by H Schmidt
The Rift
H. EDWARD SCHMIDT
Upper Falls Books
PO Box 114
Upper Falls, Maryland 21156
Copyright © 2014 H. Edward Schmidt. All rights reserved.
Second Edition 2017
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
CONTENTS
Foreword
PART ONE
Chapter One
PART TWO
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
PART THREE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
PART FOUR
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
PART FIVE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
PART SIX
Foreword
Few people can be happy unless they hate some person, nation or creed.
Bertrand Russell
This book is in remembrance of the millions of persons of German ancestry who, by unhappy circumstance and misfortune, fought against each other in the first catastrophic war of the twentieth century; innocent young men drawn by the sirens of patriotism onto the terrible battlefields of World War I. All readers should recall that it was called the Great War; “the war to end all wars” yet planted the seeds of an even more tragic, more disastrous war a short two decades later.
PART ONE
Chapter One
I watched their movement across the river on the long, narrow meadow wedged between the shore and the thick juniper forest. Although the meadow was five hundred meters east of the hill where I stood, I, Gustav von Mecklenburg, could hear the shouts of the men moving about the camp. I was not surprised to find that their numbers were twice that of the evening before; the numbers had been increasing each of the last three days.
Beside me stood Sir Rupert. I had served as Rupert’s squire before being knighted by the Grand Master of the Order of the Teutons. A man thick of chest and thighs, Rupert von Bahrenburg und Ansbach placed one great, gnarled hand upon my shoulder and smiled slyly. In the older man’s eyes before battle, there was always that hint of mischief; as if someone had whispered to him what was about to happen and how it would all end. This midsummer morning, as the sun began to color the eastern sky, Rupert spoke softly.
“It will begin soon.” I felt the vice-like grip tighten on my shoulder, and I looked into the great, scarred face. I searched the blue eyes, their twinkle reassuring me. Then they grew more serious as he saw the fear in my own. “God’s Hand is upon you, young knight. Trust Him.”
It was quiet but for the meadowlark that trilled above them, and the creaking leather of the saddles on their horses that grazed contently beside them. The gentle breeze from the Baltic caused Gustav’s flaxen hair to cover his face, his hand moving at steady intervals to brush it away. He watched and waited for the soft golden rays of the sun as they flowed westward to the hill where he and others of the Order stood, his angular face thrust forward to feel the first brush of warmth on his brow and cheeks. As he did so, he closed his eyes and eagerly drank the still-cool, damp morning air.
Beyond the meadow and the juniper forest, the land opened in patches to the horizon. Gustav could see the many roads and causeways leading to Malbork from the north, east, and south. The knights who watched knew those roads were filled at night with the Lithuanians from the north and east and Poles from the south.
For two hundred years, the Order of Teutonic Knights and the German Order of Livonia had joined to bring Jesus Christ to the pagans along the southern shores of the Baltic Sea. In the name of the Holy Roman emperor, we used the lance and the great two-handed sword to bring Christ to those who did not accept Him. Astride our great warhorses, our visor helmets closed, the great banner with its Roman eagle set upon a gold-and-black cross flying in the wind, we appeared to the Poles and Pruzzi not as mortals, but gods of war.
Now the southern Baltic’s coast was controlled by the German knights. The Teutonic Knights had built great brick castles from the Vistula to the Nieman. They served as monasteries to glorify God and as great fortresses from which the German knights sallied to convert or destroy His enemies. To the south and to the east, the kingdoms of Poland and Lithuania were denied the coast, and all ocean commerce that flowed to them must flow through the lands of the German knights.
Over the years, the Grand Masters of the Order had watched the reasons for conquest and dominion change. No longer were they confronted with the task of bringing Jesus Christ to the pagans. The Poles had embraced the Church as no other people in Christendom. For twenty-four years, Jagiello, the Duke of Lithuania, had sworn his fealty and that of his people to the Church of Rome. Married to the Polish queen Jadwiga, he ruled over the kingdoms of Lithuania and Poland. Now united, they had come to challenge our dominion.
I stood on the hillside among other knights who also watched the meadow, all thinking our private thoughts, all understanding that tomorrow, or the next day, or the next, we must confront the great army forming before our eyes.
Rupert mounted. “They will cross the river tomorrow. We will meet them then.”
Choosing the path which placed the birch forest between us and the army on the meadow, we made our way home. Today, we rode our light, muscular horses we used for hunting and sport. The pleasant, clear morning, cool for midsummer, put us in good spirits and Rupert led us in a spirited gallop over the sandy road leading to Tannenberg. I prodded my tall gray to challenge Rupert’s lead. Sensing my challenge, he spurred his black, and together we raced toward the castle now glistening golden in the sun.
Young knight, do not be in such haste to place distance between you and your enemy.”
“We shall see tomorrow who chooses to shy from the arrows and pole arms of his enemy, old knight.”
It is no boast but assured truth that I am the best horseman among all the knights. As I came abreast, I stood in my stirrups and looked down at the smiling Rupert.
As we rode, the old knight shouted with exhilaration, “Death by one’s enemies in battle is God’s gift, Gustav. He grants it to few, and He favors our Order. He will be most generous on the morrow.”
I looked back to see the other knights far behind. Before us, the Raskula River and the great castle of Tannenberg close beside it. As we grew closer, I could see Elsbet on the parapet, like many in the castle anxiously looking down upon us. Still at a distance, it was easy to see her golden-brown hair and tall, slim figure among all the rest. I remember thinking I must keep her safe.
As we approached, the trumpet signaled the drawbridge to be lowered over the moat which protected the castle. The sentries were alert, as bands of brigands from the east roamed the land. From the land beyond Lithuania, they moved about the countryside, slaughtering whole villages, mutilating the men, raping the women before killing them, sometimes carrying off women for their pleasure until death mercifully released them.
Watching the drawbridge settle on its moorings, I recalled the last encounter with such men. It had been a year since it
happened. We had been warned that a band of twenty was heading east from the Vistula and were likely to hit the village of Bruch.
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Rupert, taking ten knights and twenty archers, pushed the men, reaching the village by dusk. Early the following morning, one of our scouts rode up to the cottage where Rupert stayed. He had spotted the raiders’ camp six kilometers to the east. They seemed in no hurry to move.
Between the village and the encampment, a small hill sat like a pimple on the flat countryside, the view in all directions as far as the eye could see. Rupert and I took a position on the crest of the thickly wooded hill, tethering our horses in a thick clump of pines on its southern base. Rupert spoke as he pointed west along a sandy trail leading toward the Vistula.
“If they come, that will be the way. We shall know soon.”
The early May day was warm and sticky. The buds on the birches and oaks had begun to swell. The meadows and hedgerows were blanketed with wild spring flowers, and the grain fields near the village were turning a luminous green. An angry jay screamed at us as we waited under the tree where she had her nest.
Rupert was the first to see them. “They are coming. This will be a good day, young Gustav.”
Now I could see them. “An hour before they reach us, no more, Sir Rupert.”
Rupert turned toward the village. “They are after Bruch. There is no question now.”
As he spoke, he turned toward the village and raised his hand. At intervals of two hundred meters, archers waited. When the closest to the hill saw Rupert’s raised hand, he passed the signal to the next archer. Only minutes later, the men in the village were ready, and the archers returned on the run to take up their positions.
We sat down beneath two birches, Rupert and I, facing each other and waited. Today, we shunned the armor of battle for light linen tunics, loose woolen pants, and deerskin boots. We carried only long daggers sheathed and hung from our waists, and small leather pouches with dried strips of deer meat to chew whenever we had the opportunity and inclination. On our heads, to protect us from the sun, we wore doeskin hats with brims rolled on the sides but extended to the front to cover our eyes from the sun.
Rupert had ordered me to remove my blue-dyed falcon feather. “There is no need to attract attention, my vain young friend.” Rupert teased a great deal. I wondered, did he really think me vain? It is true I have a fair opinion of myself, I would not call it vanity.
Behind the raiders, as they approached, storm clouds began to form, as if to announce the evil about to be visited upon the village of Bruch. The raiders were now only five hundred meters away, closing at a steady, unhurried pace.
Rupert and I left the crest of the hill and moved close to its west base where the trail turned north to work its way around the hill to the village. We were anxious to get a closer look at these pagans. Most commonly, we saw them only in the heat of battle, and seldom then.
“We will wait until they pass, then come in behind them. It will be up to Friederich.”
Rupert spoke in a low voice, watching the Muscovites all the while. Like Rupert, Friederich von Halstedt had been a Knight of the Order for over ten years, passing through the gauntlet of battles which snuffed the lives of so many of their peers. It was early in my life as a squire that I noticed that few knights lived past forty years. Those who did were said to be blessed with wisdom and skill, but most of all, good fortune. But dying in battle was not the worst that could befall a German knight. They were luckier than most, who died from the miasma that flowed from the ground in the kingdom and proved so disagreeable to those who came from the west.
The band moved in single file, the second and third in line, in frequent intervals, would dash to the flanks and front of the raiders, observe the land around them, then dash back to report to the Muscovite in the lead. Now only fifty meters away, I noted the small size of the horses and remembered how Rupert had told me that such horses had great stamina and great agility. Knights had long abandoned the great warhorses for smaller, more mobile horses in campaigns against them. Still, in freewheeling battles, the German horses were no match for the tough little horses and their skilled riders.
“To kill them, Gustav, we must corner them. We cannot allow them room to use those horses and those short bows. The badger does not fight the fox in an open field.”
I could now see the men clearly and I felt my skin tingle and the hair on my neck bristle. Men darkened by the sun and birth, their hairy faces seemed to leave openings only for the points of their noses and their dark and watchful eyes. Although close enough to hear, we heard little conversation. Only when the men would dash to reconnoiter was a sharp command heard by their leader, and on the scouts’ return, a brief report.
The men wore sleeveless tunics covered by breastplates of heavy leather and metal. Beneath their armor, many wore hooded, sleeved mail hauberks. Hanging from their saddles were steel helmets, most different, taken in battles, raids, and ambushes. Although the weapons of each man differed, each carried a horseman’s short bow slung across his shoulders and a soft leather quiver of arrows. On the saddles hung scimitars, cutlasses, and coustilles, the last the short swords used to cut the throats of men during their silent raids on traveling parties.
When they were found camped near the creek behind them, the archer LeClerq had reported there were two women with them; both appeared to be bound to a pine tree. Neither was with the band now.
“For God’s mercy, let us hope they have killed the women. May God bring these beasts to Bruch.” Rupert’s voice was flat and hard.
Beside the riders, three young men, taller and lighter-skinned than the rest, ran on foot, a rope around each neck and tied to the saddle of one of the riders.
“Hostages.” Rupert had seen it before, many times.
One of the great prizes of such bands was the discovery of noblemen along the roads. Nothing villages could offer beyond their women could compare with the ransoms for members of noble families. Nor was anything more dangerous, for such acts caused them to be hunted as they never would be for pillaging a village.
“Nineteen,” I said. Rupert nodded.
As the Muscovites approached the hill, I felt my breath stop. Would they all move over the hill, which meant discovery? Against these mounted archers, we would have no chance, even to engage the enemy. The raiders would stand away and kill us with their deadly bows, or try to maim us in the hope that we might be ransomed, or merely for the sport of torture and mutilation. All the knights had stories to tell of the cruelty of these raiders from the east and all knew that death was often an act of mercy.
Considering the possibility of discovery, Rupert and I had hidden the horses on the side of the hill where its base was marsh, covered by cattails and clusters of marsh laurel. We had positioned ourselves amongst a fall of dead birches, where we could not be seen except from the south unless a raider came inside our enclosed hideaway.
The column stopped at the base of the hill. The first man lifted himself in his saddle, dismounted and stood facing the hill’s crest. Less than twenty meters from where Gustav and I lay, his eyes seemed to dart up, down, right, and left. Taller and wider than the rest, there could be no question that he was the commander of the raiders.
“He is as big as a moose,” I whispered.
“But uglier.”
Rupert spoke and looked at me, his great grin showing the gap caused when Friederich’s lance drove his shield beneath the face guard of the surprised knight. I smiled when I recalled the many evenings when the warm ale would cause Friederich to remind Rupert of that jousting tournament, and how, for a welcomed change, it was Friederich who looked down upon his fallen friend.
I looked at the face of the great Muscovite below. The beard on the man fell to his waist; the dark eyes seemed to glow beneath the thick, black eyebrows; the matted hair on his head stopped just short of joining them. I found my eyes drawn to the left arm. There was no hand, but instead an attachment in the form of a w
ishbone.
Rupert and I looked at each other. I slowly mouthed the words, “He uses it to hold the bow.” I imagined the great man steadying the bow with the wooden fork while pulling the string with his right. Rupert nodded.
Sweat was cold on my brow. He looked right at me! Like one of the Order’s wolfhounds, this Muscovite leader, whose name was Kalunin, seemed to sniff the air, to call upon some extra sense to find his enemies. Suddenly, he turned to one of the men still mounted and issued a command. The man spurred his horse and started quickly up the slope toward us. Before we could move, the rider, viciously spurring the flanks of his speckled gray mount, was past. I turned my head slowly and saw the rider outlined against the sky, looking toward the village.
Rupert reached over and with his forefinger, he rubbed my forehead. With mischief in his eye, he shook the sweat he had collected from his finger.
Rupert and I knew that it was impossible for us to be seen by the single rider. Yet we also knew he could discover us by riding to the south end of the crest and working back behind us. We now had a choice. We could dash for our horses, and hope to escape. At this point, our chances were good; the woods were thick around the southern end of the hill and we could move without being seen, and we had earlier found a trail through the marsh. They would not follow.
But I knew we would not run. I knew that Rupert would never consider running. We would wait and take the chance, for without risk we could never hope to join the raiders in battle and only increase the danger to other villages under our protection.
We watched the rider. He was young, younger than me, I think. Unlike their leader, he was short and wiry, the sinews in his long arms rippling as he drove his mount past us. Like many of the pagans of the East, he rode easily, as if joined to his mount. For several moments, the rider stood beneath a tall juniper and looked to the east, toward the village only a thousand meters away. Then, he turned and began to move slowly back toward the column. He was heading toward us. Would he follow the same trail, in which case we were safe, or would he move to the south then work his way down to the band?
