The autumn sun hung low over the marshy lands of Samogitia, its pale light glinting off the helms of the Livonian Brothers of the Sword. Master Volkwin rode at the front, his banner of a red cross snapping in the wind. The order had marched deep into enemy territory, intent on punishing the pagan Samogitians for their raids. The campaign had gone well at first — villages burned, cattle taken, hostages bound in ropes. Yet now, as September 22 dawned, the return march home had turned into something far more perilous.
The local guides had warned them: “The land swallows armies whole. The marsh and forest hide more than birds and deer.” Volkwin had dismissed the words. His knights, encased in mail, mounted on destriers, had never known defeat in the field.
By midday, the column slowed as the road narrowed between a bog and a dark wall of pines. The hooves of the horses sank deeper into the sodden earth, and the baggage wagons struggled forward. It was then that the first Samogitian horn sounded — deep and mournful, rolling over the mist.
From the trees came a rain of arrows. The shafts hissed through the air, striking chainmail, leather, and unarmoured flesh. Men cried out; horses reared. Then the Samogitians appeared, fierce and swift, their shields painted with beasts, their spears tipped with gleaming iron. Alongside them, Semigallian warriors surged forward, their battle cries echoing.
Volkwin shouted for his knights to form a line. The order’s heavy cavalry was their strength — but here, in the sucking marsh, the horses could not charge. The enemy knew this land; they danced between pools of water, striking at vulnerable flanks, vanishing into the reeds.
The fighting was brutal and close. A knight toppled into the bog, his armour dragging him down. Another was pulled from his horse by a wiry Semigallian with a hooked spear. The marsh ran red.
Volkwin fought at the centre, his sword rising and falling, denting shields and cleaving helmets. But for every foe he struck down, two more came. The horn sounded again — this time from behind. More warriors poured from the forest, cutting off the retreat.
By late afternoon, the Livonian Brothers of the Sword were encircled. Arrows had run out; swords grew dull with use. Volkwin raised his banner high, rallying the last of his men for a desperate stand. They formed a tight ring, shoulder to shoulder, the white surcoats of the order smeared with mud and blood.
The final clash was a frenzy of steel and cries. Volkwin fell beneath a storm of blows, his banner trampled into the marsh. Around him, one by one, the knights were cut down. When it was over, between forty-eight and sixty knights lay dead, along with their master.
The Samogitians and Semigallians melted back into the forest, their victory resounding. The Battle of Saule would be remembered as the first great defeat of the crusading orders in the Baltic — a warning written in blood, that these lands could not be taken without a heavy price.
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