Chapter One
Late September 1631, Camburg a.d. Saale, Thuringia
It was the screams that woke him. As Dieter Fischer regained consciousness, he felt again the pain of the deep gash on his forehead and the scrapes from being knocked so brutally to the ground by the mercenary with that Swedish sword.
At the sound of a building collapsing from the raging fire that engulfed it, he opened his eyes. The flames that reflected off of the blood pooled around his head stole his attention, until he again heard the screams. He knew the girl. Just this June he had performed her confirmation. She was the first Christian he'd confirmed on this, his first call, taking on his own church after his predecessor's untimely death in late May.
Now she was naked, being brutally raped by a gang of mercenaries right in front of his eyes.
His first thought was to save her, but his body had other ideas. It had decided that he had already done enough and was going to continue to lie there as if dead like the mercenaries believed him to be.
That’s when she opened her eyes. In the midst of her degradation, her vivid violet eyes seemed to stare right at him. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she seemingly pled for his intervention or forgiveness for what she was enduring.
He lay still, captivated by her anguish. He couldn’t help but watch until he was finally able to close his eyes amidst the sounds of even more carnage. After the Protestant victory over the Catholic mercenary armies at Breitenfeld, his parish of Camburg had been excited at the prospect of the strong Swedish Lutheran King who could protect them against the evil forces of Tilly. The council even authorized sending a portion of the militia off to reinforce the victorious Lutheran forces, leaving just enough to man their village keep in the upper castle walls. So when the approaching mercenaries under the Swedish flag were spotted coming down the old Salt Road, they were welcomed as heroes.
Once inside the walled compound, however, the leader pulled his saber and gutted the mayor. Another soldier swung his sword in an attempt to cut off the head of Reverend Dieter Fischer. Only Fischer's quick reaction had allowed the blade to cut his forehead instead of his neck.
Now, Fischer's body had had enough. It let his mind know that it was taking charge until the dangers were past. As he felt his consciousness flow away, his final thought was, "God damn the Swedes!"
October 1631, Northern Franconia
The "Snow Plow," Ake Henriksson Tott, leaned over his saddle to get a better look at the prisoners. The field marshal about whom Gustavus II Adolphus had bragged "He'll sweep his opposition aside so the rest of the army just has to follow along behind" was hopeful that this was the end to a diversion of military resources. Resources he could ill afford at this critical point.
A motley bunch they were, he thought, even under the conditions that prevailed in the Central Germanies.
"Are these the last of them, Captain Leslie?" he asked.
"Aye, sir," replied Captain David Leslie of the Scottish cavalry command in service to the Swedish king.
"When we caught up with them . . . " Leslie gestured at the captives. " . . . these ever-dependable Saxons and the rest tried to bluff their way through. Then we ordered a search and found the Swedish flag they'd stolen. As well as a few other baubles stolen as they fled the battle. That's when they decided to put up a bit of a struggle.”
The flag had been in the Swedish supply trains at Breitenfeld. The Saxon forces had paused to loot it after their rout at the hands of Tilly’s Catholic army early on September seventeenth. At that point, it seemed like the Lutheran army was done for. But then Gustav Adolph had turned the battle around and destroyed the Catholic army, coming out with a decisive victory.
"Most died right there, but these—" Leslie sniffed. "These fine laddies threw down their arms and offered to come into the service of the king. Of course, I'm not seeing where they might have had other options at the time.
"My men have heard them admit to their crimes of pillaging Camburg under a false flag, and ask forgiveness. I guess the damned papist idea of confession runs deep in their souls, even if the Saxons have been Lutheran for a century. Anyway, it's them all right. The rest are dead. What shall I do with them, Field Marshall?"
Tott wiped the beads of sweat from his balding pate and shook his hand to loosen the hairs that he had lost in doing so. Never taking his eyes off the prisoners, he pulled on his goatee. "Hang them. We need to move on south as fast as we can." Tott pulled his horse around to ride back to headquarters with his guard.