As Dust to the Wind

by Peter Darman

  Andrey’s horse archers had done much slaughter, shooting their bows while remaining beyond the reach of the knights and sergeants. Under a withering hail of arrows Danish riders began to go down, one or two at first and then a score and more, all the time Andrey keeping his men under strict control. When he judged that the Danish horsemen had been sufficiently weakened he withdrew his men so Kristjan’s horsemen and the Pskov Druzhina could finish them off. The horse archers moved on to peppering the Danish foot soldiers with missiles, forcing them to retreat back towards the island.

  The Karelians, what was left of them, trudged back to Raven’s Rock after their headlong charge against the knights. They had been worsted but the horsemen had also suffered losses and they too pulled back to reorganise. As the snow continued to fall a lull descended over the battlefield as both sides redressed their lines. The left wing of the bishop’s army had all but disappeared, the Danish knights having been killed or fled, Reval’s militia desperately trying to reach the island while under the arrows of the horse archers. Meanwhile Kristjan’s horsemen and those of the Pskov Druzhina, flush from their easy victory, wheeled inwards to face the mercenary foot soldiers of the Teutonic Order.

  On the opposite wing the larger Druzhina of Prince Alexander was in a more deflated mood. They had battled and defeated the horsemen of Sir Richard and Sir Paul, killing both leaders and most of their men. But they had suffered around two hundred dead and many wounded, meaning only six hundred horsemen deployed into line to face the square of the Army of the Wolf. Novgorod’s militia had also been rudely handled by Conrad’s crossbowmen.

  The battle still hung in the balance.

  Dietrich von Grüningen, tired, angry, his white surcoat ripped and splattered with blood, slid off his horse and removed his helmet. Rudolf and the other masters, those still alive, did the same, the brother knights and sergeants forming two ranks to face front where the Karelians and Novgorod militia were reforming. Conrad walked from his army’s ranks in the company of Hillar, Andres and Tonis, the commander of the order’s mercenary foot also joining them for an impromptu council of war on the ice. Bishop Hermann arrived in the company of four horsemen of Dorpat’s garrison.

  ‘Bertram’s dead,’ announced Rudolf, ‘pulled off his horse and hacked to pieces.’

  ‘An end we might yet all suffer,’ said Mathias flatly.

  ‘I will pray for him,’ said Hermann.

  ‘Jaan and Arri are also dead,’ said Franz.

  ‘I’ve got two brother knights and half a dozen sergeants left,’ reported Arnold.

  ‘They will soon be attacking again,’ said a distraught Conrad, ‘my crossbowmen are running low on ammunition.’

  ‘And mine,’ added the commander of the order’s mercenary foot.

  ‘If they get in our rear we are finished,’ said Rudolf, ‘and so is the bishop. And if that happens then most likely his bishopric will fall to Novgorod for there will be no one to defend it.’

  ‘And after that the Russians will invade Livonia,’ said Conrad.

  ‘May I remind you that I am actually here,’ remarked Hermann irritably.

  ‘What I said still stands, excellency,’ said Rudolf. ‘We cannot defeat them here today. Our only hope is to retire to save you and the majority of the army so it can defend Estonia and act as a shield for Livonia.’

  Hermann looked at their drawn faces. ‘Where is the Duke of Saccalia and Sir Paul.’

  ‘Dead,’ answered Conrad harshly.

  Hermann was visibly shaken at the news. He had known both men for many years and had liked Sir Richard immensely.

  ‘We must save you, lord bishop,’ agreed von Grüningen. ‘The order will remain to act as a rearguard to ensure you make good your escape.’

  Conrad was amazed when the Livonian Master laid a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Your men fought well today. I thank them for their good service, and you for yours.’

  ‘You are welcome, master,’ was all that he could think to say.

  ‘We will charge the enemy to allow Conrad’s men to retire and link up with the bishop’s militia and escort his excellency to safety,’ commanded von Grüningen, ‘to your positions.’

  The masters saluted and returned to their men, Bishop Hermann being ushered back to his horse by his escort. Before he left he commanded that von Grüningen and Andreas also accompany him, knowing that if they both fell the Teutonic Order would be leaderless in Livonia and Estonia. They vigorously protested but he commanded them on pain of excommunication. For good measure he commanded that the order’s banner also be taken with him. Conrad walked back in silence to the Army of the Wolf, glancing back at the surviving mounted brother knights and sergeants who were preparing to make their final charge, what would be the last ever attack of the Sword Brothers. He looked down at his surcoat, the only one on the field of battle showing the red sword and cross insignia he had worn with pride for twenty-five years. Pride. Pride in his order and pride in the men who were a part of that order. Visions of his friends – Hans, Bruno, Johann and Anton – filled his mind. He made his decision. He stopped.

  ‘Ensure the bishop reaches Dorpat safely,’ he told the others.

  Hillar frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not going with you,’ said Conrad. ‘I’m staying.’

  They were stunned and appalled. He held out his hand to Hillar.

  ‘Take care, my friend.’

  Shocked, his eyes filling with tears, Hillar gripped Conrad’s forearm and nodded, fearing to speak lest he might blubber like a child. Conrad embraced Andres and then Tonis, both of them too distraught to speak. Finally he came to Ulric, who was weeping unashamedly, tears running down his face.

  ‘Bishop Bernhard would have been so proud of you.’

  Conrad stepped back. ‘I thank you all for your loyalty but above all your courage. Farewell my friends.’

  He turned and walked to the line of brother knights and sergeants. He saw Wenden’s banner and headed for it.

  ‘Conrad?’ Rudolf looked down at him in confusion.

  ‘Permission to rejoin Wenden’s garrison, master.’

  ‘A horse for Brother Conrad,’ shouted Rudolf.

  Fortuitously there were a few mounts available, the horses having been gathered together in the reorganisation, their former owners having been killed. A sergeant brought a palfrey over to Conrad, handing him a lance after he had lifted himself into the saddle. Rudolf shook his head as he smiled at him.

  ‘You remember how to use one of those?’

  Conrad turned to Henke beside him, also helmetless and with a nasty gash on his left thigh.

  ‘Henke, before we go I want to thank you.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For saving me and my sister in Lübeck all those years ago.’

  Henke rolled his eyes. ‘I hope you are not going soft on me. I was just doing my duty.’

  ‘Even so.’

  ‘All right, all right. Don’t burst into tears.’

  The gruff brother knight looked up. ‘At least it’s stopped snowing. I hate the snow and rain.’

  Conrad began laughing and could not stop. It was all so absurd.

  Rudolf commanded the order’s mercenaries to also fall back with Army of the Wolf, knowing that the bishop stood a better chance of making it back to Dorpat supported by their crossbows. The strange silence was suddenly shattered by a cacophony of trumpet blasts and drums banging. The Russians were advancing again.

  Prince Alexander led his Druzhina across the ice to assault the Army of the Wolf shuffling back, shielding Dorpat’s militia with Bishop Hermann behind it. All eyes were on the Russian horsemen who cantered across the frozen surface in a line, lances levelled as they neared the Estonians.

  ‘Someone’s going to get a nasty surprise,’ said Conrad.

  Horses started to fall as ‘The Bastards’ took careful aim. Perhaps the Russians believed the crusader army was finished and all they had to do was ride down its foot soldiers. But C
onrad’s men were made of stern stuff and simply halted, locked shields and pointed their spears at the oncoming enemy horsemen. Two more volleys emptied at least a hundred saddles and brought the Druzhina’s charge to an inglorious end. The horsemen about-turned and withdrew out of range, shadowing the Army of the Wolf but not interrupting its retreat.

  It was as similar story on the left where the Pskov Druzhina and Kristjan’s horsemen were mauled by the crossbowmen of the Teutonic Order, who likewise were falling back in good order and keeping close to the Army of the Wolf.

  *****

  ‘They are fleeing, lord,’ exclaimed Boar as the bishop’s army slowly withdrew.

  ‘Be quiet,’ snapped Kristjan.

  He had brought his men south to destroy the enemy, not allow them to sneak away from under his nose. If they got away they would live to fight another day. He looked at the corpse-strewn ice in front of him, the majority made up of his own Karelians, though there were also a fair number of Novgorodian dead where the militia had engaged the Army of the Wolf. And there were still wretched Christian knights ahead, seemingly taunting him with their defiance.

  ‘If you want something doing, do it yourself,’ he muttered to himself.

  He turned to Boar. ‘We attack. Give the order.’

  Boar looked at Tusk who shrugged.

  ‘Something wrong, Boar?’ hissed Kristjan.

  ‘The lads are tired, lord, and half their number are either dead or wounded.’

  ‘That still leaves six hundred,’ sneered Kristjan. ‘Give the order.’

  The six hundred Karelians were no longer full of bravado but were burning with a desire for vengeance as they walked forward. Clustered around their chiefs and headmen they formed a compact mass led by Kristjan and his companions. To their left the Novgorod militia, having suffered heavy casualties, stood and watched, any trace of courage remaining among them having been extinguished. But seeing the Karelians advance the militia’s commanders, shamed by the courage of wild pagans, gave the order to likewise move forward. The signallers blew their trumpets, drummers banged their instruments and over a thousand militiamen marched forward.

  *****

  The helmetless Rudolf raised his lance.

  ‘God with us!’

  The battle cry of the Sword Brothers was repeated with gusto as a hundred and fifty horsemen walked their mounts forward. Because of the ice they kept their distance from each other as they broke into a trot and then a canter. Conrad brought down his lance on his right side and focused on the black mass ahead. The wind had picked up and he saw a banner, upon which was an eagle. Something about that banner was familiar, as was the same design on the shields of the warriors he saw in the front rank of the enemy.

  Kristjan!

  The horses were cantering when they hit the Karelians, many of whom instinctively shied away from the lance points before they struck home. In this way they avoided being skewered but merely exposed those behind to death and injury. Conrad thrust the point of his lance into a thickly padded torso, let go of the shaft, pulled the mace from his belt and chopped it down on the head of another warrior. His horse slowed among the mass of warriors but he continued to chop left and right at targets. Then his horse crumpled when a spear was shoved into its belly.

  Conrad kicked himself free of the beast so as not to get pinned beneath its bulk, falling heavily on the ice. He flicked on to his back just in time to avoid behind struck by an axe, raising his shield to catch the blade. The iron bit deep into the wood, the blade sticking fast. Conrad kicked at the man’s shin, knocking him over. He was suddenly grabbed and hauled to his feet.

  ‘No loitering,’ said Henke, sending his own mace into the face of an opponent, smashing the man’s nose.

  The brother knights and sergeants had ridden deep into the Karelians, some still on horseback but the majority now dismounted and fighting on their feet. They fought their way to the banners of their respective garrisons, Henke and Conrad soon finding Rudolf, who was fighting beside Lukas, around them brother knights and sergeants battling a swarm of enemy warriors. And then everyone seemed to vanish as Kristjan appeared just yards from Conrad. A big man beside Kalju’s son went to advance towards Conrad but Kristjan pushed him aside. Amid the horror, torn limbs and the screams and shrieks of the dying, Kristjan calmly walked forward, hate in his eyes.

  ‘Come, Kristjan,’ said Conrad, ‘let us embrace at last.’

  The Ungannian screamed and came at Conrad, his sword a silver blur as he delivered a series of vertical and diagonal cuts intended to lop Conrad’s head off. The Marshal of Estonia dodged, parried and sidestepped the blows, the mace in his left hand, his sword in the right. Kristjan was light on his feet and his reflexes were fast, causing Conrad to weave around him to avoid his blade. A horizontal cut to his mid-section sliced his surcoat and the mail beneath, a low cut to the knee cut his mail chausse. He tripped on a dead body and nearly fell; Kristjan lunged forward to drive his sword point through the mail on his left arm, cutting flesh.

  Kristjan delivered a vertical cut to the head that Conrad stopped with his mace, but Kristjan moved in to block Conrad’s sword thrust with his shield, smashing the wood and leather against his body, knocking him off-balance. Conrad slipped on the ice, Kristjan lunged, the point of his sword pierced the Sword Brother’s side and Lord Murk howled with triumph.

  Conrad felt the sharp pain in his left side and dropped the mace. Kristjan moved in for the kill, licking his lips like a hungry animal in anticipation of easy meat. Conrad’s head dropped, as did his sword. Kristjan smiled and raised his sword over his head. Conrad passed his sword from right hand to left to stop Kristjan’s blade, drew his dagger and thrust it at his foe. The thin point struck just above the larynx, penetrating the flesh and severing the windpipe. Blood shot from the wound, Kristjan gasped and gurgled and toppled face-first on the ice.

  Conrad saw movement out of the corner of his eye but was too slow to prevent Mongrel stabbing him with his sword in the side of his right leg. He grimaced and staggered back, Kristjan’s man swinging his sword to slice open Conrad’s left cheek. He jumped forward and froze when Henke drove his sword through his side, the powerful brother knight ramming almost the entire blade through the archer’s guts. He pulled it out and Mongrel collapsed, shaking on the ice as life left him.

  Henke hollered in anger and pain when he saw Boar kill Rudolf, the Karelian thrusting his sword into the master’s back while he was fighting Tusk. Before Boar had a chance to withdraw his blade Henke was on him, slashing right and left with his sword to shatter Boar’s collarbone, cut open his neck and sever his nose. He screamed in triumph as Boar went down in a pool of blood, turned and saw Tusk thrust his sword into his belly, the point going through mail, gambeson and into flesh. Henke stood, grabbed the cross guard of Tusk’s sword and smiled. Conrad swung his blade to sever Tusk’s spinal column from behind, the giant’s head dropping forward, followed by his body collapsing.

  Conrad assisted Henke, grabbing him to prevent him from collapsing, the sword still in his belly. He went to pull it out.

  ‘No,’ said Henke, ‘I’m done for. Put me beside Rudolf.’

  With great difficulty, the desperate mêlée still raging around him, Conrad laid Henke next to his life-long friend. Henke nodded and made the semblance of a smile, blood showing at his lips.

  Conrad stood, putting the weight on his left leg, his right aflame with pain and all but useless.

  ‘It won’t be long now, Henke.’

  He gripped his sword and waited for death. Beathing heavily he continued to lose blood. He glanced down at Henke and saw that he had passed from this life. A Karelian lunged at him with a spear. He dodged left, brought up his sword and made a diagonal strike that shattered his opponent’s jawbone. He felt fire in his right side and saw another spear had pierced his flesh. He grabbed the shaft with his left hand, twisted his sword in his right and drove the cross guard into the eye of his attacker. The man gave a high-pitched scream
and staggered away.

  Bertram and Mathias were dead. He saw Franz go down under a deluge of axe blows as he yanked the spear out of his side. He watched with wonder and pride as Lukas out-fought Skinner with his sword, killing Kristjan’s man with a superb display of swordsmanship. Walter was avenged. But he could not fight everyone and the man who had taught Conrad how to use a sword was eventually overwhelmed and disappeared from view.

  The scene of carnage was terrible to behold. Everywhere on the ice were heaps of twisted, interlocked bodies. Around them horribly wounded men were crawling away or lying motionless, groaning faintly or quietly sobbing. The surface of Lake Peipus was literally covered in blood.

  The sounds of battle suddenly ceased. He looked around and saw that he was the only knight still standing. The enemy, exhausted, shocked, demoralised, were falling back. He forgot his pain for a moment to chuckle to himself. The Karelians had had enough and were trudging back to Raven’s Rock, their number pitifully few. In their place were the nervous militiamen of Novgorod, their ranks also depleted as a result of their brutal encounter with the former Sword Brothers. Then, miraculously, they too began to withdraw, relief etched on their faces.

  Conrad winced and thought he would collapse, his right leg numb and pain torturing his sides. He saw Wenden’s flag lying across the body of a fallen sergeant a few feet away. He hobbled over and picked it up, using it as a crutch to stand. He heard shouts and saw a line of archers forming up in front of him, around a hundred paces away. Twenty, fifty, a hundred. Their officers were shouting at them to nock arrows.

  Conrad raised his sword and the flag.

  ‘I am Conrad Wolff, brother knight of the Sword Brothers, Master of Odenpah, Marshal of Estonia and commander of the Army of the Wolf and I will scatter my enemies as dust to the wind.’

  In response a hundred arrows whistled through the air.