Piety of the North Star

Accursed jobhunt, interrupting my delicate writing motivation! A few forenotes...being slightly too lazy/busy to bother modding or photoshopping while making it look good, you might notice the Obotrites look suspiciously Hungarian. I simply chose them for their colours. I may do this sort of thing often, so do follow the subtitle, not your knowledge of MTW:II. I'm going to try and have the next part ready to post tomorrow.

Christian V: Ah, well, that was a city I couldn't find any solid information on. I found a reference of at least one old book claiming it existed for hundreds of years before that, and the earliest mention in written history IIRC was something to do with a church being built, which suggests it was around before then, but not necessarily for how long. With a shortage of Danish cities to work with, I just sort of went with the flow and made a decision. I can't argue with the name though!

Fiftypence: More than just a mere temptress, as you'll find out.

General_BT: He probably 'settled' for her because I posted a portrait that didn't have an uncanny resemblance to Jabba the Hutt. As for the war, the Danish elite will certainly perform well, the question is will they perform well enough to handle being outnumbered so massively...the Germans are their only saving grace here.

Enewald: Loyalty to the Danes or Loyalty to God? Quite a dilemma for Skjalm. I promise to make it interesting either way.


Krutoj of Wagria scowled at the assembly before him. Nearly four thousand men of his Tribe were gathered. Many were nothing more than peasants given arms, but despite that he held an elite core of well armed and armoured warriors and heavy cavalry - his elite guard. He also had many well-equipped spears with which he marched to meet the Germans, fearless in his advance. He of course had reason to fear, for he knew the armies of the German King outnumbered his many times over. He could only hope to score some kind of victory to give them pause, but his enemies were fierce warriors and he knew this would not be an easy prospect.

Ignoring wife and friends, he had insisted on personally leading the obotrites south, to Werle, where they would meet the German advance head-on. It was his hope to bring the gods' mighty hammers crashing down upon the southern heathens. The plan of battle had been simple enough, he would march his armies to meet the Germans near a ravine, forcing them to march into a spear wall in order to advance. His supply lines were secure and his flanks well-guarded. It was the best situation he could hope to have against the Germans, but secretly even he wondered if it would be enough. The Germans had more of everything, including a vast regiment of archers, where his troops would be lucky to bring more than perhaps two hundred to the battlefield.


His spears could hold the line against the German cavalry, but the valley was not known for its plethora of manoeuvering room, even once the Germans reached the shallow end where the Wendish tribe hoped to put a halt to the dangerous advance. As they had fought alongside Charlemagne so many years ago to subdue the Saxon threat, now the Tribe of Mecklenburg would rally to do battle with their Saxon foes once more. His foe was not the most competent of men, and he hoped the Germans would fall into the trap of the ravine, marching straight through to clash against their battlelines. The main road did pass through it, and either side was heavily wooded - for a marching force it was only the logical option.

And as his assembled battlelines rallied under the banner of Mecklenburg, he saw the mass of Germans begin to enter the ravine. They had fallen for the trap. Forming into loose ranks of spearmen up front, with the lighter peasantry ready to fill the ranks and his heavier elites ready to try to break through the centre, his army was ready. The plan was to break the centre of the German lines with the concentrated power of his heavy infantry. Then they could send the cavalry through to find an opportunity for a flank charge. Whether this would work or not was a completely different question.

But as the force approached closer, something seemed wrong. Of all the various Duchies of the Holy Roman Empire, Krutoj could not boast intimate knowledge of all, however, he knew a problem when he saw it. The man leading their army was not the Duke of Saxony - he sported none of the gold and black of his hated foes. No, this was another German Duke, not the rival he recognized or hoped for. The Wendish Chief clenched a mailled fist in anger and considered his options. If another German had led his hosts to his very doorstep, where were the Saxons? Ever watchful of an ambush, Krutoj considered his many options. Withdraw? No, there was no terrain that would suit a stand like they had set up now, and the German Cavalry could massacre them in a mass exodus in the open. Best to hold and try to fight them back.

The army rumbled to a halt ahead of him, and hundreds, nay, thousands of armoured men ground to a halt. Before him, a tide of grey, yellow and black awaited, the armies of the Germans ready to unleash hell upon his men. From their ranks, a lone rider rode forth, flying a banner of red with a silver lion overhead. This was not Brandenburg, nor Saxony - likely one of the more southern Dukes' regiments.

"People of the Wend! I come here in the name of the Duke of Bohemia, vassal of Heinrich, King of Germany, Italy and Burgundy, Kaiser of the Holy Roman Empire! In the name of God, we have come to destroy your satanic methods!"

Krutoj frowned, he was not amused by their blasphemous words.

"For God and the Kaiser, we are prepared to destroy your armies and pillage your lands; but this does not have to be the way! Bend your knee to Bohemia and repent for your sins, and let Christ bathe you in new light! Your lives will be spared, as will your livelihood, and we will allow your Chief to remain in control of all of Mecklenburg's domain!"

The Wendish soldiers began to boo and jeer at the oddly dressed herald. Krutoj smiled and rode forward, raising his hand for silence. "We will not surrender, not upon the eve of war! My great-grandfather sacked Hamburg, my ancestors long fought off both Dane and German, and yours paid us tribute to avoid facing us! I believe we will win this day, for we are a mighty people, not afraid of any mere Bohemian. Forget not that we were once allies of the Ottanians! We know your armies inside and out, we know how you think, and we do not fear your kind! Come, Duke! Let there be battle!"

The Tribe of Mecklenburg erupted into cheer even as the herald retreated. With a wave of his hand to his Duke, the German Army let out of a roar in return, clashing their swords against shield, and slowly forming into an assaulting position. Krutoj grimaced at the sight of so much heavy armour in the front lines - clearly they intended to simply break the spear wall in all areas. He would have to fight tooth and nail to hold them off.

"Sambor," Krutoj looked to his general. "They outnumber us, don't they?"

Sambor nodded. "Aye Chieftan, though not by as much as we expected. The numbers are even enough to make a fair fight of it, I daresay. We could win."

The High Chief growled. Before him, thousands of Bohemian soldiers rallied and began to advance, archers in front and prepared to pepper his shield wall with volleys of deadly missiles. Even if they won this day, casualties would be high.

"Tell the men that no matter what, they must hold their lines. The lives of our families are at stake. May Perun look favourably upon us today."


Gro's dark eyes scowled at the burning house before her, a column of smoke billowing up into the sky. Her mercenary troops had done their work well, and Peter was dead. The Jarl's estate was nothing more than a wrecked version of its former self, and as servants and noble alike fled from the effigy of hell they were cut down by the hired swords. She had paid good pfennings for this job, and now the deed was done. Two of the men emerged from the blaze, carrying small blanketed bundles. She could see them perfectly from here. As they approached, her bodyguard, a great scotsman named Connor, growled a warning, but she silenced him with a wave of her hand, stepping forward.

"Your Highness, we brought you the babes as ordered." The older one said.

Gro only had to look for a moment to spot the one she desired, and reached out, taking the little boy from the mercenary's rough arms, cooing and smiling. "Thank you Captain, you will be well rewarded for this, I promise you."

A simple grunt was all that was returned as Gro stepped back, looking up to Connor with a smile. "This is perfect," she said. "Everything is going exactly to plan..."

"Your Highness?" The Captain interrupted. "What about the other child?"

Gro frowned. "Kill it for all I care. It is of no concern to me - do with it as you will."


Gro's return to Søborg Castle was heralded by ill news. She had been dumbfounded at the unhappy face of Signe, part of her mind refusing to believe what she had been told. Anna Sprakkaleg, her niece and daughter of the Marshal had died of illness not two weeks prior. Ingrid was distraught and refused to leave her chambers, not even to speak to Gro, and there was an eerie silence over the whole place. Not a smile cracked until Gro came to Signe with the young babe and a sade tale.

"His parents and brother were lost, making him the last surviving heir of his family, and the Jarl Ernst Stover." Gro shook her head sadly. "Such a sad tale, and with no one to take him in, I was hoping he could find shelter here in the castle. We can easily afford to help raise him, can we not? You are the steward here after all."

Signe had taken one look at the babe and her heart was touched. "Ernst...of course. Of course he can stay, Gro. I'll see to it myself. Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I am sure Skjalm will not mind, not with a war to fight."

She nodded. "Do you think Skjalm will be alright? I overheard Auden saying this aggresion was a fools' game and that we were playing with powers larger than ourselves. If he gets hurt..."

The Duchess of Sjælland shook her head profusely. "I don't want to think about that right now, Gro. I'm sorry, it's just...Skjalm is everything to me, and I want him to come home victorious and happy, not injured and beaten. Every night I walk to the chapel and pray for his safe return."

Gro considered this, then a light entered her eyes. "Have you considered going to him, as a sort of morale boost?"

Signe frowned and shook her head. "Skjalm didn't want me to come, said it was too dangerous for a woman when battle could break out at any time."

The Spymistress scoffed. "Signe, please! You will have plenty of warning to get away from the battle, and if my reports are correct Skjalm's armies won't even face any resistance. If you left soon, you could be there by the time Skjalm takes Mikilenburg, and then you two can enjoy a night together over the spoils of victory. He will warm to your presence as soon as you arrive, I promise. Just go to him."

Despite her age and concerns, Signe gave this thought, and finally nodded. "Okay. Okay, you win. I'll go...but who will manage the castle while I am away?"

Gro smiled. "Let me handle it. I am a Princess, remember? I'm as good as you at this sort of thing, it will be fine. Ingrid is in no shape to assume duty and Auden is busy meeting with the Archbishop of Bremen concerning the Reregi and how to go about converting the Pagan Wends. I can hold things together while you and he are gone."

Signe nodded submissively and made for the door. "I'll prepare right away...I cannot wait to see him. Thank you Gro, for helping me sort through my thoughts. You are a true friend!"

Gro's smile stayed sweet until Signe had fully departed, then she turned to the window and leaned against the glass, smiling a little more sinisterly. "Alone at last..." she whispered. "Plenty of breathing room to set up the necessary preparations."


Skjalm's eyes rolled across the view, taking in the fine scenery of Mecklemburg. The landing had been successful and no ships were lost in the journey, though there were several incidents of drunk vikings stumbling to a watery doom - everything had gone according to plan despite this. Upon the coast of the Mecklenburg tribe's lands, they were poised to strike deep into the Tribe's land, seizing the undermanned Castle of Mikilenburg. From there, they could attempt to hold the castle or move against the city of Rostock, depending on the success of the German armies in Werle.

It was evening by the time they had landed, and his scouts were trying to gain some idea of the surroundings before dark fell completely. The men were busy offloading supplies so that the ship could sail back to Sjælland to bring more. The crossing had been costly and he had no intent of staying in the Wendish lands longer than necessary. To that end, he needed to hope for a decisive victory. This was an opportunity he could not let slip. The Hvide dynasty had caught the King completely by surprise, but he had no doubt that the King's spies had already learned of his departure and were rallying armies now, ready to steal away the glory his Danes were searching for.

As dusk faded to night, Skjalm and Asbjørn met in the war tent. The journey was long and exhaustive, both wanted rest, but both knew they had a responsibility to fulfill to their men. A map of the region was spread across the hastily set up table, along with bread, cheese and mead for their nightly sustenance.

The veteran Marshal quickly briefed his Duke. "According to the informants waiting for us, High Chif Krutoj has left a token guard force at the Castle, taking most of his army to Werle in order to face the Saxons. If the Bohemians join in as promised, then Krutoj may be caught in a trap he cannot escape. Once we've taken the Castle, which shouldn't take long, we should receive news about the battles to the southeast. Presumably, Krutoj's men will be scattered and little threat, and we can return to the nearest port, board our longboats and head up the coast to Rostock. The Germans cannot match our ships' speed overland, and we will ensure these lands are claimed for the Danes, not Heinrich."


Skjalm nodded. "It's a good plan, we could greatly expand our baltic influence this way. The Saxon Duke seemed willing to surrender what we could take, and I think the Bohemian Duke will be more interested in Wolgast and Werle than the west."

Asbjørn grumbled and rested a hand upon the pommel of his sword, sitting down. "Maybe, but we shouldn't leave it to chance. We should make sure these places are firmly under our control before the King or the Saxons get anywhere near us. More importantly, though, we need to be ready in the event of the Wends launching a counter-attack. Our huskarls are more than a match for any of their warriors one-on-one, but in all, we may face vastly superior numbers even after the battles with Germany. It will require great strategy to overcome them."

"Do you have any ideas?" The Duke grumbled, before yawning.

In the darkness of the tent, the Marshal's eyes narrowed. "Yes my lord, yes I do. Krutoj is a renowned general, assuming he survives, I think I know a way to use his own skill against him. But...I'm not sure if you'll like it. It isn't exactly a chivalric method."

Skjalm raised an eyebrow, curious. "Alright...go on, I'm listening."

Well, I entirely fail at keeping my own deadlines. I think they somehow make me worse at writing quickly, so from now on, this will probably be updated on the basis of 'when I can be bothered' (even though it only takes me a couple hours per update, and most of that is spend taking and editing pictures...)

Spothisto: What does any schemer plan? You can be sure it's not just a new way to filch coins from the Duchy's purse, she has a slight naïve husband for that.

Enewald: Glad we're thinking on a similar page!

General_BT: Thank you, I will likely take many opportunities to write from more than just Danish viewpoints, to give a better idea of the wider world and help personify the other people living in it. I'd like to keep this as immersive as I can without straying far from the point.

demokratickid: Yes, they're the Hungarians. They were the only faction with a culture and colour set similar enough to satisfy my need for the Mecklenburg Tribe.

Christian V: I'm glad.

phargle: Design is one thing, I just hope I can write well enough to satisfy. Gro is certainly a far cry from Uta the Hun, but she's no Malmfrid Stensëxkitten no matter what anyone says. (As a note, the Knud Knýtling AAR was not only the first AAR I read, but what originally got me to try CK. I suppose I have you to thank for this, then. )

The_Guiscard: The entirety must not have taken long to read, I'm sure. I thank you for the compliment. It's only just getting started though, and rest assured Skjalm and, indeed, all of the characters are likely to go through major changes before their tales close for good. As for drifting snow, it's not the first time I can say I've used it. Two of my biggest former writing projects involved an opening with someone in a snowy evening. As for the coincidence, well...I AM writing within the constraints of my game, so all I can say is interesting coincidence. I'll eagerly make sure I have the opportunity to draw out either more parralels or to diverge away. We'll just see how it goes...

Teep: I'm glad you liked it, I'll try to keep working at it.

east_emnet: Wait no longer.

Fiftypence: Wha-hey-what? An award? Does it taste nice? Can we eats it, precious? (But quite seriously, thank you.)

robw963: Thank you. I do take the time to put at least some effort into the images, as I feel they help enhance not just the text via visual aides, but also helps remind that this is based off a game in a pleasant manner. I can say that most of the images I use are horrible dirty things I take from google image searches, as I'm ridiculously lazy and uninclined to do more than minor changes. I just don't have the dedication to hand-make everything for something as minor as an AAR...

Enewald: Thanks.

OKAY! With all of that done, let us begin:


"The deal is this: you lay down your arms and open the gates to our men. The lives of your men will be spared and you shall become our prisoners. You will be given fair treatment and baptised under the Holy Cross, and upon our victory over the rest of your Tribe or their payment of a fair ransom to us, you will be relieved of your duties and left to return to your home in peace. How does this sound to you, my friend?"

Skjalm took a sip of his mead, eyeing the man across from him. He had requested that the leader of the Obotrites come to his personal tent for diplomatic talks. Krutoj had left a token defence force in his own capital. The castle held maybe a hundred men at most, as he was certain many of the shapes they saw manning the walls at night were merely mock soldiers designed to fool them. Still, taking the walls would be lengthy and bloody, and his soldiers would benefit from a victory without blood shed.

The man across from him was none other than Dobromil von Arneburg, the High Chief's Chancellor and second-in-command. Skjalm was surprised he had been left behind, and could only presume that Krutoj had decided it would be safer for the solemn looking man to hold the fort and try to find reinforcements from the eastern tribes. He also had the feeling this had not gone as planned. While they had likely expected Denmark to strike against them at some point, Skjalm was quite confident that nobody had expected them to move as fast as he had. The Danes' viking nature of lightning-quick strikes was still with them, it seemed.

Dobromil's face had gone sour, but the Obotrite knew he had little choice. Even if he could put up a fight, there was no way he could hold the walls against fourteen times his number. It would not be a battle, merely a massacre, one which would result in his people's deaths. Krutoj would be furious if he found out, but the noble tribesman was not concerned with that. With the Saxons and Danes attacking their lands from both sides, defeat was all but inevitable. With that in mind, the Chancellor sighed and lowered his head.

"Very well, Dane. We will agree to your terms. Mikilenburg will be surrendered to you, and we submit ourselves to your mercy. I will accept your baptism and seek the forgiveness and acceptance of God." Dobromil swallowed hard. These words stung a man who had worshipped the Slavic gods for his whole life, but he knew that this was a matter of life and death.


Skjalm's eyes surveyed the grassy terrain surrounding his newest castle. Mikilenburg was not as grand as Søborg Castle, but it was certainly not an inconsequential fortification. It gave him complete command of the surrounding area, from the German border to the Baltic, there was little else in the region to contest their rule. The only place left for them to seize would be Rostock, the largest city in the Obotrites' hands and an important port. This would give Sjælland a powerful base without having to rely upon the rest of the Kingdom.

Some of the captured soldiers had refused to undergo baptism. Skjalm had not decided what to do with them if Krutoj did not pay the ransom, which he was almost certain they would not. Execution seemed the most likely order of the day, though he was not eager to spill blood unnecessarily. He had many sins to atone for already, and murder of helpless men was not one he was eager to add to the list, even if heathen blood was easily forgiven.


Skjalm's dark eyes pinpointed something moving towards the castle, and he raised an eyebrow, leaning forward. Riders, several of them, flying the colours of Denmark. They were likely messengers, which meant Skjalm would have to go and greet them personally. Skjalm would have preferred to bask in the fruit of this latest victory, but he quickly turned on his heel and made for the door of his temporary bedchamber. It wouldn't do to make a bad impression, especially if these messengers were from the King. Hopefully Svend wouldn't interfere with this affair before Sjælland had taken what it wanted.

Down the stairs and through the great hall, then out the gates into the inner cloister. Skjalm smiled with pride - it was the first time he hadn't gotten lost in the unfamiliar castle. White and red tents were visible everywhere, and campfires with various foodstuffs cooking filled the air with a pleasant scent of the soldiers' meals. The castle's considerable food stocks had been put at their disposal, meaning they had not needed to pillage the countryside. In addition, caravans of supplies from Denmark were still arriving from overseas, ensuring they would not be short of what they needed for some time.

He made his way out of the open gates and saw the riders were very close - close enough to see the face of his wife, Signe, at their head. Skjalm's mind was thrown into a tumult of emotion, for he was quite ambivalent to her presence and could not bear to treat her with anger even if he feared for her safety. As she rode up and their eyes met quietly, there was a silence between them for a moment before he dared to break the silence.

"Signe...what are you doing here?"

Signe sighed and dismounted, ignoring the servant who offered her aid. "Skjalm, worry not for my safety, our army is more than capable of protecting me physically, and I only fear your heart may require protection which only I can bring it. I also come bearing news from Denmark which I believe you might wish to hear. It is important."

The Duke frowned and nodded. "Very well, very well...please come to the great hall, we can speak there in relative private. Asbjørn will not be back until tonight, he has gone to meet with the leader of a company of Swiss mercenaries, so that we might evaluate whether they are worth including in our campaign."

His wife's face paled slightly, as if he had spoken the name of a ghost, and Skjalm picked up on her strange look. "Signe, are you alright?"

She swallowed hard and nodded. "Yes...yes I am. That is another reason I am here, Skjalm. My little sister...she has died of a terrible illness. I wanted to tell father in person, he deserves to know that much."

"I-I'm sorry, Signe..." Skjalm frowned and took his wife into arms. "Come, let us speak in private, away from the common soldiery."

Taking her hand, he led her through the maze of tents and men, up and into the castle. He then took her further, beyond the reach of any prying ears, to the chamber which served as his war room, and they sat.

"What else did you come here for, Signe? What other news do you bring from Denmark? Hopefully tidings less morose than what you have already spoken of?"

She shook her head. "I have little good news to bring, my lord. The King has heard of your expedition and has prepared his armies to come and 'assist', likely hoping to seize as much of the Tribe's land as he can. He has some five thousand men, many of which are his own huskarls. They set sail for these lands even as we speak. If you have any plans, they must be undertaken with great haste."

Skjalm sighed and buried his face in his palms. "Plans I do have, or rather, Asbjørn gave to me. News has reached us that the Bohemians were defeated at the Battle of Werle, and that Krutoj led his forces with great skill and courage, before being forced to retreat by the Saxon armies. They say he now marches to face the Saxons again with some 3,400 men, and that even Saxony's superior arms and armour will struggle to defeat the tactical genius of the Wendish Chief. While they fight, we will march to the shore and take the fleet along the coast to the port of Rostock, which we intend to capture. With both Mikilenburg and Rostock in our hands, the Wends will have no choice but to regroup and confront us, lest they run out of supplies. We will fight them on the ground of our choosing."

Signe choked and took his hand. "But you can't, not that many...how can you hope to defeat that many of them? Do they not outnumber the armies we brought here two to one? I know you wish to achieve something glorious, but is it worth throwing your life away, Skjalm?"

The Duke smiled and caressed her cheek. "Signe, have faith in God. I too doubted that we could do this, but I came to realize over the last few weeks that I do have a destiny. God has chosen me to reclaim these lands from the Slavs in his name. It is my destiny, a destiny which will help assure my place in heaven. We will triumph over these pagans if you have faith in me. We must have faith in our victory, for did you not have faith in our ability to conceive?"

Signe swallowed hard. Though her pregnancy had come to term, the stillborn child was not conception as such, and the mere thought of the loss of her baby left a bitter taste in her mouth. She dare not speak up against her lord, whose only hope in their marriage had come from the failed pregnancy. She was determined to please him, it was part of her role as a wife and a lover, and that too was the other reason she had come. The stresses of war were great, and she hoped to offer him a break from the lull.

"Okay, Skjalm...I will trust to faith...but only on the condition that you have faith enough to allow me to stay, for I believe God wishes me to come here to aid you as best as I can. Let me serve you as a wife should..."

Skjalm felt a desire grow within him that he had not felt for some time, and his baser nature began to take over. This was his wife, and it was she who he should relieve his carnal desires with, no other. He would put his faith in her, and in God. Silently, he asked forgiveness for his indiscretion with Gro, and then lost himself in her embrace, retiring to the bedchambers.


Krutoj smashed his arms against the table before him, up-ending it and everything upon it, letting out a cry of furious rage. News had just reached him that the Danes had seized Mikilenburg and were planning on marching for Rostock. To make matters worse, scouts reported the Saxon armies were marching upon their positions, and that this time they were accompanied by none other than the Kaiser himself as well as several thousand French and German crusaders. He had suffered a painful defeat not two days ago, losing 800 of his men, while still more spoke of desertion. If he stood and fight, he might have a slim chance of victory, but he would not have enough men left alive to face the Danish armies which were rapidly overwhelming his western holdings. If he abandoned Werle to the Saxons, he might be able to fight off the Danes, but then the Franks would easily overcome his armies no matter what he did.

Inbetween the Danish rock and the Saxon hard place, he had little choice. The Saxons would ride out to meet him, and he would offer them peace in exchange for all the lands of the Werle and Wolgast tribes. The Obotrite Confederacy was falling apart, he had to hold on to as much of it as possible - if that meant sacrificing some of his lands to save the rest, then so be it. Without the German threat looming over his shoulder, perhaps he could crush the Danish armies before the rest of their kind mobilized to fight. That would mean he would have to ride northwest to Rostock as soon as possible, before the Danes with their fast ships made it to the vital, undefended port.

"Send out an order to the men, they are to prepare to march north as soon as possible. I will go to speak to the Germans myself. Surrendering these lands, even though we have fought hard, will be the only way to save the Confederacy as a whole. They say the German Empire is unstable by its very nature - perhaps we will find a way to turn them against one another in the future, and our lands can be reclaimed. Until then, let us do what we can, my friends." He looked to his court and sighed.

"If only the Pomeranians and Prussians had not been such cowards. We should have brought the fully fury of the Slavic tribes upon them. Their petty kingdoms would have fallen apart against our united armies..."


The Danes had left Mikilenburg - with a legitimate claim to the lands in Skjalm's hands - and taken their forces northeast to Rostock. Traveling along the coast in record times, they quickly realized they would be unable to reach the city before the Wends. High Chief Krutoj had succesfully made peace with the southern Crusaders - the lands of Werle were surrendered to Heinrich, and the King of France was granted domain over the lands of Wolgast. The demands had been serious, and he had been forced to give up most of his treasury as well. Unwilling to let the Danes seize the only remaining settlement he could rely upon, he made haste to Rostock, reaching it a full week before Sjælland's armies.

With the Danes prevented from taking up a defensive position within the city's walls, they were forced to look to the woods as the superior numbers of the Obotrite Confederacy marched out to meet them. With only a day to prepare, Asbjørn Sprakkaleg, Marshal of the Hosts of Sjælland, was forced to think fast. He looked back to his original plan - the one he had intended to use if they had marched to Werle to meet the Wendish Tribes head-on. It was not a chivalrous one, but it did give him a solid chance of defeating the skilled tactician despite their superior numbers. Krutoj's army was down to 2,600 men - the battles against the Germans had taken their toll, but they still outnumbered the Danes almost two to one. These were odds that no viking would have liked, no matter how valorous. Despite their poor chances, the viking men joked about how the odds were unfair for the Wends, and that they should have come with twice the number to make things a real fight.

Skjalm did nothing to restrain the typical norse hubris, as it helped keep their morale high. Both he and Asbjørn believed that the Wends were lkely to have poor morale after their defeats, and that victory would not rely on how well his men fought, but rather on which army lost the will to fight first. So it was that Asbjørn's plan was accepted by the Duke, and the famous quote of the viking chief echoed through the camp: "...[glory] is what the winners earn - none will care how we won, only that we did win, and that we did so in God's name."


When Krutoj's scouts returned to bring word of the Danish positions, they found word that the Danes had chosen a copse of trees near the forest proper to position themselves. Their positions were rough, but the scouts had managed to stealthily take down adequate information concerning the armies' relative strengths. It looked like they would be facing a mere 600 men. Krutoj instantly took this number with a grain of salt - he knew the Danes had brought at least twice that many to Mikilenburg, and that few had been left to defend the castle. He had considered the option that the remainder of the vikings had tried to slip past them to raid Rostock, but if that were the case, they would do little once confronted by Krutoj's superior numbers.

Krutoj, though, was no amateur general, and on the 30th of September, he moved against the Duke's forces. Recognizing that the Danish forces were by and far inferior in number to his, and realizing that the forests surrounding them would be the ideal place to stage an ambush, Krutoj ordered only half of his forces, mostly the infantry, to engage the well-armed Danish front lines. In doing so, he fell straight into the trap Asbjørn had set for him. The viking general had banked on Krutoj leaving a reserve, and had prepared a different sort of ambush instead.

The Wendish armies marched across the open expanse of ground betwixt the two lines of trees, advancing under a hail of danish arrows from Skjalm's limited archers. Many of Krutoj's lightly armed infantry fell, but the horde was hardly thinned by this number, making steady progress towards the spear wall which awaited them. As they advanced and began to prepare for a charge, the spears set against them, and then suddenly thinned, doubling their depth by moving every other man behind the man to his right. Skjalm's huskarls quickly dashed out and formed a new shield wall before the advancing pagan army. Where the spearmen were untrained and undisciplined forces, these were the finest Danish heavy infantry, capable of holding the line against even six times their number for the length of time he required.

As the Obotrites crashed against the Danish shield wall in a flurry of violence, their formation began to wrap around it, aiming to flank the Danes and wipe them out completely while Krutoj's cavalry and heavy infantry watched their flanks for any surprises from the trees.

What Asbjørn had planned was certainly an ambush, but it was not one from the trees as such. Upon the edges of the copse, he had ordered hundreds of vikings - his well-equipped and brave warriors - to cloak themselves with scavenged leaves and needles, created a veil of camouflage which disguised the lightly armoured men from the Obotrite hordes until they had overextended themselves just far enough. As the flanks of the pagan army curled around the huskarls, Asbjørn blew deeply into his horn, the signal for the Danish counter-attack, and five hundred danish infantry burst from out of their hiding places along the edge of the copse, charging the over-extended Obotrite flanks with fury. The spears, too, launched their counter-attack, driving over a hundred more danes into the fray. The Wendish flanks were overwhelmed in a fury of viking axes, and the brave huskarls held their ground, slaying three pagans for every one of their number to fall. Soon, the Obotrites began to falter, and Krutoj knew he had to do something.

The remainder of the Obotrite army began to move. Krutoj's heavy cavalry, armed in Frankish manner, accompanied by well-armoured elite guard and more of his tribal warriors, quickly began to close the gap towards his faltering forces. His archers sent volleys of arrows over the battle, but most were intercepted by the treeline, doing little damage to the danish forces. The front lines of the Obotrite Confederacy faltered, and then broke, hundreds of men pouring past the cavalry which formed a lance charge against the danes, Krutoj at their head. The danish huskarls quickly retreated behind the spears, who attempted to reform a line, bracing their spears into the dirt. The hastily prepared line was not quite enough.

Krutoj's cavalry thundered into the Danish lines, trampling over dozens of levied spears and crushing shield and bone alike under hoof and lancetip. Krutoj drew his blade and personally engaged the Danes with a bloodthirsty cry that struck fear into the Danish hearts. However, the spears had done their job well enough - the momentum of the charge had broken upon their wall, and many of the Obotrites' cavalrymen had fallen in the initial attack. The huskarls blew their horns in unison, and took up their axes in a mighty charge, ready to aid their brethren as the numerous pagan hordes met with their spears both on foot and in the saddle.


Elsewhere, the great blast of horns was heard, and yet another force gathered itself up to do battle. For within the woods, Asbjørn had prepared yet another ambush - some four hundred light cavalry and another two hundred vikings. The horns blasted twice, then paused, then twice again, and the hersir Harald Ribbing, a brave former huskarl hand-picked by Asbjørn to lead the charge, heard the call. He let issued his command and ordered the cavalry to charge while he mustered his own men to charge the engaged Obotrite infantry.

Bursting from out of their camouflaged positions in the forest, hundreds of Danes thundered across the grass, kicking up dirt and screaming their throats hoarse from cries of war. The vikings made directly for the engaged Obotrite infantry on the Danish right flank, while the cavalry headed straight for the pagan archers. The archers were so involved in their archery, they did not notice the charging Danish horsemen until it was almost too late. With great cries of panic, many dropped their bows and the entire regiment began to flee even as they were trampled by the charge. Dozens died in the opening moments, and soon the number became hundreds as they scrambled for the safety of the trees, Danish hoof and spear on their heels.

Krutoj, however, did not see what had happened until one of his men cried out in panic, "We are trapped!" In that instant, he realized it was over. The Danes were in a position to charge his rear, and his army's morale was already at the breaking point. The vikings, on the other hand, seemed eager to fight. It was not a battle Krutoj could have won, and he realized that too late to save his men. His arrogance and the exhaustion of the long march had caused him to slip up and make a mistake. It was one which he would pay dearly for.


On his the High Chief's left flank, the Danish ambush collided with his tired army, and at last, the courage of the Obotrite confederacy broke. Screams of terror filled many lungs, and his proud tribe broke and fled in the hundreds, the Danish hot on their heels. Realizing there was nothing for it, Krutoj grimaced and spurred his horse away from the battlefield. An entire regiment was surrounded and surrendered to the Danes. Those who didn't surrender and failed to give their pursuers the slip were cut down by the bloodthirsty Danish men. Victory had been theirs, and at a relatively low cost.

The Danes had won, with the skill of their leadership and the quality of their soldiers, it had been a relatively easy battle to overcome. The Danes had used their minds, and had fought in a method no Frankish Knight would have considered 'honourable', yet as Skjalm had predicted, none cared how the Danes had achieved victory that day. The prestige of seizing pagan lands was all the same, and their use of deception had fooled Krutoj's men into abandoning a strong position and committing too much to the charge. Perhaps on another day, with men less wearied from so much war, the Obotrite Confederacy would have triumphed over the Danes, but after defeat at Saxon hands and many lost fighting the Bohemians, they simply had no fight left to contend with Danish steel.

Asbjørn was fueled by the fire of the loss of his daughter, and personally slew eight men upon that day. It was said that he had become like an Angel of Death, a mighty warrior worthy of the praise of the Pagan gods the old vikings had once worshipped. Not about to lose the advantage, the Danish army tailed the ragtag survivors all the way to Rostock. Rostock was besieged and the beleagured Obotrite defenders were no match for the Hvide Clan's finest warriors. The siege lasted no more than a week before high Chief Krutoj marched from the city gates under flag of truce.

With little respite and suddenly outnumbered by the eager Danish armies, Krutoj had no choice but to accept Danish terms of surrender. The High Chief would be allowed to retire with any who would follow him to Rügen. In exchange, the Obotrite Confederacy would surrender Rostock, Mikilenburg and the corresponding lands to Skjalm Tokesson Hvide, and the Duchy of Sjælland would celebrate victory in the streets of Rostock. Though the transfer of power was not entirely smooth and there were some incidents of pillage, rape and other such sins, the Danish conquerors insisted that the people of Rostock and Mikilenburg be protected, not abused. This was not mere piety, but also their need to establish a loyal population in the region, so that they could rely upon them in times of need.


The First Wendish Crusade came to an end upon the 10th of December as the peace treaty was officially signed. The King's army arrived in Rostock to find a victorious Skjalm and no legal rights to the land the Duke had seized. While King Svend was fully within his rights to pursue Krutoj to Rügen, he decided to turn back that day, disheartened at his lack of conquest. Skjalm's victory had been great, and though few heard of this exploit, he had taken the first step in his own personal quest for redemption upon a road paved with blood.