Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest

[Sertorius]

With the coming of the Sejm of Stężyca

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By the way, the Stężyca Meeting was not a Sejm (these would usually be called to Warsaw, although there were rare exceptions, like Toruń in 1576 or the Coronation Sejms in Cracow). It was convocated on the day of the deadline of Henry's return to Poland. Since he obviously didn't, the whole gathering was just a bickering fest between nobles and magnates. The Archbishop of Gniezno as Interrex will decide about the date of the Convocation Sejm and said parliament shall then determine when the Election Sejm (always in Wola near Warsaw, due to the sheer number of nobles that will come, anything between 10 000 - 100 000, usually around 10 000 - 15 000) to pick the King will take place.

For now, the Archbishop will declare the throne vacant in accordance with the Sejm's previous threat of deposition, the Hoods shall take over and that's that.

Just to add, the candidates themselves were barred from attending the Election Sejm in person, but could speak through representatives.

[X] Giving her the finest things. Gifts, dances, feasts. Show her that you no longer reject life itself.
[X] Find some friendly faces and get to planning.

When it comes to our wife, the classics will do.

As for Stężyca, the time to address the nobles will come during the election. Whatever impression we'll make shall quickly be forgotten in a few months. Right now we plan and scheme.

 

[Rolman]

They can't hide from you now! The tepidness of Wawel shall be no more; like a full-fledged Sejm, the rather humble town and the camp ringing it are alive with activity, and nearly every noble and clergyman of note is in attendance.

You find the anti-Habsburg camp to be rather ragged, composed of rude farmer-lords and those damnable, mid-ranking strivers – the type who try to undermine august families such as yours at every turn. But, this is their part of the country, and the fur-wearing, brightly-dyed men that you will surely call allies are outnumbered indeed. The rabble crowd around their prince, the so-called "Gracchus Poloniae" and erstwhile Royal Secretary, Jan Zamoyski.

You encounter him within moments of your arrival, before you can find friends or even your own brothers, on the muddy track that composes the main thoroughfare of the camp. He is ringed with supporters and bodyguards who pucker at you and rest limp wrists on saber-pommels. Perhaps he was looking for you. "Your Serene Highness," he bows respectfully, "how long it's been since we've last encountered each other."

"Indeed, my lord," you reply after returning his bow, eyeing him up, and finding him to be as you remember him from '73: a handsome, long-faced man of perhaps thirty-five or so, wearing a Pole's mustache and dressed much better than his fellows.

"And I suppose we find ourselves as less than friends this time around," he smiles, "but may that not affect our cordiality."

"God willing," you say, trying not to sound flat. "We are brothers before Our Lord and before the Liberty."

"And we're under interregnum. You really intend to import some Austrian tyrant?"

"Tyrant?" you ask. "We're inviting a lad made out of putty."

"And raised up by Jesuits and Habsburg lackeys, I'm sure," he replies. "In any event, we need strength. War is coming. The selfishness of you and your people's proposal is clear. I stand for the majority, not your little magnates' or Lithuanian clique."

"Who will you have, then? The Prince of Legnica?" The man's a drunk and half-beholden to Vienna.

Zamoyski smiles, fox-like. "Where's the fun in telling your opponent your next move, Your Serene Highness? But it will be someone capable, someone who'll guide the country from within the country – any foreigner ought to be in the position to commit himself completely."

"Well, praise God, we agree on that at least."

He leans back. "Do we, now? News to me. Good Sarmatian men can see through the ploy."

What's he mean by that? That Ruthenians and Lithuanians are somehow of different blood, somehow disloyal to the Commonwealth? Certainly, the last Union favors the Crownlanders, but the two countries are sisters, by God. One of your bodyguards, a proud man of Troki, steps forward. You hold your hand up, but he's already past you.

One of Zamoyski's men spits. "Step back, Beetroot." The semi-circle around the Royal Secretary tightens.

"I ought to cut you down for that!" exclaims your man. "Snivelling high-and-mighty Crownland cur, dressed in rags!"

"Enough!" you shout, finding an anger usually-dormant. You address your underlings: "no fists, no blades! Take it up with each other when you're drunk, at least, I'm trying to talk to the man here," you say, pointing at Zamoyski.

"There's not much more to say, lord prince. You're going your way and I'm going mine. And truth and justice will win in the end, and dismantle any plot for self-serving power. The Brotherhood of Nobles will persevere in the face of magnates' tyranny." His men grunt approvingly and offer quiet hear-hear's.

"It's not like your estates are the smallest, Lord Zamoyski, but very well."

Zamoyski snorts. "But I treat all noblemen as equals, Your Serene Highness." He cocks his head. "But let us step aside for the mighty prince," he says, gesturing to his men. "For the Lord knows we will not be so kind on other occasions."

They let your entourage through, staring daggers from your flanks.

You look for and find the yellow-black of the family's banner, rising high off a nice and large, pavilion-style tent. You enter to find your dear brothers and none other than the Crown Court Marshal Andrzej Zborowski, in the flesh at last, who rises from his seat and bows. Septimus smiles and gives a friendly nod as Krzysztof jumps up to greet you with a mildly indecorous, crushing hug. Christ Almighty, the man is strong. "Brother prince! You're here at last."

"Indeed-indeed, and I just had a venomous little parlay with Zamoyski."

Krzysztof laughs as Septimus and Zborowski start flapping their hands at the air, groaning. "Indeed, that viper is a nobody who wants to be somebody," says your eldest brother coolly.

"A striving little bastard, like his lordling army. Stirring things up, may well be trying to unseat us senators," adds Zborowski.

"He was very lofty, on about Liberty and fraternitas and justice and things," you say, "acting like we're petty kings and not worthy great houses."

"We're of the blood of Jagiełło and Witold's own sworn men," says Krzysztof, getting fiery. "Lord Zborowski – your father was Castellan of Kraków!"

"Highest senator in the land," nods the mustachioed man, dark as an Italian. "And his father a senator, too."

"That Jan Zamoyski thinks himself worthy of his father's – indeed admirable – merit. But his Liberty-speak is all a ploy. He just wants to be like us," you say, unable to not acknowledge your foe's position. It's not so simple.

The three men all speak at once, nodding in agreement, to the effect of: "and he'll do whatever it takes." That fox-man is dangerous.

You clap once. "Anyways!" you say, turning your attention to Lord Zborowski. "Where have you been, sir? I've been getting nothing but scant letters for the past half-year! Ignoring your suitor?" you half-joke.

"Well, that's what I'm here talking about," he says with a chuckle. "And I'll get to the point: we want a Habsburg, but we need Samuel home, and we need a guarantee of further protection of our confession."

You throw your hands in the air as if to say: anything you want! "And that can be arranged most easily, the Emperor's a tolerant man and this Maciej of his is eager to do anything to take a crack at ruling. As for Samuel…" you find your mouth failing you.

"Just because he's at the Transylvanian court doesn't mean you have to elect a Batory," says Krzysztof, turning to Zborowski.

"Of course not, of course not," he says. "But, in the eyes of the law, our brother is a murderer, and I've heard rumors that the Batory delegation would surely include him in the event of their Prince's election. I fear that only by proximity may he be brought back to us."

"I assure you, we'll find a way," Septimus says.

"Indeed!" you agree. "Indeed-indeed. I tell you, that lad will agree to anything we say, so long as we keep the Secretary out of his ear."

"Maybe so."

Our Lord Jesus Christ nor His Father cannot approve of all this… This scheming. Lying! You know that, and the Friar would've said that it's merely your lot in life, and that it'll compose a greater share of Sin than it would for lesser men, but it just doesn't feel right. And yet it's becoming easier and easier. It's a skill to practice, like swordsmanship or riding. What a grim one; you've got no taste for such things, but yet here you are. Perhaps it's best to accept it and make sure your Confessions are thorough each week, lest it all pass you by.

Thankfully, you find yourself next on horseback in Stężyca proper, being ushered into the finest lodgings in town.

"Forgive me for not rising to greet you," says the gold-jacketed old man, embroidered with floral motifs and crosses, no mitre to cover his liver-spotted pate. His white beard reaches down to his chest. "God has given me such trying knees."

You bow deeply before the Archbishop-Primate, Jakub Uchański. He is once more the Interrex. "Your Excellency. Praise be to the Lord Our God and His Son."

"To them and the Spirit goes all the glory," he replies. "I've heard you're a man of strong faith, Your Serene Highness."

"By His will it is so, and by the teachings of Saint Benedict," you say, forgetting your wrestling before such a pious man.

The Archbishop nods approvingly. "But God is putting our nations through a trial indeed."

"It is so," you agree.

"And there is one fear on my mind, as a servant of God and a man of the Commonwealth, as interrex: civil war. Lord Zamoyski and his… his people make me most nervous." He stares you down somewhat. "But so does Your Serene Highness' camp. I know you are a latecomer, but already have fistfights and even duels broken out. Nobody seems willing to back down."

A King in the pocket of the middling Crownlanders, of Princess Anna, even the more rabid Protestants – it would spell disaster for the diminishing Holy Church as much as it would for the Grand Duchy. The small lords could turn on the great ones, Lithuania and the Crown could find themselves at odds. And with Tatar and tyrant Iwan licking their lips. You must reveal the news, you think. "The young Archduke has boldly elected to come and visit this congress, knowing that by ancient law he may not approach the Convocated Sejm."

The Archbishop is silent for a moment. "That is a provocation."

"He must prove himself before our people," you say. "Your Excellency, he impressed myself and His Serene Highness the Prince Mikołaj, the one they call 'Orphan.' Archduke Maciej is fiery enough to rule, yet young enough to still listen to his elders."

"Well, you must understand that, as a representative of the Holy Church, I cannot support this venture more; might heart sings at the opportunities that may be afforded to the Faith. But I am a man of Polonia – and your Lithuania, too – and we need what is best for the realm. These are precarious times."

"Then I can only hope that he may be able to speak for himself, Your Excellency."

"Yes. May he."

The young Prince Janusz Ostrogski finds you in your personal tent around nightfall. "Your Serene Highness," he says, offering up a familiar handshake, "my apologies that I never joined you in Vienna."

You return the gesture. "Oh, it's fine – I take it your father called you off?"

"Indeed, and that's why I'm here in his stead."

You take a guess. "I don't understand: doesn't everyone know where he stands?"

"Yes, but it's for the same reason His Serene Highness' father isn't here: the chiefs of Lithuania and Ruthenia in the same place? That's enough to drive a proud Pole into hysterics. We cannot appear too united."

You hum. "But perhaps strength is what we need? Let the Crownlanders know that we Easterners won't be pushed around nor dissuaded? The Holy Church is with us, too."

"Your Holy Church," he reminds you. "And perhaps doing so would lend such an impression of strength," he says. "But it's on everybody's tongue that the Archduke will be coming to this meeting, and everybody's holding on to their caps and gripping their armrests and doing whatever else they must do to stay composed," he laughs. "Things have gotten very loud, very fast, and I reckon it's time for light touches."

"Maybe, maybe."

Or it's time to draw the sword and start hacking. Proverbially, of course. God willing.

The morning comes; you didn't sleep well. You're used to better accommodations than a tent, and the sounds of hunting dogs barking, drunken singing, and men fucking the camp followers kept you up.

But it's another day, and another assembly. Cheers and jeers pierce the air as Habsburg and Piast – as they've taken to calling themselves, invoking the Wheelwright – camps carry on fruitless debates. Rumors have begun to swirl that the Archduke has crossed the border, parading himself through Kraków to the tune of both cheers and vegetable-throwing, and that he may be only three or four or five days away from Stężyca.

You sit with your fellows of the senatorial class; only very few of the higher body have chosen to defect, though they're touted about by Zamoyski and friends. You decide to…

[] Offer up a preambulatory speech, relying on some cynicism.

Make a pitch for a malleable yet energetic young King – emphasizing the former point. Intend to sway Piast voters with promises of (limited) reform and bountiful generosity coming from a half-captive seventeen-year-old. Emphasize, too, the access to Imperial coffers and armies, and a deepening of ties with the Empire.

[] Offer up a preambulatory speech, relying on faith and earnestness.

It likely won't win you any new friends, as you'll be almost bald-facedly speaking to your own supporters, but remind your magnate-heavy camp that God has allowed for there to exist nobles greater and lesser, and that there is no finer or stronger family in Christendom than the Habsburgs.

[] Bide your time.

Let the Archduke do the talking; men respect it when someone speaks just for himself.

[] Ride out to meet Maciej.

To give him some coaching; your brothers may or may not accompany you. While this would better prepare the Archduke for his hopefully-triumphant entry into Stężyca, a small scandal may arise from such open collusion.

 

[Rolman]

You wait, enduring daily harassment by the Piasts. The situation becomes more and more testy: by nightfall, more fights break out and, usually at dawn, one or two duels play out between opposing lordlings and slighted bodyguards. Four men have been buried since the 12th, they say, and each assembly grows louder and more caustic.

It was a gray-lavender, cloudy dawn when the Archduke arrived. You were roused by sounding hunting horns and shouting men: he's here! The noble Archduke! The little bastard! Every man is excited, though, in his way, that's for certain.

You jog with your brothers to take in the scene. At first, all you see are the red-white banners of Austria mixing with deceptively Radziwiłł-like black eagles on gold backgrounds, stretching for over a hundred stopy – maybe even more – in column formation. When you're close enough to properly observe the procession, you first notice the halberdiers in brightly-colored, outlandish garb, looking vaguely like harlequins. They usher in the young Maciej, dressed in satin and lace and wearing a large ruff, jewels in his cap's band shining even in the low light, a peacock feather making him several inches taller. He's atop a fine black stallion with his palms up to heaven, almost plaintive or even suppliant, looking about at the gathering throngs. Praise God that he doesn't have that chin; with the ruff framing his strong jaw, he actually looks quite fetching. Behind him is a trail of similarly lavishly-dressed men: it's good that he brought his diplomats.

"Good Polish friends!" he shouts in the tongue of your people, to more than a few gasps. "Come am I to your mighty country, to show me that am no coward, no little boy!"

Six months of tutoring, maybe less – it could be worse, he's under pressure. He continues: "With the brighter sun will me– I– speak before you all as a same one and brother before God!"

You've got to cheer for that! Who cares about his little errors? A chant of go home! rises up to do battle with the cheering of your camp.

"Handsome fellow!" exclaims Krzysztof.

"Well, he's certainly trying his best with our language," says Septimus, "they say it's a hard one to learn."

Maciej is still speaking but you can't hear him anymore. His flamboyant bodyguards are beginning to have to push people back with the shafts of their engraved and be-tasseled halberds, holding them crossways across their bodies.

The Habsburg delegation wades through the crowds, rich men cheering and poor men swearing and spitting.

You keep on applauding for the Archduke. He notices you, lights up, and gives a wave. You boldly return it, turning heads in your direction. Some of the attention shifts to you, both good and bad. Ave Radzivilius! Go to Hell, Lithuanian lickspittle! You manage to smile through it all.

You were hoping to meet with Maciej before his speech, but it seems like the assembly will be starting early this morning. Tęczyński men and some of Krzysztof's bodyguards show the Archduke the way to the meeting field.

"By God, I hope this works," you hear Septimus mutter. He turns to you: "brother, this is one Hell of a horse you're betting on."

"The world belongs to the brave," you say, looking straight ahead.

The young man remains mounted, and switches to Latin, he's almost hoarse already he's yelling so loudly. The uproar continues.

"Concordia lumine maior! I chose these words as my motto but a year ago. For I have only been a man grown for two years, it is true. There is no point in skirting that fact! And for just that reason do I come before this august body today to show myself today, to show that I am no child before my elders and that I am no coward before the realm nor the Lord Our God!"

"To you all I say: da mihi factum, dabo tibi ius! I offer up my body, heart, and immortal soul to your people's–"

Like Hell you do! roar the Piasts.

You think Maciej chuckled at it. You're not sure. From what you can see, he raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth. "I will learn! I come as one wanting to learn!"

To your shock, he repeats what you yourself said just moments prior: "Do odważnych świat należy!" You cheer loudly at that alongside your fellows. The Archduke switches back to Latin: "I mean not to appear haughty – I would never infringe upon the rights and laws of your people – which is why I come here, and not before your Convocated Sejm – to say my piece!" Good, good. Show them what you know.

"And, so…" something flickers on his face. "I ask you all this: shall I stay in your lands?"

YES! NO!

He's become inaudible, and that smile is a nervous one. Maybe he was expecting a triumph, despite holding his own thus far. But who knows what's going through that racing mind of his; you recall when you spoke before the Sejm around two years ago, how hard it was to stay on track in the face of cheers and jeers, doing your utmost to give the people what they want. The Archduke is, what, seventeen, eighteen?

Someone is quite literally sitting on someone's shoulders, a normal-sized man atop an absolutely hulking fellow. Is that…

Ave Zamoyski Secretarius!

"Archduke!" he projects. "No one here doubts that you are a young man of wit and character – for that is what makes you so dangerous!"

The lordlings cheer loudly. Very loudly. You recall that this is their country, their voivodeship; this meeting is in the depths of the Crownlands, in a densely-populated tract of farmland brimming with the impoverished gentlemen liable to support the Royal Secretary. "Seneca said that freedom cannot be bought for nothing, and that lesser things must be shed to earn it – and I mean this with respect — we care not for your name, nor title, nor the fine things your family would bring!"

He continues: "here is what we stand for, lord Archduke: justice for all and a Golden Liberty! The enforcement of incompatibilitas, the equality of all men before a Sejm, the strengthening of the Sejmiki, and the expulsion of the so-called 'great ones' from rightful Crown property!"

The lordlings explode into applause. You look to the clergymen, sitting on tiered benches under an awning; they seem to betray nothing. Archbishop Uchański strokes his beard.

"Only then will we all truly be free!" exclaims Zamoyski, barely audible over his roaring camp.

Maciej looks bewildered, and you fear he may not even know what Zamoyski is talking about.

Krzysztof calls out, hands cupped around his mouth: "you people stand for nothing! Nothing but yourselves and your petty designs!"

Maciej turns to your side, who are beginning to cheer for your brother. You can confirm now the confusion on his face. He's out of his element.

You join the fray:

[] "Lord Zamoyski speaks of lofty things, but his aims are base!"

[] "The man before you, Archduke, desires to undo everything our late King Zygmunt August desired!"

[] "These men are no different from peasants in revolt against God's order!"

[] shout out to the clergy: "Interrex, Your Excellency, what say you as a servant of the Lord?!"

[] write-in.

 

[Rolman]

"Lord Zamoyski speaks of lofty things, but his aims are base!" you yell in Latin.

Mind what you say next; give the lordlings a little air to breathe, and ensure that no duels arise from this. "Indeed, our twin countries and their laws are in need of constant repair and strengthening – as one would maintain a fine castle – but this man merely wishes to have the great hall to himself!"

"It's all just a ploy to rile up good gentlemen," yells Krzysztof, "seducing them with promises of wealth and power and…" he trails off, allowing himself to be drowned out.

It's a difficult position to be in. You cannot say to the lordlings' faces that they do not deserve what they're asking for. That would turn the assembly field into a mass brawl or worse, nevermind the way young Maciej would have to disavow such comments on the spot.

Ah!

"Lord Archduke, would you vanquish our countries' foes?" you ask theatrically, serving him an easy bobble to volley back. The clamor dies down near-imperceptibly.

"Most assuredly!" He lights up. The Piasts start groaning: of course he'd say that!

"No, no, my lords, but I will tell you how! I am told the Muscovite foeman utilizes two things in great number on the battlefield: the chainmailed lancer, and a kind of musketeer who fights with a short poleax. There was a Freiherr von Herberstein who spent many years in the lands of those Easterners and…"

He launches into a genuinely impressive explanation of how best to counter such a force using Western fighters, recalling examples learned from the Great Captain's Royal Thirds in Italy – and that Western muskets outrange Muscovite ones, while mixed units of pike and shot would ward off cavalry and infantry alike.

You can't help but smile: although only six or seven years apart in age, you remember your days in Paris with De Re Militari and a head full of Seigneur Strozzi's sayings. You were eager to lead men in a different way, a better way, without the terrible atrocities that Frenchman meted out on Frenchman before your eyes. What a silly lad you were. The young Archduke has clearly done his reading.

Plenty of people are still trying to shout him down, of course. But the insults are becoming less and less coherent, and Zamoyski himself has paused to listen.

"Regarding your Tatar heathens," Maciej continues, "we in Austria and Hungary understand the importance of a solid Military Frontier, a line of forts staffed with good farmer-soldiers – I'm told there already exists a corps of horsemen who live on the land they protect."

Maybe the Zaporozhians ought not be brought up; after all, they could be as great a danger to lords and princes everywhere as they are to the Tatars. The Archduke seems to have been fed a simplified version. But: "with their help," says Maciej, "will your Southern foes be brought to heel. Livonia will be reclaimed with Imperial pike and Sarmatian saber working as one!"

Hear hear! Krzysztof chuckles and talks to no one in particular. "Very good, very good; easier said than done, but…"

You can see Zamoyski fiddling with his mustache. "What of the ecclesiastical courts?" he calls out.

Maciej hesitates, earning boos. "Firstly—" he half-stammers, "firstly — your Confederation and rights will be protected always. I will sign my name to that. But we cannot forget that this is, at its core, a place of Catholics, with a crown anointed by the Holy Church's God and His representatives — not any other man's Lord! To that end will I restore the church-courts' power on all non-confessional matters!"

A cry of priest's concubine! arises, but some of the lordlings cross themselves; the once-silent bench of clergymen clap, a few rising to their feet in standing ovation. You're sure he's not the most familiar with the arcane laws of the land — hence the relative vagueness of this promise — but he likely just earned even the most Piast-leaning bishop's assent.

Zamoyski shakes his head and addresses those around him, though still clearly loud enough to be talking to everybody in truth. "A friend only to the bejeweled, clearly."

"No!" snaps Maciej. "Never will I deny the right of a local parliament — your sejmiki — to convene. I shall lead, not rule! Even Augustus looked to the Senate."

That was quite a flourish, even if bringing up an imperator may be a little sore. He's captured enough attention to go on. "Youth shall be my friend! For from youth comes not just vigor — which will be used for the good of the realm — but a willingness to learn." He switches to Polish: "your clothes I will wear, your tongue I will speak, your land I, eh, ah, adoptabo!" Your side raises a hearty cheer.

"You may find a man with greater wits than I, greater experience, but is it not easier to break a colt than a grown stallion? But a stallion will a colt become."

"Good lad!" roars Krzysztof.

"I'm glad he slipped in some humility at last," observes Septimus.

"I will leave you all to your thoughts on me soon," says Maciej, "but my final note: I offer myself up in marriage to the most noble and lovely Infanta Anna," he says, sounding strong but not necessarily excited. A little gasp runs through the crowd. "Should the good lady have me," he adds deferentially.

To cheers and (perhaps fewer) jeers does the Young Archduke withdraw, and that's when Jan Zamoyski dismounts from his man's shoulders and strides forward to where Maciej was standing but moments prior. "An impressive young man, it cannot be denied," he begins, "but will we allow unholy marriage between Empire and our Nobles' Republic, to allow a cruel husband to dominate our dear mother?"

No!

Quit your fearmongering!

The verbal brawling starts up anew. "We need a man who has ruled before, and yet shall be alone in a new country, a man who will be the husband to the Infanta, and she will rule as our home-born Queen!" A bluff, and an appeal to native sons by means of rhetoric. They would never hand power over to a woman, let alone a pious spinster. "To this end do I put forth the Transylvanian Prince, Stefan Batory! Already does his delegation move for Kraków. Unlike our young friend, this man has achieved: victory against the Turk, an outfoxing of the Empire, and the defeat of his own rivals in word and with blade!"

He's shown his hand at last. And a great choice, to boot; the man is half-legendary, the captain of a fortress-country that stems all tides of invasion.

"Furthermore does that good Prince offer up two-hundred thousand złoty for the debts of the impoverished, the payment of ransoms for those held by our enemies, and amnesty for our exiles!"

Bribes, bribes, and bribes — the jeers of your camp make that known, but a bribe is, indeed, a bribe. Which bodes ill, because, well, who doesn't want things for free? Maciej failed to appeal to any of the baser needs of men. That last point, meanwhile, was clearly directed at the Zborowski brothers. You look for them in the crowd, and spot one brother, Piotr, looking very sober.

"I offer the Archduke but with substance, friends, substance and not a whelp's bluster! A liberal-minded Catholic of experience, poise, and boundless generosity, full-fledged and fully-grown to face these trying times! Everything the young Habsburg, that would-be tyrant, offers up — Stefan Batory has already proven that he shall provide!"

The Piasts cheer with renewed confidence. Surprise or no surprise, the choice of Batory cannot be emphasized enough to be a good one.

A small wave of panic spreads through the Habsburg faction.

That night, you…

[] Reach out to the Archbishop-Interrex.

At the end of the day, he may declare a new King personally. An ace in the hole?

[] Speak to the Archduke personally.

Offer up congratulations, and advice on going forward.

[] Introduce the Archduke to the Zborowski brothers.

Try to arrange a counter-bribe.

[] Speak to the delegates of the Danzigers and Prussians.

They've been awful quiet so far.

[] Attempt to agitate the Piasts.

Stir up fears of the noble rabble, a tyranny of the majority. Show Maciej who these people really are.

[] Parlay with Zamoyski.

In the interest of avoiding civil war or foreign intervention — but without making concessions.

 

[Rolman]

You quickly make it through the Archduke's gaggle of heralds and diplomats by virtue of your name and familiarity. It's a fine tent that he's staying in, naturally. Dimly-lit, yes, but with the earth covered in Turkish or Persian carpets, and with a real mattress in a bedframe. A tapestry of the Imperial eagle hangs between two posts. It's a bit similar to your own tent, in fact, unlike the lordlings roughing it under canvas, sleeping in bedrolls or even atop piles of straw.

"Your Serene Highness!" he clasps his hands with a smile, trying out his halting Polish. "Thank you for your questions earlier today. You let me show them all what I can do."

"Think nothing of it, sir," you say, dipping into a brief bow. It indeed felt like you needed a helping hand. "It is very good to see you again." You lower your voice somewhat. "But there's an issue."

"Well, what is it?" asks Maciej innocently.

"Do you recall how Lord Zamoyski emphasized the return of exiles as one of Prince Batory's election promises?"

"I do."

"Well, I reckon that that was pointed. There's this matter of one Samuel Zborowski–"

The Archduke lights up. "Ah, I know that name! Zborowski, that is, not this Samuel. Good supporters of mine, no?"

"Precisely," you say. You switch to French. "So that was very much directed at them. You see, Samuel killed a man in the presence of the Royal Person around a year ago, and was granted the mercy of exile without infamy, rather than his head on a pike. But his brothers miss him dearly."

"I see…"

"So, between that and, if I may be frank, the strength of your newfound opponent, I would recommend sending out a herald for the Crown Court Marshal, Andrzej." There's a silence. "That is, right now."

A few vaguely nervous minutes pass before Andrzej Zborowski is ushered into the Archducal tent. He stoops awkwardly through its open flap, eyes shifting around, looking bird-like as ever. He drops to a knee. "Ave Archidux magnus," he says, careful to not address him too subserviently; he rises. "What a pleasure it is to be called upon by you."

"Your brother will come home, my lord," Maciej blurts out in Polish, before switching to Latin. "I will promise it to you here and now. I will request Lord Samuel come home by name, should I be elected King." He raises a hand and says in Polish: "to God and upon my family's honor do I swear it."

Zborowski nods, though his face looks almost perplexed. You try to look for his mouth beneath his pointy mustache and can't quite find it in this low light. "Thank you, my lord, this is marvelous to hear. I'll be sure to inform my brothers. Although I do have some bad news regarding them."

"What is it?" both you and Maciej ask.

"Well, that Stefan Batory is a mighty man indeed. My brother, Piotr, has begun to openly waver in support for the lord Archduke," he says, gesturing at Maciej. "He's concerned about inexperience first and Western tyranny second. He's voivode, er, ah, that is, a palatinus, of two of our most important voivodeships, or palatinates: Sandomierz and Kraków," he explains. "We're trying to talk some sense into him, you see, but, well, we're a Reformed family as well and so…"

"Uphill battle," you chime in.

"Uphill battle," Zborowski repeats.

"I see," says Maciej, now suddenly looking grave. "Do… Do you reckon I should stay in the country for the time being?"

"I think you've said your piece," you say, "anything more and you'd appear an interloper."

"Very well, I believe you, but I'll leave my diplomats behind."

"That would be prudent," says Zborowski, "at this rate, we'll be needing a lobby." He sighs. "Again, I am very grateful for your promise, lord Archduke. But at least one of my brothers may be changing coats – I will do what I can to sway him back to our side, but…"

"No matter," says a nonplussed Maciej. "If man fails, I leave it to God."

Easy for him to say. There isn't a civil war on the line for him – he gets to stay at home, certainly enjoying some governorship or bishopric come time for his inheritance, should his bid fail.

"I recommend you make some counter-offers to what the Prince of Transylvania promises to bring. See if you can't open up your father's coffers," you say frankly.

"I'll consult with him once I'm home," replies the Archduke. "I'm sure the assets of my House will be available. After all, we need Imperial soldiers to best the Muscovites."

"And, praise be to Christ, may they be offered up to our service," says Zborowski. "I'll try and talk some sense into Piotr. But I thought you should know, my lord." He turns to you. "As should you, Your Serene Highness." He sounds quite serious. "Stefan Batory has made many waver. Many were prepared for a Silesian of some sort, not to be taken too seriously, but this man is cut from a different cloth."

"Ugh," you groan. "Lord knows how his delegates will shake things up, once they get here."

"I'll leave good men here!" says Maciej, though you can sense a certain faltering in his upbeat tone. "They will speak for me in my absence."

"Your speech was a fine thing," says Zborowski. "A bold move by a bold candidate – you have earned all our respect." May he not be brownnosing – you don't think he is.

But nothing can change the fact that Prince Batory is formidable indeed. As the late spring blossoms into summer with thunderstorms and greener trees, the conference at Stężyca disbands in a state of obvious disunity. Two compelling candidates stand against each other, each with his own obvious advantages – only the Archduke, worryingly, seems to come with reservations for many. It will take much to stem the tide of the Transylvanian, you fear, though the Senat and clergy – including the Interrex, still stand for the Habsburgs. And that's very, very worrying: what happens when the great want one thing, and the small want another? The Sejm shall convene come October, declares Archbishop Uchański, with just around a month of decisionmaking time. The interregnum must be rectified, before the realm's enemies may make a move.

It's very heavy, but you try to get your mind off it and merely enjoy the weather. You head for Kodeń on the Crownland-Lithuanian border to meet with your father-in-law and his sons, to allow Mariana to see her family for the first time in, well, too long. Falconry and feasting, praise be to God – for this is something He offers too, perhaps as a gift rather than a temptation. Who's really to say? It takes you a while to settle back into that kind of life, though. You'll need a new confessor sometime soon, it feels.

But that can wait, even as John's Nativity passes and the summer grows muggier and hotter. You even play cards with Marszowski or, well, it was meant to be a game of cards. What brings you out of the happy haze is the arrival of a courier at the beginning of July, as you're on the road from Kodeń to Wilno.

"Your Serene Highness!" he says with a Ruthenian accent, almost throwing himself out of the saddle. "The heathens are attacking all along the Southern border! Prince Ostrogski sends a call for aid to all Lithuania."

You can't get much more information than that, besides rumors that columns of terrified peasants are heading northwards, having lost many to slaughter and slavery, and that the established Zaporozhians are overwhelmed and confined to their island-fortresses on the Dniepr. You recall that just four years ago the Tatars burned mighty Moskwa to the ground, that their Khan is a most fearsome foe, and that he can field an army in the tens of thousands. Is this merely a fiercer than average raiding season, or a downright invasion? There are Crimean ambassadors at Warszawa and Kraków, but it's not like you're close enough to try and find anything out.

You make a calculus, too, put some pieces together: this will surely impact the election. Ruthenian lords rarely ever need outside help to handle the summer raids – something of this magnitude could see areas closer to the Crownland core threatened, perhaps as deep as Podolia or Volhynia. Which, of course, will make people start worrying about Bełz and Lwów. You've seen how routs start before, how panic is contagious, even if the situation is under control. A clamor may rise up for a speedy Convocation and a quicker consensus, and it's hard to decide now if panicked and defense-minded men will want the steady hand of Batory or the Western arms and aid of the Archduke.

You decide to…

[] Continue onward to Wilno in hopes of finding Father and your brothers.

Although it will eat up a good deal of time, you don't want to act out of line, nor do you want to try to stem a Tatar assault with subpar troops. You will be, if ordered to head South, granted a detachment of the Radziwiłł private army, with the opportunity to augment said forces on the way. You will have less choice in the composition of your own forces, but their quality and perhaps quantity will be higher.

[] Hurry southward, hiring mercenaries and opportunists on the way.

This cannot wait! Not in an Interregnum; the sooner the Tatars are thrown back and the crisis resolved, the more time is bought to sway men to Maciej. Your name and purse will do the talking, and by the time you make it to Kijów you ought to have some sort of force assembled. Not to mention, you would make quite an impression on Prince Ostrogski and the other Southern Ruthenians. You will choose your forces in a brief interlude post.

[] Stay where you are, dispatching messengers in all directions.

It'll take a week or ten days or so, but you're not even sure if this is war or not at this point. For all you know, it would be wiser to return to the Crownlands and appeal to the Interrex for royal troops, or to join up with a larger host. Meanwhile, eastbound messengers will get you in touch with at least some family members, and the southbound ones – may God preserve them – can provide updates on the situation.

 

[Rolman]

Sunlight dances on the canopy above, as the forest lets out a sigh at the cooling wind passing through its oaks and maples, its ash trees and birches and pines. You've forgotten how much you love birds and the sight and sound of them. They must be God's own chorus, the way they sing, and the way they soar – such a spectacle!

Which is why you can't wait to have her on your gauntlet; you haven't picked out a name for her yet, but she's a fine, fine gift from Mariana's father and brothers. The other woman in your life, perhaps, eh? The attendants ride more than a few paces back, a pair of hooded goshawks between them. A gaggle of flusher dogs trail behind.

They're fine birds for those who are not accomplished in the art of falconry – like you and Mariana, frankly. A true falcon may as well be a human being, looking about with her smart eyes, selective of what she brings down and always in resistance against her hood. A goshawk, on the other hand, is like a dog: you send her out, and she brings you back something. Simple as that. Loyal to the fist – just the fist, the perch, for the bird could give a damn about you, you think. Or, well, there's an agreement, like between lord and servant. There's something beautiful in that.

"You look at those birds how you ought to look at me," Mariana snorts. "Teasing, teasing." You turn your head to find that she's looking back at you from atop her horse. "Alright, I've got to say it." She sounds firm, yet smiles.

"What?"

"I'm not quite sure what's gotten into you, Stanisław," she says. "I'm loving it, of course, but – I get to see my family again for the first time since we've married, and you've been feeding me date-almond pies for about three weeks."

"I had my chef learn King Rudolf's cook's recipes," you explain, perhaps vaguely trying to deflect, you're not sure. "I hope our father and your brothers enjoyed it, too."

"I thought I recognized them from Prague! And they most certainly did. The Italian reds, too!" she laughs. "But it's unlike you."

"Unlike me? Well, I've changed a good bit since we married, haven't I?" You're no fool to your own travails, after all. You spur your horse to ride up next to the Princess. "Maybe I'm trying to be more goshawk and less falcon," you chuckle.

"Alright, what's that supposed to–"

There's a meadow coming up. "Our birds, please!" you call back to the attendants, who ride up with haste and carefully deposit the hooded goshawks onto you and Mariana's gauntlets; you grip hard onto the jesses, suddenly very aware that you haven't held a bird since France, if you had to guess.

You breathe deep and take in the field, all shot through with cornflowers and dandelions, daisies and thistles and clovers. "God!" you cry out, "we'll have some good hares in here. Squirrels. Maybe even grouse, if we're lucky." You feel a little crazy. Drunk, almost, but in a good way. "Take a look at that sky, Mariana!" Marian blue, stretching endlessly, scattered with cotton balls.

"It's a very good sky," she replies flatly; you sniff out traces of amusement. "Shall we send in the dogs?"

"Yes," you reply. "Dogs!" you call out.

The barking mass is deployed, running with well-trained purpose into the wildflowers and weeds. Songbirds begin to take flight – something bigger, too. "A pheasant?" asks Mariana, hastily removing her goshawk's hood. The flying thing is sleek and brown and big – it must be one.

Her goshawk takes flight without the need of a call-word, bells tied to her jesses ringing; you just barely catch a glimpse of her yolk-gold eyes. "Oh-oh-oh," you say, "that's good, that's good. She's hungry."

She flies high, high up, higher than any building you've seen, higher than Notre-Dame or Wawel's towers. Were she bigger, she'd blot out the sun, and you shield your eyes to try to keep track of her. You see her form plunge down from the brilliant orb, all compressed like musket shot or an arrow, and slam into the pheasant's form, tumbling to the ground together in a twisted mass. Both of you exclaim, and the attendants clap.

A few moments pass. The meadow sways. The goshawk doesn't arise from the tall grass. Slightly odd, but perhaps she's just enjoying her kill. You hand your own bird back to the attendants and ride out with Mariana.

You find her on the ground, trying to eat her kill but clearly not feeling right. One look at her splayed-out wing makes it clear: "broken feathers," you say. "She must've landed hard."

Mariana dismounts with haste. "Poor thing, poor thing," she says, and looks up at you. "That's all it takes, huh? Just a couple broken feathers and she can't fly anymore."

You reckon she's being rhetorical to some degree; you nod. "Praise God for making such mechanisms of beasts," you say, "like… like water-clocks. She flies faster than any horse could gallop, faster than an arrow – only shot flies faster than she."

"Indeed, she's powerful. But sensitive." She gingerly pokes at the bleeding quills, making the goshawk flinch and squawk. "She overexerted herself."

"Or maybe it was just bad luck," you reply, "a slip of the talon, or… It's that easy for a man to lose a duel. He can know what he's doing and still lose." You set your mind to solutions. "She'll need an imping, a good imping. The attendants will know what to do. It's not broken, is it?"

Mariana tenderly prods about the wing. "No – I wouldn't know – but I don't think so."

"Well, this ruins things a little," you say. "And just when we were starting up!"

Mariana thinks. "We've still got another bird."

"Why haven't we called up the attendants yet?" you ask, wondering aloud.

"I just wish we could heal her ourselves."

"A sensitive thing."

"Indeed."

The two of you lock eyes. "Do you reckon you felt like her?" Mariana asks.

"Is now the– huh?"

"You dove, as your Lord commanded you," she points up to heaven. "And you found your quarry and broke some feathers on the way."

"You're getting poetic on me?" you laugh. It's good to feel closer again.

"Answer me!"

"Hm," you place a hand to your chin, taking in the wounded bird. "I don't think I felt commanded, is the thing, till I met the Friar. It's as if I was told in my mew how best to maintain my feathers after the Most High restored them with His touch."

A quizzical look from your wife. "But you said yourself that the Friar warned you against… that rigidness, let's say – and more than once."

"Well, a bird can pick open its own wounds, can't it?" you say, scratching at your neck. "But – hey! Hey now. It's Sin to compare Man to mere animals."

"I'm being philosophical, that's all, one of your humanists!"

"I'm no goshawk, though: I am a servant to something much greater than myself," you say, vaguely offended, but mainly stimulated. "We've really got to do something about her," you say, looking at the bird, still flaccidly trying to devour her prey, trying to spite her pain.

"Men!" calls out Mariana to the attendants, who begin to ride toward you two. "All it takes is to get a little bit of help," she smiles. "God will heal this bird's wounds, but it's men who'll mend it." She strides over to you, looking up at you, and reaches up to tap your nose. "That nose got set by a medicus." She smiles. "Bear that in mind, my prince."

 

[Rolman]

Mariana's right. Maybe she was always right.

You swing the door open, knowing it'll cause a bit of theater but wanting to avoid such completely; you can't quite help yourself, you suppose. "Sir Andrzej Marszowski," you say, as if about to issue orders, which you do: "I want to throw dice with you."

"What?" he says, looking up from his flagon of gorzała. "Ah, well, certainly, Your Serene Highness, eh… What shall we play?"

"You have your set with you, no?" you ask, not looking for an answer.

"Ehm, yes, cards and dice, an Italian set of cards."

"Then let us play primus! Not dice, primus. Teach me," you say, turning your mind instead to cards at his mention of them.

"Well… We ought to have van Gistel and one of the manservants in here," says Marszowski. "But it can be just Your Serene Highness and I," he says, removing twelve cards from the deck. "Roman rules."

"Alright…"

"So, we'd place our bets and then the dealer gets the first card," he says, placing one down before himself, and then one to you. "We do this til we've both got four cards." He finishes dealing. "Now, check your cards."

Wow! All four are of the suit of coins. You tell Marszowski such.

"Ah! Wow. A fluxus. Got me beat. What's your high card?"

"Queen of coins," you reply.

"Absolutely got me beat." He furrows his brow. "Hey now, I can't help but ask, Your Serene Highness: it's been years since we've thrown dice together, and we've never played cards."

"I…" what are the words? "I'm trying to rediscover old things, but in a more godly and healthy way."

"But this is a sin."

"But do you think it's a sin?"

Marszowski swishes his tongue around his closed mouth, crimping his brow. "You know I'm not a praying man…"

"Don't dodge the question."

He plaps his hands down onto his thighs. "I don't know. I don't know anything," he says. "We walk this beautiful Earth and are told that a sip of liquor, the touch of a woman, the thrill of a dice game – that is all sin. Now, I don't think that we all sprung up out of nothing but…"

"You wonder why God has decreed such things?"

"Frankly — yes. Especially when we live in such coldness, with illness and death and murder all about." Whatever liquor in him has likely left his system suddenly, and he doesn't break eye contact with you. "I've killed at least eight or ten men in my day, Your Serene Highness—"

"'Lord prince,' again, please."

His face betrays nothing. "Lord prince. But, yes, a good many kills to my name, and, well…" Now he shows something. "I suppose it's already over me. I was raised Reformed, you see, and so…"

"You're not electus, you reckon?"

"No. No, I'm not, so I'm here for today before I suffer, should the Pit be real."

You were always a little too young to talk to him on these matters. Then, when you were older: too busy. "You're not even sure if the Lord is real?"

"I have yet to be satisfied with any churchman's answer for the existence of suffering in the world. I believe we have souls, I suppose, for how are we different from animals unless…"

You exhale through your nose, trying to be subtle. This rejection of Grace and its cultivation, an unwillingness to fight against the tide of evil through good works, invocation of the Saints, and lots of prayer. Even people of other confessions can be pious, in their way. And yet you feel not as if you have a duty to try and bring him to the Holy Church — or to any kind of faith for that matter — only to understand, and listen to your old fencing master for the first time in what feels like years.

"So, then, you believe in what?" you ask. "I don't mean that as an accusation."

Marszowski hums. "Love, I suppose, but not God's love, frankly. Love between brothers in arms, love between lord and master, man and woman. I once even knew a man who loved a man!"

Like a, a… "A sodomite?"

"Oh yes, lord prince," he says, unperturbed. "Whatever Hell they may be bound for, whatever it does to their manhood — they love as anyone else. And that's something I can at least respect." He leans back in his seat. "See, I reckon if God's turned a blind eye to it all, then all we've got is each other."

You swallow. "I don't know if I can agree," you say, "I think there are very, very defined rules. I think we have a sacred duty to try and understand the will of God and put it into action. It's the work of the Church Fathers and the scholar-Saints," you say, thinking of Aquinas and Benedict and Augustine. "Venerable work, but… maybe I understand your position."

You tell him of your excursion with Mariana, of the closeness you feel now, long-dormant, of the coexistence of faith in God and faith in the world. Marszowski nods along.

"She died, you know, when you were in France," says your fencing master, almost deadpan.

A flash passes through you; you almost tense up at the realization. Lady Marszowski! They were never fond of each other, but… "I'm sorry." You splutter a bit. "Good God, I'm sorry, I never—"

"It's nothing, lord prince. We were near-separated anyways," he sighs. "I haven't had a lady in I don't know how long. Not even paying for one."

That's a shock. "Why not?"

Marszowski shrugs. "Suppose a bit of the melancholia?"

"I can understand that!" you chuckle.

"It's just hard, I suppose. You reach a certain age and you get a want for heirs. Not for bloodline or patrimony or being fruitful and multiplying or anything like that."

You feel your voice soften. Your face, too. "But you raised me up, Sir Marszowski. Papa Chevalier, remember?"

He shrugs again. You've never seen him so… sheepish? "And now you're grown, and I'm merely a lieutenant — and I never expected anything more, I don't think, but…" He smiles a wry smile. "Sneaking you gorzała, bopping you with the training swords — 'balance on that bucket, little prince!'"

"I suppose things change a good bit," you say, struggling for words for a reason you can't quite explain. "We're not like serfs, living in the same place with the same people until we die. No rhythm to our seasons," you muse. You see the face of old Tatjana the maid. Your gaze casts down to the tabletop, unplayed cards before you. That's why you came here, you remember. You look up at Sir Marszowski; he looks tranquil, almost, or like he's daydreaming.

"We should go hunting," you say. "Falconing with Mariana the other day was the first time I've let myself have fun outdoors in a long, long time."

"The Princess is a fine young lady," replies Marszowski. "But you didn't enjoy your garden at Orsza?"

"I did, I did. But that wasn't fun. That was more of a necessity."

"What… dare I ask, lord prince…"

You extend a hand: please.

"Have you lost your faith all of a sudden?"

"No. Not at all," you say. Did you say that too quickly? Nevermind. "It just turned into a matter of pride — itself Sin, of course — I wanted to prove to myself that I could give up everything for God." You smile. "But I didn't take some sort of vow, now did I?"

You explain it to him, carefully yet with expressive hands: "this pity! Such pity! Bring the inside outside!" as Mariana said, still etched upon your mind. How you'd give up meat and forget to give alms, how you'd wear wool undergarments as you politicked. "I was being like a Pharisee," you conclude, "it takes more than mere zealotry to make it to Heaven. I must be myself, and put the words of the Lord and His Saints into deed. I can't just ape something I'm not."

Marszowski grins. "So now you want to learn how to play primus?" he teases. "I remember how we used to shoot dice at Wilno, back when you enjoyed a good drink."

Back when I was out of control.

"Alright, firstly, I wasn't going to play with stakes," you laugh. "I'm deviating from Benedict's Rule somewhat, it's true, but here's the thing: with my title and my money, I can do much more than keep a little garden." You snort, amused with this mental image: "I reckon that it's alright to add some weight to the sinful end of the scale so long as I counterbalance it with nothing but lead on the side of piety and virtue."

You tell him your ideas, like buying printing presses for proper Latin bibles, converting Reformed peasants, or funding a Jesuit college once Father is gone (or somehow permits it). "And I realized: what's the harm with some ludes, as Saint Benedict would call them, when I can also do all of that? Truly, truly change the world in the name of God."

Marszowski shakes his head. "I wish I had your faith, lord prince. It must be a soaring sensation to know that you're saved, and that there's yet more you can do to perfect yourself, save others."

"It's never too late, Sir Marszowski, even within the bounds of your confession can you cultivate faith and spread it, however misguided I may find Reformation." You think a little. "It's about loving our fellow man, looking out for each other's souls. I hate that I've killed and maimed," you say.

"And that does not make you a craven," says Marszowski, almost fiery. "Man was born to be merry, says I, and to hold each other close through the night."

"And that way we may be more similar than different, even if it comes from different places," you grin. "Now — shall you teach me primus?"

"With pleasure, lord prince."

 

[Rolman]

The fact that the Ostrogski Princes are reaching out to anybody for aid truly says something: it's alarming enough that their private forces can't handle it, and then this should be a job for the Crownlanders' Royal Army. Between that and Zaporozhians seeming powerless, things must be desperate and intense. Sensing great political gain to be found in riding to the aid of the Southern Ruthenians, you quickly pack up and divert your path to the south, unsure of what exactly you're going to do or how you're going to do it, yet knowing damn well that you'll prove yourself in a real, real battle. For the family, for the Archduke, and for yourself.

You assume that the Ostrogscy and their affiliated houses will have some amount of troops out in force, but as you head into the rolling scrub and light forests of the South – the prelude-lands to the Wild Fields – you're met with only a few emissaries' greetings, and fewer noble fighters willing to sign on.

What grows and grows is chaos. You find intact villages already emptied out, the roads choked with serfs carrying their worlds on their backs and in the beds of wagons and handcarts, bound for nowhere in particular. You march your growing host through fields full of summer-bleached bone: disarticulated and gnawed-on skeletons, human pelvises alongside cow-skulls, rotting flesh and even the comatose and delirious breathing their last. Trails of the grim stuff denote the paths already taken by Tatars leading their living spoils to the sea, striking down or leaving for dead both man and beast who couldn't keep up. They've already made it this far north.

Kijów is not as you remember it. The mighty wooden city is now clogged with people and their possessions, a Sejm-like assortment of tents stretching far beyond the walls and spilling inward into the dirt avenues. People lie dead or dying in the street, stepped over by serfs who look like they haven't slept in days or prodded with the ends of bardiches by guardsmen. The normal racket of urban life is more cacophonous still by women's wailing, children's crying, and the braying and oinking and clucking of people's most valuable possessions. The whole city reeks (even more) of sweat, piss, shit, and rotting food. Throngs of beggars that don't look like beggars run alongside your column, offering up prayers and blessings for just one little penny, each telling a story sadder than the last. Catholic priests and black-robed Orthodox fathers and even the city's rabbis walk the lanes, shouldering through the masses of the desperate with sacks full of rye flour and oats and buckwheat, their armed guards doing their best to make the dole orderly.

You wade through this Hell up to the Castle Hill with its eighteen great towers, and are ushered in to see a haggard Prince Konstanty Wasyl Ostrogski, wild-bearded, looking much older than his fifty-ish years. "God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in troubled times," he greets you with a Psalm in Ruthenian. "Praise be to Our Lord Jesus Christ and His Mother that you've heeded my call, Your Serene Highness."

"It's bad out there, my lord," is all that comes to mind for you to say.

"Indeed," he rumbles, sweeping a hand through his receding hairline. "Were times not so grim, I would speak to you of my son, the Prince Janusz, for I'm told the two of you are now acquainted."

"Yes, he's a good man," you say, "he helped much in coaching me for my mission to the Austrias."

"Praise God for that, and that little Archidux has got fire, is what my son tells me. A Habsburg army would be very welcome about now."

There's no time for more small talk than that; you ask and are swiftly granted a briefing from the exhausted Prince.

Prince Janusz and his two elder brothers are leading the familial armies at the moment, somewhere to the southwest of the city, where they aim to meet up with a combined Crownlander force belonging to three or more families – funnily enough, Jan Zamoyski himself may be among them. The Ostrogski army numbers somewhere around three to four thousand fighting men, and are a good mix of Ruthenian hussars – more lightly-armored than their Crownland counterparts – bardiche-musketeers, and boast a handful of cannon. The composition of the Crownlander army is unknown, but is likely to be a noble host of cavalry, by and large, numbering in the low thousands. Perhaps your contingent will be the smallest, but – you're here!

"Cavalry ought to be met with cavalry, lord prince," advises Sir Marszowski. "Though it means getting up close."

"That's assuming the Turks – Tatars, I mean – will even want to get close," replies van Gistel. "If they try to do their hit-and-run game, guns and cannon will surely silence them, or at least keep them out of range."

"It's true, it's true," Marszowski admits, "they can't stand up to good powder, either..."

You had been gathering men all along your march to Kijów, and doing your best to be discerning. But you've had to make do with what you got. Thankfully, being in such a large city now affords you with access to mercenaries of various stripes. You spend every coin to your name in raising them, even selling off some of the fine things which are always liable to follow a Radziwiłł prince about, and you additionally make promises of distribution of booty in the event of the capture of a Tatar war-camp. After a week in the crowded, desperate city, you leave with a force composed of…

PICK TWO. BEAR IN MIND THAT YOU YOURSELF ARE ALREADY BRINGING YOUR RETINUE OF HEAVY HUSSARS, PERHAPS 200 FIGHTERS OR SO.​

[] Five hundred Lipka/Christianized Tatars.
[] a ragtag cavalry corps of lordlings, stray Zaporozhians, and ex-hussars, numbering just shy of a thousand.
[] A large company of German and Crownlander rajtaria – around three hundred men.
[] A trio of towed falconets, crewed by Westerners.
[] Just over five hundred infantry musketeers, of varying quality, origin, and motivation.

Heading to the south-southwest out of Kijów, fleeing serfs tell of a chambul marauding around Berdyczów, but unable to overcome the town's palisade. Some say there's a siege, others not. It's around five days' quick march away should you have taken on infantry or cannon, or around two or three days with only cavalry.

[] Move at forced-march pace to try and find them at once.

No time to waste! Christian lives and livelihoods are on the line. From whatever cavalry you may or may not have brought along, reconnaissance will be sent out to ascertain more information. Although the Tatars may – or even most likely – flee at your approach should you be detected, it will ingratiate you to the town's Tyskiewicz magnates, and a stop in Berdyczów may yield valuable information about the goings of the broader attack.

[] Give it a few days, and then head south to try and intercept them when they're weighed down by slaves and loot.

It may be a little callous, but there's no better way to catch them until after they've done their black work. You'll bypass Berdyczów before dispatching reconnaissance from among your cavalry to try and find them. You're looking for a pitched or near-pitched battle here.

[] Ignore this information, and continue heading toward the last known location of allied forces.

You sent out a messenger or two; they didn't come back. They could be safe among fellow Christians, or they could be dead in a field somewhere. In any event, you'll have to get closer to your allies to actually know where they are. Head for their last reported location. It's not a chambul we want -- it's the war-camp. But no matter the size of your force, you'll be needing assistance; those things are like small cities, or so you're told.

 

[Sertorius]

Ok, Tatar tactics 101.

Their raids always followed a simple pattern: the army sets up camp (kosz), then splits into several smaller armies which go raid in different directions and they set up their own kosz's as well and so forth. These smaller units were called a czambuł. This method of raiding for slaves would prove effective, since if the enemy takes out one czambuł, there are always many more doing their job in different places, guaranteeing, that at least some will pick up prisoners and loot. After getting what they wanted, the Tatars would reverse the pattern and retreat to their kosz, then to the one from the unit above them and so forth, until the army is back in one piece, which proceeds to retreat back home in force.

The Tatars were the original masters of feigned retreat. They would never take on a stronger army head on, but kite it down, using their superior horsemanship, archers and hyena-like patience. Naturally, the Khans had a corps of Janissary infantry, based on the Turkish model, as their bodyguards, but in general the fighting was done by the traditional Mongol-style cavalry.

In battle, when they want to engage, they will use their infamous double envelopment maneuver called the Tatar Crescent. A very good example can be seen in the battle of Kerak from the movie Kingdom of Heaven, while constantly harrasing the enemy with arrows. The same tactic shall be also employed during a feigned retreat. Let the chasing party in between your forces, then swarm it from all sides after sufficiently weakening it from afar.

Some Polish commanders however, were more than a match: Bernard Pretwicz, Stefan Chmielecki or Jan Sobieski were masters of fighting the Tatars and would prove devastatingly effective against them. In general, their secret was pretty simple: don't fight the czambułs. Seek out their camps, take them out and wait for the raiding parties to come back into your waiting arms. That way you can defeat a whole kosz, since the Tatars would always return to their camp, then repeat the process. Sobieski, by using this method, managed to absolutely shatter a 20 thousand strong Tatar army with just 2-3 thousand cavalrymen of his own.

the prelude-lands to the Wild Fields – you're met with only a few emissaries' greetings, and fewer noble fighters willing to sign on.

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By the way the Wild Fields would start way down South, after passing the treacherous Dniepr Rapids (Porohy), where the Cossacks have their base (Sicz). They were called that for a reason, since almost nobody lived there, because this was by far the most dangerous and lawless region of Ukraine. No wonder the Cossacks, runaway serfs and other scoundrels loved the place, since they were untouchable there, besides the locals and raiding Tatars.

Ukraine in general was the reason, why the Commonwealth maintained it great cavalry traditions. Due to the vast distances and a very mobile opponent (Tatars), the response must be equally quick on its feet. It is the same reason why the Wild West was garrisoned by the US Cavalry. Hence having a a rapid reaction force is a big plus here. This is why I would go for the Lipkas and Rajtaria. Our own Tatars are the exact specialists we need, while the reiters provide a solid, hard hitting and disciplined backbone in addition to our own troop.

As to the problem at hand, attacking a czambuł with prisoners is a bad move. Tatars won't risk their slaves, they will simply kill them outright to stop us from saving them (and use'em as hostages to prevent the attack in the first place). We either attack right now or wait to consolidate.

Pretty much any alliance with Crimea necessitated a provision in regards to them getting the pick of the hostages: Khmelnytsky needed to negotiate with Tughai Bey to let him release those prisoners that agreed to join the uprising.

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Good old Chmiel later on agreed to let the Tatars plunder, loot and raid Ukraine to their heart's content in order to maintain the alliance, while after the battle of Batoh he actually paid them so that he could take their Polish prisoners and put them to the sword. Some survived only because their Tatar captors disguised them as one of their own in order to not give them up (they did so for the expected ransom of course for richer nobles, but still).

[X] Five hundred Lipka/Christianized Tatars.
[X] A large company of German and Crownlander rajtaria – around three hundred men.
[X] Move at forced-march pace to try and find them at once.

I'm picking the attack option, because I like where this is going.

 

[Rolman]

Some of the men grumble about hiring Tatars to fight Tatars. Thankfully, you've hired their mirza Amurat before when you battled those Muscovite raiders a year ago – a rousing speech about an enemy of the land being an enemy of Allah (naturally delivered in completely unaccented Polish) puts the bigots to rest. Besides, these men fight more out of loyalty to Lithuania's premier house than they do for gold or glory, unlike the shaggy, morion-wearing rajtaria, with their cuirasses and braces of pistols. In short, you know where to rest your trust, infidels or not, and you're more than happy to enjoy listening to that beautiful, beautiful call to prayer, even if it's a song of the Devil. It feels easier to enjoy these days, like it's merely music rather than some cursed Mohammadan spell, even if that's what it is. You breathe and listen, five times a day.

Anyways, hiring Tatars to fight Tatars means fighting Tatars with Tatars, which you reckon is just what's needed to deal with the slippery bastards; they'll get them nice and tangled in a duel of archery, or the Lipkas can cut off their retreat. Then, the rajtaria can soften them up with pistol fire before joining your heavy hussars' charge. That's how it ought to go, that is, but you know better from your vicious brawls with bandits and Muscovites that plans made for, and perhaps on, the field of battle almost never come to proper fruition.

It should have come as no surprise that the chambul around Berdyczów melted at your approach, but the fact that all you can find are piles of ash and swarms of flies is enough to make the blood boil. Especially when you find grisly sights everywhere: pairs of hands scattered along roadsides missing owners, maidens stripped naked and missing heads, families heaped up on the thresholds of where their houses once stood, and hanging trees filled to the brim with children and old men. The signs of slaughter you found outside of Kijów were matter-of-fact in their way; those who couldn't keep up with the slave-trains were struck down and that was that. But here, seeing such torture… the images burn themselves behind your eyelids like the awful things you saw in France, and you distinctly feel that the Tatars must be punishing you. As if they're saying: you hunt us? Well, we'll butcher yours.

The mercenaries mainly seem bored, and are certainly bothered when you force them to head out as small, vulnerable reconnaissance squadrons — this was after much grumbling at the marching pace you asked of them. Your hussars, on the other hand, grow angrier with each new atrocity, swearing by God and their honor that, when the time comes, they'll kill ten Tatars for every dead child, and surely take no prisoners. And that may be just fine by you, however unsettled you always find yourself by such talk.

As for said reconnaissance, all they can dredge up is one thing: south. They haven't even laid eyes on a foeman yet and you wonder, as you stare into the scrub and rolling hills, if you're being watched. But, south. That's where the trails of dead captives and buried, illness-claimed Tatars go. You reckon they may be hiding in the slightly more forested southern part of the flatlands, or perhaps beyond that in Jedysan, or they're making a left turn at some point toward the Dniepr and their homeland. It's somewhat headache-inducing. But if they're leaving with their spoils, that makes them vulnerable.

The people of Berdyczów and the monks of its central monastery offer up a hero's welcome to your little army, cracking open kegs of beer, casks of imported wines, and flagons of the local, spiced variety of gorzała. One man loudly jokes that he never thought he'd be happy to see heathen Tatars for once. In the main square, they spread out a commoner's feast of liberally-buttered white bread, borscht, little pork dumplings, rolls stuffed with organ meat, and the Tyszkiewicz manor's stock of Italian cheese. As always, you find yourself charmed — if not a little jarred by the sudden jolly air — and even genuinely moved knowing that they're taking food out of their mouths in chaotic and lean times. You praise God that, despite making men murderers and slavers, He also made them generous and grateful, even in the face of famine and war, even when a little town finds its size doubled for a day or three by a passing army. The dirt roads of Berdyczów are indeed choked with dust of some thousand horses being led to water each and every day, and what a sight that is. You ensure that all the men are on their best behavior, especially the hardened rajtaria (the Lipkas are pious and modest folk, by your estimate, whether Muslim or Christian).

But, sadly, the locals can't offer up more than good food or drink: the Tyszkiewicz lords have fled to their strongholds to the west, and the townsfolk can only relate the gruesome and fearful stories you became accustomed to hearing from refugees in Kijów. They've got no clue about the chambul's bearing, disposition, or size, and Cross themselves at the presence of their protective stockade that spared them the fate of the surrounding villages. The abbot and town elders beg you to stay awhile, but you explain that you, sadly, cannot oblige.

You've lost a few precious days and, after all, you must try to…

[] link up with allied forces to the west.

Then, the hunt for the war-camp can begin in earnest.

[] pursue the chambul to the south.

They must be laden with loot and captives at this point; one need only to follow their trail of murder to find them. You're a little shocked at your bloodthirst, but avenging the things you've seen combined with the chance for glorious victory and valuable noble captives is too much to pass up.