Västerås, Sweden
September, 1136
Through here, the woods were dark and deep, and the road was little more than two ruts in the ground. Only the birdsong let you know that it was not actually night out. It was easy to imagine soldiers lurking in the shadows, watching them. Besides him, Mieletty could see Heathen quailing just a bit. He was a little nervous too, but there was no sense letting the men see that. So Mieletty treated the man with a confident smile and then crept further in.
The Suomi had arrived in Västerås late this spring to find the farms burnt and the grain stores empty. Every well they’d found had a corpse in it too, in order to leave the water befouled. This was the third year of war and the new regent apparently had no intention of letting them live off the land if he could help it. So the Suomi were reliant on their supply lines back to the villages on the islands of Åland, and that proved their soft underbelly. The knarr could be raided and often were.
But worse, the locals had a penchant for stealing their wagons. It was hard to blame them, Ziggy had noted. The Swedish peasants were starving themselves thanks to Duke Sigurd and his scorched earth policy. Of course they would go for food wherever they could find it. That was just the sort of thought that Ziggy was good for, Mieletty reflected. He was always trying to imagine what the other fellow was thinking.
As commander of the Suomi forces in Sweden, the prince should have been back at his tent coordinating the second siege of Västerås.
Second, yes. They had taken the capital once, three years earlier, and nearly had the queen herself. They might have won this damned war, at which point Arvo would have been installed on the throne of Sweden and Mieletty could have gone home to deal with his father. Instead, Helena ran as fast as her little legs could take her to the waiting arms of Sigurd, who announced himself Protector of the Realm and Defender of the Faith. Then the real troubles began.
That damned Holy Order of Saint Whoever-the-Fuck landed in Suomi and unleashed unholy terror on the peasantry there. When the good and righteous knights made to besiege Ulvila, Mieletty had been obliged to leave Västerås and go defend his father. As soon as they got there, however, they found that the damned holy knights had melted into the damned holy aether and meanwhile Sigurd had taken back Västerås.
It was then that Mieletty began to realize that there was no winning this war. If the army went to Sweden, then their homeland was exposed. If they remained at home, then Sigurd could rebuild his army. If they split up their forces, then Sigurd and the Holy Whomever Knights could overwhelm each part individually and do whatever they damned well wanted.
That was not to say that things were hopeless, necessarily. Take Västerås a second time, and perhaps they could work out some kind of face-saving peace with Sigurd. Father would be furious, but he wasn’t here and he didn’t really understand. But to win the siege, the Suomi would need to outlast their enemy, and that required food. And so the drip-drip-drip of missing wagons was getting to Mieletty, until finally he gathered up a small group of warriors and said let’s go find one of these damned things. Hence why he was here, with his cousin Aapo, a Dane named Erik that they all called Heathen, and a dozen other warriors.
They were creeping along the forest road for perhaps an hour when they found the wagon, abandoned after an axle had broken. Sacks full of grain were scattered on the ground, Mieletty was glad to see. Perhaps they might come back with some supplies tonight, a minor victory that should boost morale. Aapo felt the same, apparently, because he let out a little whoop of delight as he approached.
As he approached, however, a queer anxiety curled up inside of him.
The Swedes are starving more than we are, Ziggy had said. So why had starving men left grain behind?
“
It’s a trap!” Mieletty cried out, just before the arrows flew out from the underbrush. Besides him, men were diving for cover behind the wagon or throwing themselves onto the ground. Aapo had been a touch too slow, and an arrow caught him in the shoulder. He spun around and fell with a thud.
Mieletty paused for a second, considering the three arrows piercing the wagon. Four archers, all on one side of the trail–this wasn’t exactly Sigurd’s finest. They must have expected a couple of footmen to look for the wagon, not a dozen armored warriors.
We have them outnumbered, three to one.
“Heathen,” he hissed. “Tell them that we accept their surrender.”
"Highness?” The Danish youth looked incredulous.
“Tell them–” Mieletty thought for a second. “Tell them that we have food for them, all sorts of food. A new shipment from Suomi. And whatever you do, don’t stop talking.” While the Heathen started crying out in guttural Norse, Mieletty silently pointed to three warriors to come with him. Slowly, they started creeping through the brush with daggers in hand.
After three painfully slow minutes, Mieletty got his first look at the archers: deathly skinny, with prominent clavicles and hollow cheeks. Their blonde hair was matted and stringy, their beards patchy and thin. They might have been fifteen or fifty. He was struck with a pang of sympathy, and thus did not look where he was stepping. A twig snapped beneath his foot.
Well, there was nothing to do then but charge the rest of the way. Mieletty stood up and screamed, waving his dagger about like a madman and hoping that he appeared intimidating. The three behind him screamed out
Hakkaa päälle!, and the men on the road took up the cry as well. The sound of their voices echoed around them, until they sounded like a host rather than a small band.
Three of the Swedes threw down their bows in surrender. The fourth, a bit shorter and more boyish than the others, had the courage to raise his bow and loose at the pagans bearing down on him. Mieletty felt the arrow hit him in the side, but in his battle fever it scarcely felt like anything. The blow did not stop him from closing with the boy and holding the dagger to his throat.
“
Uppgjöf,” he growled to the Swedes.
Surrender. It was one of the few Norse words that he knew. The boy, looking at him with wide eyes, simply nodded. The men beside him murmured something that must have been words of surrender.
“Take their bows,” Mieletty said to his men. “We’ll take them back to camp and give them a good meal before sending them on their way.”
*****
Zygmunt was sparring with Adam and a dozen other Polish men-at-arms when the prince returned. Immediately, all notion of training was lost as the men pressed forward to see how the expedition had gone.
Mieletty had returned from his sortie without loss, it seemed, although Aapo had received a nasty shoulder wound that would require attention. When Heathen hoisted up a sack of grain over his head, there was a cheer from Zygmunt’s men. The fact that they might recover some of the lost supplies had seemed too much to hope for.
Mieletty then called forward a handful of starved-looking men behind him. “Ziggy, could you see that these men get something to eat? Maybe with a bit of meat? And bread and hard cheese for when they go.”
As Heathen translated the prince’s words into Norse, one of the men, scarcely more than a boy, burst into tears. Zygmunt felt a wave of sympathy.
It must have been an age since they last had meat. He smiled and looked at Mieletty. “Of course, your highness. Any particular reason?”
“It’s a prize. For marksmanship.” Aapo had a crooked smile, but Zygmunt could see the strain in his eyes and the thin sheen of sweat on his brow. The man’s good humor came only after some effort, it seemed.
“Thanks for the reminder,” Mieletty said with a snort. ”Let’s find a
tietäjä for my cousin here. And this–” the prince lifted his arm to reveal what was left of an arrow pierced into his mail “–may take some looking at too. The little bugger pierced the skin, if only just.”
“Your highness is too generous.” Zygmunt had not heard Duke Kaur approach, but just like that the steel-haired Latgalian was there beside him, wearing a frown as often he did. “Free them and they’ll come back to plague us again.”
“Generosity is not a mistake, Kaur. Let the Swedes see that we are kinder to them than their own lords, and that will serve us well.” Mieletty was smiling still, but there was a note of command in his voice. “Now somebody find that
tietäjä before my cousin falls over, all right?”
Aapo did not collapse, but his fever only got worse over the course of the afternoon. Mieletty asked Zygmunt quietly to take care of some of his tasks that day so that the prince might watch over his favorite cousin. Zygmunt noted the slight tension in the prince’s manner. No doubt Mieletty was concerned. Infection was oft more deadly than the wound itself.
Thus Zygmunt was there when Riku arrived with his outriders. Riku was a short, wiry man of an age with the king himself, and he wore his travel-stained leathers like a second skin. The old veteran cocked an eyebrow when noting Mieletty’s absence, but he said nothing about it.
“Any sign of the Order?”
Riku shrugged. “No, m’lord, and in truth I wouldn’t expect them. They’ll be in Viro no doubt, burning and looting as they like to do.”
Zygmunt was not surprised. It was Duke Sigurd’s intention to bleed the Suomi from a thousand cuts, it seemed, and only then provoke a battle to settle the matter. “Must have been a boring day for you, then,” Zygmunt said with a smile.
“I wouldn’t say that exactly, m’lord.” Riku reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a sprig with a few purple flowers still attached. He held the flower in his gloved fingers with an odd delicacy. “I don’t suppose that your lordship knows what this is?”
“It looks vaguely familiar. I must have seen it on a hunt once or twice back home. Why do you ask?”
“A fellow tells us that Sigurd’s got people bringing this up from Saxony or somesuch. Rub it on a blade or an arrowhead and the target shits himself to death, beggin’ your lordship’s pardon.”
A chill ran down Zygmunt’s spine. There had been a story, when he was growing up: a haughty king and a crafty cook and a dangerous little flower that grew in the hills. Father Andrzej had liked to tell it as a lesson on humility. “And Sigurd has been giving this out to the common folk?”
Riku nodded grimly. “His purse is open for Suomi heads. Silver for the commons, gold for a noble.”
Zygmunt recalled seeing the Swede weeping at Mieletty’s generosity. Gratitude, he had thought.
Or shame. He started running without thinking, careening heedlessly through the crowded Suomi camp. He accidentally knocked over a camp follower, but kept running as she began to call out Norse curses against him.
Zygmunt rushed into the large Virtanen tent and found the prince abed. Besides him, the prince’s page was trying feebly to convince the prince to have some thin broth.
Mieletty was drenched in sweat, and his eyes had the thick film of fever. “Ziggy? I must have eaten something foul, because–” The prince paused for a second, and then suddenly convulsed with the force of his retching. “Sorry, I–it smells awful in here, I know, I told Aapo… Where’s Aapo?”
Oh no oh no oh please God no. Zygmunt fixed eyes with the page. “Get the
tietäjä. Tell him that it’s wolf’s bane.
Run.”
The page fled the tent in a hurry, and only then did Zygmunt sit down and grab his friend’s hand. Mieletty was still lost, no doubt because of the fever. “I think you… must be mistaken, Ziggy. I haven’t even seen a wolf today.” He tried a feeble laugh, but that too turned into a heave.
Now that there seemed to be nothing else to do, Zygmunt felt helplessness consume him. To ward off morbid thoughts, he started, instinctively, to pray as he learned as a child.
Ave Maria, gratia plentia… At some point, he noticed that Mieletty was clasping his hand. Zygmunt opened his eyes and saw the prince looking back at him, a moment of clarity in his eyes. “Ziggy, I’m going to be fine.”
How like Mieletty to be reassuring now. “I know,” Zygmunt said, blinking back tears. It was the kindest lie that he had ever told.
The
tietäjä came rushing in, carrying a brown concoction in a narrow earthen jar. “Charcoal and ale, your highness. No promises for the taste, but it should absorb the poison.” The healer spoke with brisk efficiency, but the glimmer of uncertainty in his eyes told a different story. As he gently raised the jar to Mieletty’s lips, Zygmunt resumed his silent prayer.
Sancta Maria, Mater Dei…
When Kaur arrived, Zygmunt realized that he had lost track of time entirely. Kaur’s face was grim, and he took Zygmunt aside for a quiet conference. “The guards are on alert,” he said in a brusque whisper. “I sent Riku out too, to find that damned Order.”
Zygmunt nodded. It was a good precaution, but probably unnecessary. “I don’t see how they knew it would be him, until he came.”
Kaur nodded. “Aye. They were most like what they seemed, starving men. That silver would have meant life for them. Even so.”
Kaur was having trouble looking at the prince. It was curious to find that this blunt-speaking warrior that once intimidated Zygmunt as a boy was now so nervous around the sickbed. For his part, Zygmunt could not look away. Mieletty had stopped vomiting perhaps a half hour ago, but his stillness afterward was worse. Now the prince simply lay there, seemingly unable to move. Only his eyes darted around, regarding this person or another in confusion.
There was a long heartbreaking silence, and then Kaur spoke again, with an unusual delicacy. “Zygmunt. Who’s in command, if…?”
“You should command, Kaur.” Zygmunt could feel a fury building within him, or perhaps it was a fury that had always been with him. “I have business elsewhere.”
