Eric Flint: 1635: The Eastern Front

He succeeded in the second, but not the first. The Pole reversed his grip on the lance and rose up in his stirrups in order to drive the lance straight down with all his might. The lance missed the sternum, passed between two of the ribs, cut open the right ventricle of the heart and almost made it through Jonsson's entire torso. But there was just too much muscle, too much mass. The king beneath was quite untouched.

The rain was starting to let up. In the distance to the west, Koniecpolski could see patches of clear sky. By evening, the storm would have passed completely. And with it, his great advantage over the Swedes.

The latest hussar charge had been driven back also, although this one had come close to shattering the enemy. If they'd been able to widen that gap just a bit more, a bit faster…

But there was no point dwelling on what might have been. Once again, his men had been repulsed-and they were finally showing the effects. The grand hetman had been in enough battles to know that he'd driven his cavalry almost to the breaking point. They'd done all he asked of them. The time had come to accept that he'd accomplished all he could this day and not drive into ruin. He hadn't destroyed the Swedish army, as he'd hoped to do. But he'd hammered them badly. Added to the destruction of the Hessians, he'd leveled the odds a great deal in Poland's favor. The intelligent thing to do now was return to Poznan. From here on, this was going to be a war of sieges.

Afterward, he would take a small private satisfaction in the knowledge that he'd already made that decision before developments made it inevitable. No sooner had he turned to give new orders to his adjutants than he saw a Cossack scout racing toward him.

Literally, galloping at full speed-on this treacherous soil. The man was either a superb horseman or utterly reckless.

Or most likely both, being a Cossack.

Koniecpolski waited until the man drew up his horse. Obviously he was bearing important tidings. Not even a Cossack would run his horse like that for any other reasons.

"The enemy is coming, Hetman!" The Cossack turned and rose in his stirrups, pointing a little east of south. "One mile away. No farther. Thousands of men."

Already? He hadn't thought any of the three divisions of the USE army could get here until tomorrow. Even then, not till noon or early afternoon.

Perhaps it was a different enemy force, although Koniecpolski couldn't think of any that would be in this region. Not numberings in the thousands, certainly.

Cossacks could get fairly vague in their numbering. Still, a Cossack scout could tell the difference between hundreds of men and thousands of men at a glance. On horseback, at a full gallop. The scout's estimate wouldn't be off by that much.

Just to make sure, he questioned the scout concerning details of their appearance. It didn't take long at all before he was certain that these approaching forces were part of the USE army. For one thing, Koniecpolski knew of no other large army that inflicted such dull uniforms upon its soldier. Upon its officers, even!

Gray uniforms. Except for the odd stripe here and there, a bit of flair with the shoulder decorations, they were the sort of vestments that monks would wear.

Dull monks. Boring monks. The sort of monks who took vows of silence and kept them.

Koniecpolski's own full dress uniform was as uniforms should be. He was particularly fond of his leopard skins.

In the distance, he heard a bugle. Marching orders, clearly. Whichever of the three USE divisions this was, it would be here within an hour. After the casualties he'd suffered today, the numerical odds would be even at best. And his men were exhausted. True, the enemy's troops would be tired as well, after the sort of march they'd made. But nothing wears men down like battle. Nothing in the world.

Yes. It was time to go.

The one thing Mike hadn't expected when he finally met up with Gustav Adolf's army was that he would turn out to be the highest ranked officer present.

Highest conscious rank, at any rate.

He turned away from the bed where the king of Sweden lay recuperating from his wounds. There was no point in staring at the man any longer. What Gustav Adolf needed was the best doctor who could be found.

That meant James Nichols. But it would probably be at least two days before planes could safely take to the skies again. The sky was clear at the moment-here, not in Magdeburg. It looked as if another storm might be on its way. If that proved true, they wouldn't be able to get Nichols here for a week or more. Assuming they could build a usable airfield, before this mucky soil finally dried out. Mike had his doubts.

"Not a flicker, you're saying?"

The man who served Gustav Adolf's troops as a doctor shook his head. "Nothing. Sometimes his eyes open, but there is nothing behind them."

Weather or not, they had to get Gustav Adolf out of here. Leaving aside his terrible head injuries, the lance wound in his side had penetrated the peritoneum. That meant he'd probably come down with peritonitis. If they didn't get him on antibiotics soon-there was a good chance he'd need surgery, too-that would likely kill him even if he recovered from the head trauma.

Mike had been told that the Jupiters, the new commercial aircraft, were equipped with air-cushioned landing gear that could land almost anywhere. If so, and if one of them were available, and if the weather held-that was a lot of ifs-maybe they could airlift the king.

But there was no way to count on that. With the weather as uncertain as it was, even if one of the planes were available they might not be able to use it.

Berlin. It was the only option Mike could see. Gustav Adolf could be taken there on a covered litter carried by a team of horses and guarded by a powerful cavalry force. By the time he got there, Nichols could have gotten to Berlin even if the planes still weren't flying.

Magdeburg would be better, of course. But Magdeburg was just too far away. Berlin wasn't much of a city, but it did have a palace. The elector had even gotten some of the rooms fitted with modern plumbing.

They might be able to get him to Magdeburg anyway, Mike reminded himself. If the weather cleared and one of the ACLG-equipped planes was available-and the boasts about the capabilities of their peculiar landing gear were accurate-then a Jupiter could meet them on the way to Berlin and airlift Gustav Adolf to the capital instead.

Mike glanced around the room he was in now, the main room of what had probably been Zbaszyn's premier tavern. Or possibly its only tavern.

The floor didn't bear thinking about. The sewers of the town…?didn't exist. There was a well here, but Mike thought he'd have to be really desperate before he drank any of that water without boiling it first.

Berlin. Yes.

Torstensson agreed, when Mike reached him on the radio. So, an hour later, did the chancellor of Sweden, Axel Oxenstierna. He was already in Berlin himself, as it happened, attending to the creation of an interim imperial administration for Brandenburg.

"And you must come to Berlin yourself, General Stearns," said Oxenstierna. "It is imperative that we have a council of our army commanders."

Legally, Oxenstierna was out of bounds. He was Sweden's chancellor, not the USE's, and had no formal authority over Mike. But the proposal-he'd see it as a command, but that was his problem-was sensible enough. Besides, Mike didn't have any doubt that if he got on his high horse about the matter, Oxenstierna would just get hold of Wettin and have the prime minister give him the order instead. Which would be an order he did have to obey.

He found Jeff Higgins in the little room in an abandoned house where they'd put the body of Anders Jonsson. Come to pay his last respects, obviously.