by Peter Darman
Kristjan wondered how he knew of such things. Perhaps he was a god in human form. He dismissed the idea. No god would inhabit such a grotesque body.
‘Do you intend to sit on your horse and interrogate me like one of your slaves?’ asked Rustic.
Kristjan blushed and dismounted. Rustic walked up to him until their two faces, one young and handsome, the other old and foul, were inches apart.
‘You have the arrogance of youth, young warlord,’ said Rustic, ‘and yet I see a burning desire for vengeance in your eyes. You seek to avenge the deaths of your parents?’
‘And my brother and sisters,’ hissed Kristjan.
‘And you wish me to aid you in this task?’ said Rustic.
‘Yes.’
‘So in fact you do not seek my advice but wish to enlist me to your cause, young warlord.’
Kristjan snorted in anger and turned away from him. He walked over to a tall pine that had moss wrapped around its trunk. He made to place a hand against it.
‘Do not touch the trees,’ snapped Rustic. ‘They are holy and may not be soiled by your hands. This is a place where men seek union with nature, themselves and their ancestors. It is not a site for a council of war.’
Kristjan turned. ‘I apologise, sir. I meant no offence.’
‘Tell me the truth,’ demanded Rustic, ‘want do you want of me?’
Kristjan swallowed. ‘Very well. It is no secret that you hold great sway among the people. I wish to wage war against the Sword Brothers. I intend to march north to rally the warriors of Jerwen, Harrien and Wierland to my banner. The carts are loaded with weapons to arm any who would join me.’
‘There are many who object to Russians coming into our lands,’ said Rustic.
Kristjan shrugged. ‘Prince Vetseke offered me his sword and I accepted. He is a Liv and seeks the same thing as me.’
‘Which is?’
‘To first rid Estonia of Christians and then destroy the land they call Livonia.’
Rustic twisted his misshapen mouth. ‘Ambitious aims indeed. Your father allied himself with the Christians. Why do you now turn against them?’
‘My father made a mistake and was deceived by the Sword Brothers. He and my mother were killed by their magic.’
Rustic pointed at him. ‘Your father deserted the gods and they were angry. Whose magic is stronger, that of the gods who have lived in this land for thousands of years or the Christian god? Your parents angered Uku and so he sent Surm, the God of Death, to claim their lives. He torments them now in Hiiela, the land of the dead.’
These were hard words for Kristjan to hear.
‘My parents were good people,’ he stated meekly.
‘You do them honour, young Kristjan,’ said Rustic. ‘You have shown respect to the gods and I will ask them to send me a sign to indicate they think your cause is worthy of their support. I will say no more now. You must go.’
‘You will not help me free this land, your land, of the heathen invaders?’
Rustic’s huge nostrils flared. ‘Did you not hear me? I said I would ask the gods regarding the matter. You must go to the sacred forest hill at Paluküla and there await my answer.’
Paluküla was to the northwest, in Harrien and many miles away. It would take up to two weeks to get there.
‘To travel there would show your piety to the gods, young Kristjan.’
Rustic saw the horse ambling over to a birch tree.
‘If your horse eats anything in this sacred place I will kill it.’
Kristjan raced over to his horse and grabbed its reins. Rustic waved the back of a hand at him to indicate he and his horse should depart. He walked back to his stool and picked up the rod.
‘Go to the sacred forest hill, young warlord, and there await the decision of the gods.’
Bitterly disappointed, Kristjan rode back to find his men pitching their tents. He immediately rode to where the Russians were camped and informed Vetseke of the sage’s decision. The Liv saw the disappointment in the young man’s eyes.
‘Priests and mystics are a law unto themselves. You will return to Dorpat?’
Kristjan looked at him, the dozens of campfires and the warriors joking and preparing their meals.
‘No. I must show my men that I have faith.’
‘If you go to this place for nothing you will be many miles from Ungannia,’ said Vetseke. ‘It is spring and the Sword Brothers will be marching to the relief of Fellin. We will not be able to help the garrison if we are in Harrien.’
‘We must trust the gods,’ said Kristjan with conviction.
‘I have learned the hard way,’ replied Vetseke, ‘that the gods are often slow to repay our trust, Kristjan.’
*****
Conrad, Hans and Anton stood in front of Rudolf’s oak desk in the master’s office. They had been tilting at the rings in full armour when a novice had arrived with a message that all three were to report to Master Rudolf immediately. As a result they were all sweating profusely as they stood to attention in a line. They held their helmets in the crook of their arms, their foreheads beaded with sweat. Conrad made to pull down the mail coif that covered his head.
‘Leave it,’ commanded Rudolf.
The master had been attending to clerical matters all morning and was dressed in non-martial attire. Over his linen shirt and woollen breeches he wore a long, dark tunic that reached to his ankles. It had tight-fitting sleeves and was belted at the waist. Rudolf picked up a document and leaned back in his chair.
‘Do you know what this is?’ he asked Conrad.
‘No, master.’
‘It is a letter addressed to me from Archdeacon Stefan at Riga. Now aside from one eminent servant of the Holy Church paying his compliments to another, why should my brother the archdeacon suddenly pick up the quill to contact me?’
His question was met by a row of blank expressions.
‘Let me explain,’ said Rudolf, tossing the letter on the desk. ‘The archdeacon is mightily aggrieved that two of his soldiers were recently attacked by members of the order, specifically,’ he picked up the letter and perused it, ‘Brother Conrad and two of his knavish accomplices from the garrison of Wenden.’
Rudolf pointed at Hans and Anton. ‘I assume he is talking of you two?’
Hans smiled. ‘Yes, master.’
Anton nodded.
Rudolf’s eyes narrowed. ‘The archdeacon demands that I surrender you all to his tender mercy. No doubt he wishes to see your hanged bodies dangling from the walls of Riga.’
Hans’ eyes opened wide in shock but Conrad was having none of it.
‘I was the one who injured the garrison’s soldiers, master, Hans and Anton had no part in it.’
‘I know that,’ replied Rudolf. ‘The archdeacon was quite specific regarding your actions. Hamstringing one man and apparently condemning the other with an inability to have children.’
Anton laughed. ‘They got off lightly, master.’
‘My congratulations, Conrad, not only have you made an enemy of Commander Nordheim, you have also alienated Archdeacon Stefan, his superior. Your list of enemies grows long and impressive.’
‘I have no regrets over my actions, master,’ said Conrad defiantly. ‘I took a vow to defend the weak and the helpless and could not stand by while a young woman was murdered because she refused to lie with a priest.’
Rudolf smashed a fist on the table. ‘You are supposed to be the Marshal of Estonia and commander of your army, not some wandering white knight devoted to helping the wretched of humanity. If the order loses you your army of Estonians will fall apart, which will directly affect the fortunes of Livonia and the Sword Brothers.’
Conrad was not to be moved. ‘I await your punishment, master, but reiterate that brothers Hans and Anton had no part in the matter.’
‘I stand with Conrad,’ stated Hans.
‘As do I,’ insisted Anton.
‘How very noble,’ mocked Rudolf. ‘Fortunately for you I don’t give
a damn about Archdeacon Stefan and care less about his miserable garrison. I shall inform the archdeacon that the proper form of communication with masters of the order is to first contact the office of the grand master. I will also inform him that I have no authority over the Marshal of Estonia, which is not strictly true but will nonetheless make the matter of punishing him, that is you, Conrad, not my responsibility.’
He saw the three brother knights looking smug.
‘However, as you have brought the good name of Wenden into disrepute all of you will spend the next week on latrine duties and mucking out the stables.’
Their expressions changed to ones of indignation. ‘But, master,’ said Hans.
Rudolf held up a hand. ‘The logic is quite straightforward, Brother Hans. You dropped me in the shit so I am doing the same to you. Now all of you get out.’
Outside novices were sweeping the courtyard and heaping piles of horse dung into wheelbarrows. The brother knights looked at each other.
‘Say it,’ urged Conrad.
‘Say what?’ said Hans.
‘That I should have left well alone at that village,’ replied Conrad.
Anton shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter now. At least we didn’t get flogged.’
‘The garrison of Riga should be disbanded,’ said Conrad to no one in particular. ‘It is Archdeacon Stefan who should be flogged.’
‘That’s the Bishop of Riga’s nephew you’re talking of,’ Hans cautioned.
Conrad gave his friend a slight smile. ‘You know what they say: you can choose your friends but you have no choice when it comes to family.’
‘Imps of Satan!’
The novices stopped what they were doing, as did a file of sergeants marching from the dormitory, when the thunderous voice of Abbot Hylas filled the courtyard. Most days the deranged priest could be found mumbling to himself in the chapel or wandering in the grounds of the castle’s outer perimeter. Children and women avoided him and the mercenaries teased him. But mostly he was left to his own devices, wandering into the kitchens to be fed at breakfast, lunch and supper. He adored Ilona, the person who had nursed his body when he had returned from Saccalia after being tortured by Lembit. He saw the raven-haired beauty as the Virgin Mary in human form. For some reason he hated Conrad and his friends, perhaps because it had been they who had found him wandering in the wild after his terrible ordeal. The wooden crucifixes that hung around his neck jangled as he stormed over, his eyes bulging.
‘You are all going to die!’ he screamed. ‘The pit of hell awaits you. Blasphemers!’
He stopped a few feet away from Conrad and pointed a finger at him.
‘You are Satan’s chief imp, fornicator. The mark of Cain is upon you. I will witness your death and the crows feasting on your flesh, child of a devil’s whore.’
That was enough for Conrad. He marched up to Hylas and struck the mad priest across the face with the back of his hand, sending him sprawling on the cobblestones. The novices and sergeants cheered and whistled. Conrad smiled and then had cause to regret his actions when Master Rudolf exited his hall.
‘Get back to your work,’ Rudolf shouted at the novices as the sergeants quickly carried on marching towards the gatehouse.
Within seconds he was standing before Conrad.
‘Are you going to strike me as well?’
Conrad felt himself starting to blush. ‘No, master.’
Rudolf assisted the groaning Hylas to his feet and then struck Conrad in the face with the back of his hand.
‘Hurts, doesn’t it. All of you now have two weeks on latrine duties, starting immediately.’
They sheepishly bowed their heads at Rudolf and began walking towards the stables where their horses waited to be cooled down and brushed. Conrad caught the eye of the mad Hylas, blood at the corner of his mouth.
‘Imp,’ the lunatic sneered.
*****
It took two weeks for Kristjan’s army to reach the sacred forest hill at Paluküla, the highest point in northern Estonia. The land was still wet after the melting of the snows and ice but it was blossoming into life, the desolate white of the winter giving way to hues of greens, red and yellows with the arrival of spring. Vetseke’s Livs and Russians grumbled that they were heading in the wrong direction but the young Ungannian leader had the look of a man on a mission and so the prince said nothing. Most days he and his men assisted the carts in travelling along waterlogged tracks and through swollen streams. It was tiresome work but the Ungannians appreciated their help and the mood among the warriors was positive. Everyone had heard of Rustic and they believed that their leader had been given a message from the gods. Vetseke knew otherwise but kept his thoughts to himself. One thing was certain: Kristjan would need more men if he was serious about fighting the Sword Brothers. A lot more men.
The sacred hill itself was larger than he had expected, a great tree-covered mound spread over sixty acres. Surrounded by peat bogs, birch forests and clear sparkling streams, the hill itself was dotted with sacred limes, oaks, alders, birch and lindens. There was a small village on its southern side, a collection of wooden huts that were the lodgings of those who protected the site – the keepers of the sacred hill.
Kristjan rode with Vetseke into the village, in truth nothing more than a dozen huts, a large barn and several piles of firewood. They halted in the centre of the settlement and looked around. There were no people, no animals and no insects. Nothing.
‘Looks deserted,’ observed Vetseke.
‘Perhaps there is another village nearby,’ said Kristjan.
‘So, you have come.’
The heads of the two horses reared up in alarm as the sharp voice pierced the air. They swung in the saddle to see the source of the voice behind them. It was a tall individual in a loose-fitting white robe with a hood that covered his head. They could only see his clean-shaven chin and lips. Kristjan was slightly unnerved by his sudden appearance and hidden face.
‘Welcome, Kristjan, son of Kalju, we have been expecting you.’
‘We?’ said Vetseke, looking around and seeing no one.
‘The friend of the Russians must leave,’ commanded the keeper, ‘his presence violates this sacred place.’
Vetseke was a Liv and respected the old religion but he was still a prince and used to giving orders, not taking them. He turned his horse to face the keeper and casually drew his sword. He was about to issue a veiled threat when he suddenly shouted and threw his sword to the ground. Kristjan looked at him in confusion. Vetseke, flustered, smiled weakly at him.
‘Damnedest thing. For a moment I thought I was holding a hissing snake.’
‘Leave your horse here, Kristjan, son of Kalju,’ said the keeper, who suddenly turned and began walking towards the hill. ‘You will not need it.’
Kristjan shrugged, handed the reins to Vetseke and dismounted.
‘Make camp nearby,’ he said to Vetseke. ‘I will not be long.’
He followed the keeper out of the village to the foot of the hill, which consisted of a number of grass-covered ridges, making the climb easy.
‘Do not touch the trees,’ commanded the keeper, ‘they are sacred.’
The hill could be seen from miles around but in truth it was not particularly high and soon Kristjan found himself on its tree-covered summit threading a path between oaks that could have been as old as the earth itself. Their gnarled trunks were huge, their branches twisted into strange shapes.
The keeper said nothing despite Kristjan’s attempts to engage him in conversation. After a while he gave up trying and the pair walked on in silence. He became aware that not only was there an absence of conversation but also of wildlife. No woodpeckers tapping or tits cheeping. No warblers, corncrakes, rose finches. Nothing. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, had goose bumps on his arms and his mouth became dry. The silence was oppressive, as though nature had fled from this place to get away from the gods that inhabited it. He became aware of the thumping heart in
his chest. On they went, past lindens decorated with red ribbons, silver earrings and bronze bracelets – offerings to the gods.
Eventually they came to a copse of lindens, all the trees having dark fissured bark, their trunks covered in lichen. The keeper stopped.
‘We are here.’
He pointed to a rather stunted linden, obviously very old, where a large, inverted tear-shaped round grey object nestled in one of the lower branches.
‘You want the help of Taara?’
Taara was the God of War and Kristjan knew that lindens were the trees of the deity. He nodded.
The keeper pointed at the round object. ‘Then tear that apart and retrieve the silver torc that lies within and you will have Taara’s blessing and protection. But before you do know this: Taara will know your true aims and will determine whether they are noble or selfish. You may deceive yourself and your fellow man but you cannot deceive the gods.’
Kristjan was delighted. Rustic had obviously given his blessing to his venture and now all he had to do was break apart some sort of foliage to get a silver token of the God of War. He walked over to the linden tree and stopped when he saw the insects buzzing around. A hornets’ nest!
He looked back at the keeper who stood motionless, the hood still covering his face.
‘You think Taara gives his help cheaply, Kristjan, son of Kalju? You must prove to him that you are worthy of fighting in his name.’
He looked at the hornet’s nest. He had been taught that they were better left alone for to disturb one was to invite the wrath of a thousand stinging demons. He had seen animals and people killed in such attacks, their lifeless bodies swollen and red. He hesitated.
‘There is no shame in refusing the task,’ said the keeper. ‘Only those who are worthy have the courage to attempt what lesser men fear.’
Kristjan remembered the terrible deaths of his parents and sisters, the arrogance and treachery of the Sword Brothers and the dozens of warriors who had marched to this place. He breathed deeply to compose himself and drew himself up.
‘Remove your armour,’ said the keeper.
Kristjan was shocked. ‘My armour?’
‘Taara will be your protection, unless you do not believe in his powers.’