RIGA, SWEDISH EMPIRE
Captain Henri Andersson sat on his cot in his dark room, lit only by the flickering light of a single dying candle. His green eyes watched the flame gently sway back and forth as his mind lay deep in thought.
The captain had originally enlisted as a volunteer in Sweden’s Hakkapeliitta, and was well respected and treated fairly, even though he was a Finn. Normally the Swedish, who ruled his land, would talk of his people as if they were barbarians and savages who lived in the forest and did nothing but cut firewood and go ice fishing all day. This being said, his countrymen were also celebrated throughout the Swedish Empire as the best light cavalry in the world, but what lay heavily on his mind was the blatant cowardice of the Swedish aristocracy. The empire had twenty-three thousand fighting men under its command and eight out of ten of them were Finnish.
How he loathed those foppish dandies in their silk coats and ridiculous white collars who sent good, honest Finnish men to their doom. Peasants were taken from their homes in his native Åbo and thrust into wars they had no understanding of and no compulsion to fight in. In his mind, Sweden was ruining his country’s economy by sending off Finnish sons to fight a Swedish war for no visible or immediate benefit to his people. The fields lay overgrown with weeds, the blacksmiths grew old and senile without anyone to pass their skills onto, and whole villages were depopulated just because Sweden did not want to spill Swedish blood.
A gust of wind from outside blew out Henri’s candle as the door opened. A Swedish messenger entered his room clutching a piece of parchment in his hand. As soon as he stepped foot through the doorway, he began reading his message in a hurried and urgent manner,
“Sir, you have orders from Greve Olaf Stenbock of Jarlsberg. You are to assemble at once and…”
The messenger was stopped by a knife to his throat. It was a strange looking blade, very straight and angular, designed for chopping like a tiny axe.
“I can read, boy.” growled Henri, “Now give me the paper and leave before my hukari decorates the floor with your blood.”
The messenger dropped the rolled up piece of parchment and sprinted away. Captain Andersson never liked speaking Swedish, especially to people of lower status than himself, but the sight of the boy almost pissing himself made him feel all warm inside. He smiled at himself as he opened the letter and read it aloud, mocking the Swedish accent as he spoke,
Kapten Henri Andersson
Åbo och Björneborgs läns kavalleriregemente
Jag hoppas att du mår bra. Jag skriver för att berätta att... blah blah blah, surströmming köttbullar skit skit skit… Jarlsberg Fästning, lettland.
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An assault on Jarlsberg Castle. Henri closed the door to his room and sat alone in the darkness. The Swedish elk bid the Finnish bear to fight his battles yet again. Cowards. The captain crumpled the letter in his hand and set his mind on the local inn, where he was to meet this Greve Olaf Stenbock, who instructed him to meet him there the next morning. Stenbock was no doubt some fat landed aristocrat who stank of herring. He would make the greve wait and would travel the following afternoon by foot to make it even slower. For now, he would drink himself to sleep to make sure that he stank of alcohol, just for this meeting.
After a night of swilling cheap vodka and yelling incomprehensible Finnish words out of his window to passing locals, Captain Andersson was now hung over and on his way to meet his lord, moving without any sense of urgency towards the local inn, with his sword dragging on the ground behind him as he tossed his unsheathed hukari from one hand to the other. It was five hours past noon.
Kicking open the door to the inn, Henri was met by the greve and his entourage staring at him from a table facing the doorway. They all looked ready for battle; each wore their harnesses, jerkins, baldrics, and accouterments of battle. Henri only wore his tattered black doublet and riding breeches. He knew it was all for show – they were all either too old or too fat to fight in a war.
“You’re late.” Greve Stenbock muttered, gesturing for Henri to sit down.
Now began one of Henri’s favorite games: playing the fool. A long time ago he learned that the aristocracy would never listen to anything he had to say, no matter how vital or how insightful his suggestions could be, so instead, he would merely sit there and speak as if he understood the bare minimum of the Swedish language.
“… and we will wait for reinforcements if we have to. Are you listening, Captain Andersson?”
“Yes, sir.” Henri mumbled, his head still in pain from the hangover. Greve Stenbock glared at him but proceeded with his meeting.
“My lords, yesterday I received a message delivered to me via carrier pigeon. It released details previously unknown to me regarding the capture of my home. Thank the Lord that my daughter is alive.”
The lords around Stenbock applauded, while Henri tapped his fingertips together, mocking their happiness. The greve gestured for them to stop and continued reading,
“However it also states, quite alarmingly, that the bastard that took my home has sent for reinforcements from the king of Poland, and that he is somehow, curiously, colluding with the Muslim infidels.”
This news was met with gasps and murmuring amongst the lords, but a stifled yawn by Henri.
“I will need all of your men and our brave Finnish cavalrymen by my side if we wish to take the castle.”
Henri could not help but roll his eyes. The vast majority of Sweden’s infantry forces were composed of Finns who had absolutely no desire to be there.
“Captain Andersson.”
“Yes, sir.” Henri said dryly.
“How many of your cavalrymen can you field?”
“Hundreds, sir.” That was a lie. He could probably muster sixty at best.
“Can we rely on you to support our flanks during the battle for Jarlsberg Castle?”
“Yes, sir.” Henri actually wanted to tell the greve to ‘fuck off back to Stockholm.’
“Thank you, captain.”
“Yes, sir.” A hukari would slide right through the old man’s linen collar if he angled it just right.
“I should also state that I have hired the honorable Talbot Company to bear the full brunt of the enemy.”
Henri sighed. At least some other poor bastards were dying besides his own countrymen – they were probably foreigners as well. The Swedes were trying their damnedest to avoid spilling the blood of their children. His blood boiled thinking he would have to sacrifice his life and the life of his men for a war that he had no business fighting. Captain Henri Andersson would not fight the way they wanted, but the way they deserved.