As Dust to the Wind

by Peter Darman

  It was a large army but also one of contrasting appearances. The majority, the Voi or village levies, wore no armour and carried only spears and axes. On their feet they wore shoes made from birch bark and on their heads a leather cap; only a small minority had iron helmets and the archers among them wore no headgear at all. But the Voi were hardy, the weather was good and their spirits high as a result of being part of such a large army.

  The peshti were much better armed and equipped, every man having an iron helmet with an immovable nasal guard called a shisak, while his neck was protected by chain mail hanging down to the shoulders and back – barmitsa. They also wore mail on their bodies, the kolchuga resembling the crusader hauberk having short sleeves ending just above the elbow. Their shields were a mixture of round and almond shapes, all made of wood, faced with hide and bound with iron on the edges. Most were painted red; some carried the emblem of the snow leopard.

  All the peshti carried six feet long spears with elongated, large points called kop’yo, straight swords called myech and large axes with curved blades called torpor. The militia marched in step to the beat of drums and under the tight control of their officers. They were good soldiers, loyal to the mayor who had ensured they were always properly equipped, clothed and paid when they attended drill and training. But there were too few of them – barely two thousand – to offset the inadequacies of the seven thousand Voi.

  The Druzhina were the cream of the army, recruited from the city’s boyars and their retainers. Attired entirely in lamellar armour and burnished helmets, their lance points glinted in the spring sunshine, as did the coats of their steeds. They were a well-equipped and highly trained fighting force, an élite to match the mailed knights of the enemy, but they were a small part of the army and were further diluted when Domash arrayed his army for battle.

  He had emptied the city granaries and warehouses to ensure his soldiers were well fed and supplied during their short march from the city. They spent just one night under canvas, striking camp after dawn to make a leisurely advance towards Izborsk. Mounted patrols were sent ahead, others watched the flanks to guard against ambushes. The pace was quickened when the scouts returned with news that the crusader army was ready and waiting for the Russians a short distance east of Izborsk.

  A light breeze barely ruffled banners as the two armies faced each other, the priests of each side saying prayers and beseeching God to smile on them. Conrad turned the mace in his hand. Since he had lost his axe in Lithuania he had to confess that he had grown fond of his mace. Essentially a bludgeoning weapon that could cave in iron helms and shatter skulls and bones, he had to admit it was more efficient than an axe in that when struck with force an opponent simply crumpled under the assault. The only drawback was removing the gore from its steel flanges after a battle.

  ‘You should not be in the front rank, Susi,’ said a concerned Ulric.

  ‘Mm?’ said Conrad, more interested in the Russian mass forming up ahead, around five hundred paces away.

  ‘You are too conspicuous in your white surcoat. If you were on horseback with the other brother knights you would blend in more.’

  Conrad turned and smiled at him. ‘Who wants to blend in? You worry too much.’

  Poor Ulric. Fate had given him a face that hinted its owner carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. When you got to know him Ulric turned out to be a fine man: decent, honourable and brave. But alas for his morose features.

  They both stood in the dead centre of the foot soldiers of the crusader army, and indeed in the dead centre of the whole army positioned on a slight rise in splendid rolling terrain of meadow grass with only a few stands of elm and maple. The deployment and tactics had been hammered out by Rudolf and Conrad days ago, Bishop Hermann and the two Danish princes only informed afterwards.

  On the right wing stood the Danish horsemen – a hundred knights – plus the same number under Sir Richard and a matching number under Sir Paul – three hundred riders in all. Behind them were a thousand Danish foot, the remnants of the abortive winter campaign against Novgorod. No one wanted to be near them and so they were given the task of trailing after the knights in front of them when battle commenced.

  On the left wing were the Teutonic Knights – a hundred brother knights and two hundred sergeants – recruited from the garrisons in northern Livonia and those along the Dvina. But it was in the centre where the great mass of the army stood.

  Once again the Army of the Wolf numbered three thousand men, including Ulric’s ‘Bastards’ and their two hundred and fifty crossbowmen. To these were added a further hundred crossbowmen of the Teutonic Order and fifty crossbowmen brought by Bishop Hermann. In total four hundred crossbowmen stood in the front rank of the Army of the Wolf.

  Rameke had been paid his silver and had brought five hundred of his best warriors who stood as a tightly packed group on the Army of the Wolf’s right flank, a forest of spears ready to lance into the Russians. The latter were intent on deafening the crusaders with their cacophony of trumpet blasts, pipes and hordes of drummers. After they had finished their prayers the crusader army stood in stony silence.

  Conrad looked ahead and saw a grouse suddenly break cover and fly into the air.

  ‘We have our signal.’

  He turned and raised his mace. ‘God with us!’

  He had discarded his full-face helm in favour of a kettle helmet, which gave him greater visibility and did not heat up his skull once the fighting started. It was against regulations but as he was the only Sword Brother in existence he reasoned that he was allowed a certain degree of latitude when it came to rules.

  The plan was simple. The crusader foot would attack first, followed by the two wings of horsemen. There would be no private battle waged by knights on horseback, leaving the foot to fend for itself. All elements would stand and fight together.

  The Army of the Wolf walked forward, its dukes in the front rank. The Estonians kept formation admirably, the crossbowmen striding nonchalantly towards the brown enemy mass to their front. The horsemen on the wings did not move, hoping that the Druzhina opposite them would be tempted to wheel inwards to strike at Conrad’s men and the Livs. In this way the crusader knights could ride forward and strike the Russian horsemen in the flanks.

  But the Druzhina stayed where they were, thinking that the thousands of their foot soldiers would hold the enemy’s centre with ease.

  Conrad held out his shield in front of him, like every man beside him and behind him watching the sky for arrows. It was a common Russian tactic to group archers behind the shield wall and sure enough when they were within two hundred paces of the enemy black slivers appeared in the air. The spearmen behind the crossbowmen raised their teardrop-shaped shields over their heads to afford a degree of protection. The Estonian warriors also held their shields aloft but the advance did not stop. Rather it quickened to lessen the gap between them and the Russians more quickly.

  The arrows thudded into earth, shields and limbs but the advance speeded up. At a range of around fifty paces the crossbowmen began shooting, placing stocks in their shoulders and pulling triggers. Hundreds of bolts hissed over the grass and slammed into the front rank of the peshti.

  There was only one shot. The Army of the Wolf had been widely spaced when it advanced to allow the crossbowmen to halt and reload, the mail-clad warriors running past them to assault the enemy. Suddenly there was a spine-tingling roar as Conrad’s men hurled themselves at the peshti, followed by a sickening splintering sound as the two sides clashed.

  How many times had Conrad done this? That was the last thing he was thinking when he swept aside the spear held rigid by the Russian soldier, the red-painted shield locked tight to his body. It may have given him a sense of security as he braced himself for the attack of the tall man wearing the white surcoat but all it did was give Conrad an easy victory. He used his own shield to brush aside the spear point before chopping forward with his mace, the flanges striking the Russian’s na
sal guard, forcing the metal into his nose and knocking him into the man behind. Conrad used his collapsing body to strike at the Russian behind, the mace smashing into the top of his helmet to split the metal. The first Russian fell to the ground, the second recoiled from the blow to his helmet, dropping his spear and trying to raise his shield. Conrad stepped on the body of the first Russian, delivered another blow to the face of the second, ducked and swung the mace left into the knee of a third opponent who had dropped his spear and drawn his sword to stab Conrad. Another mace strike shattered his right hand, forcing him to drop his sword. He was finished off by an Estonian who almost hacked off his head with a series of frenzied axe blows.

  The peshti stood for perhaps a minute and then dissolved as the Army of the Wolf sawed into its ranks. The first two lines of Russians were bludgeoned and hacked to pieces and those behind, seeing at first hand the dreadful spectacle, fled. Behind them stood the Voi, thousands of them, but now the surviving peshti worked against them as they attempted to escape the butchery engulfing them.

  Conrad continued to hack with his mace. In battle his senses were always heightened and he was easily able to block enemy weapons with his shield or avoid their strikes altogether. He was always mindful of keeping his feet. A man who stumbles and falls rarely gets up in the mêlée, which was becoming more intense. The Voi mass were at first like a rock, immovable, especially as those in the rear ranks had no idea what was happening to those in front. The Army of the Wolf’s advance slowed to a crawl but it did not stop.

  An axe landed on Conrad’s shield and then a spear point glanced off the rim of his helmet.

  ‘On, Susi, on.’

  He heard the encouragement behind him and flung himself forward, screaming as he swung his mace and watched in wonder the face of the Russian he struck becoming disfigured under the attack. He drew back his blood-covered weapon and hacked it forward again and again, the Russian’s nose disappearing and then his cheekbones and chin. He was now fighting men who either had no helmets or paltry leather caps. He laughed cruelly as a terrified, fresh-faced boy with fear-filled eyes chopped at him with his axe. The blow was surprisingly well aimed but Conrad caught it on his battered and splintered shield. The axe blade got stuck in the wood, Conrad yanked his shield back, at the same time delivering a sideways strike with his mace that struck the boy in the side of the head, fracturing his skull. He yelped in pain and went down, taking Conrad’s shield with him. Conrad let go of the straps, transferred the mace to his left hand and drew his sword.

  People had commented on how strapping and strong he appeared since his return from Lithuanian captivity and in truth he had felt ten years younger. But it was only in battle that he truly came alive, invigorated and capable of defeating anything in front of him.

  Left and right Estonians, led by their dukes, were tearing chunks out of the enemy. It was only a matter of time before they broke, Conrad sensed it. His victories were becoming easier, his opponents more interested in fending him off rather than trying to slay him. Panic hung over the Russians like a thundercloud. And then he faced a bearded brute at least a foot taller than him, gripping a two-bladed axe in his giant hands. The monster shoved aside a fellow Russian so he could swing his axe more effectively. He threaded the shaft through his hands and swung it at Conrad with a deftness that was magnificent to behold.

  But Conrad jumped back and side-stepped so the curved blade cut only air. In an instant the Russian repositioned himself to deliver a sideways strike intended to disembowel Conrad, but the Sword Brother leapt back again just in time. This Russian was disconcertingly light on his feet. Conrad danced around him, the Russian shouting in frustration and rage as his expertly delivered attacks failed to hit home. If they had Conrad would have been cleaved in two. An Estonian, a Jerwen, jumped in front of Conrad to attack the brute, only to be killed when the Russian swung his weapon above the Jerwen’s head and brought it down on his helmet. Conrad heard the groan, spotted the spurt of blood and saw his chance, jumping forward and swinging his mace down to strike the axe haft. Simultaneously he jabbed his sword forward into the Russian’s face, who proceeded to grab the shaft of his mace as he ducked down to avoid the sword point.

  Conrad chopped down with his sword to split the Russian’s skull but the brute grabbed the blade with his hand! The two were locked together with the dead Jerwen between them, the Russian sneering and grunting as he held the shaft of the mace and the sword blade with his hands. Conrad yanked on his sword but his opponent grinned as he held it firm. So he gripped the handle and with all his strength pulled the sword down, cutting the flesh of the Russian who still continued to smile. The blade moved like slow motion so Conrad changed tactics, releasing the sword, pulling his dagger and stabbing the Russian three times rapidly in his neck. Now the brute released the sword as blood shot from his throat like a fountain. He clutched at the wound and staggered. Conrad sheathed his dagger, picked up his sword and rammed it into the man’s fat belly, pushing it in almost to the cross-guard. The Russian acted like a drunken man, staggering and losing his footing before toppling over. Conrad continued forward, hordes of Russians now streaming away to the east as they fled the scene of slaughter.

  Horn calls now replaced the clatter of weapons clashing and the shouts and screams of men. Conrad’s dukes were rallying and recalling their men.

  ‘Are you hurt, Susi?’

  He felt an arm around his shoulder and saw the concerned expression on Andres’ face. He looked down and saw his mail and surcoat were covered in blood, fortunately none of it his own.

  ‘I’m fine, and you?’

  Andres grinned. ‘Not a scratch on me.’

  The same could be said for most of the Army of the Wolf, for it had suffered remarkably light casualties, though many men carried wounds of varying seriousness. The Rotalians, Jerwen, Saccalians, Harrien and Wierlanders reformed in their ranks. Conrad sent a party to the right to discover the state of the Livs. They returned with the happy news that they too had suffered few casualties and their king was unhurt.

  Hillar viewed the retreating Russians, leaving in their wake ground littered with abandoned weapons and shields.

  ‘They won’t be fighting anytime soon.’

  Conrad nodded. ‘It will be up to the horse to hunt them down. We have fulfilled our task.’

  The horse had also been successful but the Druzhina on both wings had put up a hard fight and Canute and Abel had lost a fair number of knights to Russian swords and lances. As a result, there was no pursuit by the crusader horsemen but Rudolf was elated by the victory he had crafted. He sent Lukas to pay his compliments to Rameke, Conrad and his warlords and ordered the captured Russian banners be presented to Bishop Hermann. The prelate had been safely positioned among the militia from Dorpat well in the rear of the army. In this way there would have been no need to rescue him had the Russians triumphed, in which case he could have been ushered to safety more speedily.

  The next day the army marched east at a slow pace, teams of oxen hauling wheeled mangonels and wagons loaded with dismantled trebuchets. There were also dozens of other vehicles carrying food, weapons, armour, tents, tools, clothing, beer, ale and wine. There was no attempt to strike camp early. Victory had infused the army with certainty that Pskov would fall like a ripe apple into the crusaders’ lap. The march started late because the dead had to be buried. Conrad was summoned to the bishop’s pavilion when plumes of black smoke began to ascend into the morning sky.

  ‘There is an ugly rumour circulating that you ordered the burning of the Russian dead,’ said Hermann, a servant offering him a tray of dried fruit.

  ‘That is correct, lord bishop.’

  Hermann waved the tray away. ‘If I am to be Archbishop of Novgorod it would have been politic to have interred the Russian fallen like our own dead.’

  ‘No time for that, excellency, and little inclination.’

  Hermann leaned forward, placed his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his th
umbs.

  ‘I hope your army is not catching your seditious leanings, Conrad. Before he left for Germany Dietrich von Grüningen was bending my ear about your arrogance and troublemaking.’

  ‘The commander of our glorious winter campaign, I remember.’

  Hermann leaned back and sighed. ‘That is exactly what I mean. Have a care, Master Conrad, Estonia is no longer your personal playground and the Sword Brothers no longer exist. Those who do not move with the times get left behind.’

  Conrad smiled. ‘Yes, excellency.’

  Hermann shook his head. ‘You may go. Give my regards to your dukes, tell them the victory is as much theirs as mine.’

  Outside the pavilion Conrad ran into Rudolf, arguing with a steward about why the bishop’s quarters were not already on a wagon. The steward, a shrewish man with a thin face, was used to dealing with uncouth soldiers and answered Rudolf’s questions with a haughty indifference. Eventually Wenden’s castellan threw up his arms and gave up, stomping back to his horse being held by an immaculately dressed boy. He shoved a foot into a stirrup but then noticed Conrad. He left the horse and walked over.

  ‘The bishop is finishing his breakfast. Can you believe it?’

  ‘I have just seen him, he summoned me to his table.’

  ‘To share breakfast with him?’ enquired Rudolf.

  Conrad pointed at the black smoke. ‘To chastise me for ordering the burning of the Russian dead.’

  ‘Better Russian dead than our own. Did you tell him that?’

  ‘I have to mind my tongue,’ said Conrad, ‘I am arrogant, apparently.’

  ‘Can’t argue with that. You think Pskov will defy us?’

  Conrad screwed up his face. ‘Only if it has a replacement army to man the walls. The morale of those men who survived the battle will be low and the city’s inhabitants will not want to be under siege.’