1635_ The Eastern Front - Eric Flint [18]
"I'm sniffling because I'm cutting onions," Caroline said. Wondering if it were true.
Thorsten and Eric left the next morning. General Torstensson had summoned all officers to their posts. The emperor was arriving with his Swedish forces and the USE army was mobilizing to join him. The war against Brandenburg and Saxony was imminent, and everyone expected the Austrians and the Poles to come to their aid. That would turn what might otherwise be labeled a mere suppression of rebellion into an all-out war.
To Thorsten's surprise, Princess Kristina came to see him off too. He knew she was fond of him—the "Count of Narnia" title bestowed upon him after the battle of Ahrensbök had been at her insistence—but he hadn't thought she'd go to the trouble. One doesn't expect headstrong eight-year-old princesses to think of such things.
"Caroline must have put her up to it," Krenz said, as they rode off. "It never ceases to amaze me, the way that woman dotes on you."
Engler smiled. "When are you going to get your own woman, Eric, so you can stop fussing at me about mine?"
Chapter 4
Near Poznan, Poland
As he watched the archer bringing his horse around again for another run at the target, Lukasz Opalinski leaned toward the man standing next to him. "So, tell me, Jozef. Is Grantville as exotic as its reputation?"
Jozef Wojtowicz didn't answer immediately. He was preoccupied with watching the mounted archer.
"I think he's still the best horseman I've ever seen," he said quietly.
"He's probably the best in Poland, anyway," said Opalinski. "For sure and certain, he's the best archer." The words were spoken in a tone that had more of derision in it than admiration—albeit friendly derision. Then, in the sure tones of man who was still no older than twenty-two, "The archery's a complete waste of time and effort. The horsemanship . . . Well, not so much. But this is still—"
He waved at the man on horseback, now racing past the target and drawing the bow. With his size and splendid costume, he was a magnificent figure.
"Completely ridiculous. We are not Mongols, after all, nor will we be fighting such. Even the Tatars are outgrowing this foolishness."
The arrow pierced the target, almost right in the center.
Wojtowicz didn't argue the point. But it was still a mesmerizing sight to watch.
"Grantville," nudged his companion.
Josef shook his head. "It's complicated, Lukasz. In some ways, it's incredibly exotic. Yes, they can talk with each at long distance—miles, many miles—using little machines. Yes, they can make moving pictures on glass. Yes, they have flying machines. I watched them many times. Yes, yes, yes—just about every such tale you've heard is either true or is simply an exaggeration of something that is true."
The mounted archer came back around again, still at a full gallop. Jozef, who was an accomplished horseman himself, knew how much skill was required simply to manage that much. The rider's hands, of course, were completely preoccupied with the bow. Add onto that the skill of the archery—again, the arrow hit the target's center—and add onto that the preposterous pull of the bow being used. Jozef had no idea what it was, precisely, but he was quite sure that he'd have to struggle to draw the bow even standing flat-footed. And while Jozef was not an especially large man, or a tall man, he was quite strong.
He'd broken off his account, watching. Opalinski nudged him again. "Grantville, Grantville. Let's keep our mind on the future, Jozef, not"—he waved again at the mounted archer, with a dismissive gesture—"this flamboyantly absurd display of prehistoric martial skills."
Jozef smiled. "In other respects, no. Leaving aside the machines and marvelous mechanism, Grantville seems much like any other town. People going about their business, that's all."
He was fudging here, but he didn't see any