As Dust to the Wind

by Peter Darman

  ‘I came on this campaign out of respect for you, Susi, but you have cost us victory. We had them on the run.’

  Conrad turned and pointed to the right where a swirling battle had engulfed the Danes, and Anu’s relief force.

  ‘The right wing is about to collapse, Hillar. If that happens we will be surrounded. We will need Ulric’s crossbowmen to save ourselves.’

  Hillar stared at the Russian horseman attacking the Danes, grunted, spat on the ground and stared to the front.

  ‘Where are our horsemen?’

  ‘A good question, my friend,’ said Conrad, ‘a very good question.’

  The other commanders appeared, all mercifully unhurt though all showing signs of having been in a hard fight. Conrad told them what he had told Hillar. All eyes were now on the fight on the right wing. Tonis wanted to attack the Russian horsemen.

  ‘We have Ulric’s men to shoot them out of their saddles, Susi.’

  ‘If we leave our positions we abandon the centre,’ Conrad told him. ‘If I knew where our own horsemen were I would chance it, but we are blind so we must remain here.’

  A great cheer diverted their attention. He saw Andres’ men raising their spears, axes and shields, whistling and shouting, for Anu and his men had appeared. They were moving at a snail’s pace, shields locked together on all sides as horsemen lapped around them like a pack of angry wolves.

  ‘All-round defence,’ commanded Conrad as the Wierlanders inched closer towards the Army of the Wolf.

  All thoughts of routing the Russian foot vanished as his warlords rushed back to their men to reorganise them. A makeshift square was formed, spear butts thrust into the earth, their points directed outwards to deter enemy horsemen.

  Those horsemen were still assaulting the Danes but the latter were following Anu’s relief force, having formed what resembled only a passing resemblance to any sort of disciplined formation.

  ‘Let them all through,’ Conrad shouted to the Jerwen that were in disciplined ranks and who had formed the right-hand side of the square the Army of the Wolf had deployed into.

  Andres gave instructions to his chiefs who made a gap through the shield wall, through which Ulric led a detachment of crossbowmen to provide cover for Anu and the Danes.

  ‘Shoot the horses,’ he hollered.

  Russian riders, now without their lances and wielding swords and axes, spotted the crossbowmen outside the square and urged their tired mounts towards them. But after half a dozen horses had been hit and felled they pulled back out of range, content to go back to harassing the Danes. The latter’s archers still continued to shoot at their tormentors but they had run low on arrows and their shooting was sporadic at best. Conrad stood with Ulric as his men shot at any targets that presented themselves, also keeping an eye to the front where a line of enemy dead and dying akin to a brown wall in the snow marked the earlier battle between the Russians and the Estonians. He could see the enemy foot soldiers beyond the corpses but as yet they were making no effort to re-engage.

  ‘The bishop.’

  His attention was brought back to nearer at hand. He smiled when he saw two burly warriors manhandling Bishop Hermann in the midst of the Wierlanders, the churchman’s voice roaring through the air.

  ‘Let me go. How dare you treat me in this manner. I will have you excommunicated.’

  As Anu’s men formed a cordon to allow the Danes to enter the square Conrad walked up to the warriors.

  ‘I think you can let him go.’

  ‘He’s an ungrateful old man, Susi,’ complained one of the Wierlanders.

  They released him and went back to their companions, leaving the red-faced bishop fuming.

  ‘Where is your horse, lord bishop?’ Conrad asked him.

  ‘Dead, a Russian lance went through it.’

  Conrad linked his arm in Hermann’s.

  ‘I think we should seek safer ground, lord bishop.’

  The Russian horsemen, their mounts tired from the exertion of manoeuvring in snow, retreated to regroup, giving the Danes some respite at last. What a sorry spectacle they presented: tired, demoralised, many being assisted to walk after being wounded. They had mustered thirteen hundred before the battle commenced but their numbers had been sorely depleted after being mauled by hundreds of lance-armed enemy horsemen. After he had calmed down and accepted some water the bishop told Conrad the enemy had ridden in among the Danes, spearing many before being either cut down or forced to retreat.

  ‘It took a supreme effort to eject them from within our ranks,’ lamented Hermann. ‘Alas many Danes were cut down doing so.’

  He looked bitterly at the Danish spearmen who were collapsing on the ground around him.

  ‘Many shifted for themselves and acquitted themselves poorly.’

  The foot knights had done the opposite and had suffered accordingly, less than thirty left alive. The rough-hewn axe men had fought like their Viking forefathers but had also suffered heavy casualties. They too were glad to seek sanctuary among Conrad’s warriors.

  ‘The light is fading.’

  Hillar was looking up into the sky where the sun was rapidly dropping on the western horizon. His breath misted in the cold. At this time of year there were around eight hours of daylight and the position of the sun indicated the light would not last for much longer, just over an hour perhaps. Had they really been fighting that long?

  The Army of the Wolf dressed its ranks and stood ready to repel the next attack, though no attack came. The Russian horsemen promptly about-faced and withdrew and soon afterwards their foot followed. Conrad sent forward a party of scouts to trail them and another group to the camp to discover if it had been pillaged. It was dusk when they returned with news that the Russians had retreated to the east and the camp had been unmolested. They were followed by the return of the crusader horsemen, flush from their victory over the Russians and with tales of having pursued them for miles over the snowy landscape.

  Conrad was pleased to see that Sir Richard and Sir Paul were unharmed, and delighted that Jaan and Arri had likewise escaped injury, along with the majority of Odenpah’s garrison. But he was less than impressed with von Grüningen’s declaration the next morning at the council of war.

  ‘The Russians are finished. We must push on to Novgorod and accept the surrender of the city.’

  Princes Canute and Abel, having returned to camp in high spirits, were downcast as the full realisation of the losses their foot soldiers had suffered hit them. They barely spoke during the council meeting and neither did Rudolf, Sir Richard or Sir Paul, leaving the floor to the Livonian Master who took full advantage. As he voiced his delusional views Conrad became increasingly agitated.

  ‘After our great victory we need not hurry,’ stated the Livonian Master, ‘I expect a delegation from Novgorod any day.’

  ‘Really?’ said Conrad. ‘I too am expecting Russians, though they will not be predisposed to talking.’

  Von Grüningen glared at him. ‘Please leave strategy to those who have an understanding of the subject. We rest, restore our strength and then advance. It is God’s will.’

  Bishop Hermann, seated with a great cloak wrapped round him, an oversized fur-lined cap with ear flaps on his head, stared at the floorboards and said nothing.

  ‘I would advise against any advance.’

  ‘Would you indeed?’ said an exasperated von Grüningen. ‘I do not recall anyone here asking your advice, Master Conrad. The Holy Father has promised Bishop Hermann the post of Archbishop of Novgorod and we are here to ensure that he ascends to that exalted position.’

  Conrad looked at the two princes. ‘And you, highnesses, will you push on knowing that half your foot is dead or wounded?’

  ‘We are on a holy mission,’ said Canute, ‘and must continue it.’

  ‘Then let us at least head for the coast,’ suggested Conrad.

  Von Grüningen rolled his eyes. ‘What nonsense is this?’

  ‘Thus far we have advanced into ene
my territory without establishing a base or strongpoint,’ stated Conrad. ‘The coast is but a short distance to the northeast. If we establish a fortified position near the coast then we will have a place where we can retire to if we encounter unforeseen problems. And such a position can be supplied by sea.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ agreed Rudolf.

  ‘You are dismissed, Master Conrad,’ said von Grüningen curtly, ignoring Wenden’s castellan.

  The bishop looked up. ‘Wait. While I applaud your enthusiasm, Master Dietrich, I have to concur with Conrad. I witnessed the gore feast yesterday and saw first hand the damage inflicted on us by the Russians.’

  ‘We cut their horsemen to pieces,’ said von Grüningen firmly.

  ‘Some of them,’ Conrad corrected him. ‘A fair number retreated in good order after they had handled the Danes rudely. To say nothing of the enemy foot soldiers we did not kill.’

  ‘How remiss,’ came the sarcastic opinion of the Livonian Master.

  ‘Enough,’ commanded the bishop. ‘We will head for the coast as Conrad has suggested. If the Russians are as weak as you state, Master Dietrich, it will not matter. If not, then a degree of prudence will do us no harm.’

  The march recommenced, though the spirits of many men were deflated, not least those among the Danes who had been wounded in battle and who had to either hobble along beside the sleds and wagons, or ride on the vehicles if their wounds were more severe. The rate of advance was slower now with the wounded and the need to protect the column from Russian attacks. And though none came the apprehension that in every forest and behind every snow drift the enemy might be lurking haunted the army.

  Three days after the battle the crusaders reached a place called Koporye, a miserable abandoned village. There was nothing remarkable about the mould-covered huts and ramshackle animal pens and sheds aside from its position on a hill with a commanding view of the surrounding terrain, and the sea to the northwest, only five miles away. The sense of relief was palpable among the army as huts were commandeered for the bishop, princes and Livonian master and tents were pitched around them. Novgorod lay to the southeast but the chances of reaching it were fast receding.

  *****

  There was no fanfare or cheering crowds when Alexander Nevsky led his defeated army through the gates of Novgorod. No red-clothed prelates blessing the weapons of the Druzhina and militia that had left the city with such high hopes. Only swirling snowflakes in the wind and a cloud of doom hung over the returnees. The grey clouds overhead came to symbolise the dark mood infesting the city as news spread that the new Thousandman had been defeated by the crusaders, who were within striking distance of the city. Alexander sought the council of his father as the people flocked to church to pray for a miracle.

  The former Thousandman was housed in a mansion in the Kremlin, a place of order and opulence befitting the residence of one of Novgorod’s oldest families. Servants wearing soft shoes offered father and son freshly baked pastries and beer in the room that had been Yaroslav’s entire world since his illness. He could sit in a chair now and take a modicum of exercise in the palace, though he was still deathly pale and the physicians fussed over him like mother hens. Alexander had at first hesitated to inform him of the disaster, fearing it might spark a setback in his recovery, but the constant peeling of bells in the city meant Yaroslav found out the grim truth soon enough.

  ‘You must attack them again,’ his father told him, nibbling at a fancy.

  ‘The army has been badly shaken, father. I doubt it could face another battle so quickly.’

  ‘I did not say a battle,’ said Yaroslav. ‘Strike them when they least expect it. When their defences are down. Strike hard, strike fast and then melt away like phantoms. The city and its army will rally once the crusaders have been stopped in their tracks.’

  Alexander embraced him. ‘You must rest.’

  ‘That’s all I have been doing. And see your mother before you leave. You neglect her.’

  ‘Yes, father.’

  Alexander opened the door.

  ‘And son.’

  ‘Father?’

  ‘Get Kristjan to return. Novgorod needs him.’

  *****

  Despite von Grüningen’s optimism the crusader army needed time to recover from the battle. Not only did the wounded need attending to, the bishop had insisted that the Latin dead should have a proper burial. The Russian dead were left to wolves and ravens but Hermann insisted that those fallen in the service of God should be interred correctly. It took hundreds of men two days to dig mass graves in the rock-hard ground and at the end everyone was cold and tired. Then came the march ending at Koporye, which was mercifully only a short distance from the battlefield. Once there the army took root around the village on the hill. The Danish princes amused themselves by organising hunting parties, though there was little to hunt, while the Teutonic Knights and former Sword Brothers went to work erecting a makeshift stockade around the village, assisted by the Army of the Wolf and the surviving Danish foot soldiers.

  The work was slow. It was bitterly cold and bodies were exhausted requiring frequent rest stops and warm food. No one was in a hurry to leave the spot and venture out into the windswept, bleak white landscape. At night the wind sometimes dropped but the temperature always did when the clouds disappeared and a bright moon shone down on a land of snow and ice. Hungry wolves howled in the distance but did not venture near the multitude of campfires on the slopes of the hill. The bishop, Danish knights and von Grüningen’s Teutonic Knights camped in and around the village on the summit, within the timber wall being painstakingly erected. The former Sword Brothers and Army of the Wolf, together with the hapless and ill-equipped Danish foot soldiers, camped on the hill.

  Lukas tossed another log into the fire crackling and spitting, shooting sparks in all directions.

  ‘Well, Conrad, I heard that the Livonian Master is planning to have you flogged when we get home.’

  Rudolf grinned. ‘A tongue boring would be more appropriate seeing as he can’t keep it in check.’

  Conrad pulled his cloak tighter around him. Despite the sky being full of clouds it was still mind-numbingly cold.

  ‘Von Grüningen is an idiot and I will tell him if he solicits my opinion.’

  ‘You should kill him,’ said Henke standing across from him.

  ‘Brother Henke,’ remarked Rudolf, ‘that is not very charitable.’

  ‘Him and the other brother knights from Germany,’ spat Henke, ‘they look down on us former Sword Brothers like we are something they have scraped off their boots. They forget that it was us that made Livonia and Estonia what it is today.’

  He looked at Conrad. ‘And your heathen bastards, I suppose.’

  Conrad was surprised. Was Henke showing a thoughtful side?

  ‘After Volquin was killed at Saule,’ said Rudolf, ‘everything changed, for better or worse. The Sword Brothers lost half its strength and there were those who wished to see us humiliated, such as the good burghers of Riga and churchmen of that city.’

  ‘And yet here we are,’ said Lukas, moving the log further into the fire with his foot, ‘still alive and fighting. What else could a man wish for?’

  ‘That’s true,’ agreed Henke.

  ‘And you, Conrad, what does a man who has returned from the dead desire?’ asked Rudolf.

  ‘A world free of idiots.’

  Rudolf laughed. ‘You will be waiting a long time for that, my friend.’

  In truth Conrad was happy enough to be back among his friends and those he had been with since he had arrived in Livonia. They were all much older now but in these moments he was still that apprehensive fifteen-year-old who had arrived in a strange land across the sea. He still looked up to Rudolf and Lukas and was even now, after all his years of fighting, a little wary of Henke. He missed his dead friends, especially Hans, and even yearned for the company of Leatherface, though the old rogue had always been truculent. But Rudolf was right – times had
changed, and not for the better. The company fell silent as they all reflected on their lives. Conrad looked up to see a star, and then another and another. But they were moving. They were no stars.

  ‘Archers!’

  Making use of the absence of moonlight they had crept forward using the birch forest surrounding Koporye as cover. They rushed the sentries to cut them down and their archers used their flint and steel to light tinder to ignite their flame arrows carrying pitch-soaked material. They shot at tents, wagons and sleds.

  The air was filled with shouts as the alarm was raised and horns and trumpets were sounded. The Army of the Wolf stood to arms and rushed to the camp perimeter to repel the attackers. Conrad and the others ran to join them, arrows hissing through the air, some hitting the ground, others striking wood and canvas. He reached the edge of the camp where Tonis and his wolf shields were forming a defensive line. He saw fleeting shapes among the trees, heard the occasional scream as a javelin was hurled at the Saccalians. He gripped his sword and shield.

  ‘They are just probing our defences, Susi,’ said Tonis.

  ‘Where’s Ulric?’ asked Conrad.

  ‘We can take them,’ said Henke beside him, a spear thumping into the ground two paces in front of him. ‘Come on, you heathen bastards!’

  ‘That’s what they want,’ warned Rudolf. ‘To lure us away so they can wreck the camp.’

  ‘Stand,’ shouted Tonis, ‘hold your ground.’

  And then it was over. The Russians melted back into the forest and, aside from the occasional groan from a wounded man, there was silence. Everyone remained in their positions, straining their eyes as they peered into the blackness, nerves frayed in anticipation of another attack. But none came.