After several sunny days, good weather seemed normal. Immediately after morning prayers, the Jämtland Regiment began its march west with wagons and pack horses. But not yet its cattle. So Matts Karlsson, who'd been returned to droving, had had little to do besides watch the regiment march past and the regimental herd graze. And brush at the tiny biting gnats—black flies—that formed a cloud around his head. Brushing had little effect, but he hadn't given up on it.

The next morning, he and the other drovers had the herd on the road at 5 o'clock, somewhat before the Hälsingland Regiment began its trek. Some time after they'd gotten the herd moving, Sergeant Björkebom had ridden up to Matts. "Get on behind me," he said, patting the horse's rump. You're assigned elsewhere."

"Elsewhere?"

"Get on! Now!"

The sergeant had already rearranged his gear, so the boy grabbed hold and pulled himself up behind the saddle. Then Björkebom nudged the horse's ribs with a heel, and they started off at a walk. Any small drying of the road's surface had been churned into the underlying slop by hooves and wheels, and the road remained a mire. From time to time the horse snorted, trying to dislodge the gnats feeding in its nostrils.

"What of my bedroll?" Matts asked.

"It's taken care of."

"Is it all right to ask where we're going?"

"You are going to the artillery. Temporarily."

"The artillery! Really? The artillery?"

"When your sergeant tells you something, do not question it. I'm taking you temporarily to the artillery."

Actually Matts hadn't been questioning. He'd been expressing boyish amazement. To be an artillerist! Wow! And: How can this be happening to me?

Not that he expected anyone to tell him. He was used to not knowing. Being a squatter's son, and in the army ranking well below the lowest private, he took not knowing for granted. In his world it was as pervasive as the insects, and didn't bite. At least it hadn't.

Mostly they rode through spruce forest. The right of way had been widened on the south—their left—to a total width of some twenty feet. Not wide enough for the sun to reach the road, except briefly early and late. After half an hour they crossed the Indal River on a new pontoon bridge, the horse's shod hooves clopping dully on thick planks. At the far end, another horse and rider rode onto the bridge, headed east, trailed by a horse with an empty pack saddle. The rider, Matts realized, was Corporal Persson. The two riders hardly slowed as they approached.

"Did you deliver him all right?" called Björkebom. "With the bedrolls and rations?"

"Yes, sergeant."

Then they were past.

An hour or so later, the sergeant and Matts caught up to some artillery: two howitzers—6-pounders—each being pulled laboriously through the mud by six horses. Following alongside were men muddy from feet to thighs, from fingers to shoulders. And faces, for they brushed at the gnats with muddy hands. Each man carried a stout birch pry-pole. Matts realized their muddy feet were bare, and guessed the reason: their army shoes had pulled off in the mud, so they'd stowed them in their packs.

An officer rode ahead of the guns, while to the rear, a sergeant had stopped his horse to wait. It was he, scowling, who spoke as they approached.

"Is that it? Just one? He's not even a man. He doesn't weigh a hundred pounds."

A hundred and ten at least, Björkebom thought. But all he said was, "He's a herd boy. What did you expect?"

"The other is forty pounds heavier."

"You asked for help; now you've got it. If it was up to me, I'd have kept them both; I was already short-handed, and these two were my best." He turned to Matts. "This is the artillery, boy," he said gruffly. "Get down."

Matts slid from the horse and stood, not knowing what to do next. Sergeant Björkebom had said "these two"; where was the other? Meanwhile this new sergeant looked him over. "What's your name, boy?"

"Matts Karlsson i Stentorp, sergeant."

The wide mouth grimaced. "Run ahead to the tool wagon and tell the corporal to give you a pry pole." He brushed at the gnats; those waiting for a place dispersed for perhaps half a second; those already feeding did not disengage. "Then report to Corporal Kråkmo." The sergeant pointed. "That man there. He'll tell you what to do."

"Yes sergeant."

While the sergeant glowered, Matts paused a moment to take off his birchbark mocassins, then holding them in his hand, ran off barefoot. There's hope for the boy, the sergeant thought. He's smart enough to take his shoes off, and to wait till he's well away from me before stopping to put them in his knapsack.

Minutes later they hit a stretch of deeper than average mud that hadn't been corduroyed. Presumably, till cut up by wagons, it hadn't appeared to need it. The soldiers, along with Matts and the husky Axel Jonsson, put their shoulders to the pry poles and heaved, repeatedly while the horses struggled, till they reached better ground. Whenever the horses could no longer move one of the heavy guns, they repeated the action. From time to time, the lieutenant ordered the little battery to stop, to rest the horses, usually where hay had been piled beside the road.

Once when they stopped, the sergeant had the teamsters strap nosebags on the animals. It was the first time Matts had seen grain fed to army horses, but these were superior animals, chosen for size and strength, and the load they pulled was both critical, and at (if not beyond) the margin of possibility. They needed all the energy they could muster. It was then the men took off their knapsacks and ate their lunches— hardtack, butter, and salt beef, washed down with water. Meanwhile the swarming gnats fed continually on both horses and men; especially they crowded on and into the horses' ears, which twitched constantly. As did their hides, for they were also afflicted with bullflies, slow but large, with painful bites. Matts was glad bullflies preferred horse blood to human blood. When the lieutenant decided the horses had rested long enough, the nosebags were put away, and they moved on as before.

It was late afternoon when they met three men—a captain, a lance corporal, and a private—waiting beside the road with their saddle horses and a burdened pack horse. The lieutenant halted his little battery of howitzers and went to speak with the captain. Matts recognized the private: his ex-tent mate, Lars Olofsson Skoogh.

After a moment, the sergeant called his crew to him. "Men," he said, "a trail starts in from here, for driving cattle. We will take the guns on it. But first we will rest, and grain the horses again."

The men seized the chance. Matts lay down by Lars. "This is harder work than shoveling gravel," he said.

"It sure is," Lars agreed. "I spent part of yesterday morning pushing and prying wagons. Then Captain Sjömelius sent me to Captain Möller, the artillery commander, to help find a way around for the howitzers."

"What are howitzers?" Matts asked.

"What you've been prying on," Lars said, indicating the 6-pounders. "Those. The road gets worse farther west, and they're convinced they can't get them through that way. So I told them about this trail. The farmers at Bodsjön use it to drive cattle to a summer dairy camp up on Bunneflätan. And to a fishing camp on Hägg Lake."

"Why does the army want to take cannons up to a dairy camp?"

Lars frowned, puzzled, then realized. "We're not taking them up on the mountain. We'll go around it. But this cattle driveway is how we go the first ten miles or so. From there I blazed a trail to another driveway, off west, that will take us to the road again, up by Medstugan."

"And we can get them through that way?"

"I told them maybe we could. There are soft places, but they haven't been cut up by wagons. So Captain Möller decided to see for himself, and took me with him as his guide. He decided this way was better than the road." He shook his head. "But those howitzers are heavy, and it's wetter in here than I'd remembered."

Lars was clearly worried, but to Matts it didn't make much difference. It would be interesting to try. To see what happened.

Their break was brief. Then they left the road and started down the trail, Möller in the lead. (He'd sent the lieutenant on up the road to the three-pounders.) Lars and Möller's aide rode a length behind the captain, followed in turn by the draft horses, howitzers, and men on foot. The sergeant brought up the rear.

It went much better than it had on the road. The ground had a thick layer of tough, intergrown tree roots that spread just below the surface. Matts knew about that; he'd helped his grandfather clear land. It was the roots that made the difference here; the roots and the absence of rutting. Another crew had gone in at sunup, to cut and remove any trees that had fallen across the trail since cattle had last been driven in. In a few wetter places, they'd also cut and laid—and staked!—corduroy, the roots helping to support the logs.

They'd taken the guns about a mile and a half before the first mishap: the lead howitzer's heavily-loaded main wheels broke through. Captain Möller ordered the horses unhitched and led aside to rest, while most of the men began felling and sectioning trees for corduroys. Matts, Jon, and Lars cut a detour. When the detour was done, one of the teamsters hitched his six-horse team to the other howitzer and bypassed the mired gun, then pulled back onto the trail a hundred feet ahead, all without miring it.

Once the corduroy had been laid, all twelve draft horses were hitched to the mired howitzer via a towline. Meanwhile shovels had been wielded beneath the main axle, and short sections of log slid in as pry points. By then, dusk was settling beneath the forest roof. As many men as could, stood with pry poles in place or ready. The whip cracked above the horses; men heaved, and with a sucking sound the gun lurched forward, the lead wheels rearing onto the corduroy. Then, with poles busy and horses surging, the gun rolled ahead. After eight feet the main wheels hit the corduroy, the howitzer bucking at the impact. But harnesses and towline held, and the entire howitzer was on the corduroy. The horses moved it fifteen feet farther, the men cheering, the corduroy firm beneath its weight. Then Möller called a halt.

"Enough, boys!" he said. "Good work, all of you! For tonight we'll leave it where it is. Teamsters groom your horses. When you've done that, there's a small fen to eastward; picket them there to graze." He scanned his crew, still gray with road mud. "There's a small brook running into the fen. Wash your faces and hands there before you make camp. Sergeant Nederby, prepare a guard roster to watch the horses tonight."

Matts' and Jon's gear was on the pack horses, and men and boys were all old hands at setting up camp. Before long, cookpots were heating on the several fires. The three men on loan from the Jämtland regiment had theirs a little apart from the artillerists, with Matts as cook. Captain Möller came over, and the three of them got up to stand at attention.

Private Skoogh," the captain said, "with your guidance we did very well today. I don't know yet how this will turn out, but I will commend you to Captain Sjömelius." He turned his gaze to Matts and Axel. "You are still boys, but you've worked like men. I will commend you also."

Then he turned and left.

After they'd eaten, and cleaned their dishes in the brook, the three ducked into their tent. When he'd folded his blanket over himself, Matts looked at the figure beside him in the darkness. "Lars," he asked, "what do you think now? Are we going to make it?"

For several seconds Lars lay silent. "I don't know," he said at last. "This way is better than the road, but there are bad places ahead, one in particular. And the general will need the howitzers at Trondheim. There are real forts there, built of stone. I've seen them. The howitzers would help a lot."

On the other side of Lars, Axel yawned audibly.

"Can you teach me Norwegian again tonight?" Matts asked.

"Some other time," Lars answered. "We need to sleep now. Tomorrow will be another hard day."

Matts fell asleep wondering if Captain Möller's commendation would help him be made a soldier. He really did want shoes. They'd be much better, it seemed to him, than his birchbark mocassins.

Generals Armfelt and de la Barre rode with their aides along the road's right-hand edge, where it was least churned by traffic and the disturbances of widening. They would, Armfelt thought, soon catch up with the Hälsingland Regiment. The Österbotten regiment should be following a few miles behind.

It was time, he'd decided, to leave Duved in Frisenheim's hands. The last of the Finnish units had arrived at the fort in decent shape and morale, needing mainly a day's rest after their long trek from the Bothnian coast. Horn and Yxkull had been making the decisions at the head of the march, and the always restless de la Barre, as director of operations, had been back and forth.

In one of the road's less churned up places, Armfelt saw wheel tracks leaving the road, and stopped to look at them. From their narrow spacing, he realized what they were, and turned to de la Barre. "The howitzers," he said.

"Yes. This is Möller's bypass. He would never get them through on the road; not till winter freezes the mud."

Armfelt nodded. Freezeup was at least two months away, perhaps three, and His Majesty wanted him in possession of Trondheim by then. At its walls, at least. His eyes followed the howitzer tracks in among the trees, on a trail first swamped out by a pioneer axman, then kept open by driving cattle to and from some high pasture, and by farmers with pack horses, bringing down cheese and butter. Himself the son of a farmer—a gentry farmer—the commander felt a pang of discomfort. What would these farmers use for pack horses now? Probably their wives and children, and their own aging legs and backs. And the cheeses, and tubs of butter, would be fewer since the governor's provisioning parties had passed through, commandeering cattle.

Armfelt touched his horse's ribs with the spurs, and rode on. One does what one must, he told himself. Beneath that thought lay another: a report of what had happened a decade earlier in Kurland and Livonia. In an effort to supply His Majesty's invasion army in Russia, almost everything had been taken. Children had even been held hostage, to force the peasants to show where they'd hidden food in the forest. When he'd heard of that, Armfelt vowed it was something he would never do.

But afterward the Russians had marched in, and no doubt taken what little had been missed. It was not the peasants the troops had deprived, but the tsar's soldiers. Interesting that he hadn't thought of that before.

Möller's detour. The tracks would be two days old now. Armfeld knew Captain Möller. He'd have scouted the trail personally before trying it out.

They rode on. "This hog wallow," de la Barre said, "is worse than any road I saw in Finland."

Armfelt considered. "The track we took through the Tavast wilderness might have been as bad, except the summer and fall had been dry, and it was six months instead of six weeks since the snow had melted."

De la Barre thought of the Russian road that Lewenhaupt's relief column had taken, ten years past, hauling critical supplies for His Majesty's main army, advancing on Moscow. By all reports, it had been this bad. But for the grace of God, he thought, I might have been with it. Lewenhaupt's great wagon train had taken three months—three unusually rainy months—to struggle 150 miles through mud.

"If His Majesty could see this," he said, "it might cool his fire a bit." He didn't actually believe that though. The king was driven: driven to restore Swedish rule over the eastern Baltic; driven to stop Russian expansion. He would prevail or die trying.

"Cool his fire? Perhaps. But even so, he would push us." Armfelt chuckled. "You must prod the bullock, or it will not move."

The bullock? de la Barre thought. You, my friend, are not a bullock but a bull. How many children have you fathered now? A dozen at least, not counting the eight or ten God has taken into heaven. It's a wonder Lovisa has any teeth left, after birthing so many. "Two teeth for each birth" was the rule he'd heard. She must have been bearing them on credit.

As for prodding... The king was a skilled improvisor, at his best when on the scene, operating in the moment. But at foreseeing the future? Once more de la Barre thought of Lewenhaupt's relief column—2,000 supply wagons pulled by 8,000 horses, escorted by 5,000 cavalry and dragoons, and 7,000 infantry. Too few horses even then, he told himself. Meanwhile, for compelling reasons, the king had changed his mind, his plan, his location. And Lewenhaupt was cut off, surrounded by a Russian army. He'd destroyed his wagons and precious supplies to keep them out of Russian hands. In a snowstorm. In September.

More than half the 12,000 escorts had been killed or captured.

It seems, de la Barre thought, that armies attract the worst weather. The Finnish grandson of a Huguenot soldier of fortune brushed at the black flies. "One thing we are not short of," he said, "is these accursed gnats. I've never seen them so numerous or so hungry."

"This is soggy country," Armfelt answered. "Ideal for them. And it was so cold for so long, they could not fly to feed. Now they're making up for lost time."

De la Barre grimaced. "What we need is a hard freeze, hard enough to do away with them, and stiffen the mud."

His commander chuckled without humor. "Amen to that, Brother Johan, amen to that."

After their night's sleep, the artillerists and their laborers followed the cattle driveway to where it turned westward. From there it climbed the northeast flank of Bunneflätan. The howitzers, on the other hand, needed to be taken not up the mountain, but around its north flank to another cattle driveway. Which would bring them out at a tiny settlement below Medstugan. There they would meet the military road again, hopefully having bypassed the worst of it.

So on their advance scouting trip, Lars and Captain Möller had left the trail, keeping to gentler terrain, easier for the draft horses. Lars had ridden with a hand ax in his right fist, leaning frequently from the saddle to cut blazes in trees, marking the route.

The trail crew was still ahead of them, but the captain expected to catch up with it soon. Once off the cattle driveway, there'd been a lot more blowdowns to remove. And standing trees as well; a four-wheeled howitzer pulled by six horses was not very maneuverable.

They were also to corduroy the worst sections. Lars had suggested sphagnum moss as a guide: where there was sphagnum, lay corduroy.

For now, though, the going was good. The howitzers were rolling, and Captain Möller seemed cheerful. Lars, on the other hand, felt like he had a rock in his stomach. At morning prayer, Möller had asked God to bring them to Medstugan with both howitzers, but it seemed to Lars that God had already done as much as he was likely to: he'd put forest here. There were, however, limits to how much weight the root network would support.

After a bit the spruces became smaller, and the stand less dense. The layer of tree roots would also be less dense, and the roots smaller, it seemed to Lars. He'd warned the captain before that this stretch was particularly worrisome. There was sphagnum here and there in the carpet of feather mosses. But there was no better alternative; off to their left the ground became steeper—a side slope—and to the right, wetter.

The hindmost gun was the first to break through and bog down. A moment later the lead gun broke through, some forty yards ahead.

"Olofsson," Möller said, "ride ahead and bring the trail crew back. And see how far it is before the ground gets better."

"Yessir."

The captain and Sergeant Nederby watched the young Jämtlander swing into the saddle and ride out of sight ahead. "He should have known we couldn't get through here," Nederby grumbled.

Möller's eyes fixed the man calmly. "Sergeant," he said, "Private Olofsson spoke his misgivings. The decision was mine. Here we have a possibility, or so it seemed. On the road we had a clear impossibility. Understood?"

"Yes captain," Nederby replied. But he was clearly unhappy with the situation, and wanted someone to blame. Someone other than the captain, who was a good commander.

Lars found the trail no better for a furlong or so. Over the worst stretch, where sphagnum was conspicuous, the trail crew had laid some thirty yards of corduroy. Meanwhile he could hear the crisp chunking sound of axes ahead; they may, he thought, have come to the brook he remembered as somewhere about there.

In fact the trail crew was busy bridging it. They'd manhandled a pair of tree trunks across it—pines separated by the width of a howitzer's wheel spacing, to bear the weight better. Both were supported in the center by a timber pier, and now the crew was flooring them with small logs.

The ensign in charge saw Lars coming, and rode to meet him. "What is it, private?"

"The guns are stuck, sir. The captain wants your crew." The ensign was not surprised. He and his crew back-tracked to the lead howitzer and began cutting corduroys. The teamsters unhitched the gun horses and led them a short distance north, to a pond Lars told them of, ringed with wet meadow to graze on. The artillerists began laying corduroys snugly together on the mossy ground.

Even with the help of the artillerists, it took them nearly till dusk to corduroy half a furlong. Then they returned to the howitzers—to find both had settled more deeply into the muck. Again they hitched all the draft horses to the first gun, then every man who could crowd close enough got a pole behind a wheel or axle, and the teamsters wielded their whips.

Bellybands and hame straps snapped; half the horses walked out of their harnesses. One of the wheel horses went down and couldn't get up. Captain Möller swore extensively in German.

They repaired the harnesses, then tried the hindmost gun with similar results; they even lost another horse. By that time it was getting dark, so they set up camp again, a little way down the trail. Captain Möller returned to the two collapsed, wind-broken horses. The men heard the shots and shuddered. But the disabled horses could hardly be left alive for wolves or a bear.

In the morning, they found the two bogged howitzers had settled deeper still, as if the earth was slowly absorbing, digesting them. Briefly Möller stared, unbelieving, then sat down grimly on the barrel of the lead gun, which wasn't much above the mud now. Sat there without a word for all of five minutes, while his slump-shouldered men looked on. Finally he got to his feet. "Break camp," he ordered. "We'll go back to the road."

It seemed to him the guns were beyond salvage, certainly with the resources he had at hand.

In fact, no one would see them again for more than two hundred years.

Skalstugan (The Skal Cabin) was a one-room log cabin at timberline, overlooking Skals Lake, a sizeable body of water sparkling in the sunshine a mile and a half west, across boggy tundra with patches of sparse birch scrub. East across the road rose the long lumpy mountain known as Saxvall, with scrubby birch woodland on its lower, sun-facing slopes. Six miles north, the road crossed the border and turned west toward first a Norwegian settlement called Sul, then Steine Skans, a fort built to protect the fertile coastal valley against Swedish incursions.

But the terrain that would count most rose from the far shore of Skals Lake: steep slopes that climbed to a broad boggy fjeld, interrupted with peaks, and strewn with hundreds of tundra pools.

The cabin had a long history, for this road was an ancient trade route between the Vikings' North Sea trading and plundering ground, and its counterpart on the Baltic. A route that bypassed the pirate-infested straits between the two seas. Because of the nature of the road, it had been used mainly in winter, when it was frozen, and the terrain covered deeply with snow. Caravans of laboring pack and sleigh horses—even occasional, long-legged pack moose!—had crossed there. Skalstugan provided shelter for the traders to rest a night, or ride out a blizzard.

In Viking times the cabin site had held a sizeable longhouse, which had burned and been rebuilt, decayed and rebuilt again, no one knew how many times. The 1718 version was considerably smaller—there'd been no caravans for centuries—but it was still used occasionally by travelers. Each wall had an unglazed window, with shutters newly made by an army renovation crew. The shutters were open now, to let in light, and the fireplace held a low fire on which green heath shrubs had been added. With its flue mostly closed, its smoke discouraged gnats and mosquitoes.

The furnishings were four benches and a sturdy table, adequate for a party of travelers to share a meal. For now the table had been moved to one of the windows, for light, leaving room on three sides for the general's staff and regimental commanders. And Hård, who remained with them as the king's observer. Armfelt called them to order.

"I want to read something to you," he said, and held up a leaflet. "Some of you have seen it already, but those more recently arrived have not. Captain Longström's people have carried copies of it into Norway, to be passed around and talked about. It was written to dilute the slanders we've been subject to, and reduce the troubles we might otherwise suffer." He raised a sheet of paper so the light struck it, holding it almost at arm's length. Actually, what he read was his Swedish original; the printed leaflets were in Norwegian.

To the people of Trøndelag, so long oppressed by the Danes! You are to stay in your homes in friendship and tolerance, and not take arms against Swedish soldiers. By so doing, you will not be harmed. But those who undertake to harm the army will be persecuted with gun and sword, at risk of life and property.

"It will save us much trouble," he finished, "and the Norwegian people it will save even more."

He spread a large linen map on the table. His staff crowded close to see. Their aides and some of the regimental commanders would follow their general's talk on smaller maps of their own.

Reading his message had put Armfelt in a notably good mood, despite the still and muggy weather. "The Dane knows we are on the way," he said, "but he does not know what approach we shall use. Captain Longström's people have arrested several spies between the Skal River and the border crossing, and his scouts have observed enemy troops in ambush positions in the förhuggningar between Steine Skans and Sul.

General Yxkull interrupted. "Why would Budde send spies, when there are local people who would be glad to tell him what we're doing?"

"There were few people up here to begin with," Armfelt answered, "and when we began our march, all but a handful moved out—east into Sweden or west into Norway. Those who stayed are the spies Captain Longström arrested."

The action had been high-handed, but this was no time to quibble.

"If we continue on the road beyond Sul, we will suffer many killed and wounded. So I have decided on another route, the last one the Dane would consider. We will go west, over Mare Pass and across the wilderness. Mostly there isn't even a path. We will take Steine Skans from the rear."

"Across the wilderness?" It was Yxkull again. "My map shows nothing but mountains, bogs, and lakes."

Armfelt nodded. "Exactly. And Captain Longström says it is even worse than it looks on the map."

There was a moment of stunned silence, broken this time by de la Barre. "No doubt you have thoughts on how to accomplish this."

"Indeed. We no longer need worry about getting the howitzers through; they are lost to us. We will also leave most of our wagons, and rely even more on pack horses. Officers will leave most of their baggage on this side with the wagons. The number of pack horses for each officer will be the same as the number of wagons he would have had under better circumstances. We will corduroy as needed, and where we must climb steep slopes, we will use manpower and ropes to help get the remaining wagons up."

He paused. "Captain Longström has convinced me it is possible, and he has made a career out of doing successfully what others thought impossible."

No one argued. They simply looked glum. Some would have argued, but had no better alternative to offer, and at any rate they were the king's men. And to the king it was a question of will.

"On Tuesday we will break camp here, and march west over Mare Pass, then cross the fjeld to Lake Feren, and rest there on Wednesday. Meanwhile we will continue to send patrols out: two south toward Meråker, another west down the Forr River, and still another northwest toward Lake Grönningen. Fisherfolk have cabins and boathouses on Feren, and there is a dairy camp on the south shore. When they see us coming, they will move out, but some will hang about to spy. We may harrass and disperse them, but we will not undertake to run them down, for their reports will confuse the Dane.

"On Thursday we will break camp at Feren and move around the north side of Hermans Nose, then west to Grönningen. By then, word should have reached the Dane at Steine Skans. There is a förhuggning there too, but Captain Longström has found a way around it. He has sketched it on my map."

He looked away from the table now, his attention on those who hadn't found room at it. "We will make our final march at night, and keep the Dane guessing till the end."

There were questions now for Horn, the director of planning, on what materials would be transferred from wagons to pack horses. And how the baggage they'd leave behind would be gotten back to Duved. De la Barre, who was skilled at dividing his attention, gave his ears to Horn and his questioners, but his curious gaze remained on Yxkull. The man had never seemed especially intelligent, but when given orders, he asked good questions. He was a proven warrior and tactician who never flinched under fire, but felt uncomfortable with daring. And Karl Gustaf, de la Barre told himself, is being daring today. It was not Armfelt's usual mode, and he was likeliest to use it in efforts to avoid casualties. We'll see how it plays out this time, de la Barre thought.

Matts Karlsson still bivouacked with the Jämtland regiment, but Sergeant Björkebom had told his herdboys that the regimental herds would be combined when they left Skalstugan. This would require fewer herdboys, who themselves would be combined into a separate unit attached to army headquarters. The leftover boys would remain with their regiments, drawing duty as baggage boys: tending the pack horses, loading and unloading them, and helping to pull and push them out of mudholes.

So Matts did his first deliberate act of daring since he'd volunteered, back home at Solslätte: he went to regimental headquarters and told the clerk he wanted to talk to the sergeant major. Because Sergeant Björkebom had told him once that most of a regiment's decisions were made by its sergeant major.

For a civilian laborer to approach the sergeant major was unheard of, but the clerk, instead of erupting with indignation, found the request amusing, and went to the sergeant major with it. Sergeant Major Jakob Petersson Wallmo had an excellent memory for names and reports, a trait which could be good or bad, depending on the report. There were nine Matts Karlssons in the regiment, but only one Matts Karlsson i Stentorp, and the sergeant major had already heard of him. Ensign Hasselbeck, in reporting on his herdboys, had commended Matts as the best of the lot, "who will make a fine soldier when he's grown a bit." A boy who took responsibility, wove his own birchbark shoes, and at night snared rabbits to supplement his rations. Who'd spied on the Finns and been caught at it, had ended up standing night guard with them, and shot a bear attracted to the herd. Shot it through the eye, at night. (The story, as heard or recalled by the sergeant major, was not quite accurate, but he had the essence of it.)

His curiosity ignited, the sergeant major told the clerk to send the boy in. The clerk was astonished—he hadn't expected this—and ushered Matts into Wallmo's presence. Matts stopped at attention, two strides in front of the sergeant major's folding table. He could salute as well as an actual soldier; he'd observed and practiced. And he stood up well to the sergeant major's penetrating gaze.

"At ease, Stentorp," Wallmo said. The boy knows "at ease" too, he thought. "What is it you want?"

"Sergeant major, sir, I want to remain in Jämtland's Regiment! I don't want to be a herdboy any longer and be sent somewhere else!"

Wallmo's rust-red brows curled down. "Surely you know by now that the army pays little heed to what a herdboy wants, or a soldier, or even a sergeant major! Why should you be different than the rest of us?"

Having no answer, Matts bypassed the question. "Sergeant major, sir, I want to be a soldier, and wear a uniform, and carry a musket and sword, and fight for the King."

"Ah! Hmm. There is more to being a soldier than wearing a uniform and carrying a musket. You will have to drill, and learn a soldier's skills."

"I am learning, Sergeant Major sir. I have asked Sergeant Björkebom questions about what soldiers must know and what they do, and often he tells me. Also Private Lars Olofsson Skoogh has taught me. He is not yet a corporal, but he is a very good soldier. We tented together when we worked on the road, and when we were with Captain Möller and his howitzers, and he explained to me how soldiers do things. He has even begun to teach me Norwegian! I hope in Norway to become a spy."

"Do you now! Did Skoogh suggest that? That you become a spy?"

"No sir. I thought of it myself. When I told him, he said it would be very dangerous. I would have to speak Norwegian so well, no one would know the difference."

Apparently Skoogh was not taking advantage of the boy's credulity. "Skoogh was right," said Wallmo. "If you were caught, they would hang you."

"That's why I will learn it very well, sir."

While Matts was speaking, Wallmo had put a pinch of powdered punk on a small brass plate. Now, with his fire starter, he struck a spark into it, blew gently, and with the resulting flame, lit a stubby candle. Interesting that Skoogh had come up in this matter, he thought. Captain Möller had commended Skoogh's service, and earlier, he himself had recommended Skoogh to General Horn, as a guide for Longström's Free Company. (He wouldn't have recommended him as a son-in-law, but as a guide—by all means.) And now...

Wallmo h'mmed musingly. "I often need someone to carry messages," he said. "I have one to send now." He took a piece of paper from the table and folded it, then lifted the candle, dripped a dollop of melted wax onto the fold, then took a signet from a small box and pressed it on the wax.

"Do you know what I just did?" he asked. He held the paper up with the seal facing Matts.

"You dripped candle wax on the paper, sergeant major sir."

"That's right. And made a mark on it with this." He held up the signet. "No one is allowed to do that except the regimental commander, his deputy, and myself. You are to take this letter to Captain Longström, who will know by the mark that no one has read it who shouldn't."

He eyed Matts thoughtfully again. "Do you read, boy?"

"Yes sergeant!"

"Usually I do not seal messages. But sealed or not, never read one I've given you to deliver, unless I tell you to. And don't give them to anyone except the one I send it to. If you do, I will find out, and you will get to meet the provost!"

"Yes sergeant major sir! Uh, sergeant major?"

"Yes?"

"Where is Captain Longström?"

"Try his company area."

After a moment of uncertainty, Matts saluted. "Yes sergeant major! Thank you sergeant major!" Then saluted again and trotted out of the tent. When he was gone, the clerk came in. He'd overheard it all; canvas doesn't muffle sound well.

"Do you think he'll deliver it?"

"Why not? He's not stupid, only ignorant." The sergeant major shrugged. "If he doesn't, it's not urgent. I'll know by supper."

A sentry outside regimental headquarters pointed out to Matts where Longström's Free Company was bivouacked—only a furlong from Skalstugan, which was the general's headquarters. Matts loped off. By now he knew how to recognize a company headquarters tent when he saw one, but in this case he didn't see one. What he did see was a man doing something he'd never imagined. A scrubby birch about ten inches thick had been pruned of branches as high as a man could reach. A soldier was throwing a sheath knife at it from a dozen feet away, throwing hard, as if seeing how deeply he could sink the blade. He pulled it free, sheathed it, then strode back to where he'd thrown it from, and returned his attention to the tree. Matts stared. The across-the-body draw was compact and quick, looping into a short, bent-elbowed casting movement that left the knifeman in a low crouch, balanced on the balls of his feet. Matts watched the action repeated several times. Each time the knife struck deeply, about chest high.

The man had been aware of him, Matts realized, when he'd first approached, and had ignored him. Again the big fist wrenched the blade from the wood. Then the Finn turned, and fixed Matts with hard eyes.

"Päivää," Matts called in greeting. On the cattle drive, it had been almost the only Finnish word he'd learned. It brought a response: the eyes changed from hard to curious, examining the boy, the ragged peasant homespuns, the woven birchbark mocassins, the folded paper in one grimy hand. A slight smile touched the man's face.

"Päivää," he replied.

The boy seemed to fumble now, as if not knowing how to proceed, so Erkki switched to Swedish. "What do you want?"

"I have a message to give Captain Longström."

"I'm his 1st sergeant. I'll take it."

Matts was very aware of the knife in the tall Finn's right hand. "My sergeant major told me I must not give it to anyone but Captain Longström."

The Finn's face showed no response, but somehow Matts read approval in it. Half turning, the 1st sergeant pointed with the knife to Skalstugan. "Captain Longström is with the general, in his headquarters."

Matts jerked half a bow. "Thank you, 1st sergeant sir," he said, then trotted off toward the building. 1st Sergeant Erik Stenfors—his army name—watched the boy the first fifty yards, then returned to his practice. It troubled him to see someone so open, so—unspoiled. Troubled him because it couldn't last, because sooner or later, someone or something would kill it.

Skalstugan had a stoop raised forty inches above the ground, to simplify going in and out in winter. On it stood a sentry with fixed bayonet, guarding the door. Also on the stoop sat a boy of seemingly twelve or thirteen years (eleven, actually, but large and arrogant for his age), wearing a uniform like an officer's, but without insignia. His dangling feet, in small cavalry boots, swung back and forth, out of unison. He was whittling, his sheath knife not much smaller than the Finn's. His stroke paused as he watched Matts approach.

Matts stopped at the steps, his eyes on the sentry. "Private, sir," he said, "I have a message for Captain Longström, from Sergeant Major Wallmo at Jämtland's Regiment."

The whittling boy responded before the soldier could. "Give it to me. I'll take it to him." As he'd spoken, he'd gotten to his feet and sheather his knife. Now he bent, holding out his hand to receive it.

Matts' features stiffened. "Sergeant Wallmo told me to give it only to Captain Longström."

"Do you know who I am?"

"I know you are not Captain Longström."

The boy stiffened, reddening as if he'd been slapped. "I am Anders Henrik Ramsay," he said. "I am General Armfelt's pistol bearer. My father is Major Axel Wilhelm Ramsay, commander of the Åbo Cavalry Regiment. My uncle is Anders Erik Ramsay, governor of Norrbotten. And what are you? You're a clod! You don't know anything."

"I know you're not Captain Longström."

Laughter interrupted them. Three officers had stepped to the door and were watching, two of them clearly amused. The other, tall and strong-featured, was deep into middle age. "Anders," the older man said mildly, "this lad is in the right. He is obeying orders. Go inside now. We'll talk later."

Anders Henrik Ramsay turned, a crisp about-face, and the officers stepped aside for him. He was no longer red-faced; he'd whitened with humiliation.

One of the officers, the youngest, wore insignia familiar to Matts: a captain's. "I'm Captain Longström," the man said grinning, "and this is General Armfelt. He will vouch for me." He came down the steps then, heels rapping, and put out a hand to receive the message. Matts handed it to him without hesitating. The captain peeled off the seal, which wasn't real sealing wax, and read quickly. "Hmm. Good." He looked at Matts. "What is your name?"

"Matts Karlsson i Stentorp, Captain sir."

"Matts, wait here for me. I have something to tell General Armfelt. Then you and I will go to see your sergeant major."

He turned, and with the other two officers, went inside. Matts felt suddenly dizzy, almost fell, catching himself against the stoop. "Sit down, boy," the sentry said, "before you fall down."

The moment's dizziness had already passed. "I'm all right," Matts said, and hoped the sentry wouldn't mention it to the captain. The captain might tell the sergeant major, and he might never be made a soldier.

A minute later Longström came back out. "Captain, sir," the sentry said, "I don't think your messenger has eaten lately. He almost fainted."

It was Matts' turn to flush. "Ah." The captain's eyes examined him. "We'll go to my quarters and have something to eat before we go to see your sergeant major. My business with him isn't too urgent for that. And if you're not hungry, I am."

They set off on foot for the Free Company bivouac. "How old are you, Matts?" Longström asked.

"Fifteen this spring, captain sir."

"Fifteen. You're as tall as I, very nearly."

Matts realized that in fact he was only two or three inches shorter. The strongly-built captain was of ordinary height. It was the cavalry boots that gave him elevation. "Yes sir," Matts said.

"How long have you been with the army?"

Matts gave him the history, in brief. There was something about this officer that made it all right to talk, to tell him things. They went talking into the company headquarters, which was also the tent in which the captain and his 1st sergeant lived. Their bedrolls lay in a corner, ready to load if need be. Its furnishings were a small folding table and three folding chairs. It wasn't meal time, so nothing was cooked, but as they talked, Captain Longström's hands busied themselves with hardtack, butter, and salt herring. Somehow there were two plates, one for the captain and one for Matts. Actually the second plate belonged to the 1st sergeant, though Matts didn't know it. Erkki stood at the entrance, listening unobtrusively.

Before they left, Matts had told the captain more about himself than he'd told anyone before, even Skoogh. He even told about Lieutenant Hjalmar Fågelsund, the aborted moose hunt, and shooting the bear. And his friendship with Lars Olofsson Skoogh, and Pål Eriksson's death. Then they rode off together on Captain Longström's horse, to see Sergeant Major Wallmo. Matts hoped the sergeant major wouldn't be angry with him for being gone so long.

At regimental headquarters, the captain told him to wait outside; that he needed to talk privately with the sergeant major. Matts could hear their voices, and with a little concentration could have caught much of what they said, so he walked off aways, far enough he couldn't hear them anymore. When the captain came back out, Matts went over to him.

"I'm done here," the captain said. "The sergeant major wants to see you now."

Matts went inside, and the clerk ushered him into the sergeant major's office again. "So, Stentorp," said Wallmo, "you delivered the message." His eyes examined the boy. The captain, still amused, had told him about the encounter with the general's pistol bearer. Something the sergeant major wouldn't mention, because this was a warrior who stood before him—a very young, very unformed warrior, but a warrior nonetheless. That was clear to him now. "I have another message for you to deliver," he said. "I will not trouble to write it down. Find Private Skoogh and tell him I want to see him at once. When you have done that, get your gear and bring it here. You are now reassigned to headquarters company as one of my messengers. Corporal Nordgren will show you where you'll sleep."

For just a moment Matts gawped, then recovered himself and saluted. "Yes, Sergeant Major sir!" he said, and again made a proper about face before rushing out.

Wallmo looked ruefully at the place where his new messenger had stood seconds earlier. He should have warned him not to be too happy about his new posting. Ah well. He'd discover it in good time.

The bivouac was new but the layout familiar; Matts had no trouble finding Lars's tent. And it was a rest day; Lars and three others were napping there despite the gnats. Matts woke him with a touch and a gesture, and told his glorious news: he was now the regimental sergeant major's messenger. But what brought Lars fully awake was that he himself was to meet with Captain Longström at the captain's tent, at once.

Peter Longström pulled off his deerskin riding pants. It was chilly this evening, the touch of it sharp on his hairy legs. Chilly enough that the mosquitoes were comatose in the grass. He lay down on his bedroll with an almost audible groan. He'd ridden all night the night before. I'm getting old, he thought. A good oldness though. A good life. It seemed to him he'd been born for it. He still enjoyed it at nearly forty; he simply tired out a bit more easily. And he missed the featherbed he'd abandoned at Gävle!

Well, he told himself, if this campaign goes the way it should, we'll be in Trondheim in a month, month and a half. He looked at the thought, tasted it, and didn't believe it. No siege guns. They wouldn't have any till after the roads froze hard, and meanwhile they'd need to eat. Fortunately the crops in Norway looked promising, in Trøndelag at least. They'd had rain when they'd needed it, and sun when that was needed.

He was interrupted by a murmured "Captain?"

He turned his head toward the dark shape lying across the tent from him. "Yes Erkki?"

"Do you know what that boy said to me today? The first thing he said? 'Päivää!' In Finnish. The first thing."

Longström chuckled.

"He's a good lad, captain."

"You're right, he is." He nearly added "I've never known you to like a Swede before," but didn't say it. It seemed to Longström that Erkki had been born not liking much of anything he saw around him, but it also seemed to him the man sometimes tried. As if dredging, looking for jewels, but used to finding only what seemed to him like muck.

"Thank you, Erkki Kivikoski," he said, using the sergeant's full Finnish name, his pre-army name.

Erkki didn't answer at once. Longström was almost asleep when the sergeant spoke again. "You're welcome, Captain," he said.

Don't lie awake trying to figure it out, Erkki, Longström thought. You're my best friend. It's as simple as that.

Usually, Karl Gustaf Armfelt fell readily asleep, a process requiring little more than lying down and closing his eyes. But occasionally, when he lay down, some oversight visited his mind. Then, if it seemed best, he got up and did something about it.

Today his pistol bearer had clashed with a courier—a lad of what? Fifteen years perhaps, and half a head taller than Anders, though not so much heavier. Anders had undertaken to domineer the older lad, and overreached himself.

And he, with all good intentions, had intended to talk with Anders about it, but given the command problems needing his attention, he'd forgotten. Now Anders was asleep, had been for hours.

So, the general told himself, tomorrow then. It shouldn't be put off.

How old had Anders been when the Ramsay family was uprooted from their estate in Finland? A major's farm, with bond servants, hired workers, tenant farmers.... That would have been in May 1713, and Anders six years old. After that they'd followed the army as refugees, living at intervals in poor lodgings in some unfamiliar town, or sleeping in a tent. During Axel Ramsay's long absences, the boy had become more than his mother could manage. Always large and strong for his age, he'd become overbearing, even abusive toward other children, and there'd been complaints, so Axel had begun taking the boy with him, exposing him to the discipline and responsibilities of military life.

But the father soon lost patience with the boy's sullen moods, and upbraded him, making them worse.

Armfelt smiled, mentally shaking his head. So you, he told himself, in your infinite wisdom, offered to take the boy as your pistol bearer.

Still, Anders had taken pride in the appointment, had begun to see himself as the general's pupil. Armfelt had given him a copy of Chapelle's manual to read—the military catechism of the Swedish army.

Armfelt himself had been given one in his twelfth year, by Colonel Otto Vellingk, a half brother of a great uncle. "Uncle Otto" had taken the newly fatherless boy into his home as his page, expanded the boy's rudimentary Swedish, and made a soldier of him. So Armfelt considered his kindness to the Ramsays, father and son, as passing along Vellingk's legacy of kindness. Tomorrow he would talk with Anders about the responsibility and consideration that went with rank and power, and with such wealth as might become available to high-born Swedes and Finns in better times. Do it in a manner that would not trigger the boy's resentment and resistance.

With that decision made, the general relaxed and drifted into sleep.