As Dust to the Wind

by Peter Darman

  Kristjan turned and looked at the line of black figures trudging through the snow either side of the wagons, riders providing flank cover.

  ‘If we venture any further west we risk being intercepted by the horsemen of Odenpah, Fellin and Lehola. They will have learnt of our attack by now and I do not want to give them any easy victories.’

  ‘You are eager to return to your former homeland?’

  ‘It once belonged to me; no longer’ said Kristjan bitterly.

  ‘Makes sense,’ said Domash.

  ‘What does?’

  ‘I wondered why you were so keen to launch this campaign,’ said Domash. ‘Rumour is that you are one of the richest men in Novgorod so I could not understand why you wanted to carry on fighting the Catholics. After all commerce requires peace. But now I understand; you want revenge.’

  Kristjan said nothing.

  ‘They no longer exist, you know.’

  ‘Who?’ hissed Kristjan.

  ‘The Sword Brothers.’

  Kristjan looked to the west. ‘There is still one.’

  *****

  ‘We must leave, lady. I have seen smoke to the east.’

  Mikk, Maarja’s old steward, was moving as fast as his old body would allow but his mistress was having none of it. She had been visited by Conrad and Master Jaan from nearby Odenpah who had both begged her to remove herself and her servants to the fort for safety. But she had steadfastly refused. She sat sewing by the fire with her two serving ladies in her tidy, warm stone home.

  ‘I will tell you what I told them,’ she said impatiently. ‘This is my home and I will not leave it. Besides it has a stone wall and a moat around it and a gate that can be locked. We also have your men to keep us safe.’

  Mikk scratched his head. ‘My men? Four old warriors that used to serve your father and are older than me? Oh, and I forgot to mention the two lads that muck out the stables, both of whom have not yet had a shave.’

  ‘Sarcasm doe not suit you, Mikk,’ she scolded him. ‘If we are assailed I’m sure that Master Jaan will send soldiers to rescue us. Now please put more wood on the fire.’

  ‘My lady I must protest.’

  She held up a mitten-covered hand. ‘No Mikk, I will hear no more. There is a garrison of brother knights and sergeants just a stone’s throw away and they will come to our aid if required.’

  Mikk began mumbling under his breath as he limped over to the stack of firewood beside the ornately carved stone fireplace. He bent down slowly placing two more logs on the fire. Straightening his back his saw the windows that were a marvel to behold. In between the narrow stone arches was glass, the magical substance that resembled ice and which was transparent. Bishop Hermann had spent a tidy sum on Lady Maarja’s home and he understood why she was reluctant to leave it. The windows gave a view, albeit blurred, of Odenpah half a mile away. Maarja could see the stronghold from her chair. Perhaps the sight of it gave her a sense of security. It did look deceptively close.

  ‘Mikk?’

  The old man turned and saw with horror that Kristjan stood in the doorway, behind him soldiers dressed in black leather boots, black clothes and armour. For a few seconds he froze but then his old warrior instincts kicked in and he went to draw his sword. Quick as a springing cat Skinner raced forward from behind Kristjan and had his own blade at the old man’s neck.

  ‘Stand down,’ ordered Kristjan angrily.

  He rushed over and placed himself between Skinner and Mikk.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked the old man.

  Maarja had left her chair to protect her two serving ladies, using her body as a shield. Boar and Tusk walked into the room, hands on their sword hilts.

  ‘How dare you break into my home,’ Maarja shouted. ‘If you have harmed anyone I will never forgive you, Kristjan.’

  ‘They are all locked in the stables,’ he told his sister. ‘Unharmed.’

  ‘Aside from a few bruises,’ grinned Tusk.

  Mongrel appeared, bow in hand.

  ‘The grounds are secure, lord. I have posted lookouts in case the garrison stirs.’

  ‘We are too close to the fort,’ said Boar.

  But Kristjan was not listening. He saw the look of terror on the faces of Maarja’s maidservants and the defiance in the tired old eyes of Mikk. Mikk, the man who had taught him to fish and use a spear when he was a boy. He suddenly felt ashamed.

  ‘Get out,’ he ordered the others. ‘And make sure the prisoners are not harmed.’

  Boar shrugged at the others and led them away.

  ‘And close the door,’ Kristjan ordered.

  He looked at his sister. ‘Please, resume your seats. I wish you no harm.’

  ‘I should tan your arse for this,’ growled Mikk, ‘just like I did when you were a boy.’

  ‘I remember.’

  Kristjan walked over to Maarja and assisted her into her chair, smiling at her maidservants in an effort to reassure them.

  ‘How did you sneak past the garrison?’ asked Mikk, nodding at the glass windows.

  Kristjan stared at them in wonder. Even though it was blurred his old home looked remarkably close. An illusion obviously but a clever one nevertheless.

  ‘You forget, Mikk, that I was raised here and know all the lesser-known paths and tracks through the forest.’

  ‘If you wanted to visit you should have sent word ahead,’ Maarja told him, ‘then I could have arranged food and quarters.’

  Kristjan burst out laughing. How innocent she was and so very good at heart. He had come to burn and kill and she was scolding him for his lack of foresight. He had not laughed like this in a long time.

  ‘You are right,’ he admitted, ‘I should have sent word ahead. I apologise.’

  The tension in the room lessened markedly, though Mikk still had a hand on his sword hilt.

  ‘Warm yourself by the fire,’ Maarja told her brother. ‘Will you be staying?’

  He wanted to laugh again but then a wave of sadness came over him.

  ‘I would like that, sister, but alas I cannot.’

  ‘You have come with just a few men?’ queried Mikk.

  Kristjan sighed. ‘Not just a few, Mikk.’

  ‘So you have come to make war on us?’

  ‘Not on you,’ answered Kristjan, ‘only on those who invaded the Principality of Novgorod.’

  ‘I’m sure that will be of great comfort to those hereabouts whom you plunder and kill,’ remarked Mikk sourly.

  As he always did when he felt pressured or angry Kristjan touched the silver torc around his neck. He now removed it and knelt in front of his sister.

  ‘If I have hurt you or caused you distress for that or anything else I apologise. It was not my intention. Thank you for the letters you sent me. They arrived at Novgorod and I read every one. I was never one to write but I should have at least sent you word that I had received them.’

  He held out the torc. ‘Something to remember me by.’

  ‘You don’t have to leave, Kristjan,’ she implored. ‘I am a friend of Bishop Hermann. Let me speak to him. He is a good man and I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement.

  He placed the torc in her hand.

  ‘You are a good person, Maarja. I am not. In the end we are all held to account, I know that now. But I cannot forgive those who are responsible for our family’s misfortune.’

  With a heavy heart he left her, embracing a surprised Mikk on his way out of the room. He and his followers melted into the forest behind Maarja’s residence, unseen by the guards in Odenpah’s towers. They rode south before swinging east to head back to the Karelians and Domash’s forces. Kristjan was constantly looking around, taking in every forest, frozen lake and snow-covered meadow.

  ‘There are no enemy patrols nearby, lord,’ Boar reassured him.

  Kristjan did not reveal that he was reliving his happy childhood. He turned to Skinner.

  ‘You were lucky back there.’

  The lithe killer gave him a
bemused look. ‘What, the old man? I could have slit his throat before his blade had left its scabbard.’

  ‘Not him, me,’ replied Kristjan. ‘If you had harmed him I would have killed you myself.’

  He kicked his horse ahead. ‘We have delayed too long in this place.’

  *****

  ‘You see that?’ said Domash, pointing at a rickety wooden bridge spanning a frozen waterway.

  His deputy, a man half his age, nodded.

  ‘That, boy, used to be the gateway to Ungannia,’ said Domash, ‘and beyond that Saccalia and Livonia. Over thirty years ago I used to lead raiding parties over that bridge all the way to the Dvina. They were good times with rich pickings. And now?’

  He let his arm fall. ‘Now I have to take orders from a jumped-up Ungannian. Lord Murk, what sort of name is that?’

  ‘We should get back to camp, lord,’ suggested his deputy.

  ‘Mooste Bridge, that’s its name,’ sighed Domash. ‘They were good times, a time before the Sword Brothers and Teutonic Order when pagan lands were the plaything of Russian warlords. Come.’

  He spurred his horse forward across the snow, his small escort following. It had been an age since he had ridden over the boards at Mooste and he would not be put off by a snivelling young boyar who had no fire in his belly. He halted his horse as it trod on the old timbers, in places broken and patched badly.

  Domash closed his eyes and breathed in the cold air. ‘Mooste, how I have missed you.’

  His eyes remained closed as he reminisced about the old days. He could still see his men riding among burning villages and could still hear the screams and wails of the women and children he had captured. Slaves that had been roped together and led across this very bridge, some to live out their days in Pskov or Novgorod, others, the unlucky ones, to be shipped south to the slave markets of Constantinople. They were good days.

  ‘Lord!’

  He heard the fear in his deputy’s voice and groaned. He opened his eyes, the bright sunlight reflecting off the brilliant white surroundings requiring a few moments to focus. Then he saw them. A group of riders in white, their horses covered in caparisons of the same colour, approaching the far end of the bridge, one hundred paces away. There were six of them, half carrying lances, all wearing full-face helms.

  ‘We should leave, lord,’ urged his deputy.

  Domash looked at him. ‘Why? We outnumber them and I am not of a mind to give way. Close up.’

  He drew his sword, his men gathering behind him, a dozen of his Druzhina fully-equipped in lamellar amour, helmets and armed with lances and swords. One carried the banner of Pskov and the shields of the others carried the city’s emblem.

  ‘Let’s see what these Catholics are made of,’ said Domash with relish, nudging his horse forward.

  The bridge was only wide enough for two horses to ride abreast, either side of it a frozen marsh treacherous for men and horses in the months when the water was not frozen. As the Russians moved the sharp easterly breeze filled out the banner, which billowed behind Domash.

  *****

  ‘The flag of Pskov,’ said Rudolf, ‘I remember that banner, and not with relish.’

  ‘They are going to fight,’ observed Conrad, seeing the Russians moving slowly across the bridge.

  They had left Wenden a week before, liaising with Sir Richard at Lehola before marching east to Odenpah and on to Dorpat. Andres and his Jerwen were also marching to Dorpat but Riki and Anu had remained in Harrien and Wierland respectively, still engaged in hunting down and destroying the bandit groups infesting those lands. Rudolf and Conrad had been taking part in patrols while the slow-moving foot soldiers of the order and the sleds carrying supplies made their way to the great rendezvous at Dorpat.

  Conrad shoved up his helmet and grinned at the men behind him.

  ‘Let’s see if all that training Werner lavished on you was worth it.’

  Jaan and Arri, now in the flower of their manhood, smiled back.

  ‘You can sit this one out if you wish, master,’ Jaan said to Conrad.

  ‘You too, Master Rudolf,’ added Arri, ‘we’ll take care of them.’

  Rudolf drew his sword. ‘You two pay attention, you are about to get a lesson in swordsmanship. You are with me, Conrad.’

  He kicked his horse forward, Conrad adjacent to him as he shouted the war cry of the Sword Brothers.

  ‘God with us!’

  The other five shouted the cry before pulling down their helmets and cantering on to the bridge. Conrad, reins in his left hand, pulled his shield tightly across his body, pointing his sword to the front, his elbow bent so his arm would not break once it struck its target. That target was the Russian rider ahead of him, lance levelled at his body. The two sides closed on each other, not at a gallop because the bridge’s timbers were slippery and wet and a horse might easily become unbalanced and spill its rider. So they rode at each other at a canter, the bridge shaking under the weight of mailed knights and horseflesh.

  Through the vision slits of his helmet Conrad focused on the lance-armed Russian, his weapon pointed at his shield. If the point struck it the metal would go through the leather and wood, through the arm holding it, the mail and gambeson covering his torso and into his heart. A trained man in armour on a horse couching a lance was a terrible foe, but part of his effectiveness was the terror he struck in the hearts of those he was attacking. Many charges were won before the sides clashed because of that fear factor. But Conrad also knew how to use a lance and was well acquainted with its strengths and weaknesses. He knew that a man holding a lance in his right hand could stab it into an enemy to his front right or, as in this case, to his front left. The sword-armed Russian on his right would fight Rudolf, which meant that the man with the lance would have to bring it over his horse to strike at Conrad.

  Time slowed as the Russian, showing his inexperience, leaned forward and thrust the lance at Conrad seconds before they reached each other, their horses instinctively slowing as the beasts became aware that there was no way round the other animal. In that split-second Conrad flicked down his sword to catch the lance point and sweep it to his right. It grazed his surcoat as it brushed past him. The Russian tugged on his reins, pulled back his lance instead of dropping it and screamed as Conrad thrust the point of his sword into his thigh. He made no more sounds when Jaan behind pushed the point of his own lance under his chin and into his neck.

  The dead Russian slumped in the saddle, his wild-eyed horse moving to and fro, desperate to escape. But it was hemmed in, horses in front of it, more behind and a frozen marsh on its left. Lances jabbed at Conrad from behind it but he was easily able to brush their points away with his shield. To his left Rudolf and another Russian were battering each other with sword strikes, each man using his shield to block or ward off the blows. Arri behind Rudolf was trying to use his lance to spear the Russian but Rudolf was using his reins to move his horse to and fro, making it difficult for Arri to strike home.

  The corpse in the saddle eventually slumped left and fell on the ice below, cracking the surface. The horse, now terrified, skidded on the boards as it turned frantically. Conrad saw his chance and poked his sword point into its hind quarters. It squealed and bolted forward, into the other Russian riders. It hit the first horse head-on, barging the beast off the bridge on to the ice but three feet below, throwing its rider. It then careered into the next horse, which desperately tried to get out of the way but instead crashed into the horse adjacent, knocking it and its rider into the frozen marsh on the other side of the bridge. Conrad dug his spurs into his own horse that shot forward, Jaan and a sergeant following. But those Russians still in the saddle had had enough and, forsaking their leader, turned tail and rode from the bridge.

  Conrad, Jaan and the sergeant followed, allowing Arri to trot forward to the right of Rudolf and stab the Russian fighting Wenden’s master in the left thigh. The Russian hacked down his sword to splinter the lance, leaving the point in his leg, but this allo
wed Rudolf to make a sideways cut with his blade that slashed his foe’s right forearm. Arri drew his own sword and hacked at the Russian who brought up his shield to block the blow. Rudolf thrust his sword into the Russian’s left armpit, disabling his arm, which collapsed to his side along with the shield. Arri and Rudolf thrust their swords into the Russian again and again, forcing the points under his lamellar armour. The final strike was made by an exhausted Rudolf, putting all his weight behind his sword to drive it through the chain mail covering his foe’s throat. He pulled off his helm as the Russian toppled from the saddle on to the bridge.

  Rudolf, panting, dismounted and walked over to the dead Russian, kneeling beside him. Arri pushed up his helmet.

  ‘He took some killing, master.’

  Rudolf wiped his nose. ‘Indeed, let’s see his face.’

  He rested his bloody sword on the bridge to remove the helmet covering the top half of the Russian’s face. He was shocked to see the visage of an old foe. Arri saw his surprise.

  ‘You know this man, master?’

  He stared at Domash Tverdislavich. ‘I know him.’

  The sound of iron hooves on wood made him look up. A helmetless Conrad pulled up his horse.

  ‘Time to leave, Rudolf, more Russian horsemen are approaching, which will embolden the ones who fled to return.’

  Rudolf picked up his sword, stood and pointed at the corpse.

  ‘The Mayor of Pskov, no less. Domash Tverdislavich, Conrad.’

  Conrad’s eyes widened. ‘What was he doing leading a small patrol?’

  ‘This will be a blow to the enemy’s morale,’ said Jaan.

  ‘Do you want to take the body to Dorpat?’ asked Conrad.

  Rudolf walked back to his horse and regained his saddle.

  ‘No, let the enemy take it back so word will spread of the mayor’s death.’

  He saw at least twenty horseman approaching the eastern end of the bridge, a dead Russian on the ice beside the wooden structure and another scrambling away over the frozen surface, his horse already having reached solid ground.

  ‘A piece of good news for Bishop Hermann at long last.’