Army of the Wolf

by Peter Darman

  ‘Or what?’ snapped Volquin.

  ‘Or leave it to the pigs, grand master.’

  They rode on in silence until they came to the pavilion of Bishop Albert, a flag bearing the cross keys symbol of Riga hanging limply from its top spike. A large rainfly provided cover over the main entrance where two guards dressed in red surcoats bearing the insignia of Riga stood sentry. Volquin and Conrad dismounted and the guards took the reins of their horses. Conrad pulled the dead deer off the back of his horse and dumped it on the ground. A steward dressed in Riga’s livery came from the pavilion and bowed to the grand master, who pointed at the deer and ordered it to be taken away and prepared for the bishop’s evening meal. Conrad could hear raised voices from inside the pavilion as Volquin ordered him to follow him inside.

  The large tent was oblong in shape and divided into two parts: a reception and a sleeping area, a white curtain separating the two. The bishop sat at a rectangular bench resting on trestles that had been covered with a sheet, Abbot Bernhard beside him and a concerned Master Thaddeus opposite, as Manfred Nordheim, immaculate in his red surcoat and mail hauberk, was pouring himself more wine from a jug.

  ‘My course of action will see us back across the river in two days, my lord.’

  He smiled at the squat Duke Albert whose wild beard was in stark contrast to Nordheim’s neatly trimmed affair.

  ‘Impossible!’ snapped the duke, his yellow surcoat emblazoned with the black lion of Saxony. ‘To run like frightened women only adds insult to the injuries we have already suffered.’

  Bishop Albert saw the grand master. ‘Ah, Grand Master Volquin, you have returned.’

  ‘With a gift from your garrison of Wenden, lord bishop,’ said Volquin. ‘A deer that Brother Conrad here and his fellow brother knights shot earlier.’

  He waved Conrad forward.

  ‘Conrad Wolff,’ said the bishop. ‘It is good to see you.’

  He looked at the duke and pointed at Conrad. ‘This Sword Brother saved me in a battle outside Riga a number of years ago and two years ago killed Lembit during our great victory on St Matthew’s Day.’

  Duke Albert nodded approvingly. ‘You have been in these parts long, Conrad?’

  ‘Nine years, lord.’

  ‘He is a veteran of many campaigns,’ said Thaddeus.

  Manfred Nordheim regarded the brother knight for a few seconds and returned to his seat at the table. Like his master the archdeacon he shared a mistrust bordering on hostility towards the Sword Brothers.

  ‘Excellent,’ boomed the duke, ‘then I would be interested in knowing his opinion of our current situation. If you were leading this army, Conrad Wolff, how would you proceed from here.’

  Slightly taken aback, Conrad looked at Grand Master Volquin.

  ‘Speak freely,’ commanded the head of the order.

  ‘Yes, please do,’ insisted Bishop Albert. Abbot Bernhard leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table.

  ‘The pagans will harry us all the way to the Dvina,’ said Conrad. ‘But if we maintain our march discipline we will reach the river having suffered only minimal casualties.’

  The duke looked at Nordheim but spoke to Conrad. ‘And would you advise us abandoning our wagons to speed our journey to the river?’

  Conrad shook his head. ‘No, my lord. They contain our supplies, food and fodder. They also provide us with the means to erect temporary defences at the end of each day.’

  ‘We crawl like a snail through the enemy’s territory,’ said Nordheim, ‘and thus make ourselves an easy target.’

  ‘Better to crawl than to flee, lord,’ said Conrad. ‘The enemy may inflict small losses on us but he lacks the means to destroy us.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about the enemy,’ remarked Duke Albert who poured some wine into a cup and handed it to Conrad.

  ‘Thank you, lord.’

  ‘Brother Conrad has much knowledge of the pagan mind,’ said Volquin. ‘Indeed, during the winter just passed he led a force of pagans that relieved our outposts at Lehola and Fellin.’

  ‘A general in the making,’ remarked Bernhard.

  The duke moved to stand before Conrad. ‘You have fought among the pagans?’

  ‘Among the Estonians, lord, yes.’

  Albert took a gulp of his wine. ‘And if we offer ourselves for battle tomorrow, array the army on this piece of ground, the pagans will fight us?’

  Conrad shook his head. ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘You see, my lords,’ said Nordheim, his cheeks flushed with the wine he had consumed, ‘the pagans fear us.’

  ‘They do not fear us, lord,’ said Conrad, ‘but they see little merit in meeting us in open battle where our crossbows and mounted knights will prevail.’

  ‘So you would recommend continuing our strategy?’ asked the duke.

  ‘Yes, lord.’

  ‘So the enemy can ambush us when we enter every forest?’ said Nordheim.

  ‘Then avoid them, lord,’ said Conrad. ‘Send scouts ahead to reconnoitre the route before the army marches.’

  Nordheim disliked this arrogant young man who seemed to have the confidence of the bishop. ‘You thus increase the length of our route.’

  ‘And reduce our casualties, lord,’ replied Conrad.

  Nordheim jumped up. ‘You are impertinent.’

  ‘Thank you, commander,’ said the bishop. ‘The duke asked for Brother Conrad’s opinion and he has given it.’

  ‘What he says makes sense,’ agreed Duke Albert. ‘Tomorrow I will lead a scouting party to map our route so as we may attempt to avoid the forest tracks that are so vulnerable to ambush.’

  ‘Thank you, Brother Conrad,’ said the bishop, ‘you may go. And give my regards to Master Rudolf for his most generous gift.’

  Conrad left the bickering commanders and returned to a glum-faced Hans who was eating a bowl of porridge.

  ‘At least it is warm, Hans,’ said Conrad as he sat down beside him round one of the fires started by Wenden’s soldiers.

  Because the retreat had not had been so precipitous as the day before there had been time to set up the tent of the grand master and those of the brother knights and sergeants that surrounded it, in addition to the chapel tent. So the order’s soldiers attended vespers before seeing to the horses and then cleaning their weapons and armour. It was nearly midnight when Conrad and Hans went to sleep wrapped in their cloaks and it seemed like only a few seconds before Johann kicked them awake to undertake sentry duty.

  Conrad shivered as he got to his feet and buckled his sword belt. Hans groaned as he rubbed his eyes and reached for his cloak.

  ‘No cloak,’ said Anton, lying down and wrapping his own cloak around him. ‘Orders, remember.’

  Hans shook his head and began mumbling as he too buckled on his sword and picked up his helmet. He pulled his mail coif over his quilted linen counterpart and followed Conrad outside, both of them slinging their shields on their backs so their white fronts would not face the enemy. They said nothing as they walked through the tents, passing campfires that were burning low to reach the wagons. They saw Henke and Lukas who were pacing up and down in an attempt to keep warm. They both nodded as Conrad and Hans took up position at the next wagon.

  Conrad peered into the blackness beyond the wagon. Dawn would soon be breaking. It had been a cool, clear night and that meant fog. Sure enough soon a thick mist began to encompass the camp and reduced visibility to less than twenty paces. They both wore mail mittens but their fingers were still cold and in an effort to stop their faces getting cold they put on their helmets. As the dawn broke Conrad stared into the grey gloom but saw nothing.

  It was still, cold and silent but the men of Wenden knew that something was wrong. Henke and Lukas drew their swords and began looking round. The hairs pricked up on the back of Conrad’s neck and he too pulled his sword from its scabbard. He looked again beyond the wagon at the grey mist that surrounded and infiltrated the camp. He peered intensely into the fog that was
now visible in the pallid dawn light but saw nothing. But his heart thumped in his chest and his sixth sense told him that danger was close. But where? He heard muffled footsteps behind him and spun round with his weapon drawn back, to see the distinctive shape of a sergeant’s kettle helmet approaching. He exhaled and relaxed as the man nodded and walked to take his place beside him at the wagon.

  ‘My nerves are playing tricks on me,’ he said to Hans next to him. ‘I imagine the enemy everywhere.’

  ‘That’s what happens when you don’t have a proper evening meal,’ he heard his friend say from inside his helmet. Clearly the matter of the deer was still playing on Hans’ mind.

  There was a crack, a groan and then the stillness was shattered by a thousand shrill war cries.

  They came from every direction, swarming over and between the wagons to infiltrate the camp: hundreds of Semgallians armed with spears, swords, maces and axes. They did not direct the weight of their attack at any one point but assaulted the entire perimeter, gambling that the shock and surprise of their onslaught would overwhelm the crusaders.

  Conrad glanced at the sergeant slumped by the side of the wagon with a quarrel in his chest, dead. He heard someone clambering over the wagon and looked up to see the black shape of a Semgallian jump towards him. He threw himself down beside one of the wheels to avoid the enemy warrior who landed badly on the wet grass, twisting his ankle. Conrad sprang up and forward to drive the point of his sword through the man’s back before closing to Hans’ side. His friend had also despatched an assailant but more were appearing out of the mist, dark shapes carrying square shields and wrapped in cloaks.

  ‘Hold them!’ shouted Henke as they poured over the wagons like a great pagan wave.

  ‘Back to back,’ Conrad called to Hans who immediately placed himself behind his friend and faced outwards.

  They had been trained to always keep moving in battle but because they were so outnumbered if each stood alone they would be quickly surrounded and cut down. They might be cut down anyway as some Semgallians ran forward into the camp as others stopped to fight the Sword Brothers.

  Conrad lost sight of Lukas and Henke and the sergeants from Wenden who had also been standing guard as half a dozen enemy warriors formed a circle around them. These were different from the soldiers that had attacked the army the day before, all of them well armed and attired in mail shirts, helmets and leather boots. The first assault had been designed to soften up the crusaders; this attack was intended to finish them off.

  Six against two. Ordinarily such odds would be more than enough to secure victory to the side that had superior numbers, but all those years that Lukas had devoted to training the two brother knights had not been wasted. A broad-shouldered brute with a great axe on Conrad’s left slavered as he brought his weapon up and then down in an attempt to split open his helmet. Normally the brother knight would have endeavoured to avoid such a potentially lethal blow but this time he deliberately caught it on his shield. The great curved blade bit deeply into the leather and wood but stuck fast. Conrad thrust his sword under his shield to drive the point into the belly of the axe man, disabling him as he stepped to the left to place the wounded man between him and the other two. One of the latter tried to thrust his sword over his now bleeding companion to strike Conrad but the Sword Brother shoved the axe man forward into him, forcing his sword arm upwards. Before the Semgallian had chance to recover Conrad hacked sideways with his own sword to inflict a deep gash in the man’s neck. He screamed in pain and staggered away, leaving one assailant left. This man had a kistien, a ball-and-chain type of mace that he now swung above his head intent on crushing Conrad’s skull. But the brother knight let go of his shield, pulled his axe from his belt and used it to entangle the chains of the kistien. The Semgallian screamed in frustration and then fell silent as Conrad drove his sword through his mail shirt. He released his axe, turned and stabbed one of Hans’ opponents in the side, his friend then driving his sword into the enemy’s groin. The man emitted a high-pitched squeal and then fell dead. The other two who had been facing Hans were also dead.

  Henke and Lukas came to them, both with bloody swords and ripped mail. No more enemy warriors were coming over the wagons but how many had already infiltrated the camp? Dawn had broken but the mist was still thick all around and reduced visibility to less than twenty paces.

  ‘Rally men of Wenden,’ called Lukas as Conrad retrieved his shield and axe, tucking the latter back in his belt.

  Rudolf and Walter came out of the fog, followed by Anton and Johann and at least half a dozen sergeants. The muffled sound of fighting was all around them but only dead enemy warriors were visible. Rudolf took off his helmet as another four sergeants appeared.

  ‘We go to protect the bishop. We are of no use here.’

  They moved into line and began walking forward towards the Sword Brother tents. Conrad wondered if the order’s soldiers had been slaughtered in the initial assault and found the mist-soaked emptiness disconcerting. Where was everyone? They moved past empty tents as the mist finally began to clear and a pale sun appeared above. The sounds of battle still filled the air but now there was a new sound, a sort of low rumbling.

  ‘Halt!’ shouted Rudolf.

  The others stood still and looked around, seeing nothing but also hearing the strange pounding noise ahead of them.

  ‘Have a care. Crossbows!’

  The language was German and came from the same direction.

  ‘Down on the ground,’ screamed Rudolf, throwing himself on the wet grass.

  Everyone did the same as dozens of figures appeared out of the mist. Conrad stared in horror as the Semgallians came at them. He and the others would surely die. And then there was a rapid series of cracks and many of the warriors groaned, yelped and collapsed on the ground after being hit by crossbow bolts. A split-second later another volley of bolts reaped another grim harvest as a stinking, bearded monster fell on top of Conrad, pinning him to the ground. The surviving Semgallians continued to beat a hasty retreat as the Sword Brothers remained on the ground.

  ‘Stay down,’ ordered Rudolf.

  There were a few groans among the wounded enemy warriors but most were still and dead, quarrels lodged in their bodies. And then out of the rapidly disappearing mist came a line of spearmen whose shields bore the symbol of the Sword Brothers, crossbowmen behind them and brother knights and sergeants to the rear. The mercenaries grinned and pointed at the prone members of Wenden’s garrison as they stepped around them, the spearmen stabbing the dead and wounded warriors with their lances.

  When the soldiers had passed Rudolf ordered everyone to their feet. He saw Grand Master Volquin beside the standard bearer of the order.

  ‘You are a sight for sore eyes,’ he said to Volquin. ‘Thank you for your warning.’

  Volquin winked. ‘We rallied at the chapel tent but I was sure that some of our men would still be fighting at the perimeter.’

  ‘Help me up,’ shouted Conrad. ‘I can’t move.’

  Volquin and Rudolf walked over to where the dead Semgallian beast lay on top of the brother knight. They heaved him off and assisted the Sword Brother to his feet.

  ‘About time,’ complained Conrad, pulling off his helmet, ‘I thought I was going to suffocate.’

  ‘My apologies, Brother Conrad,’ said Volquin, ‘I will try to do better next time.’

  ‘Apologies, grand master,’ said a mortified Conrad.

  ‘Are you well?’ enquired Volquin.

  ‘Well, grand master,’ replied a blushing Conrad.

  ‘Then let us finish this business,’ said the grand master, marching off to follow his men.

  Hans slapped Conrad on the back as Rudolf shook his head.

  The sun burned away the last vestiges of the morning mist as the Semgallians fled back to the woods from where they had had launched their attack, leaving their dead behind. Viesthard’s daring attempt to wipe out the crusaders had failed but he comforted himself with t
he knowledge that he would continue to harry them as they limped back to the Dvina.

  *****

  The longship cut through the shallow waters of Kuressaare Bay, its rowers only dipping their oars in the water as the sleek vessel approached the sandy shore. On the long, curved beach sat other longships that were having their hulls scraped clean and more that were in the final stages of construction. Half a dozen were moored in the water, their sails furled and their decks empty. Watchtowers manned by guards were dotted around the bay to provide warning of any approaching enemy.

  The captain of the longship barked an order and the rowers brought their oars into the boat and let the momentum of the vessel take it onto the sand. As ever when a single ship of a fleet returned to Oesel a crowd soon gathered on the shore to welcome home sons and fathers. This longship was a skeide equipped with thirty-five pairs of oars, a boat with a low gunwale that was fast and slim, attributes that were similar to its captain who gave the order to secure the vessel and then jumped down into the water. Because the bay was shallow and sheltered in the spring and summer it warmed up quickly and so on most days small children splashed among the warships that filled the bay. Others, older, played mock battles with wooden sticks on the sand before stopping to join the throng that had gathered to welcome home the crew.

  Pretty girls with blue eyes and blonde hair smiled shyly at Stark as he waded through the seawater to reach the beach, acknowledging their greetings and shaking the hands of grizzled old warriors who could still wield an axe or sword but no longer crewed a longship. He kept walking up the beach towards the great settlement of Kuressaare where he lived, a sprawling collection of longhouses and outbuildings, the whole surrounded by a stout timber wall. Beyond the wall were fields used for cultivation or grazing, a pattern repeated the length and breadth of the island where villages and hamlets of farms occupied high ground where visitors could be seen before they arrived.

  Stark walked to the gates of the settlement where his father waited for him. Olaf was now a year shy of his sixtieth birthday and his hair and beard were completely white. Shorter and stockier than all his sons, he could still match them when it came to wrestling and swordplay. He extended an arm to Stark and his son clasped the brawny forearm.