Piety of the North Star

It’s been a long time coming, but after months of silence, I present the fourteenth update of Piety of the North Star.


Rays of golden light streaked through the leafless branches of the woodland canopy, illuminating their forms in graceful halos of light. Glistening with icicles, they painted a scene of unmatched beauty through which the rising sun peered, granting a reminder of the interminable progress of the seasons. They stood upon the very threshold of spring, and soon the cold winter would give way to the omnipresent shifting and warming of the sun. This glorious sight was mostly lost upon the Danes who gathered beneath it, mere men whose lives were preoccupied with mortal struggles and concepts. Misery, death, war, all these were far more important to these people who struggled against their own kind in battles of both brain and brawn.

Yet the marching Danes held a grim disposition for good reason. Not far from their position, the city of Rostock was under siege by invaders from the south, who sought to bring the Danish crusade to a halt. Skjalm had forbidden the creation of campfires, lest they betray their presence to the invaders. This morning’s cold had been bitter, and soldiers huddled together in tents, doing their best to ward it off. They would not be well-rested for the battle to come, but there was no sign that enemy scouts had betrayed their presence yet. For this, Skjalm thanked God.

His scouts had slipped quietly through the woods and spotted the walls of Rostock. There were signs of at least one assault on the walls; grey-clad warriors littered the ground, marring the landscape’s perfection. Wrecked siege equipment lay idly against the wall, charred from whatever flames had consumed it. Above the walls of Rostock, flags proudly flew the colours of Denmark and the crest of the Hvide family, indicating that it was still in Auden’s hands.


Skjalm’s dreams had not betrayed him, and for this he was thankful. The Knight who visited him, Skjalm believed without hesitation that this was nothing less than an Angel, come to earth to bring him a message from God. His cause in the east was surely approved by heaven and blessed by all the Saints of the north. With this determination, he was prepared to return to the Crusade at the nearest possible opportunity. First, he would unite with his brother and drive the invaders out of Vendland, no matter the cost in Danish lives.

Drawing his blade, the Chief of Hvide raised it up to the heavens before bringing it to his breast in salute. Before him, hundreds of Danes and Obotrites mimicked him, united in martial presence. While the Obotrites had fought more out of greed than any real loyalty, for once, they were united in an idealistic presence. Whatever disagreements they had, all were placed aside as the strange, foreign Magyars from the south invaded.

They had spoken to villages on the march that revealed the truth of the matter. Men from Hungary, far to the south, had invaded in number, pillaging and stealing anyone caught in their path. Entire settlements had been wiped out, and Mikilenburg was now in the hands of the Count of Lübeck, who sought to claim Vendland for himself. Skjalm was unimpressed, and fully intended to bring this man, this Budijov of Lübeck, to his knees. Vendland belonged to Denmark, and no other.


“It is not outright rebellion?”

The constable shook his head. “No your Highness, they are disgruntled but have not yet taken drastic action. I merely bring this before you as a warning – if something is not done soon, we will face more than our token forces can handle.”

“I see…” Gro frowned and turned her gaze to Christoffer, one of the Chancellor’s advisors. “How much spare food do we have in the larders?”

“A large stock, your Highness. Signe before you ordered us to save as much spare food as possible that would not decay. If we kept enough to maintain our current lifestyle, though, it would provide little relief to a town the size of Roskilde.”

The problem at hand was that Roskilde was running out of food, due in part to the requisition of emergency food supplies for the army which had set sail for Vendland just last week. The peasants were unhappy, and it seemed unlikely they would make it to the next harvest without potential famine. While they might be able to handle this under normal times, a full rebellion by the people would destroy Sjælland, as nearly its entire military had left to Crusade in Pomerania or to fight the Magyars in Vendland.

The Princess’s shoulders visibly sagged. “If we were to live a more modest lifestyle this year, what would it do?”

“Well…it might not solve their problems overnight.” Her advisor seemed thoughtful. “In fact, I doubt it would stop the problems they face, but if we were to do so, I think it would have a significant impact on any dissent. It might stop a future famine and in doing so, protect us from returning. The cost of shipping it to Roskilde could be high though, and we are already in debt.”

Gro scoffed. “You don’t have to remind me, I’m more than aware of the situation. I will borrow money from my brothers, if I must; their pockets are deep enough to pay for such matters, and they were never able to turn me down.”

She rested her shoulder against the stone wall of the chamber and nursed her aching body a little, taking care not to place pressure upon her belly. Though it had yet to swell, she was with child. It was Auden’s child, thankfully; for this she was happy, as it meant she could enjoy her time with her other lovers as she saw fit, there was no risk of delivering an illegitimate babe.

“Send whatever food we can spare to Roskilde, and send word to Father Anders – no, wait, forget it. I’ll speak to him myself. I’m going to go down to the chapel; I need to pray anyway. While I’m gone, tally up all of what we have in storage and prepare a messenger – I shall write to my kin upon my return. Go, now, all of you.”

Her advisors and constable left with a wave of her hand. Only her escort was left: the massive frame of the Scottish mercenary Connor, as well as a handful of her royal huskarls. She looked at the Scotsman with an emotionless face.

“Things are falling apart rather quickly, my friend…”

Taking the Scotsman’s arm as support, she led him away from the castle, leaving her huskarls behind. They found their way to the woods behind the castle, and eventually to her personal gardens, where she went for solitude. She carefully lowered herself onto a chair waiting for her in the walled cloister of her estate, smelling the gentle roses about her.

“Connor…this madness will never cease I fear. My husband faces death in Rostock, my lord is fighting for God in a place which hardly exists, and my father has already met his fate in Jutland. I do not know what I am going to do. Søborg will not always remain safe for us if things continue as they are… If my brother is made King, Skjalm will not tolerate it – he holds a deep grudge against him.”

The Scotsman shook his head. “Ah’m sorry…I dannae how to help…”

He kneeled down a bit to meet the Princess’ gaze, his own full of concern. The mercenary had cleaned up a lot since she first found him. He didn’t enjoy the ‘noble’ appearance so much, but he did enjoy the respect it afforded him from all classes. The man was still enough of a muscled mountain to put down anyone in his way.

Gro smiled at him and leaned forward, placing her arms on his shoulder. “Don’t you worry, Connor, you don’t have to know…just let me do all the thinking.”

The Princess kissed her guardian on the lips without shame or hesitation, feeling herself taken into his embrace.


Johann stared out at the morning sky from the wooden palisade. Sections of the wall were newly rebuilt since the Crusaders arrived, and the town had become a fortress, a veritable bastion of Christian power in the pagan lands. Though the natives had mostly given it wide berth, local merchants were starting to flow back into the city, looking to sell their wares (be they food, drink, arms or trinkets) to the crusaders who had little better to do. Wealth was starting to return to Truso by sheer virtue of their presence.

The Teuton did not like the thought of pagans being let freely into the city without protest, nor did he like the ban on assaulting their villages without provocation. As far as he was concerned, they were godless creatures not worthy of living in the same world, let alone the same city. He had little choice in the matter, unfortunately – Skjalm’s word was law in this land, and Skjalm had ordered leniency to be shown. As he was living on the Dane’s kindness, there was not much else he could do but order his men to obey it for the time being.

“Grandmaster?”

Johann looked over to see the face of the man before him. A young Knight named Jakob, Bavarian, he thought. The order was so small and tight-knit that it was easy to recognise every one of its members by face alone, including those who had yet to earn great glories. Jakob was blooded, but only just; he was a new recruit who had only fought in the Battle of Stolpskgrad so far.

“Yes…Jakob? Can I help you?”

The younger Knight gestured to the market square, which was now crowded with both Wend and Dane; Pole and German; Swede and Livonian. Men of all cultures and creeds brushed shoulders with only a minimal of conflict, defying everything the supposed Crusade was based on. At the end of the day, materialism and money crossed all boundaries as all united in their desire for greater glory.

“This display is embarrassing to God and our order, Grandmaster. Is there not something you can do about it?”

Johann shook his head. “We are bound to Skjalm’s laws as long as we are in his domain, good fellow. By the south wind I wish there was something I could do, but we are only allowed to act in defence of our own persons.”

The lesser Knight sighed in disappointment. “Then it is as I feared, we must tolerate these heathens within our walls…”

Raising an eyebrow, Johann placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Do not fear, as long as we have God, there is no risk of these pagans damaging us or our faith. Simply follow the law as best as you can, and so long as you do not break it, our order’s security here will be ensured. If you have any opportunity, seek to bring the word of God to these people…and if they are goaded into violence and seek to strike first, who can fault you for defending yourself?”

Johann smiled, and young Jakob smiled back. A silent agreement was reached, and the Grandmaster nodded in approval, dismissing his companion. They would find a way to bring God to these heathens one way or the other, regardless of Skjalm’s laws. In that moment, the Teutonic Order was reborn beyond its former self, and its infamy would spread throughout the very world.


The roar of battle rushed through Skjalm’s ears with the very wind. His army, although outnumbered, had smashed into the Magyar forces, taking them almost completely by surprise. Every warrior with a horn blew it as they entered into battle, and from the walls of Rostock, a bewildered garrison watched as the armies collided outside their very gates.

Behind the walls, men rushed to and fro, hastily forming blocks and donning gear. Though they were always on alert for a potential assault, the armies of Skjalm had struck like lightning. Tents were set aflame, men were separated from their horses, and siege equipment abandoned as the Magyars attempted to form some sort of defence on the far side of their camp.

Skjalm struck down one of the Magyar levies himself with a cold grimace. He led his men from the front, straight into the enemy ranks. The heavily armoured Danes found little threat from their surprised foes, and a number of Danes, fighting in berserker fashion, sent their bewildered enemy scattering before their might.


The Hungarians started to form into solid fighting formations, but it was already too late. With half their number dead or otherwise unable to fight, they no longer outnumbered the tougher Danish – and behind them, the gates of Rostock began to slide open, revealing the Hvide banners as Auden himself led the local militia to sally forth. They broke ranks and fled southwest, towards Mikilenburg – no longer able to threaten their foes, they sought only to escape the vikings as soon as possible. The Obotrite cavalry began to pursue and harass the routers, but could not break their spears alone and soon gave up chase, returning to the main force.



Skjalm let out a sigh of relief as he spotted his brother’s approach, and raised his hand in greeting to the Bishop. The Hertug of Sjælland was the very picture of a Viking warlord, his clothing and armour was scarlet-stained and his tall frame supported a strong face set in a mighty grin. Having led the charge and slain the Magyar general personally, he had once again earned the respect of his men. Skjalm the Slayer, some took to calling him, for he was as dangerous and noble in combat as he was in diplomacy.

“Auden, my brother!” he roared in happiness.

The younger Hvide brother rushed with a broad smile. “Skjalm you blasted old fool, you forgot to leave any for the rest of us!”

Waves of laughter rolled across relieved faces as the City of Rostock stood free again. The two brothers embraced and two sides mingled, Obotrite and Dane full of delight at their victory. Hundreds of men from Hungary and Lübeck lay dead or prisoner – hundreds more were demoralized, leaderless and fleeing towards the heavily damaged castle of Mikilenburg, where they would struggle to hold against a determined assault. This victory would send a sound message to the invaders – Vendland would not tolerate them any longer.

“Brother, I’m shocked to hear you say that,” Skjalm said with faux dismay. “Is that not against a man of God’s way?”

Auden just winked at him. “No seminary can take the soul away from a viking.”

“I heard you were under siege for months, why did you not send a message?”

Auden’s cheer faded a little. “We did, did you not receive it?”

Skjalm shook his head in response.

“Damnations…then what are you doing here? How is the war in the east going?”

“Well, very well in fact. All of the south coast of the Baltic now belongs to the Crusaders, and everything from Stolpksgrad to Truso has submitted to our rule. Our missionaries are already hard at work bringing the word of God to the people. I returned with my men because…”

Skjalm’s eyes suddenly glanced around, seeing that they were not alone. “Officially, I returned to look for reinforcements for our crusade in the east, but there is more - much more. We must talk alone, once we are able.”

“Of course.” Auden smiled again. “But there will not be much time. We should immediately prepare to march for Mikilenburg. The castle was heavily damaged by a Magyar Siege…Harald Bragde fought to the last along with his men, but…” The bishop’s eyes glanced downwards, betraying their fate.

Skjalm sighed. “A pity, he was a good man. We will avenge his death many times over. Who leads the Bragde clan now?”

“Harald the Young will take over Bragde, I believe, though news of their loss may not have reached Skåne yet, as we only recently learned of it ourselves. But he is not the only loss, my brother…”

Skjalm’s eyes widened slightly. “You tell me more tragedy has struck?”

“Aye.” Auden grimaced. “Svend Estridsen died in Slesvig fighting these hellborne bastards. Magnus Haraldsson is already trying to claim he deserves the Danish throne, as he believes his father to have, but that will be for the ting to decide, when we have time to call one.”

Skjalm sighed deeply, this was nothing less than a tragedy for Denmark.

“Who then has taken over control of Denmark? Not…”

Skjalm’s thoughts drifted back to the ting, to the insult laid upon him by the greatest Prince of Denmark. The scum who had spoken to him as if he and his house were worthless – the thought of that man giving him orders made Skjalm’s very blood boil with hatred.

Auden nodded. “I’m afraid so. Prince Harald Svendsen has taken command of the King’s armies.”

I've written an outline of this chapter but I haven't had time to sit down and write it yet. Today's my last day of work before a 4 day weekend, and I'm hoping to get the next update finished tonight or tomorrow at the latest so that I can produce a second sometime over the weekend. I also have some other plans simmering away, but we'll see how those go when I get there...

----- -=-=- Some Comments -=-=- -----

Le Jones: Why thank you dear, always nice to get a manly man for a reader. ;P I'm a fan of HOI as well, but I enjoy the medieval period just as much. If I dedicated myself to this, it could eventually become a HOI3 AAR. xD

demokratickid: Why thank you. And it's not like this sort of thing wasn't totally vogue in 11th century Europe.

General_BT: Oh my, favourite you say? Now I feel guilty for not updating. Well, y'know, more than I did before. As for the title Victoglorious, were this a less serious AAR, I'd totally be nicking it. As it is I may have to come up with another neologism to define his awesomeness, though given that I've played to well past Skjalm's death, his final titles are mostly set in stone.

Teep: Thank you, I'm glad you liked it.

Enewald: Civil war is in the air, but there's also 10,000 odd Magyars walking through Germany. What I fought was just the vanguard from Hungary proper, what killed Svend was just Lübeck's army.

RGB: So screw the husband! ;D He's a man of the cloth, he really shouldn't be married anyway...doesn't stop him from having produced a second son by this point with a third on the way, I think. I'll double check my notes. I'll be introducing the sons of Auden in the near future anyway.

phargle: <3 Well thank you for that, I've tried to improve the pictures and take the writing a little more seriously (though I still am too lazy to put it through the drafting process, at least I'm thinking about it in more serious terms and planning ahead). I have a habit of making introductory paragraphs like that, very rich with description, then forgetting to do such things later in the writing. I don't know if that's a good thing or not. xD

----- -=-=- ----- -=-=- -----

Also peoples, don't forget to vote in the ACAs. You don't have to vote for me, even though PONS is clearly the best Narrative by a few thousand miles, but I've got phargle waiting for you with a crowbar if you don't. ;D

P.S. I meant that in a tongue in cheek fashion - please don't lynch me.

It’s later than I intended but here you go.

The next update will include a map and a general description of the situation in Northern Europe as well as continuing the story, so for those who are starting to wonder what’s going on in the grand scheme of things, you’ll have your explanation soon.


Gro yawned and rubbed the drowsiness from her eyes, slipping out from beneath the bed’s sheets. She gave only a slight glance backwards before moving to her desk – the bulky frame of the Scotsman still slumbered peacefully. Feeling much more relaxed, she sighed in content as she fell into her chair, taking goose quill into hand and dipping it carefully before beginning.


The princess folded the letter carefully before closing it with deep red wax, into which she pressed her seal, marking it as her own words for any who knew the insignia.

She quietly slipped it into a sack, and deemed to dress herself. Rather than any nice dress or flashy garb to show off her royal status, she chose a more plain, subtle outfit, dark browns and greys – something to keep her from being easily noticed or standing out. She wore a heavy cloak as well, with a deep hood – the skies were darkening and the beginning of a rainstorm was upon them. She would travel alone to the Chapel, for she knew she must face this challenge alone.

Lastly, she clasped a belt around her waist, to which a scabbard was tied and a sword sheathed. She was probably the worst fighter of all the Knýtling daughters, but she was still competent enough to defend herself if necessary. The north was a dangerous place, and it was quite common for the women to learn to fight alongside the men. Though no longer as important, this practice was one of many relics left by society during the Viking Age, when the men would be gone for long periods of time. It would be up to the women to protect their homes from aggressors, and few men of Scandinavia would take a Norse woman with a blade lightly.

All of that said, Gro still gave a short prayer that she would not have to use it. Søborg chapel was not far from here, she would probably not meet anyone along the way, but it was better to be safe than sorry. She stole a last glance at Connor’s sleeping form, smiled at her lover one last time, and slipped out the door, locking it behind her. She didn’t need any interruptions while she was busy with more important affairs than knowing him.

The muddy ground squished beneath her boots as she sneaked through the nearby orchard, moving from tree to tree gracefully. The rainfall steadily grew, pounding against her cloak and leaving her cold and shivering; she continued to push forward, despite red and damp cheeks and wet curls of dark hair matting against her head.

Snap.

Her head darted to one side, looking for the source of the noise. Her eyes flitted about, focusing on various things but finding nothing. She seemed alone, but the tension in her back spoke otherwise – she was being watched, she could feel it in her very bones. Swallowing, she moved one hand to the hilt of the sword she carried, and continued to move towards the Chapel. She could see the small stone building barely a hundred metres ahead and there was no time to waste here.

The heavily clothed woman continued to rush through the fruit trees, pushing past low-hung branch and jumping at the slightest sound. Even as she escaped the clutches of the orchard, she was watched, still, by a figure perched up in the high canopy of an apple tree. His own hood hung low, and he stared at her with grim determination, smiling a little bit.

“Well well…what are you doing all the way out here without any protection…”


“You indeed come to me with troubled times…” Anders frowned, helping the Princess remove her sopping cloak.

Gro nodded to the priest, eyes downcast. “So what do you think of my request? Will you help us?”

Anders sighed and leaned back. “Well…to do so would abandon my position as spiritual advisor here…journeying to Roskilde will not be quick and there is no telling how long I would have to stay there.”

She smiled a little - that wasn’t a rejection. “The people here will manage – Roskilde needs God to reassure them, you are the only one who can do this with my husband in Rostock.”

Father Anders took a cross in his hand and frowned. “My child, you do have wisdom in your heart yet…very well, as you ask, I shall go to Roskilde with this caravan…I hope God will be able to aid them in their ails as it has aided Søborg’s people.”

She smiled in delight. “Wonderful, I’m so glad! If you please, I have one more request…I need to stay here and pray, pray for many things…could you take this to the castle for me, and ask Cecilie, my maid, to have it delivered to my brother Harald. While you’re there, you should speak to Christoffer – he will help with the details of when the journey to Roskilde should be taken.”

Anders hesitated, then nodded. “Very well my child. I hope you find what you need from your prayers. I will be back later.”

The priest took the pouch containing her letter, and found his own cloak, before venturing out into the rain, leaving her alone in the dark and quiet. Gro moved before the altar and slipped down to her legs, kneeling and clasping her hands together in prayer, a silver cross between her palms. She prayed, with more honesty and heart than she had ever done in her lifetime prior to this moment. She prayed for Auden, for Skjalm, for her brother Harald and for Denmark. She prayed for victory above all else.

After ten minutes of this, she noticed something was off. She could hear someone breathing behind her.

She stumbled to her feet and turned, starting to draw the sword she had carried with her. A strong hand, gloved in black, grabbed her wrist and closed in. A gravely voice escaped from beneath the assailant’s shadowy hood, betraying him to her.

“Your highness…is it really safe for you to be out here without any guards?”


She growled and tried to shove him away, letting go of her sword. “Hans you bastardized son of a whore, you practically scared me to death! What are you doing here, this isn’t our arranged meeting time!”

The German assassin grinned and held her tightly in his grasp. “Now now Princess, no need to be hasty…I saw a better opportunity to meet with you soon. Word reached me that you don’t have enough money to pay for the mission you gave me… You do know what that means, don’t you?”

She growled. “Let go of me!”

The assassin finally released her, grinning a little as the smaller woman pulled away, rubbing at sore wrists.

“I could only save enough for about a third of the usual fee…I had been hoping to scrounge up a little more and negotiate for the rest, before meeting you.”

Hans smirked. “Negotiate, huh? I suppose you’ve treated me well so far…what’ve you got in mind?”

She swallowed hard. “My brother should be sending me some more money for internal affairs. I inflated the cost of what I needed it for; he might complain but he should send enough to pay you most of what I owe…other than that…I…well, I guess I’ll have to owe you a debt.”

“Debt, huh…” Hans smirked and closed in, placing his hand on her shoulder. “There’s more than one way to pay off a debt, your highness.” He put a slight emphasis on the last word, as if mocking the title.

The Princess blushed a little and pulled away. “Go to hell!” she hissed, reaching for the sword hilt again.

He laughed a little and stepped forward, placing one hand on hers in warning. “It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve paid a debt to me that way.”

Gro looked like she was going to explode in anger. “We’re in the middle of a church! Have you no piety you sick bastard!”

Hans laughed a little louder. “Piety? I kill people for money, don’t make me laugh. I don’t care what God thinks of this…now are you going to work for your discount, or pay me all that money you owe…”

The Princess stared, cheeks bright red with a combination of embarrassment and anger. “I…” she fumed, and her shoulders slumped slightly in defeat. "Fine."

Hans pushed her against the altar, which was set firmly into the floor, and leaned in close. “Good girl…”

demokratickid: Given his choice of location for the deed, one could argue that he's hardly zealous at all.

Enewald: :O :O :O :O :O :O . Thanks! ;D

KingAMD: ...cruuuuuude! xD

Teep: Thank you, you won't have to wait much longer I'm afraid...

Ilyavania: Aw, thanks. :3

P.S. if you're a reader interested in affecting what happens in the future of this storyline, I have an idea which I'd love to discuss, which I detailed here on my blog. I'd love comments, plz. <3


The sound of hooves beating into the dusty landscape echoed around them – fertile wilderness and seas of grass surrounded them – the men marched forward without hesitation, despite the afternoon warmth. Before them, the yellow sea came into view, and they saw the face of their enemy. Men from Lübeck - they marched with confidence, although their formations were somewhat undisciplined and lacked the form of a professional fighting force.

Asbjørn’s dark eyes examined their formation from beneath dark, bushy eyebrows. He didn’t like it, but he didn’t have a lot of time to change his own to suit. It might work, but it was riskier than he had wished. The heraldry of the Count of Lübeck was clear even from here, but Asbjørn feared no mere Greve or his slaves. He was a Viking, a mighty chieftain of his people and a warrior bred and born – it would take more than two and a half thousand motley men to spook him.

The men from the city itself were mostly militia, hastily raised and relatively unprofessional – there was a small force of cavalry from Hungary, and a number of heavy infantry hired as mercenaries. Lübeck had belonged to the Obotrite Confederacy until quite recently, and most of its populace was still Slavic – Budijov had, however, attempted to Christianize the city and bring western ideas in. The Duke of Saxony had been attempting to curry favour with Lübeck for some time and had assisted the city in its progress.

Despite this, however, Budijov’s army still held great weakness. It would find itself met by fellow Obotrites who felt betrayed by the attack – it was also worse equipped and less experienced, though it had been blooded by battles already. Worse for the men of Lübeck was that morale was still suffering since the Battle of Rostock and their stinging defeat to Skjalm’s army.


“Hold steady, men!” a voice rang throughout the ranks before him – the hersir Harald Ribbing had been given command of the spear levies, in the hope that his steady hand might influence their key role in the battle.

Asbjørn’s army carried but three hundred men less than the Germans; his were also of greater quality. Since retaking Rostock, they had met up with the reinforcements from Sjælland. Most of the newcomers were green and inexperienced, and they were poorly equipped compared to the Crusaders – nearly all of them were leidang as opposed to the veteran mercenaries, huskarls and knights who had accompanied Skjalm this far.

They had retaken Mikilenburg in the early days of April, and fought a number of skirmishes along the border – nothing conclusive had come of it yet. News had finally reached Skjalm that they had retaken Holstein from the Germans and he had taken a longship along the coast in order to meet up with the Royal Armies in the north. Asbjørn had instructions to meet up with them at Lübeck, but the Obotrites had other things in mind. Here, twenty miles west of Mikilenburg, the two armies had met as the Obotrites hoped to retake the castle from its Norse owners.

Most of his men were well-equipped, sporting at least studded leather vests, and nearly all the crusading veterans wore shirts of mail to battle. The average leidang used a simple axe or spear, but the huskarls sported an array of weapons from the bearded axe that Asbjørn’s berserker guard used, to simple swords and well-balanced axes. Lastly, mounted upon great steeds of war, Knights from the Crusade, both Danish and German, rode with their brothers-in-arms for money and glory. Ahead of their time, they utilized smaller kite shields and less cumbersome mail to grant them greater range of movement in battle – a practice pioneered in the north by the Teutonic Order and passed on to their fellow crusaders.


The Danish general had ordered his spearmen into a wall in the centre of his formation, with the leidang warriors and huskarls flanking it. To each side of that, the Obotrite horsemen were ready to harass enemy light cavalry and archers, limiting their options. He stood with a company of huskarls behind the spear wall, along with all of the Crusader Knights. When the time was right, the spear wall would break and enable them to charge into the heart of the enemy formation, splitting them in two.

At least, that was the hope…


Budijov’s army descended upon them through a sea of grass – the ground shook beneath the Danish troops, but most of them had seen battle before and were no longer afraid. A third of the men present had triumphed against superior odds before and were not afraid to do so again. Thousands of bodies were about to clash, and a battle key to Denmark’s future would be fought. The Danes gritted their teeth and steeled themselves for the worst. With shields interlocked, they formed a formidable site.

Above them, arrows flitted through the air as the Danish bows fired in volleys, raining death upon the approaching forces. Before the militia army, Lübeck’s own missile troops advanced. Well before, in fact – they were at least fifty paces ahead of the rest of the army, and lining up to return fire. Asbjørn blew a signal from his horn, and almost immediately, the Obotrites on his left spurred their horses into action. The Lübeck archers had not fired more than a single volley before the cavalry began to descend on them, and they beat a hasty retreat for friendly lines, wising up to their mistake. The light cavalry were quick, but not quick enough. Several dozen archers were too slow to escape, but soon the Obotrites had to turn back, menaced by the approaching wall of shield and spear.

Asbjørn was somewhat regretful that Budijov’s Knights had maintained their course – headed straight for the infantry flank to his west, in fact. He had hoped they would grow impetuous and charge early, but the luck was not yet his. The whole army advanced in unison – a chaotic, but potentially effective formation. If he could spring his trap in time, he would pull them to bits. The alternative was being destroyed utterly by their armies.

Before the leidang, the sight of heavily armoured horsemen grew closer, their lances and banners presenting a forest of wood and testament to their terror. The men in the front line realized that although the huskarls had limited spear cover, they did not. They were mostly unprotected from a determined cavalry charge. Silently, prayers to God were spoken – there was no way to escape death except to fight like wolves and hold out until Ribbing’s spearmen could lead a counter-attack.

Horns blew out before them, and lances lowered – the Knights were charging, a great clamor of hoof, steel and cries of war. The great cacophony was almost deafening, but the leidang held their ground, bitterly determined. Valdemar Bodilsen, the hersir leading the regiment, roared over the sound. “Don’t be afraid men, we will fight gloriously until the end! We will fight for the pride of everything we are, everything our people are!”

A patch of clouds in the sky had obscured the sun, but finally it broke before them, and a great bright light slipped through the hole, beaming down upon the field. A fervor overtook the Viking men, filling them with great pride and heart. For a moment, their situation did not seem so bad, and they had almost forgotten that the great army was charging down upon them.

Valdemar pointed his sword at the clouds and laughed. “The valkyries have come for us! Let’s show them how real men fight, eh?!”

These would be his last words amongst the living.


The Knights caused horrendous casualties in the initial shock – no one amongst the forlorn hope had survived the impact where they struck. The trap had been set; Budijov had taken the bait. Asbjørn’s horn blew, and at once, the remaining forces sprung into action. With a great roar, the leidang erupted against the over-extended Knights. Danish spearmen and Vikings charged into the undefended flanks of the cavalry, surrounding them on three sides while the militia advanced behind, effectively trapping Lübeck’s best men in a pocket.

A furor of violence overcame the field as all decency and order collapsed into mindless violence. His heart racing, Asbjørn blew his horn one last time, signaling a full-scale attack by the Danes. The Danish Obotrites burst into motion, racing around the enemy flanks and forcing their ranks to respond as quickly as possible. Simultaneously, the huskarls and knights of Denmark brought their weapons to bear and charged into the undisciplined enemy with all their might.

Though most of Lübeck’s army was equipped with spears, they were undisciplined and did not expect such a sudden charge. The Knights crushed them in the initial charge, tramping and impaling several men each in the initial impact. To either side of them, the huskarls caught up and slammed into the wall. Magyar Heavy Infantry found itself no match for the heavy axes of the huskarls and the militia were totally outclassed, losing several times what they brought down. The organized battle had become a chaotic bloodbath.

Asbjørn brought his axe down upon the helm of an unwitting militiaman, and laughed, blocking a counter-attack effortlessly. “Drive them back! Make them fear us!” he roared.

Casualties began to mount on both sides, but soon the weaker morale of the militia began to show. The Knights were being torn apart in their pocket and the rest lacked the fighting spirit of the Danes. Soon they began to waver, and one by one, units began to retreat, fleeing from what seemed to be certain death by Danish axe. Encouraged, the Danes simply pushed even harder, forcing their enemies to break. The Obotrites and Knights quickly pursued, picking off individual units and trapping others. Within minutes, the battle was over, and the Danes stood victorious over the bloody field once more. Defeat did not seem to be an option for such men, and the only option for the militia.


In the end, the Danes lost some five hundred men, Lübeck seven hundred. In the aftermath of the battle, hundreds more were captured or disappeared, no longer willing to fight after the massacre they had witnessed. The battle would be decisive and send another clear message to Budijov and to the Magyars. The Danes were more than capable of resisting their enemies in force, and they would find a way of winning no matter the cost.

Asbjørn’s army would go on to meet with Prince Harald’s outside of Lübeck, where the Prince accepted the formal surrender of the city to Denmark. The entire region would soon fall under Danish jurisdiction, and would become viewed as an extension of Vendland, though the city answered to Harald, not Skjalm. With Lübeck broken, the militia army disbanded and would filter back to the region slowly – Budijov would disappear, never to be heard from again.

The Magyars were forced to remain in Germany, where they ransacked a number of villages to keep their war machine alive. The Holy Roman Emperor issued to the Hungarian King an ultimatum to return to Hungary or finish the job in Denmark…or else. The Magyars would continue to delay, attempting to regain strength for a push back into Jutland.

Asbjørn would lead the army back to Mikilenburg, where they would wait for news of the Hungarians. Skjalm, meanwhile, stayed in Lübeck with the Royal Army – a grand ting was called for and by the beginning of the New Year, Denmark’s most prominent nobles stood together once more. They discussed, debated, drank, slept, feasted, drank more, and returned to discussion. Finally, after a week, they came to the most solemn of decisions.

Though Skjalm was a heroic and mighty figure to the Danish people, he was just a Duke, and just a Crusader. He carried neither the royal bloodline of the Knýtlings, nor the success in saving Jutland that Harald sported. It was close, and heavily discussed, but in the end, the decision came down to what the two men fought for. Skjalm fought abroad for God – Harald fought at home for Denmark. In the end, the ting chose Harald Svendsen Knýtling as the new King of Denmark.