by Peter Darman
Odenpah was Kalju’s capital, a mighty hill fort that was a refuge in times of war, but Dorpat was a bustling, thriving centre of commerce. Conrad had grown up in the city of Lübeck and although the wooden huts, animal pens and markets of Dorpat were greatly inferior in comparison, the haggling, stalls filled with wares, colours and smells were remarkably similar. As he walked behind Kalju, his son and the town chief, Conrad was taken back to the happy days of his youth, when he had accompanied his mother to market and his father to the miller who supplied their bakery with flour. A wave of sadness swept over him at the thought of how their lives had been cruelly ended by the avarice of a wealthy merchant. And then anger replaced sorrow as he gripped the black leather of his sword’s hilt and forgot about his past life to concentrate on the present.
He followed Henke and Kalju to the riverside docks, an area where the air was thick with the smell produced by tar-making shops and the noises coming from carpenters’ workshops and blacksmiths’ forges. Men stripped to the waist sweated in barge yards working on new vessels. The riverside for at least two hundred yards in each direction was filled with jetties where crews were unloading or loading cargoes from flat-bottomed barges and oared riverboats with square sails. The chatter competed with the sounds of metal being worked on anvils, wood being sawed and chiselled and supervisors bellowing orders to create a mighty din that sounded like a battle.
Kalju and his chief pushed their way through the crowd and walked along a wooden jetty that protruded into the river. The water was blue and slow moving, Conrad estimated that the width of the waterway at this point was around two hundred paces. Russians in filthy tunics and bare feet, who were in a riverboat next to the jetty, pointed at Kalju and his entourage as they covered a pallet of black fox fur with canvas. The Ungannian leader looked at them and then across the river.
‘Where are they?’ he asked the chief.
‘Across the river, lord, around two miles north.’
‘How many?’
The chief squinted in the sunlight. ‘Five hundred, lord, maybe more.’
Kalju shook his head and watched as a riverboat with an Ungannian crew glided towards the other side of the jetty, its baskets filled with fish.
Kalju turned to face Henke. ‘My people call this river the Mother of Waters because it is so well stocked with fish and the land on either side is full of game. For centuries it has also marked the boundary between Ungannia and Jerwen. As long as the Russian soldiers stay on the other side of the river then I will do nothing to provoke them.’
Henke looked at the dozens of boats of varying sizes moored to the jetties and on the river itself.
‘There has been no trouble, between your people and the Russians?’
Kalju shook his head. ‘The Russians bring their goods here, further west to Lake Vortsjarv and then on to the Gauja.’ He looked at his chief. ‘Has there been any trouble?’
‘Aside from the usual fights that come about when men have had too much to drink, none at all, lord,’ answered his subordinate.
Henke stroked his beard. ‘Well, if they stay where they are then there’s no point in provoking a fight.’
‘What if they cross the river, Brother Henke?’ asked Conrad, pointing at two boats filled with soldiers that were approaching the docks.
‘Well,’ said Henke, slipping the leather strap attached to his shield over his head and pushing his left hand through its inner straps, ‘we are about to find out if the Russians have come to fight or talk.’
Kalju looked around at the narrow, packed jetty. ‘Back to the riverbank,’ he barked at his men, ‘there is no room on these boards.’
The Ungannians and Sword Brothers walked briskly back to the harbour side to await the Russians, though Conrad did not think they were like any he had seen before. Each boat contained around a score of soldiers, all of them wearing brightly coloured coats and baggy trousers, in addition to gleaming lamellar cuirasses, pointed helmets and small round shields. One of the soldiers in the first boat carried a great banner, though it hung limply in the windless air so he could not identify it.
‘No trouble unless I say so,’ ordered Kalju as Villem drew his sword and stood beside his father, Dorpat’s chief and the other warriors grouping around them.
‘That applies to you four as well,’ Henke hissed to the other Sword Brothers, though Conrad noticed that the older knight was resting his right hand on the pommel of his sword.
The tension in the air increased palpably as the boats containing the mysterious soldiers bumped into the jetty and men sprang from each one. The other boats either rowing back out into the river or their crews scurrying away from them to seek safety behind Kalju and his rapidly forming shield wall. The soldiers disembarking from the boats seemed unconcerned by the hostile welcome they were going to receive as Kalju’s warriors closed ranks and levelled their spears. The Sword Brothers stood to the right of the Ungannians, all now wearing their helmets and hands gripping their sword hilts.
The man leading the riverine interlopers was tall, or at least his pointed helmet made him seem so, his appearance very striking in his blue topcoat, baggy blue trousers, black leather boots and red sword belt. His chin was clean-shaven though his moustache was very long. He spread his arms and smiled as he walked along the jetty towards the Ungannians, who stood rock-like in their ranks. The sailors and fishermen had disappeared into the town along with the harbour workers, merchants and hawkers, leaving dozens of empty boats tied to jetties and others in midstream being frantically rowed from the scene.
The smiling leader stopped, turned and beckoned forward the soldiers holding the flag. He then turned and pointed up at it when the standard was brought to his side.
‘Novgorod, Novgorod. Friend, friend.’
His accent was strange and Conrad at first had difficulty understanding what he was saying. But then the leader grabbed one corner of the standard and unfolded it. Conrad saw two black bears either side of a throne against a red background.
‘Novgorod. Friend, friend,’ the commander kept saying, his men behind him standing with their arms folded.
Henke pushed up his helmet onto his head. ‘What’s he saying?’
‘Novgorod,’ answered Conrad, shoving his own full-face helm up.
The commander kept on smiling as he walked forward with his arms held open towards Kalju standing in the centre of the shield wall.
‘Stand your weapons down,’ the Ungannian leader ordered as the blue-attired commander nodded and embraced Kalju, much to the latter’s consternation. Another soldier stepped forward from the rear of the visitors’ ranks, a man wearing a beautiful red overcoat beneath a short-sleeved mail hauberk and a superb lamellar cuirass. He wore a gilded open-faced helmet with a white plume and a mail aventail.
‘I am Yaroslav, general to Prince Mstislav of Novgorod, and I send the prince’s greetings to you, Lord Kalju. We come in peace and hope our unannounced arrival has not caused any offence.’
Whoever this Yaroslav was he spoke perfect Estonian and his words instantly lessened the air of tension. The Ungannians relaxed as Yaroslav bowed his head at Kalju. The latter nodded back.
‘Who’s this?’ he asked Yaroslav, looking at Gerceslav.
‘This is Lord Gerceslav of the Cuman nation who has travelled from Novgorod, lord,’ answered Yaroslav.
Gerceslav pointed at the banner again. ‘Novgorod.’
‘I’m afraid he does not speak Estonian, lord.’
Henke looked at the conference being conducted out of earshot.
‘You four with me,’ he ordered, ‘and be alert.’
He walked in front of Ungannian warriors who were standing leaning on their shields chatting to each other, Conrad and the others following. Kalju spotted him out of the corner of his eye.
‘This is Brother Henke of the Sword Brothers,’ he said hurriedly to Yaroslav as Henke removed his helmet and stared first at Gerceslav and then at Yaroslav. The former smiled at the mailed knight but
Yaroslav had seen the red sword and cross insignia before and looked decidedly uncomfortable as Conrad and the other three halted behind Henke.
Yaroslav smiled weakly at Henke who glared back. ‘Why are your soldiers in Jerwen?’
Conrad saw the worried look on Kalju’s face and sensed the atmosphere change again, to one of threat and impending violence. When Kalju had requested his presence at Odenpah he had been delighted, but less so when Master Rudolf informed him that the leader of the expedition would be Henke. The latter was many things – loyal subordinate, consummate soldier and brother knight – but he was no diplomat. As the scene unfolded with a predictability that Conrad could have foretold, the young brother knight thought that Wenden’s deputy, Brother Walter, would have been a better choice to lead the mission to Odenpah. But the die had been cast and the next few minutes would provide the spark to light a fire that would engulf Livonia and Estonia.
‘Jerwen belongs to the Sword Brothers,’ snarled Henke, stepping forward so his face was inches from Yaroslav’s.
‘We are not here to provoke a war,’ said Yaroslav, trying to be reasonable.
Gerceslav slapped Henke on the shoulder. ‘Friend.’
Henke did not look at the Cuman as he pushed him away and held Yaroslav’s stare. An angry murmur came from the Cuman ranks as one of Gerceslav’s men stepped forward to shove Henke away, but the latter instantly pulled the dagger that hung on his right hip from its sheath with his left hand and in a flash had severed the man’s windpipe. Blood spurted out of the wound as the man toppled forward. Henke jumped back, slammed his helmet on his head and held his shield before him. Conrad, Hans, Johann and Anton likewise put on their helms and drew their swords as the enraged Cumans surged forward.
Gerceslav led their charge, drawing his sword and lunging at Henke. But the Sword Brother leapt aside and avoided his blow with ease, ramming his own sword into the standard bearer’s guts before he fell back to stand with the other Brother Knights. Yaroslav was shouting at the Cumans in Russian to fall back to the boats but the blood of the steppe people was up and they ran forward to battle the Ungannians. A dozen of the latter were cut down before Kalju’s men had time to reform their shield wall, Kalju and Villem fending off assailants before their men closed around them and beat off the Cumans with their spears.
A Cuman with a curved sword came at Conrad but the Sword Brother had already anticipated his move. He had spent eight years in Livonia, first as a novice at Wenden and then as a brother knight, and in that time he had been tutored in military skills by Brother Lukas, reckoned one of the greatest instructors in all Livonia. He and the other novices had received training day in, day out, regardless of the weather, until they could wield a variety of weapons in their sleep.
‘You are like blocks of marble,’ Lukas had once told them on a rain-lashed morning at Wenden. ‘My job is to chisel and sculpt you until you are the finished, polished article.’
Conrad ducked the curved blade, stepped back and also avoided the Cuman’s backswing that was intended to disembowel him. This brightly dressed peacock knew how to use a sword, that much was certain, but Conrad could match him and more. The brother knight let the Cuman attack him again but this time he blocked his opponent’s blade with his shield, crouched low and jabbed his sword forward, the point stabbing into the man’s left thigh before he whipped it back. The Cuman winced in pain and was momentarily disconcerted, and a moment was all that Conrad needed. He lunged forward, combining his shield and bodyweight to smash into the Cuman and render his sword arm useless as he drove the point of his sword into the man’s throat. He continued to push until he had driven it out through the back of his neck. The Cuman gurgled, blood sheeted on the blade and Conrad’s mail mitten and he passed from this life.
Yaroslav had to physically drag an enraged Gerceslav back to the nearest boat, the Russian ordering the two archers in the vessel to give cover to their comrades as they retreated. Henke had killed two more Cumans before their leader finally acceded to Yaroslav’s frantic requests and bellowed to his men to fall back to the boats. Kalju’s warriors, twenty of whom had now been cut down, gave a great cheer and ran forward, two instantly falling to Cuman arrows.
‘Reform, reform!’ shouted Kalju as more arrows shot by the archers in the second boat hissed through the air. Henke caught one on his shield as Conrad and the other Sword Brothers brought up their shields and crouched low to make themselves smaller targets. The small, recurve Cuman bows were deadly accurate and they found three more Ungannian chests before the two boats were pushed away from the jetty into the river and oars splashed in the water to row them to the far bank. Kalju’s men jeered and whistled as they went, raising their shields and weapons in mockery as the Cumans rowed away. But their leader was livid.
Henke removed his helmet, looked around at Conrad and the other three and grinned evilly.
‘Not a bad day’s work, boys.’
He stepped forward and picked up the banner of Novgorod that had been left behind. He threw it at Hans.
‘Something for Rudolf to hang in the master’s hall at Wenden.’
Hans removed his helmet and looked at Conrad and then at the bodies littering the ground.
‘I have a feeling that Rudolf would not approve of our actions here.’
Conrad nodded, shoving his helmet up on his head. ‘I agree, my friend.’ He took the cloth he always had tucked on his sword belt and wiped the blood from the blade before sliding it back into its scabbard.
Henke spun round. ‘What was that?’
Hans hesitated to speak his mind but Conrad was not so reticent and was about to say that he had been foolish to provoke the fight when Kalju grabbed his surcoat.
‘You are to leave Ungannia immediately, all of you.’
Conrad thought Henke was going to strike the Estonian leader but managed to tame his anger.
‘They have invaded Jerwen, which is Sword Brother territory, and that makes them enemies.’
‘Ungannia is not occupied by the Russians and I desire no quarrel with them,’ fumed Kalju, his cheeks red with rage. Villem had come to his father’s side, his countenance severe as he tried to intimidate the fearsome Henke, without success.
Henke curled his lip at Kalju. ‘Trust me, a good mauling achieves more than words ever could. They will not bother you or your kingdom after having been given a bloody nose. They know that there are many more Sword Brothers waiting for them if they step out of line.’
‘More’s the pity,’ remarked Kalju.
Gerceslav snatched the bow from the archer and jumped onto the riverbank. He nocked an arrow in the bowstring, focused on the target and controlled his breathing, which was a major feat in his agitated state. He raised the bow, pulled back the bowstring and then released it, the arrow arching into the air.
‘This is my kingdom not the Sword Brothers’,’ snapped Kalju. ‘You and your men will leave Dorpat today. You have abused my hospitality and might have embroiled Ungannia in a war.’
Conrad saw Villem collapse and heard Kalju scream ‘shields, shields’, and then saw more arrows thudding into the Ungannians. A group of Kalju’s men ran forward and erected a shield wall around him and his son as Henke ran back to the other brother knights.
‘Fall back, the bastards are shooting at us from the other side of the river.’
He slung the banner over his shoulder as he raised his shield, placed his helmet on his head and then ran back into the settlement.
That afternoon Villem died of his wounds and Kalju sent the local chief to repeat his order that Henke and his men were to leave Ungannia at once. He would not see the brother knight and even refused an audience with Conrad so angry and grief-stricken was he. Henke shrugged and led his men from Dorpat two hours before sundown, heading west towards Wenden. He carried the captured Russian banner in a saddlebag and was unconcerned that Kalju had lost his son and Livonia may have lost an ally. In any case Ungannia would eventually be conquered by the Sword Brother
s so what did it matter? To him one pagan was much like any other. They all looked the same, thought the same and fought the same. If he had to kill Ungannians then so be it. As long as he had someone to kill he was happy. The coming months would ensure that Henke was in a state of constant euphoria.
Chapter 2
Rudolf stared at the Russian flag laid out on the floor before him. Two black bears either side of a throne on a red background. He leaned back in his chair and stroked his beard, purposely ignoring Henke and Conrad standing to attention on the other side of the flag. The master’s hall of Wenden Castle had initially been a wooden structure when the castle had first been established on the site of a Liv hill fort, but that had been ten years ago and now the building was made of stone and contained offices, bedrooms, the master’s private room adjacent to his bedroom and the spacious reception chamber where he was currently sitting beneath a great banner of the Sword Brothers.
Henke nodded to the standard on the wall behind Rudolf. ‘You can hang it beneath our own standard. It’s from Novgorod, apparently.’
Rudolf looked at his friend, one-time mercenary and now a brother knight of the order, and sighed. ‘I take it this trophy was not voluntarily surrendered to you?’
Conrad exhaled loudly, clearly desperate to say something but holding his tongue in the presence of the master.
‘You have something to say, Conrad?’ enquired Rudolf.
‘No, master,’ said Conrad. ‘I’m sure Brother Henke will provide you with all the pertinent details.’
Henke rubbed his nose. ‘Nothing to tell, really. We ran into some trouble at some pagan shithole, I forget the name.’
‘Dorpat,’ said Conrad.
‘Yes, that’s it,’ continued Henke. ‘Anyway, these Russians tried to invade the place, we gave them a bloody nose and they left their flag behind.’