Eric Flint: 1636:The Saxon Uprising

Berlin did not celebrate because Chancellor Oxenstierna had twenty thousand troops in or near the city on the Swedish payroll, and was in a fury.

A cold fury, to make things worse. He was now in a desperate situation, he knew it-and he knew he only had one option left. Sheer, stark violence.

Dresden, capital of Saxony Before dawn of the morning after the battle, the two young hostlers had the draft horses out of the stable and hooked up to the first of the plows. After paying them the first installment owed, Denise and Minnie headed out of the city. Others could celebrate the victory, tend to wounded, fuss over prisoners-but they had important work to do. By sunrise they were on the airfield and started to clear away the trash and debris.

It was slow going. The plow worked fine, but neither Denise nor Minnie had any real experience at this sort of work. Both of them were good horsewomen, but that wasn't the same skill set as that required here.

Within an hour, despite the cold, they were both sweating-and hadn't gotten much of the field cleared.

"We need a damn farmer," Denise groused.

The next best thing arrived-the two hostlers, with more draft horses hooked up to the roller sledge. After a short negotiation, they agreed to do the work as well. Fortunately for all concerned, the stable-master had taken the day off in order to join the city's festivities.

With capable hands now guiding the work, the field was cleared by mid-afternoon. By sundown, Denise and Minnie were back at the townhouse.

They found Noelle in the kitchen, sitting at the table and listening to the radio. With Nasi's purse to draw on, they could afford their own. It was purely a receiver, though, with no transmitting capability.

"Hey, Noelle, it's done!" Denise said cheerfully. "We even have time to get to the radio station for the evening window. Eddie could be here by tomorrow."

Noelle stared at them. Then, back at the radio. Somebody was jabbering something about Berlin.

"What's up?" asked Minnie. "Anything important?"

Noelle stared at them. Then, back at the radio. They were still jabbering something about Berlin.

"Well," she said. "Yes."

A tavern on the outskirts of Berlin Axel Oxenstierna frowned. There was some sort of racket coming from just outside the village inn where he'd set up his temporary command post. It sounded like the movement of a large body of troops. A battalion, at least.

Why would a battalion be moving here? True enough, he'd been ordering a lot of troop movements. Pulling an army of twenty thousand men out of their barracks and into marching order wasn't something you did in a couple of hours. But no large body of troops should be assembling here.

He caught the eye of one of his aides and nodded toward the front entrance. "Go see what's happening out there."

The aide headed toward the door, but before he got there it burst open. Erling Ljundberg came in, followed by three of his Scots and-

Oxenstierna froze. "Your Majesty…"

Gustav Adolf pushed past Ljundberg and stepped forward two paces. His face, always pale, was almost as white as a sheet.

Colonel Erik Haakansson Hand was the seventh person through the door. He almost had to fight his way past the gaggle of Scots. Oversized Scots.

He was now very anxious. This was moving too quickly. Gustav Adolf was not following the plan they'd agreed on and Erik was sure he knew the reason why. The king had a ferocious temper. He didn't lose it that often, but when he did the results tended to be volcanic.

To get past the Scots he had to move around to the right. When he got past the last Scot, he could see his cousin's face in profile. The instant he saw that ghostly visage, he knew they were in trouble.

The king started with "You-" The next several words were utterly foul. They were blasphemous, too, which really frightened Erik. The king of Sweden was a devout Lutheran and almost never lapsed into blasphemy. Profanity, yes. This day and age was not the least bit Victorian. But pious men took the third commandment seriously.

The chancellor raised his hand, half in protest and half simply as an unconscious shielding gesture. His own face was extremely pale.

Gustav Adolf moved on to accusations that had some content, but they were still laced with profanity and blasphemy.

"-knew perfectly fucking well I never would have allowed-you God-damned bastard! My own daughter had to hide from you! Were you going to see her murdered too, you stinking son-of-a-bitch? This was fucking treason, simple as that-and don't think I won't find out what really happened with that God-damned asshole in Bavaria! You think-"

It was all spinning out of control. They'd discussed this at length and had agreed that the best way to handle it was a stiff but dignified order to arrest the chancellor. Instead, the king's fury-

And then Erik's worst fears materialized. Gustav Adolf's eyes rolled up and he collapsed to the floor.

The American doctor Nichols had warned him this might happen, months ago. He'd also described the possible symptoms.

"There are half a dozen types of what we call generalized seizures," he said. "The one that's best known because it's the most dramatic is the so-called 'grand mal' seizure. Well, you probably don't use the French term yet. It's a major convulsion which usually starts with the patient losing consciousness and collapsing. That's followed by what we call the 'tonic' phase, where there's a stiffening of the body that lasts for up to a minute. Then the 'clonic' phase starts, which lasts another minute or so and where the patient has violent convulsions. You've got to be careful, then. He may bite his tongue or injure himself some other way. After that, he'll fall into a deep sleep."

"For how long?" Hand asked.

Nichols shrugged. "There's no way to know. A few minutes, a few hours-in some instances, even a few days."

This was a disaster. The big room in the tavern was a frozen tableau, for the moment. The king on the floor and the chancellor staring down at him. Ljungberg and his half dozen Scots were doing the same. So were the eight officers on Oxenstierna's staff who'd been in the room when the king burst in.

But Oxenstierna's paralysis wouldn't last. The man was smart, he was ruthless when necessary-and the king's paralysis gave him the opening.

They'd all come in armed except the king, but they'd agreed they wouldn't have weapons in hand. Erik had made certain, though, that his pistol would come out of its holster easily.

So it did. It was a good flintlock with two rifled barrels. He strode forward three paces. He'd trained himself to shoot left-handed since the battlefield injury that had half-crippled his right arm, and he'd regained much of his former marksmanship. But he was taking no chances.

The gun came up, on target.

"Traitor!" he said. Not quite shouting.

He fired the first barrel; an instant later, the second.

Both rounds struck the chancellor squarely in the chest. Oxenstierna was wearing no armor and in the heat produced by the fire in the tavern's main room, he'd had his buff coat unbuttoned and open. The heavy.62 caliber bullets punched into his heart and knocked him off his feet.

He might not be dead yet. But that was now a meaningless technicality. He would be within a minute or two, and there was no doctor in the world, not even the Moor, who could have kept him alive.

The tableau remained frozen-though now with everyone's eyes fixed on the body of the chancellor.

Then one of Oxenstierna's staff officers muttered a curse and drew his own pistol. Two of his fellows began following suit.

The colonel who'd drawn first was bringing his pistol to bear on Erik when Erling Ljungberg's automatic began firing. Three shots took him down; two shots each did for his would-be partners.