The Sword Brothers (53 page)

Kalju looked at the
snow flurries around him. ‘They will not see us approaching. We
will strike the rear of the column where the mostly poorly armed
men are gathered.’

Lembit nodded his
approval. ‘Let us cover this lake with Russian corpses.’

The Ungannians cheered
and banged their axe hafts on the insides of their shields and an
evil grin creased Kalju’s face. He raised his axe and pushed
himself forward, his skis coursing over the snow-covered ice with
ease. His warriors followed as Lembit made his way back to the
Saccalians. Rusticus was standing ahead of the line of wolf
shields, his cloak covered in snow.

‘I hope you are in the
mood for slaughter,’ Lembit said to him.

Rusticus smiled.
‘Always.’

Lembit raised his axe
and looked behind. ‘Saccalians. Your orders are to kill the
invaders. Show no mercy. I will kill the first man I see with pity
in his eyes. Forward!’

The wolf shields gave
a mighty cheer and followed their chief into the whiteout, the wind
at their backs as they skied south across Lake Pskov. Two hundred
warriors moved silently through the snowstorm, the natural pine
resin lubricating the underside of their skis to make their journey
easier, aided by the northerly wind. Rusticus pushed ahead eagerly,
gripping the shaft of his axe. He loved the moments just before
battle when the anticipation of carnage filled his mind. He liked
rape and pillage well enough but he loved war; loved the feeling
that came with slicing open a man’s guts in battle and the
sensation of crushing an opponent’s skull with an axe. It was in
such moments that life truly became worth living. He screamed his
war cry and sped ahead.

The Estonian warriors
were widely spaced at they made their way across the ice, becoming
even more separated in the swirling snowflakes that blotted out the
horizon. But at least they knew approximately where the Russian
army was; unlike Domash’s men who were blissfully unaware of their
attackers until they were upon them like a pack of starving
wolves.

Rusticus saw the
stooped figure appear suddenly in front of him, a soldier wrapped
in a cape clutching a spear. He glided towards him, raised his axe
and then smashed it into the back of his skull as he passed behind
him. The next Russian saw him, transfixed as Rusticus brought his
weapon up and swung it sharply to his right to hit the man square
in the face, obliterating his nose. The man screamed and fell in
the snow, to be killed by an axe blow to the back of the head
delivered by a following wolf shield. Within moments the roar of
the wind was intermingled with the screams and cries of men being
struck by axes and swords as the Estonians smashed into the
Russians.

Horses and ponies
bolted as the raiders went straight through the ragged Russian
column, halted, turned and then went back to the slaughter. The
Voi
suffered the most. Already cold, hungry and demoralised,
hundreds of them were cut down in the initial Estonian assault.
Trumpets blew from among the Russian ranks as the city militias
gathered round their standards and locked shields to fight off the
attackers.

Lembit stopped hacking
at the bloody pulp that had been an archer at his feet and looked
around. It was chaos. Snow flurries reduced visibility to less than
fifty feet, making any sort of control all but impossible. He had a
score of wolf shields with him but where were the rest? And where
was Rusticus?

‘Sound horn,’ he
ordered.

The signaller blew his
horn but it was barely audible above the wind and the dreadful
sounds of battle raging all around. The snow was littered with
Russian dead, making it difficult to ski around the corpses.
Rusticus then suddenly appeared, the head and shaft of his axe
covered with blood and gore.

‘Good sport,’ he
beamed. Behind him came many wolf shields, their weapons similarly
adorned with Russian blood. Their assault had been spectacularly
successful.

‘We must find the
Ungannians,’ said Lembit, ordering his signaller to blow his horn
once more. ‘To finish these Russian barbarians.’

The initial assault by
Kalju’s men was similarly successful, nearly a thousand Russians
being cut down when the Ungannians appeared out of the snowstorm.
Thereafter, though, the fighting became harder as the more
professional city militias rallied and fought back. And then the
Druzhina
launched a counterattack.

Domash heard the din
suddenly erupt behind him and knew that the column was under
attack. Most of the horsemen were positioned at the front of the
army, though he had deployed his five hundred riders from Pskov
behind the
Voi
to provide a rearguard. Unfortunately these
took the full force of the Saccalian assault and were almost
immediately scattered. To their credit their commanders managed to
rally some but they got lost in the snow and actually rode away
from the army.

*****

Domash gave the order
for his men to mount their horses and led them towards the rear.
But his progress was slowed almost immediately as figures on skis
came out of the hail of snowflakes to hack at horses and riders
alike. Beasts cried out in pain and then collapsed in the snow,
trapping their riders beneath them. He ran one skier through with
his lance but more and more appeared among his horsemen, and
suddenly there were dozens of individual mêlées being fought around
him.

More of his
Druzhina
came trotting from the army’s vanguard, spearing
skiers and slashing left and right with their swords. After nearly
half an hour the warriors on skis were either dead and or had been
forced to flee back into the white maelstrom, leaving Domash free
to rally his men and lead them towards the rear where the sounds of
battle could still be heard. But their progress was agonisingly
slow, made worse by the swirling snow that blinded the horses and
confused their riders. Skiers would suddenly appear in front and
behind them, the latter slashing at the hindquarters of the horses
with their swords, inflicting fearful wounds. The animals would
either collapse or cry out in pain and bolt into the whiteout.

The thousand men of
the Pskov militia had been immediately behind the horsemen in the
line of march, their wagons deployed in the centre of their
formation. The spearmen formed the outer files of the militiamen,
the archers and crossbowmen walking beside the wagons as the
latter’s weapons were stored under canvas sheets in the carts to
keep them dry and the bowmen were carrying their bowstrings under
their hats. The spearmen on the left flank of the march formation
were the ones who took the full force of the Ungannian attack, most
being unable to react as the skiers appeared out of the snow and
hacked them down with their axes. Kalju’s men began killing the
archers and crossbowmen before the Pskovian spearmen on the other
side of the wagons mounted a counterattack then forced the
Estonians back.

It was the same story
with the Novgorod militia, which suffered fewer casualties because
its numbers were greater and the Ungannians found it more difficult
to cut through their denser files. When the
Druzhina
appeared the Estonians retreated before them rather than stand and
be cut down, falling back towards the rear of the Russian column
where the hapless
Voi
lay dead in heaps in the snow. And as
the Ungannians retreated so the Saccalians advanced until the two
literally bumped into each other. Kalju saw the black banner of
Lembit and skied over to it.

‘The Russian horsemen
will soon be arriving in our midst.’

‘Time to disappear
into the snow, I think,’ said Lembit.

‘They are almost
finished. We cannot flee with victory within reach,’ implored
Rusticus, his light grey wolfskin cloak splattered with blood, none
of it his own.

‘We cannot defeat
horsemen,’ said Lembit firmly. He turned to his signaller.

‘Sound retreat.’

The high-pitched wail
of the horn prompted the Saccalians to move away from the scene of
carnage and back towards the northwest. Kalju gave a similar order
and his men also made their escape. They would ski as fast as they
could away from the Russians, hoping that the snowfall and lack of
visibility would deter any mounted pursuit. When the storm had
blown itself out they would regroup to the northwest, beyond the
shores of the lake, to tend to their wounds and boast of their
kills.

Before he left Kalju
extended a hand to Lembit. ‘You have my gratitude and my
loyalty.’

Lembit clasped his
forearm. ‘My enemies are your enemies, my friend.’

They heard a horse’s
snort.

‘We must go,’ said
Rusticus.

Lembit nodded to Kalju
and began to ski away into the snow flurries.

There was no pursuit.
The snow continued to fall and the wind showed no signs of abating
as Domash and his men continued their ride along what remained of
the prince’s army. The Pskov and Novgorod militias managed to
regroup around their wagons but the
Voi
had all but ceased
to exist. Not only had they suffered heavy casualties at the hands
of the Estonians, many had fled in terror at the appearance of the
axe-wielding skiers, running away from the column towards the
south. Whether they would be able to find their way back to shelter
and food before darkness fell no one knew.

It was now two hours
after midday and the light was fading fast. The wind continued to
blow in the faces of tense and cold Russian soldiers as they
awaited another assault that never came. By the time night had
fallen it had stopped snowing, the bodies of the dead being covered
in a blanket of white. Domash ordered that the men stand to arms
all through the night on the ice. The wind dropped and clouds
parted to allow moonlight to flood Lake Pskov. There was no sound
aside from the soft moaning of the wounded; then total quiet as the
cold quickly claimed them.

Domash stayed awake
all night, in the morning standing beside a wagon holding a spear,
his beard frosted and his eyes red. There was no wind or falling
snow and all around there was nothing but deep snow and ice. He
gave the order for food to be distributed and a roll call to be
taken. He also sent out parties of scouts to make sure they would
not be attacked again. It was two hours before what was left of the
army recommenced its journey to Pskov, which was only two days’
march away. The return of three hundred of the mounted men of the
Pskov militia raised morale a little but men’s spirits soon slipped
back into despair as the enormity of the calamity that had befallen
them became clear.

His own
Druzhina
had suffered ten killed and thirty wounded during
the fighting, the Pskov militia suffering a hundred losses and the
Novgorodians twice that number. But the heaviest losses had
occurred among the
Voi
: two thousand dead and a further
thousand missing. He did not know why his commanders had reported
the latter as missing. He knew they were dead from exposure, having
spent the previous night wandering around on the ice before they
succumbed to the cold. Their frozen corpses provided a fitting
epitaph to Prince Mstislav’s abortive expedition into Estonia.

Chapter 12

Bishop Albert finished
prayers, took his seat at the table and invited the others to do
the same. He had arrived back from Germany three weeks before in
the company of a thousand crusaders. Together with those knights
who had remained in Livonia and who had taken part in the winter
raids against the Estonians, he could now muster four thousand foot
and horse to crusade against the pagans. In addition, he had the
troops of the Rigan garrison plus the Sword Brothers and their
mercenary forces. To which would be added the hundreds of warriors
that Caupo could raise.

It was now summer and
Livonia was bathed in glorious sunlight. The roads were dry and
would soon be filled by a great army marching north to do battle
with Lembit. Albert had gathered the masters of the Sword Brothers
to inform them of his plans. They now sat at his table in their
mail armour and white surcoats with their deputies: Grand Master
Volquin, Master Berthold of Wenden, Master Bertram of Segewold,
Master Mathias of Kremon, Master Gerhard of Holm, Master Friedhelm
of Uexkull, Master Aldous of Lennewarden and Master Griswold of
Kokenhusen. He looked with satisfaction at their hard features,
these religious warriors whose garrisons held back the heathen
hordes.

Bishop Albert brought
his hands together. ‘I will soon march against Lembit in what will
be the final campaign against the Estonian pagans. A great army
musters outside the walls of Riga to bring the word of God to the
heathens.’

The Sword Brothers
smiled at the bishop and each other.

‘A fitting reward for
your industry and conviction, lord bishop,’ said Volquin. The
others murmured their approval of his words.

The bishop held up a
hand. ‘I am merely a poor servant of God who has been chosen to
undertake His work.

‘But now, finally, we
are on the eve of the subjugation of the whole of Estonia. Master
Berthold, perhaps you would be so kind as to provide us with
details concerning the state of the Estonian tribes.’

Berthold cleared his
throat. ‘Thank you, lord bishop. At Wenden we have received reports
that in addition to our own incursions, Prince Mstislav of Novgorod
led a great army into Ungannia to plunder that land. So I would
estimate that Lembit has lost a sizeable number of men during the
recent winter, as well as many of his villages destroyed.’

‘Does Novgorod covet
Estonia?’ asked Master Bertram.

‘He may,’ answered
Berthold, ‘though we also heard that the Russian army was worsted
on the ice of Lake Pskov as it headed for home.’