Chapter 3 - Knights of God

"Is that all they've got?" sneered Alexander, chewing on a piece of cooked pork as he stood in front of his men's shield wall.

On his left was his most trusted friend, him wearing a helmet and mail armor and holding the grip of his shield with his left hand. The man stood on Alexander's right. His men were also deployed in a shield wall – nearly twenty thousand warriors standing shoulder to shoulder. Behind them, three hundred cavalrymen stood in reserve, guarding their prince.

Alexander saw the so-calling Teutonic order shuffling into line directly opposite his men, around four hundred paces away. Despite being a king's son Alexander wore a simple helmet comprising a single iron band that circled his head around the brow and riveted to two iron bands that crossed at the top of the head. The four openings were filled by riveted iron plates that created the bowl shape, with a nose guard riveted to the brow band itself. And yet, amongst all of his men, he was the only one who looked like a proper knight and not like some lesser man who was given a spear.

"We must outnumber them at least ten to one, perhaps more." One of the prince's bodyguards mentioned while looking at the too few knights preparing for the upcoming clash.

"This won't take long!" The prince, tossed the leg of pork to the ground, before looking at the tallest of the ten riders he had with him. "As soon as we attack them direct your men against the Christian foot soldiers."

The taller man saw the lances and banners of the knights to the rear of the Christian army. "It is prudent, my liege? That would leave you exposed to their horsemen?"

"Once we break their foot they will flee. I count no more than a hundred or so lances. Too few to withstand our might."

The commander of the Novgorod's knights was unsure but was bolstered by Alexander's certainty that he would defeat the enemy. He nodded at his liege and ran back to their men who stood in the center of the line. Each shield wall occupied a frontage of around a hundred and sixty paces, the shields of the front rank overlapping so there were no gaps in the line. But there was an inviting gap between the men-at-arms who stood to the west and the ones who were grouped to the north. This was not a conscious decision taken by their respective commanders, but rather, a desire by the prince to fool the enemy.

As soon as their leaders gave the order, the Novgorodians began chanting war cries and hurling abuse at the Livs opposite, horns sounding above the din to signal the advance. The men began banging their spear shafts and axe hafts against the inside of their shields as they walked forward, arrows hissing over their heads from the archers in the rear rank. The Christians brought up their shields to deflect the missiles and then the various officers of the knights signaled the advance. Hearing the dreadful din on his left flank Andrei, the one who actually made the battle plan, turned, raised his sword in the air, and then walked forward towards the Christian foot soldiers facing his men. His shields closed around him for the knights of black and white had positioned crossbowmen in front of their footmen and these now began shooting at the packed ranks of the brave freedom fighters.

Shooting four to five bolts a minute each, the crossbowmen managed to discharge seven volleys before they retreated through the ranks of their foot brothers. This not only killed and wounded around half a thousand Novgorodians, but it also slowed the momentum of their men as they saw their comrades struck down by the iron-tipped bolts, their shields offering little protection as the range between the two lines closed and the missiles pierced leather and wood with ease. This gave the foot brothers time to withdraw in the face of the enemy shield wall, just as Landmeister Erik and Konrad led their knights forward.

The shield wall of the Novgorodians was disrupted, and in that chaos, they found their chance. Seeing that small window, Erik took the right flank with an assembly of his most hardened knights while Konrad took Dietrich and fifty knights and charged the left flank.

On the right flank, the enemy archers and crossbowmen, who had been raining death on the foot brothers, suddenly found themselves in the path of the charging knights. They had no time to react, no time to form a defensive line, no time to flee. They were caught like deer in the headlights.

Erik raised his sword high and shouted a war cry that echoed across the field. His men followed suit, brandishing their weapons and spurring their horses faster. A second later, they crashed into the enemy ranks like a battering ram, shattering their formation and sending bodies flying in all directions. The sound of steel meeting flesh and bone was deafening, as was the scream of the dying and the wounded.

Even though he had grown old, too old for being on the frontline, Erik felt a surge of adrenaline as he cut down one enemy after another, his sword slicing through mail and leather as if they were paper. Just as he cut down one brave fool who tried to pierce the horse, Erik saw a crossbowman aiming at him and swung his blade, severing the man's arm and sending his weapon flying. Another crossbowman took the chance to aim at the landmeister only to end up on the end of lance that pierced his chest from behind. The same events happened all around the old landmeister as more and more knights butchered the poorly trained enemy.

They did not stop, they did not hesitate, they did not show mercy and with Erik in the lead, they were a whirlwind of death and destruction, leaving a trail of blood and corpses behind them as they pushed further and further into the back lines of the Novgorodians.

On the other flank, Konrad led his own charge with equal ferocity. But sadly, for them, a foe more prepared and better trained than some peasant counter charged in their direction. The enemy cavalry, who had been waiting in reserve, had finally joined the fray. They were led by the prince himself, a young man with a proud face and a golden helmet. He wore a richly embroidered cloak and carried a long lance and a curved sword. He was surrounded by his personal guards, who wore black armor and red plumes.

They charged towards Konrad's contingent, hoping to catch them off guard and break their momentum. They were faster and more agile than the knights, who were weighed down by their heavy armor and weapons.

Seeing the enemy cavalry charging them, Konrad tried to rally his men. "Form a wedge! Break through their lines!"

As the Novgorodian cavalry thundered towards Konrad's contingent, Konrad knew that the fate of his men rested on their ability to withstand the impending collision.

"Steady the line! Hold firm!" Konrad's voice pierced through the chaos as his men hurriedly formed a wedge formation. They positioned themselves with shields overlapping and lances poised, ready to strike with the force of a battering ram.

Time seemed to slow as the enemy cavalry closed the distance, their horses seeming to devour the ground beneath them. Hooves thundered, and the rumble grew louder, adding to the tension that hung thick in the air.

In the next moment, the two forces met, a maelstrom of clanging armor and splintering wood. The impact reverberated through the battlefield, shaking the very souls of those who witnessed it. Spears shattered, shields buckled, horses being killed and men were hurled aside as the clash intensified.

As the fight dragged on, Konrad felt a jolt of pain as a man in a yellow armor hit him with a mace, smashing his shield and knocking him off his horse. He landed hard on the ground, feeling the wind knocked out of him. When he tried to get up, he felt a boot on his chest, pinning him down.

Looking up, he saw the man in the yellow armor looming over him, his mace raised for the final blow.

  "You're done, knight. You're nothing but a dog in armor."

He swung his mace down, aiming for Konrad's head but the young knight reacted quickly, rolling to the side and dodging the blow, before grabbing his sword from the ground and stabbed the prince in the leg, making him scream and drop his mace.

Konrad quickly got up, clutching his sword in his hand as he looked at the staggering prince, as the wound he inflicted was now bleeding quite badly. He knew he had to finish him off before he could recover. So, without wasting any precious time, Konrad charged at him, swinging his sword with all his might. The prince barely managed to block his attack with his shield, but the force of the blow made him stagger back. Which prompted the young knight to press on, slashing and cutting at the prince's armor, looking for an opening.

The prince tried to fight back, but no matter what he tried, he could not break the young knight's rhythm. He was slower, weaker, and more tired than Konrad and with every failed attempt, he could feel his strength fading with every wound he received. Fear and desperation filled his heart, and because of them, the prince knew he had to do something, anything, to turn the tide. He looked around for some help from his allies. But chaos and the dead bodies of his men greeted him. The knights of black and white pushed back his army, his knights fell one by one, his banner laying torn and trampled.

In a moment of madness, Alexander made one last desperate attempt. He gathered all his strength and courage, and attacked Konrad, swinging his mace recklessly, hoping to catch the young knight off guard, to the point of ignoring the pain and his wounds.

But Konrad did not fall for his tactics, not when he was too used to such petty tricks. Instead, he stayed calm and composed, parrying and dodging his blows with ease while waiting for the right moment to strike back, knowing that the prince was exhausting himself with every move.

It didn't took him long to ease his attacks and Konrad knew that this was his opening. Before the prince could even react or parry, Konrad slashed his sword across his face, leaving a deep gash on his cheek, followed by a kick in the stomach, making the prince drop his mace and fall to his knees. With the prince on his knees, Konrad raised his sword ready to cut the heathen's head off his shoulder when he felt a sharp pain in his back. He then slowly looked down, only to see the pointy end of a lance coming through his chest. Blood dripped down his body, staining his armor and the ground.

Gritting his teeth, Konrad turned around, only to see a Novgorodian knight in a black armor behind him, holding the other end of the lance. The knight smiled wickedly, enjoying his treacherous deed by twisting the lance, making Konrad scream in agony before pulling it out, letting the young knight fall to the ground.

Meanwhile, Alexander who was on his knees, breath out in relief as soon as he saw his enemy being stabbed by a lance. At last, he was a saved by a miracle. Gripping his mace, Alexander forced his battered body to get up, ignoring his injuries, and drag his body towards Konrad. 

"You're done, knight." Seeing the lack of reaction from the knight, made Alexader burst into laughter, mocking Konrad's fate. He laughed so hard that he coughed up blood, but he didn't care. In the end, he, the prince of Novgorod slayed the enemy leader and that was all that mattered.

But Konrad was not dead yet. He still had a spark of life in him, and a burning desire to take this heathen prince with him in death. As the prince was laughing, Konrad reached for his sword, which lay next to him on the ground. He gripped it tightly in his hand, feeling its weight and edge and he waited… he waited for the right moment.

When the prince came close enough, he sprang up with a sudden burst of energy. With what little strength he could muster, the young knight stabbed his sword towards the prince's neck, cutting through his flesh and bone. A second later, blood spurted out of his wound, spraying his face and armor.

The prince gasped, clutching his neck as he stared down at Konrad with disbelief and horror. He tried to speak, but only gurgled sounds came out of his mouth and even in his last moments he tried to curse the young knight…

Once the prince died, Konrad dropped his sword, feeling a wave of relief and satisfaction wash over him. He had done it. He had killed the prince.

As his body fell to the ground, he looked around, hoping to see his fellow knights cheering him on. But instead, he saw a scene of horror and carnage. Bodies of men and horses littered the field, blood stained the ground, smoke filled the air. The battle was far from over ,but despite being outnumbered quite heavily, the Teutonic order was massacring the Novgorodian army… Only a fool would have split his army when he knew that the enemy was coming for him.

Yet there was nothing he could do anymore… at last, memories of the faces of his friends and his 

"father" appeared before him just as his vision started to black out…

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