But the mercenary didn't, instead he looked at the narrow blade and the symbols carved into it. "This thing looks Swedish, too. Let's take him to the camp supervisor instead. Let him decide what to do with him."

  Inwardly, Gustav was triumphant. This was exactly what he had hoped for. Maybe everything would turn for the better after all. He decided not to fight back.

  "Too bad." Scarface twisted Gustav's arms brutally. "I would have loved to have his boots, and that rapier must be worth a fortune."

  "Not worth more than our lives, Thomas. If the letter here really is for the Swedes, we'd be in big trouble if we don’t pass it along. But if the cheeky little fellow is lying, you can always slit his throat later."

  Thomas grinned, revealing a row of rotten teeth.

  The camp supervisor, who managed the camp followers and everything nonmilitary, was a fat man with a long, gray goatee and strangely bulging eyes that seemed to be constantly watering. He wore a high-waisted, dark blue jacket with wide tails that was much too tight for him. It had decorative slits on the sleeves, from which peeked a dingy undershirt that, like everything else on the man, did not fit properly. He wore a protruding white collar that had been out of fashion for ages. A broad hat with a red feather was perched on his greasy gray hair like a crown. The administrator lived in a large tent crammed with a wide variety of objects. Boxes full of silverware, valuable crosses set with precious stones, many-armed chandeliers without candles that surely came from looted churches, and many other things that would seem valuable to a hoarder.

  Gustav knew this had all been stolen. Even the supervisor’s clothes. This made him angrier than his current situation allowed. He worked to stay calm–he needed this man to give him information. The fate of his family depended on it.

  A large brazier belched acrid smoke, overheating the tent. Gustav began to sweat and the two soldiers who had dragged him there flushed red. Beads of sweat appeared on their foreheads.

  The camp supervisor didn't seem to mind. He sat on a throne-like chair with a bored look on his face. At his feet squatted two women who had so little clothing on their bodies that they were probably glad of the heat.

  The sight made Gustav even angrier. The two young women might once have been beautiful, but now they only looked worn out and haggard. Not even the thickly applied makeup on their faces could hide their sadness.

  "Why are you bothering me?" the man asked in a falsetto voice, taking another sip of wine from a gem-encrusted goblet. Thick rings sparkled on each of his fingers. "I have a lot of work to do. The battle is coming."

  Gustav had to suppress a snide grin. Sitting on his ass and drinking wine couldn't exactly be called work.

  Thomas and his companion might have been thinking the same, but they kept a straight face and reverently bowed their heads to the administrator. This must be a powerful man. "Excuse me, camp supervisor, we have arrested this boy. He snuck into the camp."

  The fat steward yawned and stroked the neck of one of the women as if she were a pet. "Then why isn't he dead yet?" he asked casually, as if Gustav wasn't in the room.

  "He claims to have a message for the Swedes. The letter looks genuine." The younger of the soldiers handed the letter to the administrator.

  Displeased, he took it and peered with oozing eyes at the broken red wax seal with the sheaf of grain. "Mhh," he grumbled, turning the folded paper over in his dirty hands. "Probably fake."

  "He also had this on him." The mercenary handed over Gustav's sword.

  Now the man's eyes widened greedily. Hastily he reached for the beautiful weapon. He examined it with an expert eye. "Silver. A meticulous work, indeed. Almost no one can make such finery anymore. Everyone wants those nasty firearms these days."

  "The symbol of the Swedes is on the blade, too," Thomas said.

  His companion elbowed him in the side. Presumably, he was usually the one doing the talking.

  The steward put the weapon aside onto a pile of similar looking decorated blades.

  I'll never see it again, Gustav thought, only to remember immediately that he would be lucky to get out of here alive.

  The cowardly supervisor unfolded the letter. He glanced at it briefly and then at Gustav. It was obvious that the man could not read–neither German nor Swedish.

  "It’s just the selling price of the weapon and the name of some blacksmith. The rascal lied to steal the sword. Hang him. Maybe you can find a free branch somewhere." He carelessly dropped the letter. It spun in the air and landed at Gustav's feet.

  He slipped from Thomas' loose grasp and hastily picked it up. "I didn't steal anything. These things belonged to my father and …"

  Thomas punched him violently in the kidney.

  With a gasp, Gustav collapsed forward, only to be brutally wrenched upright a moment later. He held the letter crumpled and hidden in his fist.

  "There you have it. The thief gets caught in more lies. First the letter is for the Swedes and now he says that it belonged to his drunken father. Get him out of my sight as soon as possible," he shouted.

  "The sword …" began the young mercenary.

  "I have to keep it as evidence." The steward smiled slyly and clasped his hands sanctimoniously in front of his face.

  The faces of the two mercenaries darkened. Wordlessly, they pushed Gustav out of the tent.

  He tried to fight back: "Let me go! I haven’t harmed anyone. I'm just looking for …"

  Thomas hit him again. Gustav could only gasp.

  "We should have slit this street urchin's throat right then and there. Now we've lost the sword and we still have to get our hands dirty."

  The other mercenary waved away his griping.

  "Listen to me!" began Gustav pleadingly. "I didn't steal those things. Your camp supervisor can't read."

  Thomas laughed. "Can you?"

  "Yes, but not this language. It's probably Swedish, I don't understand it."

  "Unfortunately, neither do we, so there's nothing we can do about it." The men pushed him along the street to a beech tree, from whose broad branches two people were already dangling. "That's the way it is, kid. Don't give us any more trouble, we’re just doing our jobs."

  "Gustav," he roared. "My name is Gustav and what you are doing is a grave injustice. This letter is intended for the Swedes, otherwise would the seal of their king be on it? Please find someone who can understand it."

  "Can we please make this quick, Jorn? All this yelling is giving me a headache."

  "Please, the letter is important!" Gustav began to cry.

  Thomas had meanwhile found a rope and expertly tied a noose. With an annoyed expression on his face, he put it around Gustav's neck.

  "The Swedes will punish you for this, I promise you!" he cried out. "My father fought for them."

  A box wagon pulled by a gray mule came clattering by. The coachman, his short-cropped brown hair already turning gray at the temples, gazed disinterestedly at the spectacle from his seat. Seeing someone strung up seemed to be a common occurrence for the people in the train.

  Despite Gustav’s mortal terror, the cart's bright yellow paint caught his eye. Emblazoned on the side was a large intricate image that at times seemed to depict a blooming flower and at other times a hideous demon skull. Gustav's eyes seemed unable to decide what they were seeing. He raised his eyebrows in confusion.

  At that very moment, the coachman happened to look him straight in the eye. He clicked his tongue and the mule stopped as abruptly as if it had run into a wall. "Hello, gentlemen. What are you doing?"

  Thomas, who was trying to throw the end of the rope over a branch, didn't even turn around. "What does it look like, idiot?"

  Jorn cleared his throat. Respectfully, he replied, "We are punishing an intruder, Master Feldsher."

  Thomas winced as if someone had whipped him across the back when he heard that Jorn was addressing a military field surgeon.

  "Ohh …" gasped the mercenary. The end of the rope slipped out of his hand.

  "I see." The feldsher fixed them both with a piercing glance, then turned his dark eyes on Gustav. "And what do you have to say to that?"

  Gustav seized his very last chance and silently held out the crumpled letter to the coachman.

  He jumped lightly from the cart. He was a tall, muscular man, the sort that seemed somehow ageless. He could have been in his mid-twenties or his late forties. The field surgeon wore simple but neat clothes, all in black–the doublet, trousers, shirt, knee boots–he even wore black leather gloves. Chin lifted, he approached Gustav.

  His cart blocked much of the path through the camp, but to Gustav's surprise, no one complained. Those who could not pass found another way or waited without grumbling for the feldsher to decide to move on.

  "May I?" he asked Gustav kindly, pointing to the letter.

  Gustav pressed the letter into his hand. Please, sir, he pleaded, hoping that there was something in that letter that could help him.

  The feldsher read the letter. He could read. That much was obvious from his eyes darting back and forth. Carefully, he folded the letter back up. "Do you know this Hans mentioned in the letter?"

  "He is," with a pang Gustav corrected himself, "was my father."

  The feldsher nodded. He turned to the two guards. "Jorn and Thomas, right?"

  The two flinched when the stranger addressed them so casually by their names.

  "Yes," Jorn muttered.

  "There is something in this letter that the Swedish commander should definitely be informed about. Why didn't you bring the boy to him?"

  Concerned, the two looked at each other and wordlessly decided to pass the blame. "The camp supervisor ordered it."

  "Aha, what did he say about the letter? Surely you showed it to him?"

  "He couldn't read it," Gustav let it slip.

  The field surgeon suppressed a grin.

  "We're just carrying out orders here," Thomas began tearfully, as if he hadn't just been about to hang Gustav but was himself the victim.

  "I'm taking this boy to the Swedes. Inform the camp supervisor."

  They nodded eagerly and hurried away.

  Gustav saw that they were not heading towards the supervisor's tent. The two obviously wanted nothing more to do with the matter.

  The feldsher gave Gustav a searching look. "Tell me the truth. Is this letter really your father’s?"

  "Yes." Gustav began to sob. He had just escaped death by a hairsbreadth. Yesterday his main problem was that he didn't like helping around the house, and today … "He was murdered last night by men like these, and as he lay dying, he told me where this letter was hidden. A rapier with the symbol of the Swedish kings was also there. My father fought in the Battle of Breitenfeld. Unfortunately, I can't read Swedish. Lord, you must believe me!"

  "Can you read German?" Astonished, the feldsher arched an eyebrow.

  "Yes, my father taught me when I was a child."

  The surgeon nodded and a smug smile appeared on his lips. "Very well, let's go to the Swedes and find out what they have to say about your letter." He jumped onto the coach box of his garish yellow cart and patted the vacant seat beside him. "Come on up! Better stay out of Jolande's way though, she snaps sometimes."

  Gustav tugged the noose off his head, threw the rope to the ground and climbed onto the coach box. The feldsher clicked again, and the cart set off with a clatter.

  As they left the gallows tree behind them, Gustav’s panic began to subside. "Thank you," he sobbed, wiping his runny nose with his sleeve. "I owe you my life."

  The large man just nodded as if this fact was nothing special.

  "Can I ask you something?" said Gustav.

  "Of course, just don't always expect an answer." The feldsher winked at him and this time he smiled properly, flashing beautiful, even teeth.

  "Why did you stop and save me? You could have just gone on your way like everyone else. People are killed every day."

  The feldsher chuckled. A sympathetic sound. "Simple. Because you can see the symbol."

  6

  The Letter

  The field surgeon held the mule's reins loosely in his hands. Gustav noticed that he did not steer the animal at all, it simply went its way as if it knew where its master wanted to go. People dodged them everywhere they went, respectfully making way for the yellow cart. Gustav even thought he saw some of them crossing themselves, but he could have just been seeing things.

  "What do you mean because I can see the symbol?" asked Gustav, his mouth dry.

  "That's one of the questions I'd rather not answer just yet." The feldsher winked at him conspiratorially. "But now I have one for you. What's your name?"

  "Gustav." He paused for a moment, thinking about what the baker had told him about Swedish names. "Gustav Hansson." It felt good to honor his father in this way.

  "It's a beautiful name. My name is Martin. Martin the Feldsher." He grinned again and held out his hand to Gustav. "You can call me feldsher, or wound healer, human butcher, field slaughterer, bone setter, blood artisan, or whatever strikes your fancy. That's how most people handle it when they meet someone in my profession. Just don't call me a doctor, because I'm definitely not that, and please don't call me a barber, because that’s something I don't want to be."

  Gratefully, Gustav took the hand offered to him. The field surgeon’s leather glove felt surprisingly soft, even though he could sense thick scarring on the hands underneath. Gustav hoped that this man had good intentions towards him. Martin’s kindness spoke in his favor, and he had saved Gustav’s life, after all.

  They arrived at the entrance to the field camp of the Swedish troops. Two guards ran toward them.

  The smaller of two asked in a friendly tone: "Till vem vill du, herre?"

  In fluent Swedish, the feldsher replied. Gustav understood only one word: Torstensson.

  One of the guards replied in the language unintelligible to Gustav, whereupon the feldsher smiled kindly, and they were allowed to pass.

  "Where are you taking me?" asked Gustav in a whisper.

  "Why are we whispering?" the surgeon asked back in an exaggeratedly quiet voice. "Most people here only understand Swedish anyway, and we have no secrets from them after all." He winked again. "Well, almost none."

  Gustav looked at him in amazement and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, a genuine laugh escaped him. It escalated into a fit of laughter. It was as if this comment broke the dam and released the intense pressure of the last few hours. "I have no idea why I was whispering," he pressed out. Gustav hiccuped from laughing.

  The feldsher waited until Gustav had calmed down again before he said, "You should know the following about the commander of this army: His name is Lennart Torstensson, and he is the most successful commander of the Swedish royal house Wasa. To make a long story short, he's a damn powerful man."

  The Swedish commander resided in a huge tent. Four soldiers stood guard at the entrance. Someone must have run ahead of Gustav and Martin to announce their arrival, for one of the guards simply nodded to the feldsher and held the tent cover open for them to enter.

  The inside of the tent was fundamentally different from the last tent Gustav had seen. Where the baggage train steward's decor had been exuberant and ostentatious, here everything was simple. A few wooden chairs, a sideboard with some decanters–it was all modest and pragmatic, as most devout Protestants preferred. In the center of the tent stood the only symbol of the exalted position of the tent's resident—an oval card table so large that a separate cart had surely been necessary to get it here. A tall man with shoulder-length brown hair bent over the table. He wore a dark doublet set off with studs, and a lime green sash with fine gold trim. Without looking up, he said something in Swedish.

  The feldsher answered in German. "I’m here because of this boy. He has an interesting letter that I thought you should read. His appearance seems to be a good omen for your future plans."

  The Swedish commander turned around. Barely forty years old, he had a finely cut face adorned with a well-trimmed mustache and goatee. With a spring in his step, he approached them, took the letter from the surgeon, and skimmed the few lines. Astonishment grew on his face as he read.

  "What's your name, boy?" The commander spoke in the typical singsong cadence of a Swede speaking German. Some of the words were stressed on the wrong syllable, but otherwise he spoke the language excellently.

  Gustav told him.

  "Is Hans the Bold really your father?" The Swede fixed him with a penetrating glance, his blue eyes bright.

  Gustav blushed. Hans the Bold? He looked to the feldsher for help.

  Martin said a few quick words to Torstensson.

  "Oh, of course, how silly of me. You were too young then to know that name. Tell me how you got the letter."

  Gustav told him. He spared no detail, describing the murder of his father, the pillaging, the kidnapping of his mother and sister, and the massacre in his village.

  Torstensson listened, his expression serious. It was not clear to Gustav if the general was already aware of what had happened or not. Gustav also couldn’t tell if he disapproved or if he had possibly even commissioned the atrocities.

  When Gustav finished, Torstensson sighed and stroked his goatee thoughtfully. "War always brings out the worst in people. I'm sorry about your father, but I promise I'll have someone look for the rest of your family. If they're in the baggage train, we'll find them."

  "Will you punish the men who did this to my father?" Gustav held his breath.

  The commander's face twisted as if he had bitten into a lemon. "You know, son, this war has brought far too much suffering to your country, which is why I’m trying to end it as quickly as I can. But it won’t end until we defeat the emperor and his heretical pack of lapdogs once and for all. For this I need men. Many men. They're expensive and unfortunately I can't afford to pay them right now." He cleared his throat. "To convince them to keep fighting for me, I’ve had to give them permission to take what they need from the towns and villages. They have families to feed, after all—but some of them go overboard in the process …"

 

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