Chapter III

~ Blunder and Restitution ~

The generals were still distraught at the king’s choice to head into Poland. As politely as they could, they one by one through the night tried to change the king’s mind. The king for the most part ignored them while respectfully acknowledging their concerns. Finally, he had had enough and closed the conversation with an order that it was not to be discussed and that everyone should retire for the night.

He woke early the next morning to select his one hundred men. By the end of breakfast, he had selected the one hundredth soldier for his troop collection and ordered all of them to be ready for movement at noon. He next focused on the orders for the quartermaster. “You have three hours to equip my men with horses, stakes, blessed silver crosses, and the necessary provisions for a week long trek into Poland. Furthermore, I require civilian clothing for the men.”

The request was unorthodox, but the quartermaster was up to the task. He sent twenty men to raid the abandoned homes of Narva for civilian clothing while he focused on the collection of supplies and provisions. Minutes before noon, he had everything in place near the south gate of the camp. He found the king huddled with his generals and interrupted them with a salute. “Sir, the requested provisions are ready and the civilian clothing has been collected.”

Rehnschiöld, still massaging his sore thumbs, approached the king, “Sir, I see that you are intent on this suicide mission. Am I to go with you?”

“No, Karl. You stay with the generals and report back to Sweden for supplies and men. You are in command until I return. Allow the generals to move forward with our plans, but no matter what, keep the supply line open to Sweden and be watchful of our flanks. Leave reports of our successes and failures at the headquarters in Riga. I will read them when I return and catch up with you soon.”

“Yes, sir,” Karl said, somewhat relieved that he wasn’t expected to tag along. He offered, “Why not travel to Riga and take a boat to Gdansk. That would put you just north of Poland and cut your trip in half. King, your mapped path takes you along the Russian front and through unmapped forest.”

The king inspected the last bit of provisions while Rehnschiöld spoke. He placed his hands on Rehnschiöld’s shoulders. “Your concern, Karl, is noble. Yes, I thought of it, but there is a chance another blizzard will blow across the Baltic and trap me and my men at port in Riga. While not as efficient, it’s far more plausible that I’ll make better time over land. I know the path through Russia is sparsely occupied, mostly young forests and flatlands. You do understand why I must do this?”

Rehnschiöld didn’t answer. The king reached into his breast pocket, found the letter and map. He placed them in Karl’s hand. “Find Viktor in Riga and give him this travel plan. I received word that he accepted the commission I offered and he should be there. Tell him to catch up with me as soon as he can.”

“Yes, my king.” Rehnschiöld busied himself by checking the harness and reins of the king’s horse and then quietly disappeared.

Exactly at noon, the king called his troop to order and lined them up in formation. He approached them on horseback and spoke as his horse snorted and prodded in front on the men. “Men, we are strong, well trained, and well equipped. We are heading south into Poland, not for land, not to break the Lithuania alliance. Our mission is not to conquer. Our mission is that of rescue. We are moving south to rescue my sister, Crimson, from the horrors of the trade.”

The men’s apprehension rippled through the formation. The king’s eyes paced the men like a caged tiger; his eyes stalked each man and waited for the murmurs to cease. When the men quieted, he continued, “We will not wear the uniform of Sweden. We will not receive any additions of men or have a supply line. Many of us will not return. But men, we will achieve this mission. We will rescue the young princess.”

He pointed the nose of his horse to the south, “Prepare yourselves and mount near the southern gate. We move in ten minutes.”

As the troop of men passed Pskov, the town of purling waters, the snow began to let up and they made good time until they reached the Velikaya River. The king consulted with his second in command, who had just returned from a survey of the river. He reported to the king that it was a torrent of nearly frozen water. “Sir, it rushes as if it were angry. There is no safe way to cross. I suggest we move further west.”

The king considered the report, but decided to press forward, “We will cross and make camp on the south side. The area appears to be heavily wooded, and will offer us some protection from the weather. Gather the men and have them fall in behind me.”

The king was the first to arrive at the riverbank and he immediately noted that while the commander’s report was technically accurate, it failed to capture the spirit of the challenge. The river was rolling over itself, waves slapped against the wind and twisted as if they were in agony. The ice-cold water crested like some fairytale sea monster he had heard of as a child; one that seemed capable of rearing from the depths of a stormy ocean to destroy entire fleets of ships. When the men were situated along the river, the king compelled his horse into the furious water. The icy water grabbed the animal’s legs and the current almost undercut the animal. The horse snorted and neighed, before backing out of the river. The king knew the river was too deep and the current too strong to walk the horse across here. And deep down, he knew he couldn’t let the river beat him; if it did, then it would’ve been far better to be stuck at a port in Riga rather than at a river in a cold forest.

The king galloped along the river until he found a more favorable crossing point. This time, the horse made it to the middle of the river before the current almost washed them away. The raging water was well over the quarters of the horse, at times reaching and cresting over its withers. The icy water nipped with millions of little teeth at the king’s legs and fed like ravenous rogues at his toes and then there was no feeling at all, just numbness and a burning tingling. The horse stepped cautiously forward, but lost its footing and momentarily going under a large wave. The current carried them several yards downstream. The king held on tight and when the frigid water hit his chest, he lost his breath in a solitary and painful exhale. He dug in, yelled for the horse to move. With a final push, the horse jutted forward and found shallow ground on the far bank.

The king put on a brave face as he turned and watched many of his supplies float away. He looked at the backpack draped over his saddle and it was nearly empty, supply compartments were now full of water rather than the provisions of moments earlier. The commander was next, but instead of following the king’s lead, he moved up the riverbank where he found a shallow path across. Even as shallow as the new crossing was, all the men were dripping wet and frozen to the core when they reached the south side of the river.

On the south side of the river, nothing was dry. No one was warm. They peeled away the wet clothing until they were naked, brushed away the wetness from their skin with dry snow, and worked quickly to build a fire. They shivered and wondered if they had been lied to: maybe hell wasn’t full of fire. Maybe hell was cold and froze your very bones—it seemed like hell. Soon they were thawing out near a bustling fire, and though none said it, it cultivated in the shaky soil of everyone’s mind and was ready to spring off every tongue: the king was going to get them killed.

The king had worse problems than the disappointment, the lack of confidence from his men. He had lost the scroll Sierida had given him, and he couldn’t remember the name of the dark prince they were traveling to confront, only that he lived near the city of Pinsk. He laid his clothes near the fire and didn’t share his worry with his men. “You,” he said to a rather plump soldier who had warmed up faster than the others, “prepare a warm meal. Everyone else, lay your clothes out to dry near the fire and prepare for a cold night! We move at daybreak. Commander, a word.”

The commander stood, his limbs still rigid from the cold. He moved as a clunky ice statue toward the king. “Yes, sir?”

“Is anything dry?”

“No.”

“Get the men in dry clothes as soon as possible. Prepare a sentry rotation for the camp. If the rumors are true, we’re on the outskirts of horror country. Ensure the sentries have dry clothing before the others. Stakes and alarm horns, too. Pick the men that seem the most alert, but don’t let them fill their bellies. If any are derelict in their duty, they put us all in harm’s way.”

“Yes, my king.” The commander sensed uneasiness not in the words, but the tone of the king’s order and asked, “Is everything alright?”

The king selected a warm stone near the fire and rolled it in his hands to warm them. His toes were stiff, still frozen, and the feeling had not returned. He feared they might be frostbitten. He ignored the commander’s question. “Have the men check their feet, too. The river was far more challenging than I had anticipated. A small setback, but don’t let the opinion from the men mark this as evidence of our future path. Any questions of concerns from them should be answered with: we are on course and advancing nicely. First thing at daylight, send a party to hunt game. We will need a hearty breakfast to increase morale.”

“Yes, my king.”

Throughout the afternoon, and into the evening, the main fire migrated to several fires around the camp, where the men huddled between them using them to buffer and escape the cool air. The fires’ flames flicked toward the dark sky above, heated their skin, and warmed their bones. The king watched them from the edge of the camp. Some of the troop would disappear behind a wall of white smoke, a kind of white smoke that created a dull reflection and clung to everything with an oily pine resin, only to reappear smiling and chatting. The warmth of the fire and warm soup made of turnips and garlic in their bellies improved their outlook and they were generally in good spirits. As clothes would dry, they would dress, and when the moon hung high in the pure black sky, they slept.

Later that night, the alarm horns blasted and the king, with his stake and pike in hand, was the first to rush to the sentry line. He wasn’t prepared for what he saw. Two of his men lay in the snow, bleeding and gurgling from wounds in their necks. A third man was fighting a shadow, a blur. The horror moved so swiftly that the king had difficulty tracking him in the moonlight. Then more men arrived and surrounded the creature that was now on top of the third man, whose body thrashed in death throws in the deep snow. The horror growled and bared his teeth as he released the third man and let him fall to the ground. The men inched closer, their pikes encroaching the creature’s chest and heart. They were ready to attack, but were shocked when the king yelled, “I want him alive!”

One soldier yelled back, perplexed, “And how would we do that?”

“Sound the alarm horn!” The king shouted back.

Alarms burst and echoed through the woods. When the creature turned toward the sound, the king rushed and buried his pike through the horror’s thigh, driving the silver tip deep into the ground. “Another!” the king shouted. No one moved. “Another attack, pin him to the ground!” the king ordered again. Two more men rushed, one targeting the horror’s other thigh and the other his lower torso. The horror shrieked, swung his left arm into the pike in his thigh and shattered it, ripping it from the soldier’s hands, but the remnants still pinned him in place. He grabbed the pike in his torso and began pulling it free.

The king aggressively took the pike from a nearby soldier and approached the creature. He pressed its tip to the horror’s chest, mere inches from his heart. The horror stopped, his fangs dripped blood that ran down his chin. The horror grabbed the pike and pulled it into him so that the tip broke his skin. He grunted, “You had best kill me.” Almost immediately, three more pikes were at his chest. “Get two leather straps,” the king ordered to the men behind him. When a soldier returned with the straps, the king tossed them so that they landed at the creature’s feet. “Tie them to your wrist or I will do as you asked and kill you where you stand.” The king wondered if his voice was steady or if it trembled like he sensed it did.

The creature bent over at the torso. He howled out in pain when the angle of his movement caused the pike in his torso to rip open the wound. The men backed away. “Do it!” the king shouted at the horror and it grunted and snarled before it picked up the straps, secured them to each wrist, and let the slack fall to his feet.

The king looked at the soldier to his left. “Grab a strap and pull it tight. Make sure it’s in place and restrain his hands.” The soldier stiffened and his jaw fell open.

“Do it now!” the king ordered.

The soldier crept toward the tails of the straps on the ground, all the while eyeing the horror. When he reached out for the strap, the horror mocked by lunging forward and the soldier fell over himself. The horror howled and almost seemed to laugh. Without waiting, the commander blatantly walked up to the creature, knelt, and grabbed the strap. He backed up and pulled it taut. Another soldier, equally as brave, collected the other strap.

“Move,” the king ordered the horror as he nodded in the direction of a nearby tree.

The king secured the straps at the rearmost part of the tree. The horror was secure, his hands pulled tight behind his back and wrapped around the base of the tree. The commander, when ordered, corralled the men back to the camp. The king and horror were alone and the king desperately needed an answer. He needed the name of the dark prince and he was sure the horror knew. Shouts and orders from the commander in the distant camp masked the king’s interrogation.

“Do you know of the trade, horror?”

The beast didn’t answer. He only growled and bared his fangs. He chest muscles rippled as he pulled and tested the knots of the straps.

The king found his wooden stake in the snow and brought it in front of the horror. He pulled his knife from his pocket and began sharpening the point. “You see the red color of my stake? It has killed before. Do you know the trade horror? They kidnap royalty and introduce them to a sex trade near Pinsk.”

The beast growled, “I know not of this trade.”

The king stepped forward and brought his knife to the beast’s throat. He could smell the stench of the horror’s breath. “If you know nothing, then you are no good to me. Am I understood?” He dug the blade in until it pierced the skin and drew blood. “I want the name of the dark prince that runs the trade.”

“Gaten is the only name that I know, but he is not in Pinsk. You had best kill me.”

“Very well.”

Afterwards, the king walked far from the camp and cleaned his blood-covered hands in the river. He returned to camp, selected two men to bury the body, ordering them to cover the fresh grave with wild rose branches. Later that night, he walked the sentry line and was lost in his thoughts. Empty eyes of retrospect looked out on a moonlit forest glade. The horror had given the name of Gaten before the king had had enough and pushed the pike in. The name didn’t match that of the scroll, but much had happened today. Maybe Gaten was the dark prince he sought. Maybe Gaten was the one who had kidnapped his sister. He couldn’t help but feel the name wasn’t correct.

Suddenly, he was pulled from his train of thought as movement to his far left caught his attention. He kneeled, concealed himself behind a snow bank and watched a grey wolf weave through the forest of small trees on the outskirts of the camp. Wolves were nearly extinct in Sweden and he hadn’t seen one in years. He marveled at the animal. Then his eyes played tricks on him. He could have sworn he saw the animal stand on its hind legs. The wolf’s fur seemed to roll off its body and although it couldn’t be true, the wolf somehow took human form. He watched it disappear into the thick of trees heading toward the lowlands. Then a distant howl sent a shiver down his spine.

He returned to camp, found his commander, and pulled him to the side. “Keep the sentry line tight this night. Set a schedule of reports and ensure it is kept. There are more horrors in the woods.”

“More my king?”

“Yes, and they appear to be …”

“What? What is it?” the commander requested.

“They appear to be wolves.”

“Wolves, sir?”

“Yes, wolves chaperoning horrors. Or, they are the horrors themselves. Keep the sentry line tight this night. Instruct the men to be on guard for any wolves that come near.”

“Yes, sir.”

* * * *

Viktor, against his own desires, had cowed to the request of his men and they stayed the night in Nyberg. He woke before they did and the small training camp was in complete silence. The sun had not yet risen but soon it would set the horizon on fire and summon him east. He was anxious to get moving. He made his way to the banks of Lake Malaren nearby and its inlets were already starting to ice over. The rolling fog was as heavy as wet clothing and it seemed to cling like wet clothing, too. He studied the weather and knew the trip across the Baltic would prove difficult. He mentally prepared their plan of action: he and his men had to make good time to Stockholm. Once there, they had to find the bravest sea captain they could. The night’s rest was a good calculation and would be beneficial in the trip east, but he could not, he would not accept further delay.

He found his two companions still asleep and rudely woke them by yelling, “Get up! We move in ten minutes.” The men grumbled and moved far too slowly and this displeased Viktor. He waited outside for ten minutes and when the men were not at his side, he burst open the doors of their quarters. “You two have two minutes to be in formation! Need I remind you that not only do I have a decree from the princess, but I am also a commissioned officer. If you are not by my side in two minutes, I will find you blameworthy and report your dereliction of duty. And if I leave without you, I will order you to the stockades.”

Five minutes later, Viktor returned to the building on horseback, holding the reins of his men’s horses in his hands. He was relieved to find them waiting and ready. “We move. Saddle up,” he ordered as he tossed the reins toward them.

The men mounted their horses and Viktor shot off out of the village. His horses’ lungs bellowed out warm breaths that sat on the cool air as a vapor trail behind him. The men followed and they galloped across the frost-covered land towards Stockholm.