself a hero.