As Dust to the Wind by Peter Darman

Author:Peter Darman [Darman, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Ficção E Literatura, Histórico
ISBN: 1533157731
Google: WvvMjwEACAAJ
Barnesnoble:
Goodreads: 29934763
Publisher: Createspace
Published: 2016-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

Kristjan slapped his neck to flatten a mosquito. The air was humid and oppressive, made worse by Tracker’s news. The scout had returned to the forest camp moments before to report on the enemy. It was not good news. A large Swedish army had landed at the mouth of the River Neva, the wide, deep waterway flowing west from Lake Ladoga to the Gulf of the Finns. Fishermen who lived in villages on the shores of the gulf had sent messages to Novgorod appealing for help before fleeing with their families into the dense pine and spruce forests covering this part of the city’s domain. Yaroslav Nevsky was still gravely ill so the veche had charged his son Alexander to deal with the threat. For the twenty-year-old it was a daunting prospect but at least he had Lord Murk by his side. Fifteen years older than the Russian he was now the richest and most influential boyar in Novgorod, though he would strike anyone who gave him that title. His network of hunters and pelt collectors in Karelia was vast and in the northern wilderness he was called kuningas – king – by the locals.

The interior of the round tent was oppressive as Alexander, his senior officers, Kristjan and Boar stared at the grubby Tracker.

‘Did they see you? Asked Kristjan.

‘No, lord, I was well hidden.’

‘I can imagine,’ sneered Boar.

Tracker gave him a hateful look. ‘Unlike you I do not tramp around the undergrowth like an oversized bear with stomach ache.’

‘Watch your tongue,’ growled Boar.

‘Enough,’ said Kristjan warily. ‘How many do the enemy number?’

‘Hundreds, thousands,’ replied Tracker. ‘Their boats line the bank of the Neva for a great distance.’

‘Thank you,’ said Kristjan, ‘you may go.’

The scout smiled smugly at Boar and left the tent where a sense of doom permeated the heavy air.

Alexander looked uncertain. ‘We must send word to the city for reinforcements. We will remain to shadow the Swedes.’

Kristjan saw the beads of sweat on his forehead, his eyes blinking rapidly.

‘I would speak to the commander alone,’ he said to the others.

The Russians looked at Alexander who nodded. They filed out, Boar the last one to leave, as Kristjan sat down on a stool.

‘This heat is oppressive. Take the weight off your feet.’

He poured the young man some water into a wooden cup and passed it to him.

‘The Swedes will be moving south soon. We cannot wait for reinforcements, Alexander. We must attack them. Today.’

The son of his friend gulped down the water. ‘I have six hundred men of my Druzhina, plus your two hundred. Eight hundred men cannot defeat perhaps three or four times their number?’

Kristjan leaned forward. ‘Why not? The Swedes do not know how few we are. Besides, if we achieve surprise numbers will not count.’

Alexander poured more water into the cup, rivulets of sweat running down his face.

‘I’m not sure.’

‘You can be sure of this,’ said Kristjan, ‘when the Swedes move they will cover ten miles a day. It is summer. The tracks are dry and firm, the days are long and warm.

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