He sat atop something grander than a hill, yet it did not much feel like a mountain from this side. The rocky border, it certainly did more to keep the Poles out than keep the Imperials in, but one couldn't easily bring an army down a mountain—to say nothing of what that would mean if a retreat was necessitated. A very natural border.

Of course, to truly appreciate the view he had needed to climb up a tree, what made such a border even more natural the thick forests.

Once his sight stretched beyond branches, there was a chilling sight. Far in the distance, farmland, vast swathes of cleared land peppered by copses of trees. While fences and hedges broke up the relatively flat terrain, he guessed a magnate owned much of the land here by the large size of the fields and how they all grew wheat. Smaller plots, perhaps rye, perhaps barley, cluttered in places, as did the few villages he could see, clusters of thatched-roofs.

He had no desire to face the Polish hussars here, especially in a few months when the fields would be cleared of grain.

With seemingly effortless movements, he half-dropped, half-swung down, landing in a near silence. He brushed off his hands, then wiped them on a handkerchief, before finally slipping on a pair of black gloves.

The view wasn't entirely blocked from this low; however, it certainly wasn't clear. What he had seen lingered in his mind, though, and he took the sketchbook and charcoal from his butler-in-training.

It was not his first time sketching the landscape. It was not even the first time he'd sketched this particular landscape, having followed a similar trail before. Far, far from the first time, that he had made a few trips beyond the border over the last year. Rivers and roads: half a campaign could be planned knowing such. The other half, then, cared for the terrain: the lay of the land and what land it was that lay there.

Another thing his wife had taught him.

As well as his butler-in-training, there were two others with him. Someone comfortable splitting his focus, he said, "Dismissed."

His butler-in-training and one other bowed—unseen by him—and they walked a short distance down the trail, not out of sight, but out of earshot if one spoke quietly.

"From what we have been able to scout, it certainly seems that Sigismund has taken his entire army to the south. Of course, he has kept garrisons at key points, so it is not as if we shall be entirely unopposed. Still, one should consider why his enemy acts as he does without assuming him incompetent. I am curious what My Lord thinks of Sigismund's decision."

There was a long moment of silence, thick with birdsong and the buzz of bugs, a breeze whistling through the leaves, creaks as the trees swayed.

"What I think of it… is of little importance. It is enough to know it."

He let out a sigh, his sketching uninterrupted. "Well, I cannot say such an answer does not disappoint me, yet I would not presume that I am so well-versed in these matters to say that My Lord is wrong."

For a longer while, that silence returned with the odd scratch of charcoal.

"I have found such questions motivate my learning better than to simply repeat the accounts of past battles. My wife first piqued my interest with one such question," he said, pausing to chuckle. "It went something like this: Would you rather a modest victory with small losses, or an overwhelming victory with significant losses of your own?"

The man breathed through his nose. "We are not usually given the chance to choose how a battle ends," he said.

"I beg to differ. For the sake of brevity, consider whether one takes up a more defensive position, or if one moves aggressively to engage. Well, this kind of thinking, if it is not done willingly, there is little purpose in forcing the matter. I merely bring it up to bring up my wife."

A different kind of silence followed, tense. Not that he showed it, his movements still uninterrupted, gaze focused as he added the little marks lingering in his mind.

"Does Sir miss her?" the man said.

He heard the caution in those words. "Pray do not think me a sentimental fool," he said, not lightly, yet not heavily, his voice the same now as when speaking before. "I know you rose to your position under the late Duke and I know the circumstances of how the late Duke became the late Duke."

"I am unsure what Sir is saying," the man replied.

"I am sure you knew many who died that day. Among my men, it is hard to put a number to those I know, but I doubt there is a man among them whose face I would not recognise. Certainly, I cannot forget the faces of those who have fallen."

Silence but for the scratching of charcoal on paper.

"What it means to be a leader is to take responsibility for both one's decisions and the consequences thereafter. To declare that war, the late Duke accepted responsibility for whatever would happen. Disagree if you will. I know you know that one cannot predict how a battle will turn out, even if it is clear from the outset who shall win and who shall lose. If not at that time, the late Duke could have died any other of countless moments, whether a death as sombre as disease or as unfortunate as his horse slipping on a rough road."

He spoke calmly, each word unhurried. However, there was a weight to what he said, clear that he did not speak lightly of these things.

After a moment, he continued. "Regardless, when it comes to the late Duke, it is the late Lord Bavaria who landed the blow. He could well have taken the late Duke hostage and doing so would have brought an end to that war. Instead, he chose revenge. So the war continued—continued until Sigismund attacked, at which time my wife, knowing well it may cost her her life, approached the new Duke to both broker peace with Bavaria and offer vital assistance."

Leaves rustles, boughs creaked, and the man stayed silent until he could stay silent no longer. "What has this to do with anything?"

He finally paused in his drawing, a moment spent lost in thought, then he carried on, trying to tease out a little more detail from a smudge. "As I said earlier, my wife asked me that particular question. I struggled with it for a long time. In the end, I believed that I would rather lead a skilled, disciplined army, so I thought it best that I take the fewest casualties.

"Of course, what I have come to realise is that my wife asked such a question, not in the context of a single battle, nor of a war, but in the context of the greater world. Do you understand now?"

A sigh drifted along the breeze, then a curtly-said, "No, Sir," cut through the ambience.

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"The Empire is not as strong as he once was. Or rather, his neighbours are no longer so weak. This peace is terribly fragile. If the King should call up a grand army to face Sigismund and win a great victory at a steep cost, it is not hard to imagine that a coalition would soon gather at the west border, ready to take advantage of this weakness."

"We are not leading the King's army."

He let out a chuckle, one that did not linger on his lips. "However, we are facing the King's enemies, and the King's other enemies would much rather Sigismund remains a threat. Although the Duke will play diplomat, I am sure he will be pressured to make peace and our actions shall be under close scrutiny."

A second, then the man said, "This is the kind of discussion better had with His Grace. In the end, I have my orders and I will follow them."

With a frown, he tapped at a part, trying to impart the right texture. "Unless you have been given the order to ignore me, there is no harm in keeping me company while I talk to myself."

The man said nothing.

For a while, he focused on capturing this particular part of the terrain. Or rather, he was focused on what he thought this terrain would be like in the later months of the year, such fertile fields naturally following streams—streams that could well swell in wetter weather.

"Do you think Sigismund anticipates our offensive?" he asked, moving on to another part of the sketch.

It seemed for a bit that the man would not answer, but eventually an answer came. "I doubt it. The King hasn't declared a war in his life, and King Sigismund has no reason to fear a duke's army. If he expected this war, he would have attacked us first before we were prepared, or left at least some of his army behind in defence."

He hummed a note, a long few seconds before he gave his thoughts. "I would disagree. I believe Sigismund knows we will attack and that is why he has sent his entire army south. While the Greeks might think us their saviour when news of our offensive reaches them, I believe Sigismund will be even more ruthless precisely so that he may conclude the war with the Greeks quickly enough to then counter our attack."

"Sir thinks he thinks he needs his entire army to deal with the Greeks and his entire army to deal with us?" the man said, not quite lightly, but there was a subtle doubt and amusement in his tone.

"To give a simple answer, yes, I do. The worst case Sigismund could imagine is that he cannot force the Greeks to surrender and cannot dislodge our offensive. If his army is not moving, then it is starving. So, to split his momentum, he risks both stalemates. He and his army are also less experienced with—and less suited to—defending, so it makes a certain sense that he would rather attack our spent offensive than resist it."

After a short while, the man said, "It sounds like Sir has thought deeply on this."

"I am prepared to take responsibility, so it is only natural."

Those words, said almost casually, still fell with an immense weight. "Why? No matter how hard we think, the situation does not change, and Sir has his orders. Whatever natural consequences happen are in God's hands."

"Orders? You are mistaken, I have no orders," he said, his words ending in a chuckle. "My wife has entrusted me with goals and I am to fulfil them however I feel best. To put it simply, her army is not here to murder. The issue is not the Polish people, but their king, so the strategy I have advocated for is focused on weakening Sigismund."

There was no immediate reply and he did not expect one, letting out another brief laugh.

"I know it is unusual to speak of war and not of battles. In these circumstances, though, it is vital. I would not advocate for a war we have no chance of winning. At the same time, it should not come as a surprise that I do not believe our chances of winning a pitched battle are good. These two statements are not contradictory as long as one—correctly—understands that battles must be subordinate to the war."

At this time, content with his sketch, he rolled the charcoal between his fingers a few times, glove rather coated in dust, then made the short walk over to his butler-in-training. With the book and charcoal left there, he returned and, after finding a tree to lean against, closed his eyes.

"These things," he said, almost a whisper, "are things few know. Not because they are particularly genius, but because there is little use in knowing them. Which ruler gladly concedes defeat without so much as a battle? What kind of a peace could one demand without a decisive victory on the battlefield?

"Put another way, if one could achieve one's goals without suffering a decisive loss, what compensation could one's enemy demand?"

He left that question to linger for a long moment before continuing.

"One may wonder why I refused to even entertain the notion of bringing our army to the Polish capital. The answer is simple geography: the capital is to the north-east of here, and the Polish army will come from the south. Our strategy relies on a prolonged and organised retreat. If we have to move south-west, it gives the north-marching Polish army position to cut us off. So we strike out south-east instead and maintain a distance from the Polish army in our retreat."

The man, silent for so long, finally spoke up. "How are we to have an organised retreat from their hussars?"

His lips pulled into a smirk. "While they may certainly travel ahead of the main army, they cannot assault a prepared defence without the support of the main army. Sigismund does not employ such infantry for the thrill of the challenge and he certainly does not have his cannons brought over from Sweden because he enjoys the sound they make."

"Even if not an assault, how can Sir expect to retreat with their harassment?"

"It turns out that such hussars are still men who must eat and sleep. That aside, we are not short our own cavalry, ours with the benefit of infantry support."

The man let out a deep breath, then a sigh. "Sir seems confident things will go well."

"While the Duke's army and Sigismund's army are certainly powerful on the battlefield, that is only one aspect of warfare. This campaign, on the other hand, will show the incredible strengths of my wife's army."

There was no pride in those words, no humour. It was a truth which would soon manifest itself.

"What strengths?" the man asked, a little breathless, punctuated by half a chuckle, yet there was a kind of worry hiding in his voice.

"You will soon see my men embody a different kind of discipline than that of other armies. They march quicker and for longer, they are diligent in making camp, they are exceptional at digging ditches and assembling obstacles. There is a company skilled at both building temporary bridges and destroying sturdy bridges, another company of sappers who are mostly veterans of Italian wars. The other companies are led by capable officers who I trust implicitly. Regardless of how chaotic a situation, I believe them able to make good decisions and keep the men in good order."

Again, there was no pride in his speech, merely a quiet confidence that stemmed from speaking so matter-of-factly.

"How will Sigismund engage an army which simply moves faster than his does? How will he follow us across rivers if there are no bridges? How will he bring his cannons through narrow roads strewn with debris? All the while, if his famed hussars take but a single step too far…."

He let out a sigh.

"Sigismund is a leader to be feared. However, I do not fear him as a ruler. Our strategy for this war is to purchase as much grain as we may and bring it back to Bohemia—an easily attained victory. Sigismund does not have an answer to this. He is but a thief and a murderer. Such indiscriminate violence against innocents, yet he hides behind such words as heretic. What good Christian would merely stand by and watch his actions?"

There was no single moment where his voice changed, but he sounded so cold by the end, at some point his eyes opening, gaze set on the man.

The man stared back. Did not flinch, did not shrink away.

"Lord Choceň, I do not know which orders the Duke may give you, but know that my men and I are not mere mercenaries seeking the spoils of war. Our opposition to Sigismund is singular and just."

"I am not sure what Sir is saying," the man said, calm.

"I am saying that you and the Duke's army will not pillage nor plunder nor murder nor rape in this campaign."

The man shifted his balance, one foot moving half a step closer. "And if we do?"

"I will put you down like the rabid dog you are."

There was no heat in those words, but his gaze held a fire. A man who had held the line against the Polish hussars' charges, who had led his own cavalry charges against the various mercenaries the Venetians had hired, and who stared back at him? His gaze held a fire, the flame of a righteous man. Such heat was inspiring to some and suffocating to others.

The man looked to the side, gaze lowering for a heartbeat. "Sir has made himself clear."

"Good," he said, closing his eyes once more. "I look forward to cooperating with Lord Chotzen. None of us are without sin, yet the Lord alone knows if we have repented. Still, as long as we draw breath, we may repent. That is the gift Christ gave us."

There was an awkward pause where the man wanted to question that, but there was no questioning the gospel.

So he soon continued, barely above a whisper. "Leave this matter of war to me. I will take responsibility for everything. That is what it means to be a leader."

Silence, breeze still, sunshine leaking through the canopy where it then fell upon him, brushed his face in bright light.

"Yes, Sir."

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