1635: The Eastern Front by Eric Flint Page B

explain to you the truth, in the hopes that you might see it where stubborn young Opalinski here sees only a pointless melancholy for things past."
    He stumbled over the word "melancholy" a bit. The hetman suffered from a speech impediment, and had since he was a boy. He usually avoided long words, in fact, since he tended to stutter on them. That habit of speaking in plain and simple words led some people to assume Koniecpolski was dull-witted, an assumption which was very far from the truth.
    Using his bare hands, the hetman mimicked an archer drawing his bow. He twisted sideways in the saddle as he did so, as if aiming at a target off to his left. "Notice, youngster, how the innate demands of using a bow properly while in a saddle almost force the archer to fire to his side, or even"—here he twisted still further in the saddle, imitating a man aiming behind him—"to his rear. In the nature of the thing, it is very difficult to fire a bow straight ahead while sitting in a saddle—and impossible to do it well, even for an excellent archer."
    Jozef nodded. "Yes, I can see that."
    The hetman beamed. "Well, then! You now understand—should, at least—what somehow still remains a puzzle to young Lukasz. The reason to practice mounted archery is to ingrain intelligent tactics in a soldier. The pike, the musket, the sword—pfah!" His pronounced mustachios wiggled with the sneer. "These teach a man to be stupid. Straight ahead, straight ahead, straight ahead."
    Opalinski sniffed. "That may well be. But that will still be the way the Swede comes at us—and not even you think he can be defeated with bows and arrows."
    "Well, of course not. But I also know that I have no chance of defeating the Swede—not so mighty as he has become—if I simply try to match him head to head, like two bulls in a field." Koniecpolski gazed down at the young nobleman, very serenely. "This is why I am the grand hetman of Poland and Lithuania, and you are not."
    Opalinski chuckled. "Point taken." He shivered a little, and drew his cloak around him more closely. "And, now, it's cold. Your poor horse looks half-frozen himself. I propose we retire indoors."
    In point of fact, the horse—like the hetman—had been exercising far too vigorously to be chilled. And it wasn't that cold, anyway, even this early in the morning. It was summer, after all. Still, the idea of retiring to a comfortable salon and warming one's innards with a stout beverage appealed to Jozef. So, he too drew his cloak around him more tightly, and faked a shiver.
    "Weaklings," jeered Koniecpolski. "And at your age! Just another reason to practice mounted archery."
    * * *
    After Koniecpolski left for the stables, Jozef and Lukasz began walking toward the manor, some distance away. Fortunately, they were on one of the Koniecpolski family's smallish estates, this one located near Poznan. Had they been at the great family estate in Koniecpol, their walk would have been much longer. Fortunately, also, it had been a sunny day, so the ground was dry. Had there been a thunderstorm recently, their boots would have been caked with mud by the time they reached their destination.
    Still, it was not a short distance, even if the walk was easy. That suited Jozef well enough, though. He needed the time to compose his thoughts.
    "So solemn," Opalinski murmured, after a while. "Is it really that bad, Jozef?"
    Wojtowicz gave his friend a sideways glance. "Well. Yes, actually. I'm afraid the hetman's not going to like what I have to say. Or you, for that matter."
    "Why not?"
    "Because I'm going to tell him that it's sheer folly to weigh in on the side of the Saxons and Brandenburgers against the USE. Those are German lands, not Polish. We should just stay out of the whole business. All that an intervention on our part will accomplish is to give Gustav Adolf an excuse to invade Poland."
    "Not that he's ever needed much of one," grunted Lukasz.
    "True, true. Still and all, if we stay out—but!" He