The Sword Brothers (47 page)

Olaf held the pommel
of his sword between his legs and turned the great weapon on its
point. He stopped and raised his eyes to the line of unshaven,
filthy men standing before him.

‘So, Eric is
dead.’

They nodded. He had
been told how they had been ordered to leave by his son and their
subsequent travails in Estonia.

‘What of Lembit?’
asked Olaf.

‘He came with his
soldiers, majesty,’ answered one of them, his eyes cast down. ‘And
he fought beside us against the crusaders.’

‘Is he dead as
well?’

The man looked at the
others. ‘I, we, do not know, majesty. We heard that…’

Olaf stood. ‘What did
you hear? Answer!’

‘It was only a rumour,
majesty. But we heard that Lembit wanted to withdraw as soon as we
got wind that the crusader relief force had arrived. But the
prince…’

Olaf could see that
the man was sweating, out of fear of speaking the truth, no doubt.
He sat back down and saved the poor wretch the effort.

‘But the prince wanted
to fight.’

The man swallowed and
shook his head. The others murmured their agreement. Olaf waved a
hand at them.

‘Get out. I will
decide what to do with you later.’

They trudged out and
the doors were closed. Dalla jumped up and began pacing in front of
her husband and sons. Her fists were clenched in anger as she
looked at Olaf, though her eyes were moist with tears.

‘You should have them
executed to show what happens to deserters. And you should send
longships against the Estonians to exact vengeance for Eric’s
death.’

Stark and Kalf were
nodding enthusiastically though Sigurd was staring down at the
floor and keeping his counsel.

‘It is obvious that
this Lembit deserted Eric in his hour of need,’ spat Dalla,
becoming more hysterical by the minute. She stopped and faced Olaf.
‘I demand justice for my dead son.’

Olaf stepped forward
and embraced his wife as she buried her head in his chest and began
weeping. It had all been too much for her and the desire to lash
out in her grief was understandable. Olaf called for his wife’s
women servants, who entered the hall minutes afterwards.

‘Take her to our
longhouse,’ he commanded. He held his wife’s face in his hands and
kissed her forehead. ‘I will be along shortly, after I have
discussed with our sons our next course of action.’

‘I miss him,’ she said
softly.

He smiled at her. ‘So
do I.’ He waved the women forward and they led his wife from the
hall. Aside from the scratching of the mice silence returned to the
hall.

‘When do we sail
against the Estonians, father?’ asked Stark, his eyes burning with
the fire of vengeance.

‘We will kill all of
the Rotalians,’ boasted Kalf.

Olaf sighed and caught
Sigurd’s eye. He walked back to his throne and retook it.

‘Sigurd is now my
heir,’ he announced, ‘and you two will speak only when asked to do
so,’ he rebuked Stark and Kalf. ‘Eric died in battle, which I would
have thought you would all approve of. Your mother is upset because
that is what women do. They weep and wail when their sons are
killed. But you are not women. You are princes and should act
accordingly. Sigurd, what say you on this?’

‘We all grieve Eric’s
death, father, none more so than me,’ said Sigurd. ‘But our enemies
are the crusaders, not the Estonians.’

Stark laughed
derisively.

Sigurd remained calm.
‘You may wish to wage war against the Estonians, Stark, but to what
end? We know that Lembit honoured his pledge to bring his army to
Treiden and now we know that Eric gave battle when it would have
been more prudent to withdraw. We should preserve the alliance with
the Estonians.’

Stark and Kalf were
outraged but Olaf ordered them to be silent.

‘We have always raided
the Estonian coast,’ said Olaf, ‘and also sent our longships into
the Baltic to plunder shipping. We have never sought allies in the
past but now circumstances are different. If the crusaders conquer
Estonia then they will turn their eyes towards Oesel. Eric’s death
has not changed this. We will continue our alliance with Lembit.
That is my decision.’

Sigurd nodded his
approval as Stark and Kalf fumed in silence.

‘What about the
deserters?’ said Stark, hoping to have vengeance upon them if he
was to be denied Estonian blood.

Olaf scratched his
beard. ‘They will be fed and given time to heal their wounds. We
will need all the warriors who can wield a sword in the coming
months.’ He rose from his throne, a weary look on his face. ‘And
now I must comfort your mother for the loss of her son.’

They stood as he
walked from the hall, the guards opening the doors to allow him to
pass. He envied Dalla. His anger at his son’s idiocy prevented him
from grieving the death of Eric. He could not find it in his heart
to forgive him for the loss of nearly a thousand Oeselian
warriors.

*****

Lembit looked into the
sky and saw a great flock of cranes above, all heading for warmer
climes now it was autumn and the icy grip of winter would soon be
upon the land.

‘Lucky devils,’ he
muttered, drawing his cloak tighter around him.

He and his men had
just been subjected to a heavy rainfall that had drenched them and
their ponies. Now he was cold as the grey sky continued to wet
them, this time with a tedious drizzle that added to the general
gloom. The tops of the trees on the higher ground were wreathed in
mist and the ground was sodden. Behind him fifty of his wolf
shields rode in silence, the heads of both men and animals bowed in
the face of the precipitation.

His strategy of
sending raiding parties south had had the desired effect of
dispersing the crusader army and thus saving Estonia from an
invasion, for this year at least. Unfortunately, rather than
congratulating him the leaders of the other tribes had spent the
summer sulking over the loss of their men at Treiden. This seething
resentment had now manifested itself in a meeting of the tribal
chiefs at the great hill fort of Varbola, the stronghold of the
Harrien people. Lembit had no option but to attend this ‘voluntary’
gathering, for not to do so would threaten his position as Grand
Warlord, a rank accorded him by the other tribal chiefs. Though
only if he gave them an endless string of victories, it
appeared.

The track took them
through trees stripped of their bark by elk and scratched by wild
boar and bears, the forests increasing in size as they travelled
further north. Lembit looked at Rusticus riding beside him, who
seemed remarkably cheerful considering the adverse weather
conditions. Having no feelings was obviously a great advantage in
such dreariness.

‘Tell me, Rusticus,’
said Lembit, ‘do you think that because the land of the Harrien is
so dismal the crusaders will not invade it, preferring regions with
more agreeable climes to subjugate?’

Rusticus looked
perplexed, his ugly face made more unsightly as a frown creased it.
‘I think the crusaders wish to conquer the whole world, lord.’

Lembit was taken aback
by his unexpected insight. ‘I think you are right. Though the men
of iron would undoubtedly rust in such a climate.’

‘They will not come in
the autumn,’ said Rusticus, water dripping off his helmet. ‘The
land is flooded and too muddy.’

‘But it becomes more
solid in the winter,’ remarked Lembit, ‘and I am sure that they
will return when the rivers and lakes are frozen.’

‘We will be ready for
them next time,’ said Rusticus defiantly.

‘Let us hope that the
other tribes will be standing by us,’ said Lembit glumly. He looked
around at the gloomy forest through which they had been travelling
for hours. The land of the Harrien was over a hundred miles from
the most northerly crusader fortress and its people no doubt
thought that they were safe. His own people, the Saccalians, had
once thought that and now the crusaders were on their borders.

‘Fools,’ spat
Lembit.

Rusticus looked at
him. ‘Lord?’

Lembit shook his head.
‘Nothing.’

It took them two more
days to reach the great circular hill fort of Varbola, the
stronghold of the leader of the Harrien: Alva, which meant ‘elf
warrior’. Lembit found this most peculiar as he was tall and thin
rather than short but he seemed to revel in the name, encouraging
his people to believe that he had mythical ancestors. Whether he
did was debatable. What was not was the strength of his fortress.
Varbola was built on the northern side of a knoll that had the
shape of an eagle’s beak, beside a huge, brooding forest. Its
timber palisade had been erected on an earth rampart fronted with
limestone rocks, in front of which was a dry moat that was at least
thirty feet wide. The perimeter of the fort was reportedly two
thousand feet in extent, wooden towers at regular intervals along
its entire length. Alva boasted that Varbola was the biggest,
strongest hill fort among all the Estonian tribes, a brag that
Lembit believed.

Varbola had two
entrances, in the south and east, Lembit and his men entering via
the former. They rode through two sets of gates before entering the
fort’s expansive interior, comprising dozens of huts, a great hall
in the centre and stables, storerooms, armouries and smiths around
the edge. Above the gates hung great banners bearing Alva’s symbol:
the lynx.

Lembit walked his pony
forward to where Alva and the other chiefs awaited him. He was the
last to arrive. Good, it was fitting that they should stand before
their supreme leader. The drizzle had finally stopped and the sun
was attempting to peak from behind the grey clouds that filled the
sky. The fort was filled with the smell of pony dung, cooking fires
and charcoal forges.

Lembit slid off his
pony as Rusticus did the same to stand beside him, his standard
bearer hurrying to take his position behind them. Alva stood with a
stupid grin on his face in the middle of the other chiefs. Behind
them were the banner men with their standards, though the flags
hung limply on their staffs in the windless fort. But Lembit knew
them well enough. The boar of the Wierlanders, the Lynx of the
Harrien, the bear of the Jerwen, the golden eagle of the Ungannians
and the stag of the Rotalians.

Lembit spreads his
arms. ‘Greetings, brothers. It has been too long since we have all
been together.’

Alva stepped forward.
‘Hail Lembit, lion of Estonia.’ He embraced his ally as the other
chiefs walked forward to likewise offer their respects.

The feast that night
in Alva’s great hall was a magnificent affair, the benches filled
with warriors of all the tribes. Lembit was placed next to his host
at the top table, flanked by the other leaders as their men gorged
themselves on great quantities of bean soup, pig’s head broth,
roasted pork, cheese and rye bread. They drank huge amounts of beer
and honey mead and as the evening wore on arguments and fights
broke out among the assembled host. No weapons were drawn as only
the chiefs were allowed to wear their swords in Alva’s hall, but
plenty of noses were broken as men slugged it out in drunken bouts
before their cheering comrades. Afterwards the antagonists
invariably swore eternal friendship and embraced each other before
either staggering back to their seats or passing out and being
dragged outside and doused with cold water.

Lembit indulged in
polite conversation with the other chiefs, finding the evening
agreeable enough but knowing that the real business would begin the
next morning. And so it was, as slaves cleared away the vomit, beer
and food encrusted reeds from the floors and replaced them with
fresh ones, that the chiefs gathered once more in the hall to
discuss matters of strategy. It was a curious thing that among the
drunken brawls and raucous behaviour bread was never thrown or
stepped on at feasts, being considered sacred by Estonians.

Rusticus belched
loudly and sat his great bulk on a bench, head in his hands at the
table. He looked pale and about to vomit, his shirt drenched after
he had emptied a bucket of water over his head in the courtyard in
an attempt to freshen himself up.

The tall ‘elf warrior’
was already in his hall, accompanied by his stocky, barrel-chested
champion who also looked the worse for wear. The other chiefs began
to arrive: Edvin, leader of the Wierlanders, round faced with a mop
of curly blonde hair; Jaak of the Jerwen, a man with a narrow face
and untrusting eyes; and the hard, uncompromising Kalju of the
Ungannians. It meant ‘rock’ and was most apt. Finally there was
Nigul, chief of the Rotalians, a thoughtful individual who looked
more like a holy man with his thinning white hair and wild blue
eyes.

The doors of the hall
had been open but the room still stank of sweat, vomit and beer
from the previous evening. Slaves cleared away the tables and
benches, stacking them against the walls and then bringing
high-backed chairs that Alva ordered be arranged in a circle near
the fire burning in the central stone hearth, smoke drifting up to
the vent in the roof.

The chiefs sat facing
each other with their subordinates behind them. Slaves finished
scattering fresh reeds on the floor and then disappeared to the
kitchens to fetch refreshments. In the morning it was customary for
the leftovers from the night before to be heated up, supplemented
by fresh bread and Baltic herring on the side. Lembit refused
anything to eat but did take a cup of warm milk offered him. He
glanced behind him and saw Rusticus heartily tucking in to a
platter heaped with food. The man had the constitution of an
ox.

Lembit decided to cut
to the chase. ‘My friends, I assume you requested this gathering
because you have something to say concerning our war with the
crusaders.’