The old Sami (Lapp) had the sparse beard common among boreal indigines. But for a Sami he was tall; perhaps his half-Norwegian maternal grandfather had something to do with that. He was half a head shorter than Lars Skoogh, though, who in turn was half a hand shorter than Erkki Stenfors. But sinewy and tough; enduring. A second glance might have added observant, and with a bit of familiarity, wise within the purview of his world and tribe.

At the moment he had a reindeer bull on the end of his braided leather lasso. He didn’t try to reel the animal in though, simply walked to it, taking up the slack as he approached. When he reached the animal, he rested a hand on its neck, and looked to Lars.

“Do you wish to lead it? Or butcher it now?”

“Kill it now.”

Erkki watched, not understanding what was said; the other two had spoken in Sami, pidginized for Lars’s needs. The language was akin to Finnish, but not closely, not understandable to Erkki. The Sami led the animal to a birch, tied it, chanted a minimal prayer, then drew his knife and cut its throat. It was Lars who gutted it, and not in formal Lapp fashion (which Old Utsi had taught him years before). He simply field dressed it, as his own father had taught him, keeping heart, liver, kidneys, and tongue. Explaining as he did that he had a special purpose for this bull -- it had to be done without proper ritual. For that same reason he had no use for the entrails, which he was giving to the Sami, who would have good uses for them. All this in pidgin.

Meanwhile, from a tunic pocket, Erkki took the Swedish daler Captain Longström had provided, and gave it to the Sami. Adding “paljon kitoksia” and “tack så mycket” for good measure. War provided enemies; the wise warrior cultivated friendships.

The coin had spoken for itself. “Ja ja! Vær saa go’,” the Sami replied grinning, aware that someone who spoke Swedish would understand that bit of Norwegian. He pocketed the coin.

Now, Erkki told himself, we’ll see how well the Swede performs the hard part of this mission.

Like forts in general, Steine Skans was on a hill, this one small, a short climb from the Sul River. Lars’s eyes were busy as he rode, his mind registering what they saw. Captain Longström had briefed him -- him and Sergeant Stenfors -- from a sketch and diagram of the skans, dated 1689. It had helped: told him what to expect, and what to watch for. In particular, he was to remember whatever was different.

He’d been stopped at the foot of the hill, and questioned. The red-uniformed guard hadn’t seemed worried by what appeared to be a Norwegian farmer on horseback. His challenge, though properly officious, had not sounded concerned. By his dialect, Lars was local. (And of course, he approached from the direction of the coast, not from Sweden.) In fact, the guard seemed more interested in Lars’s packhorse than in Lars himself, who led it by a tether. A reindeer had been tied across its back,

As for Erkki -- he was lying in cover, watching from a distance.

At the gate, another guard stopped Lars. “What is your business here?” he demanded. The guard’s speech was not local, which probably meant army, not militia.

“I have a reindeer to sell," Lars answered. "To your commissary.”

The Norwegian stared, frowning. Puzzled, not suspicious, Lars thought. He doesn’t know what to say.

“Just a minute.” The man turned on his heel and strode through the open gate. Taking advantage of his back, Lars followed him, leading his horse. They’d hardly arrest him for that. More than a few merchants and other civilians must have passed through, and he really did need to see the inside.

“Corporal of the guard!” the man called.

A scowling corporal looked from a door. “What is it, Magnussen?” His speech wasn't local either.

“There’s a farmer here with a reindeer. He wants to sell it to the commissary.”

The corporal disappeared. Meanwhile Lars stood straight but relaxed, scanning the bailey, the walkways on the stockade, the three-pounders on their corners. A lance corporal emerged, a musket in his hands, bayonet fixed, and spoke to Lars’s guard. “Corporal Smed says return to your post. I’m to guard this man.”

The gate guard nodded, and trotted off. The new guard stood at port arms, uncertain eyes on Lars, who spoke casually. “Is it true what is said? That the Swedes are coming?”

The uncertainty became suspicion. “How is it you must ask what is common knowledge?”

“I’m the second mate on a dutchman, the Katrina, at the dock in Verdal, unloading wheat. Then it will load lumber for Holland. I told the skipper I wanted to visit my parents at Klæbu.” He laughed. “I needed to get away from the ship for a while, but if I went home they’d expect me to work. My mother is dead, and my father a slave driver, if he’s still alive. And if he's not, my older brother wouldn’t want to see me. He’d worry I want my share of the inheritance.”

His guard nodded sympathetically; it was not an unfamiliar story. “If the Swede comes,” he said, “we’ll send him home with his tail between his legs.”

The sergeant major emerged, sized up first Lars, then the horse and reindeer, then Lars again. “What is your name, and where are you from?”

“I am Lars Olavssøn, from Klæbu, now 2nd mate on the Katrina, a dutchman out of Gravenhagen.”

“Where did you get this?” The sergeant major indicated the reindeer.

“The captain gave me leave to visit home. Instead I rented these two horses and went hunting. The reindeer aren’t rutting yet, so the meat should be prime. Perhaps your commander would like a change from salt beef.”

The sergeant looked the bull over, prodding. Reindeer are in good flesh in September.

“I can sell it to the ship’s steward,” Lars added, “but he’d want it for half what it’s worth.”

“Which is?”

“Three dalers. For fresh venison for the officers; a welcome change.”

The sergeant major examined the head. The velvet was beginning to tatter on the antlers. Then found the wound where the bullet had broken the shoulders shortly after the Lapp had cut its throat. (It had occurred to Lars the Norwegians might look to see whether the prime cuts had been spoiled by the bullet, and the absence of a bullet hole would be suspicious.)

The sergeant major’s flinty eyes fixed on Lars. “Wait here,” he said, then left. A few minutes later he returned with a stocky officer wearing a periwig. Once more the bull was examined, then the officer looked up at Lars.

“I’m told you want three dalers for this.”

“Yes sir.” Then almost without pause, added “General Budde.”

The officer frowned. “How do you know who I am?”

“I heard of you in Verdal, General Budde sir.”

Narrow lips pursed. “And you got this...?”

“Over west, on the fjeld.”

“What did the Lapps say about that?”

Lars gestured innocently. “I saw no Lapps. I didn’t worry about it.”

“And you want three dalers.” He turned to the sergeant major. “What did you offer?”

“One daler.”

They were playing with him, Lars realized.

The general turned back to Lars. “So. One daler then.”

“Two. It cost me a daler to rent the horses.”

“One and a half. No more. Answer now.”

Lars answered glumly. “One and a half then.” He accepted the silver and left, his job done. He’d seen as much as he was likely to, and gotten a bonus -- knowledge that General Budde was at the skans.

Matts Karlsson received two fascines -- all his tough, skinny boy-arms could wrap around -- bundles of slender tundra willow stems bound with withes of the same kind. The soldier who’d burdened him said nothing, simply began to cut more, his hands aching from icy water, despite the bright sun, the warm morning. He was a Hälsinglander, a gaunt man of perhaps forty years, worn by some thirty of hard labor and several of short rations. Behind his worn face, he was grateful not to be carrying corduroys.

Matts turned and slogged off with his burden, following a soldier ahead of him, part of a thin, winding, ant-like file of men that converged with others to form a stream of burdened figures slopping upslope across boggy fjeld. With each step, cold soupy muck covered Matts’ bare feet. The feet of men ahead had compressed the deep, spongy sphagnum moss, pressing water from it, forming a shallow watery trail. It wasn’t nearly as effortful as pushing pack horses or heaving on wagons, but with both arms occupied the whole distance, the blackflies, mosquitoes, deer flies, bull flies all had free access to face, neck and hands.

Matts wore a pack now, not heavy because he had so little to put in it: a half-loaf of rye bread, brown, tough, and rank -- and his shoes! Actual shoes! He didn’t want to lose them in the slop. Worn previously by a pneumonia victim, they’d been issued to Matts as one of the sergeant major’s messengers. The lines of fascine bearers moved slowly but steadily upslope to where other men lay the facines on the boggy fjeld as a sort of sub-pavement. Other men slogged on other trails, from farther down the slope, where spruce forest grew. Soldiers felled trees with axes, limbed them, and chopped them into lengths, to be carried off on strong shoulders, and laid as crude paving on the fascines.

On the general’s orders, no one was exempt from cutting and carrying. Even officers -- even chaplains! -- were assigned their turns. It was rumored that “gen'ralen själv” -- the general himself -- had been seen bearing fascines in his long arms.

For three months Matts had been with the army -- he’d figured it himself, from June nearly to September -- and none of it had been what he’d expected. No drilling, no firing a musket, no slashing and thrusting with saber or bayonet. No enemy that he’d seen! He felt a little disappointed. But just now his biggest problems were the insects and his grumbling stomach. The first chance he had, he would take out his hunk of bread and bite off as many mouthfuls as time allowed. Two bites at least!

Lars Olofsson Skoogh set aside his axe, and pushed on the slender spruce he’d chopped almost off its stump. Grudgingly it gave way to his pressure and began to fall, branches swishing against those of another still standing, which twisted it; abruptly it kicked backward off the stump, to thud softly onto the moss and low heath.

His axe served for more than chopping. Four axe-lengths measured the length of one corduroy here, and quickly, deftly, he chopped through the prostrate, 10-inch trunk. Then, lopping thin branches as he went, he measured off and cut another length, and three more, before the trunk became too slender and limby to serve. He paused a moment to straighten -- the axe was short, and his back complained -- then strode to the next tree. Meanwhile another soldier upended one of the cut lengths, wrapped his arms around it and straightened his legs, tipping the small log onto a shoulder. Then, balancing it, he plodded off.

Lars much preferred his occasional work with Longström’s raiders — interesting men, interesting jobs, and less dangerous, it seemed to him, than battle would be -- but this wasn’t bad. He’d cut a lot of trees in his life, and was good at it.

Karl Gustaf Armfelt stopped his horse atop a rise at the front of the column. Beside him Captain Rickman pointed at the body of blue water a few miles ahead. “Feren,” Rickman said pointing. There was woodland around the lake, Armfelt noted, much of it birch, coarse and open, but more than a little of it spruce, relatively crowded, probably suitable for corduroys. How much more corduroy would be needed? Just here it wasn’t so boggy.

Soldiering was hard. He’d begun his career in the usual way, as a common, teen-aged soldier in a German mercenary regiment (not counting his earlier, periodic service in his uncle’s regiment in peacetime Finland). That had been common, then, for the sons of Ingrian gentry.

Most of his soldiers were peasants, whose life outside the army had been hard. He knew them well, and admired them -- men who’d soldiered for years, with no end in sight. They’d waste little energy cursing the fjeld. As for himself -- he had worries and responsibilities they did not. Like them he’d continue to accept things as they came, working with, through, and around the difficulties, making use of whatever came to hand.

He did, though, have unkind thoughts about the clouds of gnats, mosquitoes and flies that tormented men and horses. His long, strong-boned face was puffy from their bites. His horse’s head tossed continuously, snorting to dislodge the fierce and ruthless gnats from its nostrils. Its suffering ears twitched constantly. The general wondered if horses knew enough to long for a hard freeze, to lay their tormentors low.

His thoughts slid back to soldiering. War is hard. One does what one must, and trusts in God. And God willing, if this strategy worked, bypassing the Dano-Norwegian förhuggningar along the upper Sul, he would capture Trondheim without the lost howitzers, and with far fewer casualties along the way.

He took a map from a saddlebag, and began to connect what he saw around him to the inked depiction he held.

The army bivouacked that evening near the east end of Feren, where a stream flowed into it. The mild, humid air was motionless. Even sitting or lying in their tents, the men sweated. Birchbark had been peeled and lit, the flames fed first with dead twigs and branches, then with green, for smoke, the soldiers’ weapon against the insects. And in their tents, stuffed and lit their pungent pipes. They were weary. And famished. Supper would be barley porridge, pea soup, tough stringy beef, and rye bread with butter or lard. Few complained; back home, their families mostly had less. Especially in Finland, where they were a conquered people, required to feed the occupying Russians, Tartars, and Cossacks.

Matts no longer bivouacked with the herdboys and baggage boys. As one of the sergeant major’s messengers, he’d been assigned to headquarters company, and tented with its men, who told more interesting stories than herdboys or baggage boys could.

And nearby, Lars Olofsson Skoogh was quartered. He’d also been assigned to headquarters company, ready to hand when Longström wanted him. Matts still wanted to learn Norwegian, and Lars had begun teaching him as circumstances allowed, drilling him on those words and idioms that differed from Swedish, or from Swedish as Lars knew it. And by practicing the differences in pronunciation of words that were similar.

“If you were among them right now,” Lars had told him, “you would mostly understand what they said. But they would know you for a Swede the first time you opened your mouth. So if you have to make your way among them, say no more than you truly must. And pray a lot. Silently.”

Matts began to think he should forget about being a spy. Even the Jämtlanders could tell he was a southerner, not a Jämtlander. And the Finns? When they spoke their own language, he wondered how they could even understand each other.

But if nothing else, it was a way to pass half an hour in the evening, and he could practice to himself when Lars was off somewhere with Longström’s folk.

At Feren there was no farmhouse in which the general and his staff could lodge. Not even a humble shelter like Skalstuga. So the staff tent was erected, and with supper in their bellies, Armfelt met with his staff and other senior commanders. A small smudge fire smoldered near the rear, and one side of the tent was rolled up a bit to reduce the smoke.

“Iggström,” Armfelt said, “how stands the horse herd?”

“General, of some 6,800 horses we had when we left Duved, we have lost 712 at last count. Wagon horses especially, but many pack horses too. The saddle horses were the soundest to begin with, and the wagon horses have been the hardest used. Mostly they died of exhaustion, or became windbroken and were put down. But many seem to have been poisoned, perhaps from bad water; some pools were full of dead lemmings."

Armfelt nodded glumly. “Longström, what of the Dane? Have we misled him, do you think? It is not too late to alter our plan.”

Longström summarized his efforts to confuse “the Dane,” then told what he’d learned of the approaches to Steine Skans. “It would be easier to go south to Meråker than north to Steine, and Meråker is on the Stjørdal, the most direct approach to Trondheim. But below Meråker, the river passes through a deep gorge, with förhuggningar that make it deadly. West of Feren here, the Forra River would take us to the Stjørdal below the gorge, but that’s a long way through forest, cutting road for the wagons, in the teeth of förhuggningar again. It would be bloody.

“Just now the Dane can’t be sure we won’t try one of the others; my patrols have shown themselves on all approaches. Marching northwest to Lake Grønningen is not only the best approach to Steine. We can also travel west from Grønningen to the Tylda, and follow that to Stjørdal below the gorge. But that way, like the Forra, requires cutting road through miles of förhuggningar, with many opportunities for ambushes.

“Steine is still the best route. Longest but best. We’ll have to climb another steep pitch, but it is little if any worse than the one we climbed above Skals Lake. A lot of cordoruy will be needed, but not much more than it took to get here. As we near the skans, there’ll be another förhuggning, but we can flank it. It was felled against a march from the upper Sul, and when we scouted it earlier today, it wasn’t manned.

“As for the skans itself -- two days ago, General Budde was there.”

This generated a buzz. “How do you know that?” It was the king’s adjutant, Major Hård, who asked.

“We put a spy inside: a guide and interpretor from Jämtland’s regiment. He speaks the dialect. He even talked to General Budde -- sold him a reindeer he’d shot. That’s the pretense that got him inside, where he had a good look around. It seems unchanged from what we’d been told earlier, except for an earthen wingwall added on the north flank, apparently with eight guns. Emplaced facing east!” The wrong direction. “Judging from the size of the skans, and from Skoogh's observations, the garrison can hardly number a thousand. The numbers we’d heard earlier probably included units manning the förhuggningar we've bypassed above Sul.”

Hård interrupted. “This Jämtlander who passes as Norwegian -- how can we know he’s reliable? He probably has cousins in the Norwegian forces.”

The challenge annoyed Captain Longström, who did not hide it. He wasn’t used to having his judgement challenged, or his preparations. “I learned what there is to know about him from General Horn’s sergeant major, who knows the man and his family. Also, Skoogh left Norway with a grudge.

“And I have trusted him with my life. I would have asked the general for his transfer to my company, something I seldom do, but some of my men speak little Swedish, and Skoogh no Finnish. So I settle for borrowing him.”

Hård grunted; what was already done was beyond changing. “Nonetheless, watch him.”

There was another brief discussion -- Major General Yxkull wanted to reconsider the Tylda River Route, which might have been a long march out of the wilderness, but was a considerably shorter march to Trondheim. Armfelt granted it was shorter, but besides the military risks, there was the matter of provisions. “Taking Steine Skans will give us an open road through a fertile district where the crop this year is much better than in Sweden. And the skans itself should contain a large stock of provisions. Also, controlling it will force the Norwegians to abandon their defensive positions eastward up the Sul, which will give us the road. Autumn is nearly upon us, and when the road has frozen, we can bring siege guns over, and supplies, and evacuate the sick and wounded.”

Yxkull subsided. And Hård, still worried about treachery and a trap, reminded himself there were risks in whatever they might do. So he sat quietly through the rest of the meeting, listening and watching.

In his brief time with Armfelt, he’d seen evidence of rivalries and grudges. Not extreme, as such things went, but troublesome. Armfelt had a light hand and a mild tongue -- too light, too mild, Hård told himself -- but his ranking officers had shared campaigns with him in Finland, dating back sixteen, eighteen years to Karelia and Ingria. They respected him. The ill will centered mainly on de la Barre; Colonel Stiernschantz clearly disliked him. And de la Barre’s character had been questioned in Finland. But then, so had Stiernschantz’s, and de la Barre was the one man who matched Armfelt in rank. More importantly, he was the only other officer there, in Hård’s view, suited to command so large a force, should a command change become necessary.

Meanwhile de la Barre seemed firmly loyal to his commander. In Hård’s view, Stiernschantz’s reliability could still be questioned, though His Majesty had dismissed the charges against him. In fact, His Majesty had discussed Armfelt and his officers -- their perceived strengths and weaknesses -- before sending Hård on this mission. “Stiernschantz’ weaknesses,” the king had said, “do not include disloyalty. He is inclined to jealousy and grudges, but he was born a fighting man, and has repeatedly put his life at risk for king and country.”

Nonetheless, as His Majesty’s eyes with the Army of Jämtland, Hård would remain alert for problems.

As for Armfelt’s plan...attacking Steine Skans probably was the right decision, but Steine was far from Trondheim. And Armfelt had never won a campaign, nor a major battle. Skirmishes, brief fights, yes, and his early record as a cavalry commander had proven a bold, clever, and accomplished raider. “His only fear,” His Majesty had said, “is not for himself. It is for his troops. And his Finns know it. They trust him not to waste them.” His Majesty went on to describe Armfelt’s shrewd strategy at Pälkäne, his generalship at Storkyro, his tireless persistence. And his Finnish regiments had stayed with him through the worst of times, in the teeth of hunger, hardship and discouragement, outnumbered, outgunned, and almost never paid.

“The risk,” His Majesty had finished, “the danger is, he may think too long, study too long, wait too long. There is a time to strike -- while the iron is hot. Be sensitive to the possibilities.”

Remembering, Hård shook his head. Since Lewenhaupt’s bitter defeat at Lesnaya, in the Ukraine, Sweden had little margin for error. And since Poltava, there was no Lewenhaupt or Rehnskiöld to put in command here. So Armfelt it must be.

Meanwhile -- this was an exhausted army, men and horses both, and the campaign was barely underway. If the attack on Steine Skans turned out badly, morale would plunge.

“Hey you! Boy!”

Matts Karlsson i Stentorp looked back.

“Yes, you!” Thirty yards downslope, a soldier glared up at him. “Lend a hand on this rope!”

The soldier was one of a dozen or more pulling on a mud-slicked rope, trying to synchronize their effort with those of a teamster and eight horses struggling to pull a loaded wagon up a steep corduroyed pitch. More men were behind, prying with tough birch handspikes. But Matts had been berated for accepting tasks from others while carrying out the sergeant major’s orders. So he gave the shouting man only a glance, then continued his work, stabilizing corduroys.

He was working his way upslope on the left-hand side of the road, a bag of twenty-inch wooden stakes on his shoulder. Using a hatchet, he hammered a stake on the downhill side of every fourth corduroy, stones permitting. A sometime baggage boy was doing the same thing on the right-hand side, both working fast, to keep up with the men laying corduroys. Matts had just taken another stake from his bag when his work partner called from the other side of the road: “Matts! Behind you!”

Approaching a few yards downslope was the soldier who’d called to him, breathing hard, fists clenched, muddy face twisted with anger. Matts straightened, heart and breath frozen in his chest. It was the ex-sailor who’d cooked for the gravel crew; the one the others thought was crazy.

“God damn you!” the man shouted, spittle spraying, and lunging, swung a fist. Matts raised an arm against the blow. The soldier slipped in the mud, and falling, clutched at the arm, catching a sleeve. The worn-out shirt split up the back, pulling over Matts’ shoulders and down his arms. Twisting, Matts shucked free of it, scrabbling back, leaving the rags in the soldier’s hand.

“Private, sir,” the boy said, “Sergeant Major Wallmo told me that when he put me to a task, I am not to leave it when others tell me to.”

The man stared first at the boy's earnest face, then at the hatchet. With an effort he got to his knees, then slowly stood, and without a word, backed away, returning to the men still pulling on the rope. For a moment Matts gawped after him, then picked up his ruined muddy shirt, stuffed it into his waist band, and began to drive another stake.

When the corduroy reached the top of the pitch, Matts left the stake bag by the road, to be picked up by the boy who brought stakes, and trotted off to report to Sergeant Major Wallmo. The sergeant major frowned. “Where’s your shirt?”

Matts pulled it from his waistband and held it out. “Sergeant Major, sir, it is destroyed.”

“How?”

In a few words, Matts told him, ending with, “and then he left.”

Wallmo’s frown deepened. He knew the man. “Go to Sergeant Löfgren. Tell him I want to see him when he has a chance. Then go to Supply and tell them I sent you. You are to be given another shirt. And breeches while you’re there. Give him the ruined shirt, and tell him I will not have a naked messenger. Then come back here.”

Matts saluted. “Thank you, sergeant major sir.” He turned and hurried off, Wallmo watching.

Löfgren arrived in minutes. “You wanted to see me, sergeant major?”

“Yes. How is Ekblad doing?”

“He has been...coming along. Is this about your messenger?”

“Right. What do you know about it?”

“That the two had an encounter, Ekblad and the boy. Starrbäck reported it to me. His squad -- two squads, actually -- were on ropes, pulling a wagon up that steep little draw north of Herman’s Nose. Ekblad shouted to the boy to come help. The boy ignored him, so Ekblad...went over to him. Uphill.”

“Then what?”

“It seems Ekblad tried to strike him, but slipped and fell, ripping the boy’s shirt off. But the boy kept his feet. Then Ekblad went back to his squad.” Löfgren hesitated, then added, “According to Starrbäck, they exchanged words, but he doesn’t know what was said.”

“Do you want to be rid of Ekblad?”

“Well, I wouldn’t argue, but he’s been getting better. I believe he tries.”

“Thank you, Löfgren. Keep me informed. This is the army, not a circus. I may need to send him to the provost marshal.”

Löfgren left, wondering. For most men, a visit to “profossen” could perform miracles, but for others...

Watching Löfgren leave, the sergeant major wondered what those words had been that Ekblad and Matts had exchanged.

That evening the army bivouacked in the open tundra above Lake Grønningen, and Wallmo found his way to the camp of the regiment’s baggage boys, to the tent that sheltered Lennart Arnesson Kulle.

The sergeant major ducked, and looked inside. “Boy!” he said. “When you were staking corduroys today, did you see what went on between Private Ekblad and Matts Karlsson?”

Young Arnesson could guess to whom the sergeant major alluded, but asked, to be certain. “Ekblad?”

“The soldier that went over to Karlsson and may have struck him. Tried to. What did you see?”

“He struck at Matts, all right, but Matts ducked, and the soldier fell down. It was slippery.”

“What was said between them?”

“Well, first -- first the soldier cursed Matts, then struck at him and fell down. Matts didn’t quite fall. His shirt pulled off. Then he said you’d ordered him not to go off whenever someone told him. Not while he was on your orders. Then the soldier got up and went back where he’d been. To the rope he’d been pulling on.” The boy paused, then continued. “I think the soldier was afraid. Matts still held the hatchet he’d been using.”

Wallmo’s eyebrows rose. “Did Matts threaten him with it?”

“No sir, sergeant major sir. He didn’t raise it or anything, not even when the soldier tried to hit him. I’m sure of it. I was thinking I would have, but Matts didn’t.”

For a moment, Wallmo wasn’t sure he altogether approved of that much self control. But Björkebom had said the boy could act when he thought it was the right thing to do. And Ekblad had wits enough to back off. “Thank you, Arnesson,” said the sergeant major, and started back to his tent. It was, he thought, time to put this day behind him, and sleep.

He’d gone no more than fifty paces when a shout turned his head. Night had fallen, true night at this late date, and flames had appeared atop a prominence off to the northwest, growing as he watched. A signal beacon. And now, due west atop a more distant bald, another appeared, and southwest across Grønningen, another. They grew, warning whoever was out that “the Swedes have come! The Swedes have come!” Wallmo had no doubt they’d know it in Trondheim within minutes, 50 miles off west. Meanwhile, more serious for now, they'd know in Steine Skans.

Few in the army watched till the flames died. Bugles and voices would rouse them from sleep all too soon, to another day of chop and carry, pull and push. And march. The word was, the new day would be less strenuous than today had been. And the beacons had been less worrisome than exciting. For most of the army they carried little flavor of menace. The Finns, grown stoic over years of war, shrugged them off as unimportant.

This time the general convened his staff and regimental commanders under the sky. “So,” he said, “the Dane knows we are here. Now he’ll want to know whether we’ll ride against Steine or to the Tylda. Budde will guess Steine, but he won’t settle for guessing. He’ll send a patrol, probably by early light, to estimate our force, intentions, and progress. Captain Rickman had patrols out toward Steine this afternoon, looking for Norwegians, and if there’d been any, we would know of them. No doubt Budde was reached by one of the fisherfolk who fled Feren west on foot, then north to Værdal. Or folk who fled south to Meråker, from where couriers could have ridden west, then north across the fjeld.

“Whatever the case, I just sent Colonel Jungh and a company of his Karelians to deal with any patrols from Steine. Disrupt and bloody them before they can learn much, and bring prisoners for questioning. Any who make their way back to Steine will know one thing for certain -- that the Finns have come, and are terrible to fight.”

It’s well that horses see better in the dark than men do, thought Major Johan Hård. They rode through open stands of coarse mountain birch, sparse enough to let in the first dawnlight. But even so, Hård could discern only little and dimly what was around them. Behind and to the sides, he could hear horses plodding on wet ground, carrying Armfelt and Captain Longström, along with the general’s adjutant, Major Gotthard Vilhelm Marks von Würtemberg, and the commander of the Karelian cavalry.

They’d broken camp before first light, and were well beyond the corduroy now. The trail was a scant path, created, he supposed, by patrols. And by the Jämtish infantry company sent to make a diversion.

Dawnlight grew reluctantly, but before they reached spruce forest, the sun had risen. By the time they reached the förhuggning, it had warmed the blackflies, mosquitoes and bull flies back to life. From downslope came the faint sound of axes, but not of falling trees. Nor musketry. The diversionary infantry, Hård realized, were clearing their way through the förhuggning, and meeting no resistance. Hopefully they wouldn’t. Jungh had jumped a Norwegian patrol the day before, killing some and capturing some, while others had fled. Whether Budde knew Steine was the target was uncertain, but he’d be prepared.

Now Longström turned west, flanking the förhuggning quietly, neither dawdling nor rushing. Here the way was mostly firm, and the scattered fallen trees that hampered them had fallen to decay and wind, not axes.

So far, Hård had been reasonably well impressed by Armfelt and his army, having reconciled himself to the tardy departure from Duved, the slow pace of progress westward, and the loss of the 6-pounders. As for leaving the road at Skalstugan to cross the wilderness...that was the sort of bold strategy His Majesty liked, had been known for, beginning with his forced march to relieve the first siege of Narva, taking the Russians unaware and casting them into dismay, confusion and defeat.

Now, escorted by bloodthirsty flies, the army moved to attack Steine Skans. By midday they would fight, for Armfelt didn’t intend to wait for most of his army to catch up. He’d begin the battle with his Karelian and Jämtish cavalry, some 700 in all.

At the flank of the förhuggning, they reached the cattle driveway Longström had reported, leading from the river Sul, west of the Skans, to a summer dairy on the fjeld. It had been left unblocked for Budde’s own patrols -- unless he’d sent axmen to block it the day before. Last night would have been too late, and night in the spruce forest too dark to even think of felling trees. But might there be ambushes?

Abruptly Hård heard distant musketry off east; the general’s diversion. A company of Jämtish infantry is getting its baptism of fire, he told himself. Armfelt turned and beckoned, and Hård joined him. Then Jungh signalled, and followed by his Karelian cavalry, started off downhill, followed by Rickman’s mounted Jämtlanders. Hård felt a thrill of gooseflesh; the dice were cast! The cavalry charge was the soul of war. When they had passed, Armfelt himself, with Longström, Marks von Würtemberg, Hård -- and Armfelt’s young pistol bearer -- also started downhill, following the shock troops. Taking the boy was an expression of Armfelt’s confidence.

It was late afternoon before Matts saw the Sul, and from a little distance, the skans. He was famished, muddy to the eyes, and felt used up despite much of the march having been downhill. As usual there’d been abundant pushing and pulling of horses and wagons, even for the sergeant major’s messengers.

Then, while the regiment ate its evening meal -- a porridge of barley and peas, with hardtack and slimey salt herring -- Matts, as the junior messenger, carried the sergeant major’s report to General Horn, who was at the skans now. His meal was a fragment of hardtack, gnawed on as he trotted.

Steine Skans had something Duved had not: a long low earthen wall extended northward from the skans proper, fronted by a low palisade, and topped by a row of cannon. Even Matts realized what it would have meant if it had been necessary to storm the fort from the east.

Inside the skans, in a vestibule, he waited on a bench against a log wall, listening to the loud talk and laughter from feasting officers. There’d been abundant rum in the skans’s commissary. After a few minutes, the officer of the watch, an ensign, came into the vestibule. The ensign was old for his rank, had thick peasant fingers, and his rugged features were frost-scarred from the Ukraine. He too had been drinking. Seeing Matts, he frowned.

“Why haven’t you washed, soldier?”

It was the first time Matts had been called soldier. “Sir, we have just arrived, and Sergeant Major Wallmo sent me with a message to General Horn.

“Ah!” The ensign examined the boy more closely. “Where is your saber, soldier?”

“Sir, I do not have a saber. I’m not really a soldier, sir. I was a herdboy till the sergeant major made me a messenger.”

The frown deepened. “You wear a uniform hat. And shirt. And breeches.”

“Sir, these are all I have, sir. My old shirt was destroyed, and Sergeant Major Wallmo had these things issued to me. He said he could not have a naked messenger, sir.”

“Ah,” the ensign repeated, nodding slowly, as if Matts had said something profound. “Very well, messenger. Give me the message.”

“Sir, I do not have permission to give the message to anyone other than General Horn or his adjutant or aide, sir.”

Again the slow nod. “Have you eaten, messenger?”

“No sir.”

“Very well.” The ensign winked at Matts then, and left, leaving the boy puzzled. A few minutes later a soldier entered, carrying a large plate piled with boiled beef, turnip, peas, carrots, and buttered bread. Grinning, he gave it to Matts, saying “the officer of the watch said ‘feed the boy.’” The ensign too had been drinking. “They are making merry in there,” he confided. “This has been a great day. The Danes scattered like quail. Only one of ours was killed, and two wounded. In two weeks we will be in Trondheim.”

A little later, Horn’s aide came in and took Sergeant Major Wallmo’s message. Then Matts left the empty plate on the bench and started back to his regiment, thinking the day had ended very well.