Master of Mayhem

by Peter Darman

  Some turned to face their tormentors, their only reward being that the front of their bodies were mutilated. A few, armed with gutting knives and hammers, rushed forward in a futile effort to kill their attackers. But the Kurs were surprisingly light on their feet for big men and they easily avoided the ill-aimed strikes, or ducked left so their attackers cut air as they rushed by them, the blade of a broadaxe biting deep into the sides of their torsos. Then the Kurs attacked, swinging their weapons up and then down to embed the blades deep in Rigan skulls or shoulders.

  As fear and panic spread through the crowd men desperately pushed forward, causing those in front to lose their footing to disappear beneath a frenzied throng. Men desperate to get away from Kur axes literally hurled themselves on to the shoulders of those in front, grabbing faces and shoulders to haul themselves away from danger. It was a scene of chaos and desperation, and around the edges of the great mass of people trying to gain access to the city the Kurs hacked, clubbed and killed.

  ‘Close the gates, close the gates!’

  Manfred Nordheim had reacted swiftly when the alarm bells had been sounded. He had never commanded an army but he had a sound grasp of military affairs and an even clearer appreciation of self-preservation. He had mustered those soldiers of the garrison who were in the castle and led them at speed to the city’s gates. When he reached the scene of chaos his first thought was to get the gates closed so the enemy, whoever they were, would not gain access to the city. It was a reasonable reaction to the crisis but it would effectively condemn everyone trapped in the port area to death. His men did their best to push their way through to the wooden gates, using their shields to try and force a way through the terrified crowd. To no avail.

  ‘To the walls, to the walls.’

  Nordheim turned to see Grand Master Volquin at the head of those Sword Brothers who were based in the castle as part of what was termed his ‘office’: two brother knights, five sergeants, five spearmen and the same number of crossbowmen. Nordheim noticed that Volquin, the brother knights and sergeants were all carrying crossbows in addition to their swords and shields.

  Volquin pointed up at the gatehouse where crossbowmen of the garrison were shooting bolts at the enemy on the other side of the wall.

  ‘You will never close the gates with this press of people. We need to reinforce your crossbowmen on the walls.’

  Nordheim looked at the grand master, the man who had threatened him at Reval. They disliked each other intensely but the commander was aware that action needed to be taken to avert a disaster. He had fifty spearmen and a score of crossbowmen with him. He had sent orders that the rest of the garrison was to gather at the southern gates but by the time they arrived it would be too late. He pointed at the commander of his crossbowmen.

  ‘Go with the grand master.’

  Volquin bounded up the stone steps that led to the battlements. The men of his order followed and after them came the red-uniformed crossbowmen of the garrison.

  ‘Let them pass,’ Nordheim shouted to his spearmen who were still trying to force their way forward.

  The soldiers immediately stepped aside to regroup near the foot of the walls as men and boys ran by to escape the Kurs who, supported by Ringaudas’ men, were still administering carnage with their axes outside the gates. But those that had landed at jetties some distance away were busy boarding boats and ships to slaughter their crews. This was not a wholly one-sided affair and the Kurs lost a few men to fishhooks, spears and axes before they were able to butcher every crew member. Their enraged Kur comrades then set the vessels alight. Soon there were plumes of black smoke billowing into the cloudless sky as boats burned.

  Arturus sliced open the stomach of a sailor who had turned to face his tormentors, a wooden club in his hand. He had swung the weapon wildly at the Kur leader, who ducked and then delivered a vicious slashing stroke with his sword across the man’s belly. The blade moved fast as it cut through the linen shirt and the flesh underneath, opening the sailor’s belly just below his ribcage. He gave a high-pitched shriek as blood and gore poured from his body before he collapsed on the ground. Arturus smiled but then his happiness disappeared as he caught sight of one his axe men being struck by a crossbow bolt. He felt a momentary breeze against the right side of his face followed by a gurgling noise and turned to see another of his men with a crossbow bolt lodged in his throat. His face and helmet were covered in blood as a red fountain spurted from the wound before the man dropped his axe and pitched forward. Arturus looked up to see figures behind the parapet on the wall, and they all were aiming and shooting crossbows.

  He turned to his signaller. ‘Sound retreat.’

  The man placed the horn to his lips and blew it, and then he blew it again and again. The cracks and hisses from the crossbows grew in number and more Kurs and a few Selonians were hit. But in answer to the horn calls the axe men immediately disengaged, about faced and beat a speedy retreat. To those who faced them, Christian and pagan alike, the Kurs were savages, wild demons dressed in black who had no respect for religion and who took delight in killing. This was all part of the image deliberately encouraged by Arturus and Lamekins, who believed that a foe is already half beaten if he believes that his enemy has supernatural powers. The reality was that Arturus and his deputy had trained and equipped their men well. They obeyed commands even in the furnace of combat; they were not wild but always under a tight leash. And they were above all professional. They had come to Riga to kill and strike fear into the hearts of their enemies; they had not travelled from Kurland to be shot down by crossbowmen.

  Arturus was the last to fall back, making sure that any Kur wounded were taken back to the boats and not abandoned. He had no concern for the Selonians, who had surrendered any discipline to bloodlust and continued to chop and hack at unarmed men as they were shot at from the walls. As a result Ringaudas lost fifty men before his screams and threats finally persuaded his men to join the Kurs in their retreat to the boats. Arturus stood on a jetty, sword in hand, as the Selonian leader passed him.

  ‘Your men need more discipline,’ he told Ringaudas. ‘Those that now lie dead near the gates have paid the price for allowing their thirst for blood to blot out their reason. You understand?’

  Ringaudas nodded blankly. He could not fathom this Kur duke, this man who was the stuff of people’s nightmares. He could be cruel and ruthless but at the same time the most rational person he had ever met.

  ‘Did you want to say something, Ringaudas?’ asked Arturus.

  ‘No, lord,’ he blurted out.

  ‘Then make sure you and your men are evacuated safely.’

  Ringaudas nodded as he hurried away to where his men were clambering over dead bodies and civilian boats to reach the Kur riverboats. Arturus looked at the gates where red-uniformed soldiers were forming up amid a pile of dead and dying. He glanced left to where several boats were now burning fiercely. Behind him riverboats were pushing off from the sides of Rigan vessels. They would take the same route back to Kurland they had followed to get to Riga: row across the Dvina and then hug the southern riverbank until they reached the coastline of Kurland where the boats would be returned to their owners.

  Arturus sheathed his sword and stepped off the jetty into the boat where several dead sailors lay, their blood covering the bottom boards of the vessel. He stepped over the bodies, being careful to avoid the gore. He reached the Kur boat and the commander gave the order to push off. Once the crew had done so the rowers dipped their oars in the water and powered the vessel into midstream to follow the other boats. Ringaudas standing beside him was looking nervously behind as the vessel swung around and headed towards the southern riverbank.

  ‘The Christians will not follow, have no fear,’ Arturus told him. ‘Their most powerful vessels are the tall ships that are grouped along the longer jetties. But they are slow and unwieldy, unsuitable for a pursuit. Alas for the Bishop of Riga.’

  *****

  Over a hundred miles so
uth of Riga, among the vast pine forests of Samogitia, another Kur was experiencing the same sense of satisfaction as Duke Arturus. Lamekins was aware that Samogitia shared a long border with Kurland and was determined that it should pose no threat while he concentrated on matters pertaining to the Christians in the north. So Arturus sent Lamekins with the bulk of the army to ‘amuse’ himself in Samogitia.

  The prince struck south, launching a campaign of fire and sword against the Samogitian villages in the far south of Duke Ykintas’ realm, along the River Neman. The mighty, slow-moving Neman meandered through a landscape of rolling hills and dense pine forests. Almost every hill was the site of a fort of some kind, be it one occupied by a warlord or kept empty and used as a refuge by local villages. And on every hill there was a signal fire to warn of approaching enemies. As Kur horsemen began attacking and burning villages the hills along the Neman were suddenly glowing red with signal fires. And soon riders were galloping to Medvegalis with news that the south of Samogitia was being destroyed by the Kurs.

  Medvegalis was the highest hill in Samogitia, the site of the kingdom’s strongest hill fort and the capital of Samogitia’s dukes for generations. No army had ever tried to assault the fort for to do so would be folly in the extreme. The height of its timber walls added to the elevation of the hill meant that an attacker would require a host of giants to have any chance of success against the stronghold. A commander as talented as Lamekins would not have attempted to capture Medvegalis but he had no need to.

  The burning of villages was designed to lure Duke Ykintas from his stronghold, which is exactly what happened. Leading his column of horsemen he was ambushed by a larger force of mounted Kurs on a forest track only five miles south of Medvegalis. Because Lamekins’ men wore black and rode black horses they were unseen by the Samogitians as they sat in silence among the trees just a hundred paces from the track. Lamekins was springing the perfect ambush but the reaction of the enemy surprised both him and his men.

  As the Kurs charged Ykintas drew his sword, yanked the reins of his horse to steer it towards the onrushing enemy and dug his spurs into its flanks. The beast reared up on its hind legs and bolted into the trees. A Kur threw a spisa at him but it was aimed high. He ducked, the lance flew over his head and he slashed his sword right as the Kur passed, his right thigh opening.

  ‘Rally, Samogitians,’ he shouted as he slashed left with his sword to split the leather covering of a Kur shield.

  A dozen of his men were already dead but the rest made a supreme effort to reach their lord, charging into the trees to ride through their assailants. Three spisas slammed into Ykintas’ horse, felling the beast and throwing him from his saddle. But he was possessed of a fury that must have been sent by Perkunas himself because he sprang to his feet and plunged his sword into the chest of the nearest Kur horse. The animal cried out and collapsed and Ykintas was on its rider in an instant, plunging his sword into the man’s chest, the point going through the leather cuirass. He yanked the sword free, turned to see a Kur bearing down on him with an axe in hand and prepared to die, but laughed out loud when one of his men crashed into the rider. Both of their horses whinnied in alarm as they lost their footing and clattered into a pine tree.

  The fight among the pines was savage: spisas flying through the air to hit bark, horseflesh and men’s bodies. Screams of rage and shrieks of pain echoed through the trees as Ykintas and his men fought back, battled the Kurs with a ferocity that Lamekins had never seen in an enemy before. His bodyguard instinctively closed around him as the swirling mêlée reached his position, his men spearing four Samogitians who were bleeding and on foot but still fighting.

  Ykintas, bareheaded, his forehead gashed and bleeding, was shouting encouragement to his men as the Kur signallers sounded withdrawal and their horsemen disengaged and melted back into the forest. He raised his sword and gave a mighty cheer as the black-clad enemy disappeared, a call that was answered by his men, those still alive.

  ‘You are wounded, lord,’ said a concerned subordinate.

  Ykintas waved his concern away. ‘Make a count of our losses and kill any Kur wounded you find.’

  ‘Yes, lord.’

  The blood ran into his eyes and he was panting heavily but Ykintas could not stop grinning, grinning like a simpleton. After all the reverses he had suffered at the hands of Duke Arturus, to have won a victory against the Kurs was a moment to savour. He was not grinning when he was told that half his men were dead and of the survivors a third were wounded. He gave orders to return to Medvegalis where reports reached him a few days later that thirty villages along the Neman had been reduced to ashes and their inhabitants slaughtered.

  *****

  Archdeacon Stefan was visibly trembling as he clutched the arms of Bishop Albert’s chair in the audience chamber of the bishop’s palace. He glanced nervously at Gunter and then at the closed doors to the chamber and gulped as the alarm bells rang outside the palace. Gunter was also uncomfortable, though not because he was afraid but because he wished to be at the castle where the garrison was mustering. His men, unsure of why they were in the chamber, became agitated as the archdeacon became more and more fearful. Fear was contagious and the archdeacon was spreading it at an alarming rate.

  ‘You would be safer in the castle, archdeacon,’ said Gunter.

  Stefan stopped and looked at him with disbelief. ‘Leave the palace? Are you mad? For all we know the city may have fallen so if we venture from these walls then we will be slaughtered.’

  ‘Fallen to whom, archdeacon?’ asked Gunter.

  Stefan’s eyes bulged. ‘How should I know? You idiot! I am a man of God not a soldier. Where is the garrison? Two hundred and fifty men equipped at great expense and where are they?’

  ‘With your permission, archdeacon, I can go to the castle to throw more light on what is happening,’ suggested Gunter.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ snapped Stefan, ‘your duty is to protect me. What’s that?’

  All eyes turned towards the doors behind which came raised voices and shouts. Stefan’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head as abject fear gripped him. He fell to his knees, grabbed the gold cross that hung around his neck and began praying, though it sounded more like a pathetic pleading.

  ‘Dear Lord, protect me, thy servant who has always advanced Your cause. Have mercy, Lord, I beg you.’

  ‘To me,’ ordered Gunter as the doors swung open.

  Stefan screamed and almost fainted as Gunter drew his sword and his men levelled their short spears and locked shields.

  ‘What in the name of all that’s holy is going on here?’ growled Bishop Albert, sword in hand and accompanied by several members of the city militia.

  Utter relief spread across Stefan’s face. He staggered to his feet and rushed to embrace the bishop.

  ‘Dear uncle, you are most welcome.’

  Albert frowned, ignored his nephew and pointed his sword at Gunter.

  ‘Your place is with the garrison at the castle.’

  ‘Quite right, uncle,’ babbled Stefan. ‘Soldiers should be defending Riga’s walls and buildings, not hiding within them.’

  Gunter, fuming, saluted the bishop, ignored Stefan and ordered his men to follow him as he marched from the chamber. Albert turned and followed them.

  ‘Where are you going, uncle?’ asked Stefan.

  ‘Where I am needed,’ answered Albert sternly.

  For a moment relief surged through Stefan, until he realised that he would be alone in the chamber, perhaps left alone in the whole palace. There were the servants, cooks, gardeners and novices, of course, but they would be incapable of protecting him. And so Stefan scurried after his uncle, a frightened, sweating fat man still holding his gold cross in front of him as a way to ward off evil.

  The city streets were deserted, the majority of the people having taken refuge in the wooden churches that could be found in every district. The priests bolted the doors and led their congregations in prayer. The members of th
e city militia, those able-bodied men over the age of sixteen and below the age of sixty who had volunteered to take up arms when the city was in danger, rushed to the castle where they were issued with helmets, spears and shields. When Bishop Albert had travelled the short distance from his palace to the castle he found two hundred men of the militia assembled in the courtyard – a sea of anxious faces peering from beneath iron helmets.

  ‘Follow me,’ he shouted to them as he turned and marched towards the southern gates of the city.

  His appearance was like a tonic to the militia, who were suddenly infused with enthusiasm. The bishop was over six foot, taller in his mitre, and his chiselled face and determined demeanour had an infectious effect on the soldiery. They suddenly gripped their spears with more resolve as the prelate who had single-handedly forged Livonia marched purposely towards the city gates. But when Albert and his part-time army reached the gates the enemy had gone and all that remained was to clear up the carnage they had created. Nordheim was organising the bodies of the slain to be slung in carts for burial outside the city, while Grand Master Volquin was conducting a search of the docks.

  Albert stood in front of a cart filled with corpses and made the sign of the cross as a panting Archdeacon Stefan caught up with him. Nordheim spotted the pair and wandered over.

  ‘Kurs, lord bishop,’ said the commander, saluting. ‘They attacked in a fleet of riverboats and caused some mayhem before we chased them off. Grand Master Volquin is searching the docks.’

  Albert nodded grimly and turned to the commanders of the militia.

  ‘Organise your men to assist the grand master.’

  Now that the fighting was over the militiamen were eager to sweep the docks to find any Kurs that had been left behind. They flooded through the gates and then were divided into several groups to scour the docks and jetties. Albert followed them, Nordheim ordering a dozen of his men to act as his escort.

  Stefan turned up his nose at the cartload of corpses.