As Dust to the Wind

by Peter Darman

  Ausra was her name and she was eaten away by bitterness and resentment, bitter about how her life had turned out and resentful against all and sundry. The passage of time at least allowed Conrad to learn some names and words that alleviated the beatings as a result of his inability to understand what was being demanded of him. The headman – Petras – wavered between cruelty and concern that Conrad might die, one midwinter night furnishing him with new clothes and instructing him to sleep next to the fire heaped with fresh wood. For the first time in an age Conrad’s lower legs and feet were warm.

  The weeks passed and the land turned white with snow and ice. There was nothing to do except try to stay warm and dry. Conrad was not trusted to leave the hut, being shackled with chains around his ankles. Petras and his son Timi, a dislikeable youth of around ten summers already running to fat, took themselves off on hunting parties with other men of the village. They invariably returned empty handed.

  While her husband was away Ausra sat at a distaff and moaned constantly. Her voice was like a woodpecker tapping at Conrad’s skull but at least it allowed him to learn her tongue, assisted by her young daughter. Inga was only seven and still viewed the world through innocent eyes. Whereas the adults of the village viewed Conrad with indifference or contempt she was intrigued by him. Her curiosity got the better of her and soon she was trying to converse with him, notwithstanding her mother’s entreaties not to. But Conrad did nothing to suggest he was a threat and so gradually Ausra gave up chastising Inga for talking to Conrad.

  ‘Talk’ would be an exaggeration. Their conversations at first consisted of pointing at things and Conrad repeating the word that Inga spoke to let him know what it was called in Lithuanian. When the winter was at its most savage, he and the whole family sat round the fire staring into the flames, Petras snapping at Conrad to feed it with wood when it died down. He noticed that they treated the fire with great reverence, reciting prayers around it before they lay down to sleep.

  Conrad’s cough refused to go away and by the end of the winter he was infested with lice. When the snows began to melt his clothes were taken away and burnt. New attire was given to him, including a pair of boots. He was also taken to the stream, thrown in and scrubbed raw by some of the women of the village. His hair and beard, formerly neat and trimmed, was now long and unkempt but was left uncut so he resembled a wild pagan.

  He was given new leggings, tunic and cloak, much to his surprise, and for a few days was fed better than the rest of the villagers, who all looked gaunt and ill after the scarcity of food suffered towards the end of winter. As his health improved and stomach filled Conrad’s spirits rose and he began to think of release. Perhaps he had been ransomed by Bishop Nicholas, or even Bishop Hermann at Dorpat. But his hopes were dashed when a small mounted party arrived in the village on a cold, overcast day, led by the commander who had escorted Conrad to the settlement the year before. Petras shoved Conrad in front of him.

  The commander nodded. ‘He looks well enough. You have obeyed Duke Ykintas’ orders.’

  ‘We didn’t get any extra food for keeping him,’ complained Petras, ‘or money.’

  ‘Your service to the duke should be reward enough,’ said the commander.

  ‘We are poor,’ complained Petras.

  The commander flashed a savage smile. ‘That is why your village was chosen, that and because it is far from Mesoten.’

  ‘Mesoten still stands?’ said Conrad.

  Petras slapped him hard across the face with the back of his hand. Conrad tasted blood in his mouth.

  ‘Quiet, slave.’

  ‘So you have learnt our language,’ remarked the commander, a trace of admiration in his voice. ‘That is good. Perhaps you will live after all.’

  Conrad was denied food for a week for speaking out and he was forced to live outside Petras’ hut, in the pig pen. His cough returned but at least Inga who visited him frequently provided him with a few morsels. But as the weather improved and the days lengthened Conrad’s confinement was ended as every man was needed to repair huts, plough the fields surrounding the village and to take part in hunting parties. Not that Conrad was trusted with a weapon. And when any party left the village he was secured to a post with a rope with his ankles manacled. But at least Inga found time to sit with him so they could continue his language lessons.

  Timi now accompanied his father on their hunting expeditions. What a ridiculous pair they made, the portly Petras in his grubby clothes with Conrad’s fine sword dangling, the surly, pasty faced Timi beside him. The boy would not become a fine man, he thought, and seemed infused by his mother’s resentment.

  No food came from Duke Ykintas but towards the end of summer a man did appear in the village, dressed all in white and carrying a staff. He was an inch taller than Conrad but stick thin, erring on gauntness. As soon as he arrived Conrad sensed a change in atmosphere in the village, a palpable heightening of tension as he demanded to see the headman.

  ‘Where is the heathen?’ he barked.

  Taken aback, Petras wilted before him.

  ‘We did not know you were coming, holy one. Had we known we would have prepared a proper welcome.’

  The priest flicked a hand at him. ‘Yes, yes. I ask again, where is the heathen?’

  Conrad was bundled before him.

  ‘He dares to remain on his feet before a servant of Dievas?’ he shouted.

  Petras kicked the back of Conrad’s left knee, causing him to collapse.

  ‘That’s better,’ said the priest. He placed the end of his staff beneath Conrad’s chin and lifted it up to look into his eyes.

  ‘I have been sent by the Kriviu Krivaitis to ensure that the heathen does not use his magic against you.’

  He pointed at the ring on Conrad’s finger.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘We were instructed that he was not to be killed or greatly harmed,’ replied Petras, ‘on the orders of Duke Ykintas himself.’

  The priest’s eyes burned with anger. ‘A heathen will use such trinkets to bewitch you. Remove it at once.’

  ‘No,’ said Conrad forcefully.

  He felt the back of Petras’ hand on his cheek but he remained defiant. The ring was the last link with Daina and his short life with her. He would rather die than surrender it. But surrender it he did when Petras and the other men of the village, egged on by the priest, gave him a beating rendering him unconscious. When he woke, alone, bleeding and tethered to a post erected outside Petras’ hut, the ring had gone. It was then he wept. He had lost his friends, his order and now the ring he had worn for over twenty years. He rocked to and fro, quietly sobbing as he remembered his young wife and infant son. He prayed for death but death did not come, only the mocking voice of the priest.

  ‘How many women have wept for loved ones killed at the hands of the Sword Brothers? How many sons and daughters have waited in vain for the return of their fathers, cut down by the lances and crossbows of the men of iron? Your tears will avail you nothing, heathen.’

  The priest ordered the villagers to build him a hut, announcing that Conrad was too dangerous to be left among them without a holy man to protect them. At first they were glad of his presence but their enthusiasm waned when they realised they would have to feed him. Worse, he did not do any work but rather spent his days wandering in the forests, collecting berries and visiting sacred places. He wore Conrad’s ring on a leather thong around his neck, stroking it whenever he was near the former Sword Brother.

  The second winter was mercifully not harsh, though all the villagers aside from the priest grew thinner as the food supplies ran low. Two of the eldest members of the settlement died during the coldest weeks. They were found dead in each other’s arms one morning; their frozen bodies were cremated on a funeral pyre the priest ordered to be built. It was a wanton waste of firewood but the warmth from the fire was welcome and the villagers were pleased that the deceased’s spirits were now safe in the afterlife.

  Petras grew gau
nter, more miserable and irritable. He fancied himself a great warlord but in truth was a henpecked excuse for a man. He quickly came to resent the presence of the priest in his village, taking his anger out on Conrad whenever he felt like it. The Sword Brother endured his bullying and occasional beatings, mostly because to protest was to risk a more severe group thrashing. He gave much thought to escaping but he was never left alone and, since the arrival of the priest, nearly always manacled. The priest had been clever by ensuring his rations were cut, which left him weak and vulnerable to illnesses. In addition to his insufferable cough his limbs began to ache from the cold and sores began to appear on his body. The whole village had lice and fleas, which caused him to scratch and itch, further exacerbating his sores.

  The commander returned in the spring to berate not only Petras but also the priest, who took exception to the soldier’s tone.

  ‘I am the mouthpiece of the Kriviu Krivaitis himself and whoever contradicts me angers the gods.’

  ‘And I am here on the express orders of Duke Ykintas himself,’ replied the commander, ‘who was instructed by the high priest that the prisoner was not to die. By the look of him he will not last another winter.’

  ‘A risk that all my people take when the snows come,’ complained Petras. ‘We are poor and our harvests are scant.’

  ‘It is as the chief says,’ confirmed the priest grimly.

  The commander gave him a wry look, noting his frame had filled out since his last visit.

  ‘Though not for everyone, it would seem.’

  He pointed at the underweight and festering Conrad.

  ‘I will send you food. Make sure he comes to no harm.’

  He was as good as his word, a cart bursting with grain and hitched to two cattle arriving at the settlement a fortnight later. For a while the villagers treated Conrad with a modicum of kindness, knowing that his presence had resulted in the bounty that would supplement their meals during the summer and provide cured meat during the winter from the slaughter of the cattle. The winter itself was a harsh one though, embracing the land in ice to turn the rivers and lakes into grey marble slabs. Conrad shivered and shook in the cold despite being allowed into Petras’ hut. He continued to converse with Inga but found himself drifting off to sleep involuntarily as his body shut down to preserve its diminishing reserves of strength. Long gone were the days when Conrad Wolff had been a powerful, imposing figure, a man whose muscular frame and handsome features marked him out as a great warlord. Now he was thin, his flesh pale, covered with welts and bruises. His hair and beard were straggly, lice infested and greasy, his eyes sunken in hollow cheeks. He resembled an old man in looks and actions.

  But Timi was no longer a child and during that long, hard winter he began to take an interest in his young sister. At first he pestered her to let him cuddle her so they could both keep warm but then his interest took a sinister turn. Conrad saw him trying to molest her, which distressed Inga greatly. She complained to her mother who brushed aside her concerns, threatening to beat her if she persisted in such wicked lies. Timi was clever and cunning, always trying to ensure his parents were not looking when he assaulted his sister. For her part Inga could not understand what was going on but Conrad knew well enough. He tried to position himself near the girl so as to protect her but such was his exhaustion that he frequently fell asleep during his vigils.

  Her muffled cries woke him one morning. The air was damp and cold, the fire untended and dying because Timi was focused more on his sister than on feeding it. His parents were snoring loudly and to ensure they did not wake he had a hand over his sister’s mouth. The other was frantically pushing up her dress as she struggled in vain beneath him. Conrad shook his head, stood and grabbed the boy’s tunic, pulling him off his sibling. For good measure he slapped him across the face for his depravity.

  The blow was not hard on account of his weakened state but it was enough to make Timi squeal like one of the pigs Petras owned. He and his wife shot up, looking around with alarm, the headman reaching for Conrad’s sword, thinking the village was under attack. Timi scurried over to his mother and started babbling that the slave had attacked him. Ausra shot hateful looks at Conrad and demanded her husband do something. They gave no thought to the weeping Inga who had her arms wrapped round Conrad.

  It was early spring but there had been a sharp frost and the air was cool when Conrad was bundled outside and Petras bellowed for everyone to assemble. Within minutes bleary eyed villagers had gathered on the mud patch constituting the centre of their miserable settlement. They were joined by the priest whose white leggings were splattered with dirt. Having not yet eaten he was in an irritable mood.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’

  Timi, holding a hand to his cheek, pointed at Conrad.

  ‘He attacked me.’

  ‘Silence,’ snapped Petras. ‘The slave attacked my son.’

  There were murmurs of disbelief and anger among the villagers. Conrad had been among them for some time and during his confinement had never shown any aggression towards them. Then again, he was a heathen.

  ‘Kill him,’ shouted one of the men.

  The priest held up a hand.

  ‘We are not barbarians. No one, not even a slave, will be put to death without a fair hearing.’

  He looked smugly at Conrad. ‘What have you to say for yourself, slave?’

  Conrad coughed but wanted to laugh when he felt a sharp point at the base of his spine. It had come to this: being threatened by his own sword. Petras pushed the point into his back.

  ‘Speak, slave.’

  ‘It is quite simple,’ said Conrad. ‘Timi was trying to rape his sister and I stopped him.’

  No one spoke, even the priest was initially lost for words. Astonished faces looked at each other. Petras struck Conrad hard on his face with the back of his hand, knocking him to his knees.

  ‘Liar!’

  ‘I do not lie,’ said Conrad.

  Petras made to run him through with the sword but the priest stepped between them.

  ‘There is a simple way to resolve this. Bring the girl to me.’

  Ausra pushed Inga in front of the priest. The girl, shaking, looked up at the fearsome holy man. He bent over and smiled, which did nothing to reassure her.

  ‘Do not be frightened, girl. As long as you speak the truth you have nothing to fear. Dievas sees all and hears all. There is no place to hide from him so think carefully before you answer.

  ‘Did your brother try to force himself on you?’

  Inga blinked and nodded. ‘Yes.’

  The priest smiled again. ‘You may go back to your mother.’

  He stood and stared at the villagers.

  ‘Did I not warn you? Here is the proof that the heathen has been working his magic unbeknown to you all. He has clearly bewitched this young girl who speaks with conviction, not knowing that she has been deceived. I would hazard a guess that it was the slave who molested her.’

  Inga shook her head but Timi agreed. ‘It was the slave who was raping my sister.’

  There were gasps of astonishment and clenched fists were shook at Conrad, the gestures followed by shouts of ‘kill him’.

  ‘We cannot kill him,’ complained Petras, ‘the duke forbids it.’

  ‘Flog him,’ said the priest.

  ‘Is that all?’ complained Petras.

  ‘It is a start,’ answered the priest.

  They tied Conrad to the wooden post, stripped him of his tunic and whipped his back. It was Petras who administered the strikes, reducing Conrad’s back to a bloody, lacerated mass before he stopped and bent over, gasping for air from his exertions. Conrad hung limply from the post, blood oozing from his wounds. He was barely conscious, the words of those near him far away and hardly audible.

  ‘He can’t take any more.’

  ‘Kill him and tell the soldiers who come that he died during the winter.’

  ‘You cannot kill him. To do so would anger the gods.’


  ‘What, then?’

  Conrad drifted in and out of consciousness as they debated his fate. He thought he recognised the priest’s voice.

  ‘He laid a hand on your daughter, Petras, so punish the hand. Take a finger.’

  Conrad felt someone grab one of his hands and then became aware of a warm sensation in the little finger of his left hand, which suddenly turned into a searing pain dragging him out of his semi-consciousness. He screamed and thrashed around, other men of the village holding him, as Petras cut off his finger with a knife. An unbearable spasm of pain shot through Conrad’s left arm and then he mercifully passed out.

  He woke in an empty animal pen at the back of Petras’ hut. His wounded hand had been roughly bandaged and a grubby tunic had been put on him. He lay on his side, half his face in the mud, piss and dung, and tried to move. When he did so his back felt as if it was on fire, while his left hand throbbed with pain. He knew it was the end. His body, already emaciated and sapped of strength, would be unable to repair the new wounds inflicted on it. He accepted his fate. He had no desire to continue living as a slave in this miserable settlement in any case. Despite his wounds and wretched condition, a soothing calm came over him and he even managed a half-smile. Soon his suffering would be over.

  He must have drifted back into unconsciousness because when he woke it was night and everywhere was black. The unpleasant mixture of mud and animal waste was beginning to harden against his face as the temperature dropped. He felt chilled to the bone, his body subjected to bouts of shivering prompting pain to shoot through his back.

  ‘It was not supposed to be like this.’

  Because he was still on his side in the hardening mud Conrad could not fully see the figure standing outside the pen looking down at him. In the gloom and out of the corner of his eye he thought he spied a crooked individual. The clouds parted to bathe the land in moonlight and he thought he saw a hooked nose beneath a hood but again was unsure.