Army of the Wolf

by Peter Darman

  As they had done for decades the Oeselians had formed into a shield wall six ranks deep, the better armed and armoured warriors in the first three ranks and those wearing only thick woollen tunics reaching to mid-thigh behind them. Olaf had seen the horsemen on the crusader flanks and knew the damage they could inflict if they got among warriors who were not in tight formations. But he had seen the mailed horsemen check their advance and the crusader foot soldiers between them halt. He hoped these things were due to Sigurd’s arrival in the enemy’s rear but he was not an eagle and so could not see what was happening behind the crusaders. But he trusted in Taarapita to give him victory, and if not then a good death. He gave the order to attack and ran forward alone.

  There was a mighty cheer and the whole Oeselian shield wall broke as the warriors followed their king. They were perhaps three hundred paces from the Swedes when they charged, the latter’s crossbowmen managing to unleash two volleys that killed over fifty men and wounded a score more. Sigurd heard the great wall of noise coming from beyond the crusader army and knew his father was assaulting the enemy. He screamed at his men to break formation and attack the enemy. And once again a roar echoed across the battlefield as three hundred Oeselians charged at the Swedish army.

  It was Bothvar who reached the Swedes first, his long legs bounding across the grass to cover the distance between the two armies in less than a minute. As a wealthy earl he owned an expensive sword with silver decorations, with an inlaid two-edged blade that had a shallow grove to reduce its weight to make it easier to wield. But Bothvar, like his father before him, favoured a war axe in the mêlée, a weapon with a curved blade with a welded-on cutting edge of specially hardened iron. He screamed a blood-curdling war cry as he held his shield in front of him with his left hand gripping the boss to brush aside a spear point, and then launched himself at the owner. The blue-uniformed spearmen had his almond-shaped shield in front of his body for protection but Bothvar swung his axe high, bringing it down on the Swede’s helmet. The force of the blow split the iron and embedded the blade in the man’s brain, killing him instantly. As he crumpled Bothvar had to use all his strength to wrench the axe free, stepping over the body to fight the next enemy soldier. But there was no enemy.

  The Swedish centre had simply disappeared, though evaporated would have been a more accurate description. Olaf’s charge had obliterated the Swedish foot soldiers in a frenzy of axe and sword blows and spear thrusts, made worse by the attack of Sigurd’s men behind them. Outnumbered in total by over four to one and attacked front and rear, they were smashed like an egg between two rocks.

  The horsemen used their lances to spear Oeselians and then their swords and maces to cut down more of the enemy, but they were literally engulfed by a pagan tide and overwhelmed. They were surrounded and pulled from their horses or had their beasts killed from under them as Oeselian spears and daggers ripped open horses’ bellies. Once on the ground the knights were slaughtered in a deluge of axe blows, their blue surcoats turning red as they were stabbed and bludgeoned. A few shamefully fled the scene of carnage, galloping away to the north to seek the sanctuary of Danish territory. But they were only a handful. The rest of King John’s army fought and was annihilated.

  Silence hung over the battlefield as the Oeselians tended to their own wounded and ferried them back to the longships that would take them to Oesel. There were no Swedish wounded, only dead. Dead men and dead horses, their bodies horribly mangled and shattered. Bothvar stood with his sons, laughing and joking in the middle of the carnage, while Swein organised parties to go to the nearby woods to collect firewood so the Oeselian dead could be buried.

  ‘Still alive, then?’’

  Bothvar turned to see a grinning Olaf approaching. He extended an arm to the king and they clasped forearms. He also congratulated Stark and Kalf who accompanied the king, their mail coats splashed with blood. Kalf looked a little pale. He had seen death many times, having taken part in hunting expeditions and bore witness to the regular executions of criminals. But he had never before taken part in the raw brutality of combat where death could lay its icy hand on anyone’s shoulders at random. Had never been next to a man who was alive one minute and dead the next, a crossbow bolt lodged in his neck. But he had acquitted himself well enough, though the victory had been easy and Olaf knew it.

  He pointed a bloody sword blade at his two sons. ‘The next battle you fight might not be as effortless as this one. Remember that.’

  ‘Here comes the hero of the hour,’ said Bothvar, pointing at the slim figure of Sigurd approaching.

  Olaf embraced him. ‘Well done.’

  Sigurd congratulated Kalf and Stark and Bothvar and his sons, all of them forgetting the twisted and mutilated Swedish bodies all around them. The quiet was gradually being eroded by the buzzing of the legions of flies that were arriving to feed off dead flesh.

  Sigurd looked back at the fort. ‘What about the garrison in there?’

  ‘We’ll cremate our dead first,’ said Olaf.

  He instructed Swein to arrange the funeral pyres for the Oesel dead beyond the fort’s western walls. As soon as they were lit, all the warriors gathered round them to wish their dead comrades a safe journey on their way to Taarapita’s great feasting hall, the smoke was carried on a westerly breeze into the fort. Afterwards the king instructed scaling ladders to be fashioned and the fort stormed.

  The fifty spearmen who defended the walls were matched in number by the amount of scaling ladders placed against the ramparts and within minutes Oeselians were swarming over the battlements. After a brief fight they killed the defenders and then set fires in the towers, buildings and at the foot of the walls. When the sun had reached its highest point in the sky Leal had been engulfed by a raging fire that consumed its ancient timbers.

  While the Swedish dead were stripped of anything of use – though their corpses had been so disfigured by Oeselian blades that much of the mail armour and helmets were beyond repair – Olaf and his commanders availed themselves of one of the pavilions in the still-standing Swedish camp. The roaring of the fires that were eating Leal provided background noise as the king, his sons, Bothvar and Swein lounged in high-back chairs around a table in the large tent. To one side was a small table that was covered with a spotless white sheet, on top of which stood a large silver cross. Bothvar noticed it.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The symbol of the crusaders’ religion,’ answered Sigurd. ‘They kneel and pray to such things.’

  ‘I give it to you, Bothvar,’ said Olaf. ‘You can melt it down and turn it into something useful.’

  Bothvar was wary. ‘It might be cursed.’

  ‘Then piss on it first,’ replied Olaf. ‘That should remove any evil. But there is no need because such trinkets have no power, my friend. Our victory here is testament to that. And talking of victory, we must decide what to do with it.’

  ‘My scouts inform me that the Danish settlement at Lyndanise is very strong, father,’ said Sigurd.

  Olaf shook his head. ‘I do not intend to attack it. Not yet at least. However, if I take my ships north and make a demonstration outside the harbour that will get the Danes’ attention.’

  ‘To what end, sire?’ asked Swein.

  Olaf left his chair and walked over to the makeshift altar to pick up the cross.

  ‘Soon the Sword Brothers and Danes will fight each other over control of Rotalia and Jerwen. Sigurd, I want you to burn all the villages and farms in both kingdoms before you return to Oesel. I will give you an additional two hundred men so you can complete your task speedily.’

  He threw the cross to Bothvar.

  ‘To what end, father?’ enquired a perplexed Sigurd.

  Olaf smiled devilishly. ‘What use will a wasteland be to the Bishop of Riga or the Danes? But ensure you capture many slaves, Sigurd. We can sell them to the Russians later.’

  There was a loud crashing sound outside as two of the fort’s walls collapsed. Olaf tilted his h
ead at the tent’s entrance.

  ‘That is the sound I wish to be heard throughout Rotalia and Jerwen.’

  Chapter 12

  Odenpah was bathed in summer sunshine when Conrad first observed it as he led the party of horsemen along the dirt track leading to the stronghold’s main gates in the outer south wall. The great expanse of pasture that encompassed Kalju’s citadel on three sides was filled with buttercups, cowslip, lungwort and dandelion. Goats grazed by the side of the track under the watchful eyes of their herders, parting as the riders approached. Alongside Conrad rode the newly appointed Duke of Saccalia, the gruff squire Paul, Hans, Anton and Kaja riding behind them. The rear of the small column was made up of twenty of Sir Richard’s lesser knights and four draught horses loaded with supplies.

  During the three-day journey that had taken them along the northern shore of Lake Vortsjarv Sir Richard had asked Conrad what he intended to do with her.

  ‘Kaja’s future seems to be on everyone’s mind, your grace. For you are not the first to ask me that.’

  They had made camp on the edge of a forest of pine, the air sweet with the smell of the trees following a short, sharp shower. Kaja had cooked them a meal of pottage and now stood practising with Conrad’s sword, Anton acting as her opponent.

  ‘She’s quick, I give her that,’ said Sir Richard as Kaja dodged Anton’s horizontal strike. ‘Still, it is most unusual to train a woman to use a sword.’

  ‘She is all alone in the world, your grace’ said Conrad, ‘so it seems only proper that she should be able to defend herself.’

  ‘Please stop calling me “your grace”, I find it irksome. And she is not alone. She has you, Hans and Anton to look out for her. Powerful friends, lord marshal.’

  Paul, who had been sitting nearby sharpening his dagger, stopped and looked at his lord.

  ‘Does a duke’s squire have a title?’

  ‘Indeed he does,’ answered Sir Richard, ‘and it is “stop talking and start working otherwise you will be flogged”. How does that sound?’

  ‘Boorish,’ replied Paul, unimpressed.

  Anton stepped forward and slipped his right foot behind Kaja’s left ankle and tipped her backwards as she attempted a vertical overhead cut. She squealed as she hit the ground and dropped her sword. In a flash Anton had the point of his sword at her throat.

  ‘Don’t get too close to an opponent unless you are sure you can kill him quickly,’ he said to her, hauling her to her feet. She looked sheepish as she retrieved her sword and adopted a fighting stance once more.

  ‘I intend to see that she either marries well or is settled at Wenden,’ said Conrad. ‘She will be safe there.’

  ‘Who is going to marry such a fighting lynx?’ asked Sir Richard.

  ‘You would be surprised,’ said Conrad.

  ‘If you renounced your vows of chastity and left the Sword Brothers,’ suggested Sir Richard, ‘then you could marry her.’

  Conrad twisted the silver ring on his finger. ‘I am already married, your grace.’

  The duke saw the ring and the pain in Conrad’s eyes remembering his wife and child and said nothing further as Kaja and Anton continued with their sparring.

  The sentries on Odenpah’s walls spotted them before they reached the stronghold, a group of warriors on chestnut ponies riding out to meet them as Conrad’s party neared the gates. The shields that dangled from their saddles bore Kalju’s golden eagle emblem, as did the banners that fluttered from the towers of the fort. The commander raised a hand to Conrad and Sir Richard as both parties slowed to a halt.

  ‘Greetings Sir Richard, lord of Lehola. And greetings to you, Brother Conrad. It is good to see you both back at Odenpah.’

  Conrad smiled at the commander of Kalju’s bodyguard.

  ‘It is good to see you too, Indrek. I trust your lord and his wife are well.’

  Indrek nodded to Hans and Anton behind him and raised an eyebrow at the mail-clad young woman with long hair also with them.

  ‘They are well and will be pleased to see you.’

  Conrad could see Indrek scanning the faces of the other rides in the party.

  ‘Henke is not here, Indrek,’ Conrad assured him.

  The long-haired warrior visibly relaxed as he extended an arm to indicate that Conrad and Sir Richard should continue to the gates.

  ‘He is not welcome in Ungannia. Lord Kalju will not forgive him for the death of Villem.’

  Conrad looked at Sir Richard who shook his head. Obviously the death of his eldest son and heir was still raw. It did not augur well for their meeting.

  However, when they had left their horses in the stables inside the fort’s outer perimeter and Sir Richard’s knights had been assigned quarters in two empty huts nearby, he and the Sword Brothers, plus Kaja, were escorted to the inner stronghold that sat on a higher part of the hill. Odenpah was large and formidable but its outer stronghold was largely empty. Only in times of emergency was it filled with warriors and their families, who were now toiling in the fields that surrounded nearby villages.

  The inner stronghold was slightly busier, the wives of Kalju’s bodyguard darning clothes outside their huts or beating slaves who had allowed cooking pots to boil over. Their children ran around in groups armed with sticks and playing at being warriors.

  ‘In a few years they will be carrying real spears and swords,’ reflected Conrad.

  ‘It is the way of things,’ said Indrek. ‘A boy grows into a man and a man becomes a warrior to serve his lord. Ungannia’s warriors keep the land free and safe.’

  Indrek took his side by the right hand of Kalju when he had shown the visitors into the chief’s great hall. Guard’s stood around the walls of the feasting room where Kalju and Eha sat in chairs beneath a great banner displaying a golden eagle with huge talons, the latter rising after Conrad and the others had bowed their heads to them. Kalju looked careworn, Conrad thought, but Eha looked the same as the first time he had seen her. She was still slim despite having borne five children and there were no wrinkles around her green eyes. She kissed Conrad on the cheek and extended the same courtesy to Sir Richard, Anton and Hans. She then looked warmly at Kaja.

  ‘You remember Kaja, lady?’ Conrad said to Eha. ‘The Saccalian who saved my life and who has chosen to remain in my service?’

  Eha smiled at her. ‘You are welcome, Kaja.’

  ‘The Army of the Wolf still enlists women, Conrad?’ Kalju asked, a smile temporarily erasing the worry lines on his face.

  ‘It is composed of warriors from Saccalia, Jerwen and Rotalia, lord,’ answered Conrad. ‘Perhaps one day it will have the honour of fighting beside Kalju and his Ungannians.’

  Kalju rose from his chair. ‘I see that the Marshal of Estonia has learned the language of diplomacy.’

  He walked over to Conrad. ‘It is good to see that courage and honour are rewarded in Livonia.’

  He looked at Hans. ‘Doesn’t the bishop feed you, Hans? You still look like a birch tree.’

  ‘A brother knight’s diet is meagre, lord,’ said Hans.

  ‘We will have to make sure you eat well tonight, then,’ smiled Eha.

  ‘Welcome Anton,’ said Kalju, ‘you honour this hall with your presence.’

  He clasped forearms with Sir Richard. ‘Ungannians sleep more soundly knowing that you guard their western borders, my friend.’

  He turned back to Conrad. ‘And where is Johann, the fourth of your party of companions?’

  ‘Alas lord,’ replied Conrad. ‘Johann was killed at the Pala fighting the Danes.’

  Eha laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘I grieve for you, for you all. His life ended too early.’

  There was an awkward silence at Kalju stared into space, no doubt thinking of Villem, while the guests stood politely in silence. Eventually Kalju took Eha’s hand and led her towards their private quarters to the rear of the hall.

  ‘Until the feast tonight,’ the chief said. ‘Indrek will attend to your needs.’

 
; ‘The death of his son still weighs heavily on him,’ observed Hans.

  ‘On them both,’ said Indrek who had walked over to them. ‘Villem was well liked. He had inherited his father’s resilience and his mother’s intelligence. He would have made a fine leader of our people.’

  ‘Damn Henke,’ hissed Anton.

  ‘I am sure that he will be damned,’ said Conrad.

  ‘What of Kalju’s other son?’ asked Hans.

  ‘Kristjan?’ said Indrek. ‘He also misses his brother.’

  Kalju’s hospitality was certainly not found wanting that night as slaves brought enormous amounts of food and drink from the kitchens to feed the guests that sat on the top table along with Kalju and Eha. Kristjan sat on the right side of his father and the latter’s three daughters – Luule, Maarja and Maimu – were seated on their mother’s side. The two other tables were arranged at right angles to the top table and seated Indrek and other members of the chief’s bodyguard on one and Sir Richard’s knights on the other.

  Hans was in his element as he was first served bean soup in a large wooden bowl, helping himself to the rye bread in baskets that were placed on each table. After this first course slaves brought wooden platters holding sizzling strips of wild boar, elk and pork, all washed down with large quantities of beer and honey mead. The slaves also placed platters of cheese and small pies containing minced meat on the tables, though only Hans had the appetite to tuck into them after the meat feast enjoyed by everyone.

  Conrad sat directly opposite Kalju and Eha and made polite conversation with his hosts, occasionally exchanging words with their three attractive albeit reserved daughters. All had inherited their mother’s blonde hair and good looks, though the youngest, Maimu, had her father’s more solid frame. He had no chance to talk to Kristjan who ate his food with his head down, occasionally glancing up at the Sword Brothers sitting opposite.