The Sword Brothers

by Peter Darman

  ‘When it arrives you and your garrison will join me. We go to make war on this Lembit and his tribes.’

  This was most unexpected. As long as the river routes to the Baltic and Gulf of Finland remained open most Russian princes showed little interest in what was happening among the pagan tribes living on their western borders. The prince saw the look of surprise on Domash’s face.

  ‘The world is changing. The Catholic crusaders carve out a kingdom on my western borders and threaten my interests.

  ‘The Bishop of Riga has threatened you, highness?’

  Mstislav took a great gulp of his kvass. ‘No. But soon he will have conquered the Estonians just as he crushed the Livs. After that he and his crusaders will turn their gaze towards the lands on their eastern borders. This Lembit is already finished, though he may not know it. Therefore I will strike west into Ungannia to demonstrate the strength of Novgorod and send a signal to the Bishop of Riga that a great power lies to the east of his kingdom.’

  The prince’s army arrived at Pskov the next day. It numbered thirteen thousand foot and horse and was accompanied by a huge number of large wagons filled with supplies. It had taken twenty days to cover the one hundred and twenty miles between Novgorod and Pskov, a large vanguard of men with shovels clearing the route of snow and ice ahead of the army. The élite of the prince’s host was the Druzhina, his standing army of mounted boyars and their relatives and bodyguards. They wore short-sleeved mail hauberks beneath lamellar armour, open-faced helmets with aventail and shields similar in shape to the ones carried by the Sword Brothers. Their weapons included lance, sword, dagger and axe and they almost always fought on horseback, never engaging in siege warfare. Their shields carried the images of religious icons, bears, lynxes, eagles and Orthodox crosses, the banner of Novgorod being carried at the head of their column. It was a sign of the city’s wealth that Mstislav was able to muster fifteen hundred of these well-equipped and trained horsemen.

  Next came Novgorod’s urban militia, men who had been equipped by the city authorities and included archers as well as spearmen. Most of the latter had helmets and mail armour and they numbered two thousand men. Last in terms of quality and equipment were the Voi, the levies recruited from the villages around Novgorod. Almost entirely devoid of any body or head armour, they were armed with an assortment of spears and axes and numbered nine thousand in total.

  It took three days to organise the troops from Pskov who would accompany the prince on his expedition. Domash had five hundred soldiers of his own Druzhina, a mixture of men he had brought with him from Novgorod and boyars from Pskov. The latter all sported the emblem of the city on their shields: a golden snow leopard on a blue background, the same design on the banner that fluttered at the head of the fifteen hundred men of the city militia, a hundred crossbowmen within their ranks as well as fifty horsemen.

  Domash marched at the head of Pskov’s troops from the city square to the gates in the southern wall. Pskov was a strong fortress sited on a promontory of two rivers – the Pskova and Velikaya – and was surrounded by an earthen rampart topped with a wooden palisade. On the vulnerable, southern side was a moat that connected the two rivers and thus surrounded all four sides of the city with water, making it virtually impregnable.

  But as he trotted across the wide wooden bridge spanning the moat Domash wondered what an army of fifteen thousand men would achieve if not to conquer territory. He himself had taken part in raids designed to capture slaves, cattle and supplies many times, but the raiding parties were invariably small and mounted. Estonian villagers would be able to avoid a slow-moving army easily enough.

  They skirted the southern shore of the frozen Lake Pskov, the great inland waterway that was covered in ice for six months of the year, and then struck northwest into Ungannia. The army managed to march a paltry six miles a day, the prince and his bodyguard riding out each morning wrapped in fur hats, wolfskin cloaks and high, padded boots to frighten the local populace and plunder their villages. But as Domash had feared the locals were alerted to the army’s presence long before it reached them and fled north into the Estonian heartland.

  When the sun dipped on the snow-blanketed western horizon the prince rode into camp boasting of how he had fired villages but the lack of any captives indicated that the settlements had been abandoned long before his arrival. The scouts located a number of hill forts where villagers had taken refuge but the lack of siege equipment meant they could not be assaulted. The large size of the prince’s army made starving them into submission impossible for it would starve first. After two weeks of fruitless campaigning, in which a thousand Voi had died of exposure, Mstislav gave the order to return to Pskov. After a week he got bored and departed with his Druzhina, leaving Domash in command of the remaining horsemen, the city militias and the rapidly diminishing Voi.

  ‘I will be waiting for you at Pskov,’ said Mstislav. ‘I grow tired of Estonia.’

  It was a crystal clear day when the prince and his fifteen hundred horsemen departed, but as the days passed the sky became heaped with dark grey clouds that threatened snowfall. The threat turned into a reality on the third day after the prince had left the army as snow flakes began to fall, a few at first but as the day wore on visibility dropped as the fall became heavier. That night camp was made near the western shore of Lake Pskov. Domash called together the senior officers to his tent and announced that to save time and lives, rather than skirting the lake the army would march across its frozen surface.

  It snowed all through the night and showed no signs of letting up as the men trudged along with heads bowed after striking camp, the horsemen leading their animals on foot. The archers had unstrung their bows and placed the bowstrings under their fur hats to keep them dry, the crossbowmen carrying their weapons slung on their backs, but stashed them under covers on the wagons when it snowed. The ice was thick enough to allow fully loaded wagons to be pulled across its surface, many of them now filled with Voi suffering from exposure and frostbite.

  By mid-morning a northerly wind had begun to blow, blasting snowflakes into men’s faces. Soldiers who had them pulled hoods over their heads to shield them from the ice particles. Domash halted and looked behind at the bedraggled column of men and horses fading in the blizzard. If the snow let up he and the army would be back in Pskov in three days, longer if they were forced to make camp and wait until the storm blew itself out. If that happened he wondered how many Russian corpses would be littering the frozen surface of Lake Pskov.

  *****

  Kalju’s hard features were even more rock-like as he stared into the snow, dozens of his warriors gathered around him. He and they were wrapped in furs and wore skis on their feet: strips of pine six and a half feet long and secured to the wearer’s feet by means of a leather strap attached to the top of the ski. When he had heard about the Russian invasion he had given orders that his people must leave their villages and take refuge in the nearest hill fort. The settlements had been laid to waste by the Russians but at least his Ungannians had escaped being enslaved. He had mustered five hundred warriors and they had shadowed the invaders as they advanced and then suddenly turned around and retreated. His scouts had reported that the banner of the Prince of Novgorod had been seen fluttering at the head of a great number of horsemen who had left the main Russian force some days ago, thus reducing the strength of the invaders.

  ‘Mstislav flees back to his city,’ remarked Lembit who had come to Kalju’s side.

  Though crusader raiding parties had assaulted his own territory, Lembit judged it prudent to march to aid the Ungannians to demonstrate solidarity with his fellow Estonian chief. In this way he hoped Kalju would support him when it came to his re-election as Estonia’s grand warlord. He had brought two hundred of his wolf shields to fight alongside the Ungannians, all of them wearing skis on their feet and armed with one-handed axes and swords. They all wore helmets and mail shirts beneath their fur-lined cloaks.

  Kalju looked at the sn
ow flurries around him. ‘They will not see us approaching. We will strike the rear of the column where the mostly poorly armed men are gathered.’

  Lembit nodded his approval. ‘Let us cover this lake with Russian corpses.’

  The Ungannians cheered and banged their axe hafts on the insides of their shields and an evil grin creased Kalju’s face. He raised his axe and pushed himself forward, his skis coursing over the snow-covered ice with ease. His warriors followed as Lembit made his way back to the Saccalians. Rusticus was standing ahead of the line of wolf shields, his cloak covered in snow.

  ‘I hope you are in the mood for slaughter,’ Lembit said to him.

  Rusticus smiled. ‘Always.’

  Lembit raised his axe and looked behind. ‘Saccalians. Your orders are to kill the invaders. Show no mercy. I will kill the first man I see with pity in his eyes. Forward!’

  The wolf shields gave a mighty cheer and followed their chief into the whiteout, the wind at their backs as they skied south across Lake Pskov. Two hundred warriors moved silently through the snowstorm, the natural pine resin lubricating the underside of their skis to make their journey easier, aided by the northerly wind. Rusticus pushed ahead eagerly, gripping the shaft of his axe. He loved the moments just before battle when the anticipation of carnage filled his mind. He liked rape and pillage well enough but he loved war; loved the feeling that came with slicing open a man’s guts in battle and the sensation of crushing an opponent’s skull with an axe. It was in such moments that life truly became worth living. He screamed his war cry and sped ahead.

  The Estonian warriors were widely spaced at they made their way across the ice, becoming even more separated in the swirling snowflakes that blotted out the horizon. But at least they knew approximately where the Russian army was; unlike Domash’s men who were blissfully unaware of their attackers until they were upon them like a pack of starving wolves.

  Rusticus saw the stooped figure appear suddenly in front of him, a soldier wrapped in a cape clutching a spear. He glided towards him, raised his axe and then smashed it into the back of his skull as he passed behind him. The next Russian saw him, transfixed as Rusticus brought his weapon up and swung it sharply to his right to hit the man square in the face, obliterating his nose. The man screamed and fell in the snow, to be killed by an axe blow to the back of the head delivered by a following wolf shield. Within moments the roar of the wind was intermingled with the screams and cries of men being struck by axes and swords as the Estonians smashed into the Russians.

  Horses and ponies bolted as the raiders went straight through the ragged Russian column, halted, turned and then went back to the slaughter. The Voi suffered the most. Already cold, hungry and demoralised, hundreds of them were cut down in the initial Estonian assault. Trumpets blew from among the Russian ranks as the city militias gathered round their standards and locked shields to fight off the attackers.

  Lembit stopped hacking at the bloody pulp that had been an archer at his feet and looked around. It was chaos. Snow flurries reduced visibility to less than fifty feet, making any sort of control all but impossible. He had a score of wolf shields with him but where were the rest? And where was Rusticus?

  ‘Sound horn,’ he ordered.

  The signaller blew his horn but it was barely audible above the wind and the dreadful sounds of battle raging all around. The snow was littered with Russian dead, making it difficult to ski around the corpses. Rusticus then suddenly appeared, the head and shaft of his axe covered with blood and gore.

  ‘Good sport,’ he beamed. Behind him came many wolf shields, their weapons similarly adorned with Russian blood. Their assault had been spectacularly successful.

  ‘We must find the Ungannians,’ said Lembit, ordering his signaller to blow his horn once more. ‘To finish these Russian barbarians.’

  The initial assault by Kalju’s men was similarly successful, nearly a thousand Russians being cut down when the Ungannians appeared out of the snowstorm. Thereafter, though, the fighting became harder as the more professional city militias rallied and fought back. And then the Druzhina launched a counterattack.

  Domash heard the din suddenly erupt behind him and knew that the column was under attack. Most of the horsemen were positioned at the front of the army, though he had deployed his five hundred riders from Pskov behind the Voi to provide a rearguard. Unfortunately these took the full force of the Saccalian assault and were almost immediately scattered. To their credit their commanders managed to rally some but they got lost in the snow and actually rode away from the army.

  *****

  Domash gave the order for his men to mount their horses and led them towards the rear. But his progress was slowed almost immediately as figures on skis came out of the hail of snowflakes to hack at horses and riders alike. Beasts cried out in pain and then collapsed in the snow, trapping their riders beneath them. He ran one skier through with his lance but more and more appeared among his horsemen, and suddenly there were dozens of individual mêlées being fought around him.

  More of his Druzhina came trotting from the army’s vanguard, spearing skiers and slashing left and right with their swords. After nearly half an hour the warriors on skis were either dead and or had been forced to flee back into the white maelstrom, leaving Domash free to rally his men and lead them towards the rear where the sounds of battle could still be heard. But their progress was agonisingly slow, made worse by the swirling snow that blinded the horses and confused their riders. Skiers would suddenly appear in front and behind them, the latter slashing at the hindquarters of the horses with their swords, inflicting fearful wounds. The animals would either collapse or cry out in pain and bolt into the whiteout.

  The thousand men of the Pskov militia had been immediately behind the horsemen in the line of march, their wagons deployed in the centre of their formation. The spearmen formed the outer files of the militiamen, the archers and crossbowmen walking beside the wagons as the latter’s weapons were stored under canvas sheets in the carts to keep them dry and the bowmen were carrying their bowstrings under their hats. The spearmen on the left flank of the march formation were the ones who took the full force of the Ungannian attack, most being unable to react as the skiers appeared out of the snow and hacked them down with their axes. Kalju’s men began killing the archers and crossbowmen before the Pskovian spearmen on the other side of the wagons mounted a counterattack then forced the Estonians back.

  It was the same story with the Novgorod militia, which suffered fewer casualties because its numbers were greater and the Ungannians found it more difficult to cut through their denser files. When the Druzhina appeared the Estonians retreated before them rather than stand and be cut down, falling back towards the rear of the Russian column where the hapless Voi lay dead in heaps in the snow. And as the Ungannians retreated so the Saccalians advanced until the two literally bumped into each other. Kalju saw the black banner of Lembit and skied over to it.

  ‘The Russian horsemen will soon be arriving in our midst.’

  ‘Time to disappear into the snow, I think,’ said Lembit.

  ‘They are almost finished. We cannot flee with victory within reach,’ implored Rusticus, his light grey wolfskin cloak splattered with blood, none of it his own.

  ‘We cannot defeat horsemen,’ said Lembit firmly. He turned to his signaller.

  ‘Sound retreat.’

  The high-pitched wail of the horn prompted the Saccalians to move away from the scene of carnage and back towards the northwest. Kalju gave a similar order and his men also made their escape. They would ski as fast as they could away from the Russians, hoping that the snowfall and lack of visibility would deter any mounted pursuit. When the storm had blown itself out they would regroup to the northwest, beyond the shores of the lake, to tend to their wounds and boast of their kills.

  Before he left Kalju extended a hand to Lembit. ‘You have my gratitude and my loyalty.’

  Lembit clasped his forearm. ‘My enemies are your ene
mies, my friend.’

  They heard a horse’s snort.

  ‘We must go,’ said Rusticus.

  Lembit nodded to Kalju and began to ski away into the snow flurries.

  There was no pursuit. The snow continued to fall and the wind showed no signs of abating as Domash and his men continued their ride along what remained of the prince’s army. The Pskov and Novgorod militias managed to regroup around their wagons but the Voi had all but ceased to exist. Not only had they suffered heavy casualties at the hands of the Estonians, many had fled in terror at the appearance of the axe-wielding skiers, running away from the column towards the south. Whether they would be able to find their way back to shelter and food before darkness fell no one knew.

  It was now two hours after midday and the light was fading fast. The wind continued to blow in the faces of tense and cold Russian soldiers as they awaited another assault that never came. By the time night had fallen it had stopped snowing, the bodies of the dead being covered in a blanket of white. Domash ordered that the men stand to arms all through the night on the ice. The wind dropped and clouds parted to allow moonlight to flood Lake Pskov. There was no sound aside from the soft moaning of the wounded; then total quiet as the cold quickly claimed them.

  Domash stayed awake all night, in the morning standing beside a wagon holding a spear, his beard frosted and his eyes red. There was no wind or falling snow and all around there was nothing but deep snow and ice. He gave the order for food to be distributed and a roll call to be taken. He also sent out parties of scouts to make sure they would not be attacked again. It was two hours before what was left of the army recommenced its journey to Pskov, which was only two days’ march away. The return of three hundred of the mounted men of the Pskov militia raised morale a little but men’s spirits soon slipped back into despair as the enormity of the calamity that had befallen them became clear.

  His own Druzhina had suffered ten killed and thirty wounded during the fighting, the Pskov militia suffering a hundred losses and the Novgorodians twice that number. But the heaviest losses had occurred among the Voi: two thousand dead and a further thousand missing. He did not know why his commanders had reported the latter as missing. He knew they were dead from exposure, having spent the previous night wandering around on the ice before they succumbed to the cold. Their frozen corpses provided a fitting epitaph to Prince Mstislav’s abortive expedition into Estonia.