Master of Mayhem

by Peter Darman

  Whoosh.

  The pony pulling the cart groaned, collapsed and then grunted in pain as a second arrow slammed into its side.

  ‘Archers!’ screamed Conrad. ‘Take cover.’

  Men instinctively crouched low behind their shields as arrows shot through the air. One, two, three, half a dozen or more.

  ‘Find them,’ shouted Leatherface, bringing up his crossbow and loosing a bolt at an archer who showed himself from behind a birch. The bolt slammed into the bark.

  All along the column there were the shouts of men, the screams of animals and the hissing of arrows and crossbow bolts. And then it was over. The arrows stopped flying through the air and the archers were gone.

  Conrad stood. ‘Commanders to me,’ he shouted.

  Huddled groups of warriors rose to their feet as chiefs ran over to him. He and his friends were with a group of Harrien and the crossbowmen of ‘the bastards’ Sir Richard had distributed among them and the Saccalians, Rotalians and Jerwen. Ulric’s spearmen had been kept as a reserve.

  ‘Casualties?’ Conrad asked the chiefs.

  ‘None, Susi,’ they replied. ‘The only deaths are among the ponies.’

  For the next four hours the column was subjected to more enemy arrows, all aimed at the ponies and draught horses. The crusader knights and mounted Sword Brothers launched sorties into the trees but only killed a handful of the enemy. Worse, several parties of knights were themselves ambushed by Kur horsemen. These small skirmishes continued for the rest of the day until the army had at last passed through the forest, by which time several hundred animals had been killed or wounded. This had necessitated the unhitching of the corpses and their replacement with the ponies of the Army of the Wolf and the palfreys of the crusaders and Sword Brothers.

  ‘If the Kurs attack tomorrow,’ stated Grand Master Volquin, ‘and inflict the same damage as they have today then we will be forced to abandon some of the wagons.’

  Tired, unshaven faces stared at Bishop Albert, waiting for an answer. Once more the candles threw a half-light on the pavilion’s reception chamber, the dim interior a fitting setting for the dilemma the army found itself in. The bishop raised his head.

  ‘Then we will abandon them, grand master, and burn anything we cannot take with us.’

  Conrad looked around at the army’s commanders: the badly disfigured Count of Lauenburg, the bald headed Sir Richard, stubble now on his chin, the thickset Volquin, the athletic Rudolf with the old burn scars on his neck, and the long hair and thick beards of Fricis and Rameke. Lastly there was Magnus Glueck who looked decidedly nervous. Perhaps he realised that he might never see Livonia again. What would all his wealth avail him if his fat body ended up being skewered by a Kur spear? The thought made Conrad smile.

  ‘Something amuses you, Master Conrad?’ said the bishop sternly.

  ‘No, lord bishop, my apologies.’

  ‘We put our trust in God,’ said the bishop. ‘He will not abandon us.’

  Only two tents were erected each night: the bishop’s pavilion where Albert, Fricis and Glueck slept, and the Sword Brothers’ chapel tent. Everyone else slept next to their weapons and horse in full armour, ready to repulse the enemy attacks that were launched during the hours of darkness. Mostly these were Kur archers creeping close to the column and loosing a few arrows at figures illuminated by campfires. Casualties were light, the wounded loaded on wagons, but they added to the slow demoralisation of the bishop’s army as it toiled through the meadows and forests of Semgallia.

  After ten days of no sleep and incessant attacks everyone was exhausted. The army’s route was marked by dead horses and ponies and abandoned wagons. Fat crows picked at the bloated carcasses that had been shot by Duke Arturus’ archers. Listless, hungry men maintained their positions as the sun beat down on them and no rain came.

  ‘I thought it always rained in this god-forsaken country,’ complained Leatherface, black rings round his eyes.

  ‘Normally it does,’ said Conrad whose face was as equally haggard.

  ‘Perhaps God has forsaken us,’ said Hans.

  They were trudging beside a pine forest, the trees a distance of at least two hundred paces away. The length of the column had shortened now to around half a mile, many of the tents and spare clothing having been burnt to make space on the remaining wagons for the wounded and exhausted, of which there were many.

  ‘At least we won’t die of thirst,’ said Anton.

  The army had limped from river to lake back to river to sate the thirsts of men and beasts. The knights seldom rode from the column now, reluctant to ride into a Kur ambush. Many of the prized destriers were lame anyway, their masters unwilling to kill them in the hope their lameness would not get worse.

  ‘Stand to arms, stand to arms.’

  Conrad drew his sword and for the hundredth time pulled the shield off his back to grip it with his left arm. No one said anything as a large group of Kur horsemen rode from the trees, followed by spearmen and archers. They were assaulting only one side of the column so everyone passed through the carts to lock shields to form a ragged shield wall. Horn blasts came from the ranks of the Livs and the Army of the Wolf and trumpet calls from the crusaders and Sword Brothers as the Kurs assaulted the bishop’s army.

  This assault was larger than the preceding ones, a host of foot soldiers and horsemen bearing down on the crusaders. Crossbow bolts shot out from the Crusader’s ranks, arrows arched into the sky in reply and the warm air was soon filled with shouts and screams as the Kurs reached the column. Their attack was not pressed with vigour but such was the exhaustion among the bishop’s army that it was repulsed with great difficulty.

  Conrad, bare headed as he could not stand the torture of his head being roasted in a steel tin, crouched low as a spearman came at him. His long years of training took over his reflexes and pushed his tiredness to one side as he lunged left at the last moment, the spear point flashing by his right side. He rammed his shield into the right side of the spearmen and jabbed the point of his sword at the man’s exposed neck. The tip of his blade pierced flesh, forcing the Kur to drop his spear. Hans was on him in an instant, bludgeoning the man’s face with his mace.

  A Kur horseman rode up and hurled a spisa. Conrad ducked and saw the lance strike the ground. Anton was grappling with a Kur spearman, their shields becoming entangled and both of them crashing to the ground. With a supreme effort he managed to extract his dagger from its sheath and stab the Kur through the eye. Conrad helped his friend to his feet as another group of horsemen bore down on them.

  There were four riders, one of whom was carrying a great banner showing a black seagull. In front of the standard rode a stocky man on a magnificent black stallion. The riders hurled their long spears, killing two warriors. Leatherface shot one from the saddle as the rider on the stallion swung his sword, the blow landing on Conrad’s shield splitting the leather and wood. Hans and Anton also had their shields shattered as the other riders hacked at them with their swords. More warriors were coming to their assistance and so the riders turned their horses to gallop away. Conrad suddenly realised that the banner must only mean one thing: Duke Arturus himself was present. He pointed at the figure on the black stallion.

  ‘Shoot that one,’ he shouted at Leatherface.

  The mercenary brought up the crossbow to his shoulder, Arturus was less than fifty feet away. Conrad, Hans and Anton all stared at him in expectation as he took aim and pulled the trigger, to hear the bowstring snap. The standard bearer and Arturus rode off, unharmed.

  Conrad, drained of energy and feeling faint, leaned on his sword as Hans and Anton gasped for breath. Arri and Jaan came forward with water bottles that the three drank from greedily.

  ‘What about me?’ whined Leatherface.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Conrad, ‘as Sword Brothers we must put the needs of the elderly and infirm above our own wishes. Jaan, give the old man a water bottle.’

  The army stood to arms for two hours but
the Kurs did not return. The truth was that Arturus’ soldiers were as exhausted as the crusaders and even their duke realised that men and horses had their physical limits. As Livs, Estonians, crusaders and Sword Brothers stood and sweated in their armour the Kurs were making their way to the west.

  When the bishop ordered his army to stand down many men took off their helmets and collapsed on the ground, unable to rise. Horses and ponies stood with their heads hanging low and only when the sun was dipping in the west were parties sent out to collect water. The next day the tortuous journey continued but blessed relief came an hour before midday when the timber ramparts of Mesoten came into view. The bishop fell to his knees in prayer and was soon joined by hundreds of others as the army gave thanks to God for their deliverance. Their ordeal was over.

  Bishop Albert’s great crusade had ended in dismal failure.

  Chapter 9

  Stark’s skeid cut an impressive shape as it glided into the harbour of Visby, the large trading town on the west coast of the island of Gotland. The island had once been a Viking domain but for the last hundred years had been under the influence of Christian Sweden. Swedish kings rarely visited the island, though, being content to collect a rich tribute from the trading port of Visby. The town, originally a Viking village, had grown substantially over the years, both physically and in terms of wealth. It was now an important centre in the Baltic for the trade in furs, flax, salt, tar and timber. On its narrow streets merchants from Lübeck rubbed shoulders with swarthy Russians, blonde-haired Oeselians, richly apparelled Danes and poor Cistercian priests and monks who spread the word of God. The island was littered with small limestone churches and there was even a Cistercian monastery in the centre of the island. Visby was a place where Christians and pagans mixed freely, though with little cordiality. But then Visby was not a place to make friends but wealth, lots of it. The Baltic trade was flourishing and so was the port. Rich merchant houses were springing up in the town and stone warehouses were being constructed along the harbour front to replace the older wooden ones. Visby was both a trading centre and a stronghold for pirates but as long as everyone paid their dues and did not cause trouble the island’s authorities were content to turn a blind eye to the less savoury activities that went on in and around the port.

  The harbour was filled with cogs, smaller single-masted trading vessels, poorly maintained longships belonging to pirates that preyed on the same trading vessels and small riverboat-sized vessels used to deliver goods around the island’s coast. Stark’s crew shipped their oars as the steersman guided the skeid towards one of the wooden jetties. Heads turned as other crews stopped what they were doing to watch the impressive longship nestle beside the jetty. On board were seventy Oeselians who were dressed for battle, though only one sprang on to the jetty to stride towards the docks.

  ‘Secure the boat and pay the official when he arrives,’ Stark called to his deputy as he adjusted his sword belt and made his way through a maze of barrels, pallets loaded with goods, sailors and dockers. He had made this journey several times and went straight to the hut of Tagd One-Eye. In contrast to the splendid new stone warehouses and other buildings that were springing up in and around the harbour. Tagd’s hut was dilapidated and surrounded by the aroma of stale beer and piss. Shifty characters, all carrying knives and axes, lounged around the hut to deter any unwelcome visitors. They stared at Stark with cruel eyes but they had seen the Oeselian prince before and so did not stop him entering the hut.

  He recoiled from the pungent smell that assaulted his nostrils and his eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the dimness. The grubby figure behind the desk looked up with his one eye, the empty socket of the other covered by a leather patch, and leered.

  ‘Prince Stark.’

  Tagd pointed a filthy finger at a stool opposite his desk. The prince sat and stared at the pile of parchments on the desk.

  ‘Business is good?’

  Tagd nodded. ‘Fair to middling. You have another delivery for me?’

  Stark nodded. ‘A dozen, all meeting your sordid requirements.’

  Tagd chuckled. ‘We all have to earn a crust. Not all of us are born princes and have servants to wipe our arse. I take it you will accept gold as usual?’

  Stark nodded. Tagd uncorked a jug of something.

  ‘Wine to provisionally seal the deal?’

  Stark frowned. ‘Provisionally?’

  ‘I will have to inspect the goods myself just to make sure that they haven’t been interfered with on the way here.’

  ‘You question my honour?’ said Stark angrily.

  The raised voice brought two of Tagd’s thugs into the hut but their master waved them back outside.

  ‘No need to take offence, prince,’ said Tagd calmly, pouring the wine into two wooden cups. He offered one to Stark, who to his surprise found it much to his liking.

  ‘My clients are very particular about the goods I supply.’

  He leaned forward. ‘I take it none have body hair. My clients are very specific about that.’

  Stark sighed. ‘They are all ten years old or younger so I think they will meet your clients’ specific requirements.’

  ‘Any boys?’

  ‘Two,’ answered Stark.

  Tagd gave him a broad smile, revealing his rotting teeth. ‘Excellent. Young boys always fetch a higher price than girls. Strange that, but then these rich Christian lords and merchants have strange tastes. Too much religion, you see, interferes with their natural instincts.’

  He poured himself more wine. ‘So, two boys and ten girls. Excellent. And no damage to their dainty young flesh?’

  Stark took a gulp of wine. ‘We stole them at night while they were sleeping. They might have a few bruises but nothing that won’t heal without leaving a mark.’

  ‘You have a knack for slave trading, prince, you should take it up full time.’

  ‘I only do it to amuse myself in between fighting our enemies,’ replied Stark, ‘raiding is good for keeping skills sharp.’

  ‘How’s your new king doing, prince? Rumour has it that now that King Olaf is gone Oesel will be plucked by the Danes like a ripe fruit.’

  Stark bristled with anger. ‘The Danes are women who tried to invade our island and were thrown out.’

  ‘I heard the Sword Brothers rescued King Valdemar from under your noses,’ said Tagd casually.

  ‘Did you also hear that the Danes left most of their army as corpses on Oesel, also?’

  Tagd did not wish to antagonise his guest unduly, not only because he liked him but also because the tall prince had a reputation for violence and reckless bravery. He had no doubt that the sword he carried at his hip had sent many souls to the afterlife. He did not wish to join them. Besides, the prince earned him good money and he certainly did not wish to jeopardise a lucrative source of income.

  Tagd scratched his filthy beard. ‘Because I like you, prince, I will tell you something for free that I learned only a couple of days ago, from a very reliable source, mind.’

  Stark was already bored, his eyes wandering around the dimly lit interior of the musty hut. They returned to the grubby Tagd.

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘A Danish fleet is preparing to sail in the next few days, ships carrying many soldiers to Reval.’

  Stark’s ears pricked up. ‘Reval?’

  Tagd grinned slyly. ‘That’s right, prince. King Valdemar has been released from captivity and is plotting revenge, not least against your people.’

  ‘You are certain of this?’

  Tagd spread his hands. ‘Like I said, my source is very reliable.’

  Stark jumped up. ‘I must return to Oesel.’

  ‘Not so fast, prince,’ said Tagd, ‘I still have a batch of young boys and girls to examine.’

  The trader slowly rose and flicked a louse from his beard.

  ‘I take it that they are all virgins? It affects the price, you see.’

  Stark gave him a bemused look. ‘They are only children,
what do you think?’

  ‘I think the world is a cruel, heartless place, prince, where being a child does not save you from anything. Not to worry, I will examine the girls to make sure they are all intact.’

  Stark detested the reptilian slave trader but had to admit that he was a good businessman, and if what he said about the Danish fleet was correct then his information could prove invaluable.

  Tagd was delighted with the girls and boys and came to the conclusion that all the former were indeed virgins. He paid Stark the agreed price in gold.

  Three days later the prince was sitting in the more agreeable surroundings of his brother’s longhouse in Kuressaare, drinking mead with his two siblings.

  ‘You think this man speaks the truth?’ asked Sigurd, smiling at his pretty young wife who refilled his cup and who was heavily pregnant.

  Stark held out his cup to be topped up. ‘Yes.’

  Sigurd nodded thoughtfully. ‘It makes sense. The Danish king was humiliated on Oesel and humiliated kings burn with a desire to avenge their shame.’

  ‘We should meet this fleet at sea, brother,’ stated Kalf, ‘like in the old days.’

  ‘The days of the longships and tall men,’ smiled Sigurd.

  ‘For all we know, brother,’ added Stark, ‘the Danes might land the soldiers their ships are carrying on Oesel. We do not want enemy warriors in our land, burning and looting.’

  ‘They are our sports,’ grinned Kalf.

  Sigurd looked at the swollen stomach of his wife. He had no wish for his firstborn to see enemy soldiers on the blessed isle of Oesel.

  ‘The Danes are not seafarers, brother,’ pressed Stark, ‘they will be even weaker on the ocean than they are on land. It will be an easy victory. The gods have given us this opportunity, we should not waste it.’

  Sigurd looked at his brothers, straining at the leash like hunting dogs. The stubborn Kalf, stocky like his dead father, and the tall, lean Stark, like his brother Eric a born fighter. Unlike him they both sported full beards and were the epitome of Oeselian warriors. But their strengths – bravery, a disregard for their own lives and those of their men and a blind faith in the superiority of Oeselian warfare – were also their weaknesses. They did not look beyond the next raid, the next battle. They did not appreciate that the world was changing. Sigurd had taken a long time to realise this himself. The old days were gone forever, and yet…