Master of Mayhem

by Peter Darman

  ‘They look like they are going to attack,’ said Kivel, observing the agitated state of the enemy army, its members blowing horns, banging drums and screaming war cries. ‘Heathen idiots.’

  Until the now the ‘idiots’ had displayed remarkable diligence in not straying into the belts of defences beyond the ditch and staying well out of range of Reval’s crossbowmen and mangonels.

  Rolf was not so sure. They were making a lot of noise but showing little sign of moving. Had he turned his eyes to the right, to the land beyond Reval’s western ramparts, he would have seen several plumes of dense black smoke spiralling into the blue sky. And had he looked behind him he would have seen the reason for the sudden appearance of the smoke. But he was saved the bother when a sweating guard ran up the timber steps to the castle’s ramparts and presented himself.

  ‘My lord,’ he panted, ‘the harbour is under attack.’

  Kivel screwed up his face in confusion as Rolf turned to look north towards the bay. His jaw dropped as he saw a host of square sails in the bay and bearing down on the harbour – an Oeselian fleet.

  *****

  Conrad stretched out his right arm and held his hand flat, palm down. Hans placed his hand on top of it, Anton his hand on top of Hans’. He looked at his friends as he and they were about to go into battle once more. For a few seconds the thought flashed through his mind that the more battles they took part in the greater the chance that one or more of them would be killed. He blotted out the idea.

  ‘As dust to the wind.’

  His friends repeated their pre-battle phrase and nodded. Then all three looked at each other with concern as they heard a shout come from the prow.

  ‘Enemy missiles.’

  The rowers continued to pull at their oars to power the boat through the water. The warning was directed at the steersman. Conrad looked ahead, towards the harbour, to see projectiles being shot at the forty longships that had now deployed into a widely spaced line.

  Reval was located on the southern shore of a bay that was some four miles wide at its entrance. This made it impossible for the Danes to block that entrance with some sort of boom but they had installed harbour defences. Their first line of defence were mangonels on a line of wooden platforms mounted on pairs of anchored barges. Each platform was supposed to be manned by the engine’s crew and a party of spearmen and crossbowmen, but only the crews were left to row out to the platforms when the longships were sighted from watchtowers positioned at either end of the bay. The soldiers were needed to man the walls.

  Conrad heard a hissing sound on the port side of the longship and saw a barrel of burning pitch spitting on the surface of the water, then a whoosh as a fireball erupted on the deck of the longship on the starboard side, followed by screams and shrieks as men were engulfed by flames. The boat rapidly fell behind as warriors leapt overboard in desperation to escape the flames and others left their stations to tackle the flames. Sigurd’s longship neared the mangonel that had hit the vessel, its crew working feverishly to load another barrel into the metal basket on the throwing arm. The two archers on board began loosing arrows at them but it was Leatherface who earned the king’s thanks.

  The mercenary had loaded a bolt and now brought up his crossbow as the boat approached the starboard side of the platform with great speed. Two men were using metal bars to carry a burning barrel to the basket. Just as they reached it he pulled his trigger and hit one squarely in the back. The man released his grip on the carrying frame and the barrel crashed to the platform, splitting and covering the mangonel in burning pitch. For good measure the mercenary reloaded in lightning speed, swung about and shot his companion as the longship passed the now burning platform.

  Sigurd laughed in triumph as his longship breached the harbour defences and headed towards Reval’s docks.

  ‘Pull, my warriors,’ he shouted as his men sensed blood and heaved at the oars with all their might.

  Then his smile disappeared as a great rock smashed into the longship on the port side, the projectile hitting the deck near the mast and piercing the boards to punch a large hole in the hull. The Oeselian ships were now in the sights of the trebuchets.

  There were four of them – ‘God’s Throne Thrower’, ‘Big Mother’, ‘War Wolf’ and ‘Pagan Killer’ – each mounted at the end of a short jetty and each one capable of throwing a three-hundred pound rock over a distance of up to four hundred paces. Each machine was crewed by seven men to shoot one projectile every two minutes. The trebuchets were large devices, the structure that held the long beam that pivoted around an axle positioned above the ground being fashioned from thick oak posts. The beam itself was pine because it was lighter than oak. The axle divided the beam into two – a long arm and a short arm – the projectile being placed in a leather sling at the end of the long arm and the heavy counterweight suspended from the end of the short arm.

  Sigurd raced to the stern to grab the rudder as Conrad watched, horrified and fascinated in equal measure, a rock arch into the sky from a trebuchet and then fall towards the ship he stood on. He could not take his eyes off the projectile as it hurled down towards him, not the ship or its passengers or crew but him. His eyes widened as it hurtled downwards, unstoppable, murderous and the last thing he would see in this life. Then Sigurd shouted.

  ‘Stay port oars,’ and jerked the rudder violently to make the vessel rapidly circle.

  The rock splashed into the sea less than ten feet from the starboard side, smashing an oar and splashing several rowers as it did so. Conrad closed his eyes as relief flowed through him. When he opened them he saw that the longship was nearing the harbour. He saw a trebuchet crew abandon their machine and run towards the dockside for they knew that when the boats disgorged their occupants they could expect no mercy.

  Conrad shoved his left arm through the straps on the inside of his shield, put on his helmet and pulled his sword from its scabbard. Hans and Anton, their helmets shoved up on their heads, did likewise. All three nodded to each other as the longship came alongside a jetty and they pulled down their helmets. The plan was simple: let the Oeselians surge forward to sweep through the town while the Sword Brothers and ‘bastards’ mustered in their ranks and headed for the town gates. While the Oeselians pillaged Reval Grand Master Volquin and Conrad would seize the entrance to the town to allow Sir Richard and the Army of the Wolf outside to enter.

  Conrad watched Sigurd clamber up the ropes that had been thrown with grappling irons attached on to the jetty, hurl a javelin at a fleeing docker, striking him between the shoulder blades before he ran along the boards, his warriors following. Other boats were likewise disgorging their occupants, a tide of Oeselians that was about to drown Reval in blood.

  ‘I’m getting too old for this,’ complained Leatherface as he lost his footing and dangled in mid-air. Conrad placed his shoulder under his buttocks and heaved him up. He followed the mercenary as Sword Brothers climbed on to other jetties and headed for the docks.

  The Oeselians swept through the warehouses like a plague of rats, butchering anyone they came across. Close on their heels came those they had transported to the port.

  ‘Get a move on, bastards,’ shouted Leatherface as crossbowmen and spearmen hurried to where Conrad stood near a berthed cog. The spearmen formed a small square with the crossbowmen forming the second rank. Conrad, Hans and Anton took their place in the front rank of the square. A man made a dash from beneath a handcart filled with fish caught that morning. A crossbowman dropped him before he had sprinted twenty paces. Leatherface patted him on the shoulder.

  ‘Good shot.’

  Conrad shoved up his helmet. ‘Let’s move.’

  A hundred men walked forward and on Toompea Hill the gates of the castle swung open to allow Count Rolf to make his mad, heroic, doomed charge against the sea raiders.

  *****

  Rolf calmly descended the steps to the courtyard where his knights and squires were sitting in their saddles. Toompea Castle was a sizeable s
tronghold dwarfing the paltry number of soldiers now manning its walls. The governor could call on a dozen of his own knights, a dozen squires and Kivel’s German horsemen – seventy-four riders in total – plus the dozen or so foot soldiers that were the remnants of the castle’s garrison. Everyone else capable of carrying a weapon was manning the town’s walls. The governor’s surcoat showing a black bird over water surrounded by a wall was spotless, his mail armour rust free and his sword belt polished as befitting King Valdemar’s commander of Denmark’s Estonian capital.

  He walked over to his destrier, a magnificent bay stallion that had been his companion for many years. The beast was covered in a thick caparison bearing his coat of arms to protect its body, neck and head. He placed a hand on the horse’s neck.

  ‘Well, old friend, I must ask you to carry me one last time. God protect you.’

  He patted his horse and took the helm offered him by his squire wearing the same colours as his lord, as did the other knights. Kivel’s horsemen were a ragged band by comparison, some wearing mail armour, others sporting leather cuirasses. None were equipped with full-face helms but all wore yellow surcoats bearing the Duke of Narva’s black eagle emblem. And at least they all had shields, lances and swords.

  ‘Leave the gates open as long as possible so the townspeople can seek sanctuary here,’ Rolf told the man left behind to command the castle, a middle-aged sergeant in a battered kettle helmet.

  He hauled himself into the saddle, looked at the unhappy face of the Duke of Narva and smiled. Kivel gave him a cursory nod and put on his helm. Rolf did the same then spurred his horse forward. The beast cantered through the gates and down the hill. Already desperate, frightened men and women dragging terrified children or clutching infants to their chests, were racing up the track to the castle. They flung themselves aside as the horsemen thundered by towards the town.

  King Valdemar had had grandiose plans for Reval, promising the church he would build a great cathedral there to rival its stone counterpart at Riga. But in the intervening years since his first victory in Estonia the town had developed only slowly. Most of its dozens of buildings were thatched-roofed houses, though all the wooden churches had shingle roofs. Aside from the castle the most substantial and impressive buildings were the warehouses and offices at the docks where weapons, armour and other goods – brass and bronze cooking vessels, candles, leather goods, tools and clothing – were stored. They were imported from Denmark because there was no trade with the natives, whom the Danes had alienated, the Russians or Livonia. Reval was a garrison town filled mostly with soldiers, their families, a few tradesmen, sailors, dock workers, priests, a smattering of minor nobility lured by the prospect of becoming a great lord in a pagan land and whores. The streets were muddy, rutted and uneven, the central marketplace surrounded by ramshackle houses and offices. The town’s defences were magnificent but its interior left much to be desired.

  Rolf saw a group of Oeselians hacking at a hapless individual they had surrounded at the end of a row of houses, nearly severing an arm as the victim held up a limb in a forlorn effort to shield himself from the axe blows. He dug his spurs into his horse, lowered his lance and drove the point though an Oeselian who turned when he heard the pounding of the horses’ hooves. Releasing the shaft, he drew his sword and hacked the blade down to slice through the mail armour covering the shoulder of another Oeselian. The others had no time to react or run as the knights behind Rolf skewered them with their lances. It was a small victory against an enemy that seemed to be everywhere as Rolf led his horsemen into the town. He got as far as the main street, a wider, more rutted stretch of mud running from the main gates to the harbour, when he and his men were halted by a wall of Oeselian shields bristling with spear points. Rolf pulled up his warhorse and raised his sword to halt those behind. He knew he would not be able to break such a compact mass of warriors. He would have to withdraw and sweep around them. He heard a cry to his left, looked up and saw a bearded brute flying through the air.

  Kalf had blocked the street with half his warriors and took the rest behind the thatched houses, ordering his men to kick in the doors and kill any inside. Then they used their shields as platforms to hoist him and his men on to the roofs. When the horsemen arrived he and the others hurled themselves from the thatch to knock the riders from their saddles.

  Kalf fell to the ground, entangled with the knight wearing a helmet covering his head. The knight’s shield spun away as he drew back his hand axe to strike the Christian’s neck. But the knight’s left hand shot out to grip Kalf’s right wrist, at the same time trying to thrust his sword into the Oeselian’s guts. Kalf in turn managed to grab the knight’s wrist to stay the sword strike. They struggled in the dirt while the Oeselians overpowered the other horsemen, those in the shield wall rushing forward to add their numbers to the unequal fight.

  Kalf was strong but the knight he was tussling with could not be overpowered. However hard he tried to push down his axe the Christian responded with greater force to prevent him from doing so. Kalf saw the point of the enemy’s sword edge nearer his belly. He roared in rage and frustration and made a mighty effort to overcome, to no avail. His heart raced as the point brushed his mail armour and he realised that there was nothing he could do to prevent the steel being pushed into his body. He felt the mail being pressed against his belly and a sharp pain as the point worked its way through the iron links to pierce his tunic. He concentrated on his axe, determined to draw the knight’s blood before he was gutted. And then a spear was thrust hard into the Christian’s chest, blood showing around the blade as a low groan came from within the helmet and the knight’s body went limp. The spearman hauled Kalf to his feet.

  ‘Are you hurt, lord?’

  Kalf looked down at his now dead opponent, his surcoat turning red with blood. He had been a worthy enemy.

  Kalf struck the warrior hard around the face with the back of his hand.

  ‘Idiot. I had him and you robbed me of a kill. Get out of my sight.’

  Sigurd’s brother walked off to fight the remaining horsemen, stepping over the body of Rolf, Count of Roskilde, as he did so.

  Sigurd’s other brother, Stark, had stumbled upon a whorehouse, his men raping women and relieving them of their jewellery before slitting their throats. Next to the brothel stood a church, a simple wooden structure with no tower but a bell mounted above the entrance. That bell had been rung furiously when the Oeselians had landed at the docks, many of the brothel’s customers seeking sanctuary there in addition to women and a few children. They had barricaded themselves in the building, singing psalms and praying for deliverance to the saint it was dedicated to: Nicholas, patron saint of prostitutes as well as others. Oeselians were hacking at the door with their axes but Stark ordered them to desist.

  ‘Burn it,’ he ordered.

  His deputy, a warrior wearing a dented helmet, held back the axe man about to carry out the order.

  ‘The king ordered no buildings be set alight, lord.’

  ‘He’s not here,’ shouted Stark, ‘I am. Now burn it to the ground.’

  The warriors plundered the roofs of nearby homes for thatch and timber and piled it against all four sides of the church. Then it was set alight. Within minutes the singing inside the church had turned to screams as the flames roared and began consuming the building. The Oeselians cheered when the wooden building suddenly became a huge fireball and the screams died away.

  *****

  Conrad had reached the city gates with little difficulty, he and his men encountering only frightened civilians who scattered at the sight of them. But when they reached the entrance to the town their progress was rudely halted when crossbowmen shot down several members of ‘the bastards’. He and the rest rapidly retreated to the safety of two long sheds either side the road, leaving four dead bodies in the dirt.

  He took off his helmet and peered around the edge of one of the sheds. A bolt shattered the wood six inches above his head.


  ‘Damn,’ he cursed.

  ‘They are shooters,’ said Leatherface admiringly.

  Conrad could hear the shouts and cheers beyond the walls but knew that Sir Richard and his warlords would not attack until the gates were opened. He heard high-pitched screams and saw spearmen hauling their wounded comrades back behind cover. His men were being shot at by crossbowmen on the walls as well as in the towers.

  ‘Back,’ he shouted, ‘fall back.’

  They ran back into the town, out of range of the crossbows. Conrad kicked the side of a house.

  ‘We have to open those gates.’

  ‘We need more men,’ said Hans.

  ‘Funny you should say that,’ said Leatherface, pointing behind them.

  They turned to see Sigurd leading hundreds of his warriors. He ran over to the three white-clad friends, fire in his eyes.

  ‘Why the delay, Sword Brother, have you opened the gates?’

  ‘No, lord king, the enemy has many crossbowmen,’ replied Conrad.

  Sigurd peered at the gates, the towers on either side and the men on the walls, many of whom were now pointing their weapons towards the town. He grinned.

  ‘You and your men take the right-hand tower, Sword Brother, I will capture the left-hand one. We have more men than they have missiles. Today the gods are with us.’

  He ordered two of his men to surrender their hammers, these with massive iron heads and at least twice the size of their civilian counterparts, to the Sword Brothers to batter down the door giving access to the tower. He wished Conrad luck, raised his sword and raced forward in the direction of the towers. His men gave a great cheer and followed, a wild surge of bearded warriors with no thought of formations or discipline. It was a visceral display of Oeselian courage.

  Conrad likewise sprinted forward. ‘Come on.’