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which followed. Simply blue, and sunlight.

Always sunlight. Drenching a land without shadows.

Chapter 6

Gustav II Adolf, King of Sweden, had a form given to him by his ancestry. His skin was pale, perhaps a bit ruddy. His short-cut hair, eyebrows, upswept mustache and goatee were blond. His eyes were blue, slightly protruding, and were alive with intelligence. His features, dominated by a long, bony and powerful nose, were handsome in a fleshy sort of way. He was a very big man. He stood over six feet tall. His frame was thick and muscular, and tended toward corpulence. He looked every inch the image of a Nordic king.

So much came from nature and upbringing. The rest-the spirit which filled that form at the moment, striding back and forth in his headquarters tent pitched on the east bank of the Havel River-came from the hour itself. The chalk-white complexion came from horror. The closely shut eyes, from grief. The trembling heavy lips, from shame. And the manner in which the king of Sweden's powerful hands broke a chair in half, and hurled the remnants to the floor, came from outrage and fury.

'God damn John George of Saxony to eternal hellfire!'

The king's lieutenants, all except Axel Oxenstierna, edged away from their monarch. Gustav Adolf's temper was notorious. But it was not the rage they feared. Gustav's anger was always short-lived, and the king had long ago learned to keep that rampaging temper more or less under control. An excoriating tongue-lashing was usually the worst he permitted himself. And, on occasion, venting his spleen on innocent furniture. This occasion-this monumental occasion-was shaping up to be a veritable Sicilian Vespers for the seating equipment.

Gustav seized another chair and smashed it over his knee. The sturdy wooden framework dangled in his huge hands like twigs.

No, it was not the rage which caused those veteran soldiers to quake in their boots. And they were certainly not concerned with the chairs. Axel Oxenstierna, the king's closest friend and adviser, never stocked Gustav's tent with any but cheap and utilitarian furniture. This was not the first time, since they arrived in Germany, that the Swedish officers had seen their monarch turn a chair into toothpicks.

'And may the Good Lord damn George William of Brandenburg along with him!'

It was the blasphemy which frightened them. Their king's piety was as famous as his temper. More so, in truth. Much more. Only Gustav's immediate subordinates ever felt the lash of his tongue. Only those of his soldiers convicted of murder, rape or theft ever felt the edge of his executioner's ax. Whereas many of the hymns sung by Sweden's commoners, gathered in their churches of a Sunday, had been composed by their own king. And were considered, by those humble folk, to be among the best of hymns.

The chair pieces went flying through the open flap of the tent. The two soldiers standing guard on either side of the entrance exchanged glances and sidled a few feet further apart. On another occasion, they might have smiled at the familiar sight of broken furniture sailing out of the king's headquarters. But they, too, were petrified by the blasphemy.

The king of Sweden seized another chair, lifted it above his head, and sent it crashing to the floor. A heavy boot, driven by a powerful leg, turned breakage into kindling.

'God damn all princes and noblemen of Germany! Sired by Sodom out of Gomorrah!'

The blasphemy was shocking. Terrifying, in truth. None of the officers could ever recall their monarch speaking in such a manner. Not even in his worst tirades. It was an indication of just how utterly enraged Gustav was, hearing the news of Magdeburg.

The king of Sweden stood in the middle of the tent, his great fists clenched, glaring like a maddened bull. His hot eyes, glittering like sapphires, fell on the figures of three young men standing a few feet away. The men were all short and slim, and dressed in expensive clothing. Their hands were clutching the pommels of their swords. Their own faces were pale.

For a moment, Gustav Adolf glared at them. The bull challenging the yearlings. But the moment was brief. The king of Sweden inhaled deeply and slowly. Then, expelling the breath in a gust, his heavy shoulders slumped.

'Please accept my apologies, Wilhelm and Bernard,' he muttered. 'And you, William. I do not, of course, include you in that foul tribe.' The king had blasphemed in Swedish, but he spoke now in German. Gustav was as fluent in that language as he was in many others but, as always, his accent betrayed his Baltic origins.

The dukes of Saxe-Weimar and the landgrave of Hesse-Kassel nodded stiffly. The tension in their own shoulders eased. Very quickly, in truth. For all their aristocratic lineage, they were more than ready to accept Gustav's apology in an instant. The three noblemen were the only German rulers who had rallied to the Protestant cause, in deed as well as in word. In large part, their attachment to Gustav was due to youthful hero worship, plain and simple. Italians were beginning to refer to Gustav II Adolf as 'il re d'oro'-the golden king. Wilhelm and Bernard of Saxe-Weimar and William of Hesse-Kassel would put the matter more strongly. As far as those young men were concerned, Gustavus Adolphus-as he was known to non-Swedes-was the only European king worthy of the name.

So, it was more with relief than anything else that they accepted his apology. Their own easing tension was echoed by everyone in the room. Gustav's temper, even today, was proving to be as short-lived as ever.

The king of Sweden managed a smile. He glanced around the interior of the large tent. There were only two chairs left intact. 'Best send for some more chairs, Axel,' he murmured. 'I seem to have outdone myself today. And we need a council of war.'

Axel Oxenstierna returned the smile with one of his own. He turned his head, nodding to an officer pressed against the wall of the tent. The young Swede sped out of the tent like a gazelle.

Gustav blew out his cheeks. His eyes flitted around the room, as if he were assessing the quality of the twelve men within it. Which, indeed, he was.

It was a quick assessment. More in the nature of a reassurance, actually. None of those men would have been in that tent in the first place, if they had not already matched the king's high expectations of his subordinates.

'Very well, gentlemen, let's get to work.' Gustav's gaze went immediately to Wilhelm and Bernard. 'The imperialists will march on Saxe-Weimar next. That is a certainty. The two of you, along with William, have been my only German allies worthy of the name. Emperor Ferdinand will demand your punishment.'

Wilhelm, the older of the two dukes of Saxe-Weimar, winced. 'I'm afraid you're right, Your Majesty.' A trace of hope came to his face. 'Of course, Tilly is on Maximillian of Bavaria's payroll, not the emperor's, so perhaps-'

William of Hesse-Kassel snorted. Gustav waved his hand. 'Abandon that hope, Wilhelm. And you, Bernard. Maximillian is even greedier than the emperor himself. He has already demanded the Palatinate for his services to the Habsburg dynasty and Catholicism. He will certainly want to add Thuringia and Hessen. Parts of them, anyway. The emperor can hardly refuse him. Since Ferdinand dismissed Wallenstein, Tilly's army is the only major force left at his disposal.'

Wilhelm sighed. 'I can't possibly stop Tilly,' he said, wincing. 'He will ravage the Thuringian countryside and take every one of its cities. Weimar, Eisenach and Gotha, for sure. Erfurt may be able to buy him off.' The nobleman's face was drawn and haggard, giving him an appearance far beyond his tender years. 'The people will suffer greatly.'

Gustav clasped his hands behind his back and squared his shoulders. His face was heavy. 'I can do nothing for you. I am sorry, bitterly sorry, but that is the plain truth.' The next words came leaden with anger. And, yes, shame. 'I will not make any promises I cannot keep. Not again. Not after Magdeburg. I simply don't have the forces to save Thuringia from Tilly. And the geography favors him entirely. He is closer and can use the Harz Mountains to shield his flank.'

Bernard nodded. 'We know that, Your Majesty.' He straightened, clutching his sword pommel. 'My brother is the heir, and he must remain here with you. But I will return to Weimar, and do what I can. I will reestablish contact with you by courier as soon as I can, but-'

'No.'

Startled, Bernard's eyes went to Axel Oxenstierna. The Swedish chancellor spread his hands apologetically.

'Excuse my abruptness, lord. But that is really a very bad idea.' Axel raised his hand, forestalling the duke's impetuous protest. 'Please, Bernard! I admire your courage. All the more so, since courage seems a rarer substance than gold among the German aristocracy.'

Again, the Swedish officers in the room barked angry, sarcastic laughter. Axel plowed on:

'It would be a very romantic gesture, Bernard. But it would also be sheer stupidity. You can accomplish nothing in Thuringia beyond dying or being captured. You have few forces of your own, and-'

Axel fixed the young nobleman with keen, intent eyes. 'You are inexperienced in war, lad.' He almost added 'a virgin, in truth,' but bit off the words.

Bernard of Saxe-Weimar's face was pinched, tight. His eyes flitted to Gustav Adolf, pleading.

Gustav breathed heavily. Then, stepping forward, he placed a huge hand on Saxe-Weimar's slender shoulder. 'He's right, Bernard.' The king's face broke into a sudden, cheerful smile. 'Stay here instead. With me. I would be delighted to add you to my staff, along with Wilhelm. I am certain you would be an asset'-Gustav blandly ignored the barely veiled skepticism on the faces of his Swedish officers-'and, in exchange, I believe I could teach you something of the art of war.'

The last part of the sentence did the trick, as Gustav had expected. Saxe-Weimar's adolescent admiration for the king's military prowess had become a minor embarrassment.

Bernard's eyes moved to the other men clustered about. Veterans, all. Men of proven valor. Plain to see, the young man was concerned for his reputation. His gaze settled on the youngest Swedish officer in the tent. That was Lennart Torstensson, the brilliant commander of the Swedish artillery.

Torstensson chuckled. 'Have no fear, Bernard. Let the imperialists taunt you as they will. Soon enough-within a year-they will taunt no longer.'

The laugh which swept the tent, this time, was neither angry nor sarcastic. Simply savage and feral. So might northern wolves bark, hearing that reindeer questioned their courage.

Torstensson's response, and the accompanying laughter, was enough. Saxe-Weimar's nod turned into a deep bow, directed at the king. 'It would be my honor and privilege, Your Majesty.'

Gustav clapped his hands together. 'Excellent! In the meantime-' He turned to one of his cavalry commanders, Johann Banйr. 'That small garrison is still at Badenburg, I trust?'

Banйr cocked his head. 'The Scots, you mean? The cavalry troop under Mackay's command?'

'Yes, them. Alexander Mackay, as I recall. A promising young officer.'

Oxenstierna, judicious as ever, refrained from commenting on that last remark. You spent less than an hour in his company, Gustav. Based on that you call him 'a promising young officer'? But he left the words unspoken. The king, he was quite sure, was under no illusions.