

THE

### ROBBER KNIGHT

By Robert Thier

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 Robert Thier

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

Table of Contents

Feud

Her Plan

Sir Reuben and the Doll

The Red Robber Knight

Clash of Arms

Listening In

A Stranger among the Carrion

The Living Nightmare

Push and Pull

Among Enemies

A Pot Full of Devil

Wobbling Bulwark

Sewing Survival Tactics

Feast, Feud, and Fennel

Stolen Youth and Black Pudding

Sir Isenbard

Worse than the Village Scarecrow

The Enemy

Hot Dispute

Flying Death

Welcome Weakness

Admonishments by a Frightened Bunny

The Sweetness of Water

Opposing Forces

Vacillating Vassals

Know Thyself

Know Thy Enemy

Red Dawn

Battle of the Bridge

Fallen

Brave Defender of the Dirt Pile

Garden of Blossoms

The Lady and Her Lances

Cupid's Arrows

Hypothetical Arrows

Flaming Arrows

Misused Candlesticks

To Kill or Not to Kill

Rising Darkness

Enemy Ascending

Confession

High Road Up

Hard Fall Down

Friend and Foe

About the Author

Other Books by Robert Thier

Acknowledgements

# Feud

_Anno Domini_ [1] _1234_

Lady Ayla stared down at the gauntlet.[2] Such a simple piece of clothing: five-fingered, made of leather, without any embellishment or embroidery. A glove. Such a simple thing. Just a glove. It meant the end of the world for her.

She looked up at the herald[3] who had brought the gauntlet and managed a sarcastic smile.

"So nice of the Margrave[4] to be concerned about my well-being. But please tell him from me that the castle is well-heated, and if I need to put on a glove, I have dozens of my own. Oh yes, and tell him next time he wishes to send me a gift, to send a _pair_ of gloves. Gives a much better impression."

The herald more than matched her smile. And why not? He had all the reasons in the world to smile—while she most certainly had none.

"You know very well that this is not a gift, Lady Ayla," he said, his voice sounding superior and insolent. "The gauntlet is not for you. It is for your father, Count Thomas. The Margrave von Falkenstein hereby throws down the gauntlet and declares a feud[5] against him and all those he harbors within his walls."

Lady Ayla stood up. Sitting, she had been on about equal level with the narrow eyes of the little man who had come to declare the end of what had hitherto been her life. Now, standing on the raised platform at the end of the great hall where her father's chair stood, she towered over him. It made her feel slightly better, but only slightly, because she knew it was all a pretense. The man was in control here. Though he was alone, and they were in her home, her father's castle, surrounded by her father's servants, he was in control. Or rather, his master was.

"Will you be so good as to have your father fetched, Milady?" the herald asked. "So that he can pick up the gauntlet, as is the custom?"

"You know very well," Ayla said in a dangerously steady voice, "that my father is a sick old man who cannot even walk on his own legs anymore, let alone fight battles."

The herald sighed. "Oh, very well. It is just a formality, after all. Here is the legally binding document."

He held up a roll of parchment. At one end, Ayla could see the Margrave's seal in shining red wax. She knew what it was immediately: the letter of feud declaration. The herald thrust the parchment at one of her servants, who caught it with a yelp and stumbled back.

Ayla didn't give it a second glance. It would contain many pretty words, but they would not be enough to conceal the real content, the same ugly message sent by the gauntlet on the stone floor in front of her: _I want what is yours, and I will take it by force._

"On what grounds does your master declare this feud?" she demanded, her voice trembling now. With rage? Fear? She wasn't quite sure herself. "What ill have we ever done him? What justification does he have for his actions?"

"Justification?" Hiding a smirk, the herald shrugged. "I'm sure one can be found—after he has burned your castle to the ground and made your lands his own. He is in no hurry."

That dastardly comment would have left Lady Ayla speechless, or more likely disbelieving, had she not known the man behind the words. Falkenstein was not a man to make idle threats; he enjoyed making real ones far too much.

"But," the herald continued, "there might be a way to avoid unpleasantness and spare your people the hardships of the feud to come."

Ayla frowned. "Is the Margrave von Falkenstein getting soft in his old days? He has declared five feuds over the last three years, and in none of those cases did he have a shred of mercy for his victims."

"Ah, yes," the herald concurred merrily. "But, you see, in none of those cases did his adversary have a fair maiden for a daughter who is renowned for her beauty far beyond the borders of her father's lands."

A cold shiver ran down Ayla's spine. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"That," the man said, flourishing his white herald's staff, "is supposed to mean that my master did not just send me here to bring you this gauntlet. He sent me here to bring you two things. Two different accessories, you could say, from which you must choose. Either," he pointed to the floor where the gauntlet still lay, "you pick up this, or," he reached into his pocket and held up something small and shiny, "you put this on your ring-finger."

Ayla gazed at the golden ring in the herald's hand, horror-struck. And she had believed her situation couldn't get any worse.

"I see," she said, around the lump in her throat.

The herald smiled at her again, this time suggestively. "The Margrave has heard much of your manifold attractions, Milady." His gaze traveled up and down her body in an insolent manner. "Golden hair, a maidenly figure, stunning blue eyes—all the bards[6] sing of you as beautiful and amiable."

Ayla could feel her face growing hot and her small fists clenching.

"Personally," the herald continued with a derisive smirk, "I must admit that I can't quite agree with the bards on the latter point. I prefer ladies who are a little more docile. Yet the Margrave will have no difficulty in dealing with you, I'm sure."

"Indeed?"

Ayla wasn't sure whether her eyes could be described as "stunning", but at that moment she wished she really could stun with just a look, or maim or incinerate perhaps? That would take care of the impudent cur in front of her. She glared at the herald with fiery intensity.

"Yes, indeed. And, in spite of your faults, he would be more than willing to enter into an alliance with you and unite your lands into one," the herald continued.

"I'm sure he would."

"You should recognize the generosity of his offer and do as he wishes."

"Oh yes. Very generous—to ask a maiden for her hand and threaten violence if she does not comply!"

The derisive smile was back on the herald's face. "Would the Margrave as a husband really be so unwelcome? You are already seventeen years of age, quite an old maiden. You should have been married three or four years ago."

"If and when I marry is none of your concern, and certainly not the Margrave's!"

"Indeed? By all accounts, you need a strong man to take care of things for you in any case. There have been tales flying around the country about robber knights[7] infesting your father's lands ever since he was taken ill. I myself met with a merchant from Cologne on my way here who had been robbed by a devil of a robber knight in crimson armor."

Ayla gritted her teeth. She had heard reports of the red knight before, but to be reminded of him by this harbinger of doom, to be practically accused of dereliction of duty to her people... It was almost more than she could bear.

"He will be taken care of," she hissed. "And his crimes are nothing in comparison to what your master is contemplating."

The herald looked from her to the ring in his outstretched hand and back again. "Is that your answer?" he asked.

"No. You shall have my answer. Ulrich!"

The servant hurried to Ayla's side. "Yes, Milady?"

"Go and fetch the... accessory for fingers from the old room behind the dungeons," she commanded.

The servant looked nonplussed for a moment. Then a horrified expression spread over his face.

"B-but Milady," he stammered, "you commanded us never to open or enter that room again!"

"And now I command otherwise," she said, her eyes still resting on the herald. "Go!"

"The... finger accessory, Milady?"

"Yes. Do you know what I mean?"

"I think so, Milady."

"Then, as I said, go."

Without a further word, the servant departed.

It was only a couple of minutes before he returned, carrying something wrapped in a piece of leather. While he had been gone, neither Ayla nor the herald had spoken a word. Neither had broken eye contact.

Normally, the main hall of Luntberg Castle was a quiet, comfortable place: a huge fireplace with a warm fire, pelts lying on the floor, the colorful tapestries on the wall given a golden tinge by the light streaming in through the horn window panes covering the narrow windows. Yet while Ayla and the herald eyed each other, the atmosphere became uncomfortably charged, and the fire, which normally crackled so cozily, now seemed to foreshadow a much larger conflagration, a firestorm that would swallow up Ayla's home and leave it devastated by war. Like birds of prey, the two sized each other up, each wondering how much fight the other would put up.

It took Ayla a few seconds to realize that Ulrich had returned and was standing beside her, holding something in his hand. When she finally noticed his presence, she took the leather-wrapped object he had been sent to fetch and handed it to the herald with a defiant expression on her face.

The herald pulled away the leather to reveal an old, rusted, iron thumbscrew.[8]

"Take it to your master and tell him," Ayla said, her voice calm again, pointing to the rusty, old instrument of torture, "that I would rather put this on my finger than the golden thumbscrew he has offered me."

She stepped down from the raised platform and bent forward to pick up the gauntlet.

"I accept the feud."

# Her Plan

"You will regret this. The Margrave has ways of persuading people. The first of his men will be arriving in a few days. More will follow. Then you will see what you have done!"

Those had been the herald's last words before he had departed. And, indeed, Ayla was already regretting her choice. Not for herself, no. Never for herself. She would rather have died than become the wife of a man like Falkenstein.

Most women would have jumped at the chance to marry the Margrave: by all accounts, he was young, quite handsome, and the best jouster between Cologne and Magdeburg. But he was also power-hungry, fanatical, and cruel, continuously extending his dominion by waging war on his neighbors.

As he now planned to wage war on her.

No, if it was only herself she had to think about, the herald's words wouldn't have given her a moment's concern. But she had to think of much more.

Slowly, Ayla walked to the window and thrust it open. From the main hall of Luntberg Castle, one had a wonderful view over the Lunt Valley: a peaceful dale, divided by a river spanned by a single picturesque bridge. The water glittered in the morning sunlight, and even up here, high up on the Luntberg, she thought she could hear the birds singing in the trees.

Soon, the sight from up here would not be so peaceful anymore. Soon, there would be soldiers marching up the valley, burning and looting as they went. All because she, in a moment of anger, had put her own needs over those of her people.

If she agreed to marry the Margrave von Falkenstein, however, maybe things would be different. Maybe she could...

Ayla felt something wet on her cheek. When she reached up and touched it, she realized that it was a tear.

"Milady?"

Quickly, she wiped the tears away with her sleeve and turned to see Burchard, her father's old steward,[9] who had been waiting at the door during her talk with the herald and had just now entered the hall. When he saw her expression, his own darkened, and he was in front of her with five quick steps. "Milady, you aren't honestly thinking of giving in to that blaggard?"

"But what will happen if I don't?" she said, and was angry at herself because her voice sounded like a sniffle. "The Margrave will wage war on us, and the people will have to suffer for my selfishness."

"Stop trying to be a martyr," Burchard growled, knitting his eyebrows as only Burchard could. He had very impressive bushy, black eyebrows, just perfect for knitting. "Use your head for just one minute, will you? If you think the people will suffer at the hands of the Margrave von Falkenstein because of a few weeks of feuding, how much more do you think they'll suffer from a few decades of his rule? Do you really want to subject your people to that? Are you such a coward, little girl?"

Ayla immediately stopped crying and turned red with anger—which was, as she later admitted to herself, probably exactly what the old steward had been aiming to achieve. It was a terrible affliction, having someone as a servant who had known you right from the cradle.

"I'm not a little girl," she snapped.

"Aren't you?" Burchard raised one of his eyebrows. When he raised his eyebrows, it was just as impressive as when he knit them. His wrinkled forehead and big, black beard complemented the effect. "At the moment, you seem to be acting like one. On the other hand, I saw a young woman in here a couple of minutes ago. A young woman who wasn't afraid to stand up for herself and her people to the impudent demands of a man twice her age with a reputation that would make a battle-hardened warrior blanch. Maybe she's still around."

Ayla took a deep breath, stood straight, and nodded. "She is."

"Good," Burchard said. "Because we desperately need her right now." He went to one knee. "What are Milady's orders?"

Thoughts racing, Ayla turned to the window again. She could not hope to stand a chance against the Margrave von Falkenstein on equal ground. The man was an experienced fighter, commander, and conqueror. Since her father had been taken ill, the soldiers in Luntberg Castle had been without a leader. Oh, Ayla could direct them to go to this village, protect that place from brigands, but lead them into battle? No.

What they needed was an experienced military leader who was still young and strong enough to be a good fighter. Someone who could make people believe they stood a fighting chance. Unfortunately, no such person was available. So Ayla would just have to think of something else.

She had to protect her people.

_All_ her people.

"Gather all the men who can ride," she said, still staring out of the window, down into the valley. "They don't have to be soldiers, they just have to know how to ride quickly. Also, gather all the wood you can find, and get me the carpenter from the village."

Burchard stood up, his old eyes gleaming. "You have a plan, Milady?"

"Would I be giving you orders if I hadn't?"

"No, Milady."

"Well, what are you waiting for? Get to work!"

Burchard nodded and headed for the door. He was just about to leave the hall when he turned and asked: "And what should I do with all these things and men, when I have them, Milady? Where shall I bring them?"

"You will bring them to the bridge," Ayla said, also heading for the door. "And as for what to do, we'll get to that once we've arrived. I'm coming with you. Tell them to saddle Eleanor."

*~*~**~*~*

Her horse was waiting for her when she reached the courtyard. Burchard might be annoying sometimes, but he was also good at his job. None of her servants bothered to help her into the saddle. They all had known her almost as long as the steward.

Ayla took a moment to stroke Eleanor's glossy brown coat.

"How have you been, my girl?" she asked in a soft voice.

Eleanor whinnied, leaning into Ayla's touch.

Ayla laughed softly and hugged the mare around the neck. "Yes, I love you too. But we haven't got time for that now."

The mare regarded her with large, intelligent, brown eyes, seeming to ask why exactly they didn't have time for a bit of tender loving care.

"We have to hurry. People are in danger, and we have to help." With a last pat on Eleanor's side, Ayla swung herself into the saddle. "Run my girl! Run!"

She gently pressed her boots into the horse's sides. Eleanor understood. She had never needed more than a small indication to know exactly what Ayla wanted. Her hoofs turning into a blur, she galloped through the first set of castle gates and along the steep path that snaked down the side of the mountain towards the larger outer gate with its iron portcullis.[10]

Luntberg Castle truly was an impressive bulwark. Built in Ayla's father's youth, when the land had still been free of those accursed robber knights and a series of rich harvests had filled her father's coffers with enough money for this project, it was a massive complex of impenetrable stone walls and high pinnacles. Two walls, the outer lower than the inner one, surrounded the central keep where Count Luntberg and his only daughter lived. Within the first courtyard, there were only the most essential buildings: the armory, the bakery, and a well that led down deep into the mountain, supplying the castle with fresh water.

The second courtyard held a few more buildings, but was essentially there for the purpose of keeping any enemy forces far away from the central keep. Count Thomas von Luntberg, in his youth a man of both foresight and vigor, had built this stronghold on the top of the mountain that bore his name to provide a safe haven for himself and his family if ever there came a time when the clouds of war gathered on the horizon.

Now, it seemed, the castle walls were all that stood between them and certain doom. Suddenly, they did not seem as impenetrable as Ayla had always thought them to be.

_No_ , she chastised herself, slowing down her horse as she approached the outer gate. _What about the village? Will I let the people there be driven out of their homes? I will not act like a coward and retreat into my stronghold, leaving them to face the consequences of my actions. I will meet our enemy head on!_

She greeted the man on watch at the gate, who bowed in return.

"When I've gone," she said, "close the gate behind me and let the portcullis down. The time for open doors has passed."

He swallowed. "Then is it true what they are saying, Milady? Has the Margrave declared a feud?"

"He has," was her only answer. Then she urged her horse out of the gate and down the mountain path towards the valley.

*~*~**~*~*

When she reached the bridge, Burchard had already assembled a great number of men and horses. Stacks of wood were piled against the stone bridge's railing.

Burchard greeted her with a bow. "Now are you going to tell me what all this wood is for?" he asked.

"Simple." Ayla pointed over the massive bridge spanning the river in two graceful arches to the eastern, lower parts of the valley. "Beyond the bridge, there are only scattered farms. Falkenstein's land lies to the east, beyond the river. The waters flow fast and strong; there are no other crossings for dozens of miles in either direction." She fixed her steward with an iron stare. "We are going to head the Margrave von Falkenstein off and erect our first line of defense here—at the bridge."

" _What_?" The old steward's eyes bulged. "You are intending to face him before he reaches the castle? Milady, when I urged you not to give up hope, I didn't mean for you to give up your strongest defensive position instead! This is madness!"

"Is it madness to want to stop the Margrave before he reaches the village?" she asked, looking around. All the men Burchard had gathered were watching intently. All men from the village.

"Your concern for your people is admirable," Burchard managed to say through clenched teeth. "But..."

"No buts, Burchard." She leaned closer and said under her breath so that no one else would hear: "I overheard my father and Sir Isenbard talking once about what happens when an army moves through country where only peaceful peasants live. They do something called "foraging", I believe. What does that word mean, Burchard?"

"Milady, I never..."

" _What does it mean, Burchard_?"

Burchard took a deep breath. "It means that the soldiers range out up to sixty miles on either side of their route, pillaging, plundering, and killing at will. Commanders don't provide food for their soldiers, so the soldiers have to get it themselves or starve. Soldiers don't like to starve."

"I thought so."

The steward hadn't given up yet, though. "That doesn't change the fact that your plan is insane! I must repeat that from a military standpoint..."

"Plus," she added, fixing him with her clear blue eyes again, "we simply do not have the supplies to feed everyone in the castle over a prolonged period of time. Cut off from any supply chains, there will be hunger. Disease will spread with so many people packed so closely together. Should our stand here fail, we can always retreat into Castle Luntberg or do something different. If we lock ourselves up in the castle, we will be out of options. The Margrave will surround us, and all we can do is pray for a miracle. Do you want to risk that?"

Burchard growled something indistinguishable.

"And besides," she said, "I kind of think I should at least _try_ to protect my people." She smiled at him. "Someone told me once that is what a liege lord is supposed to do."

"Sometimes I wish you weren't so much like your father," the old steward growled and gave her her favorite scowl.

Blushing with joy at the compliment, Ayla climbed on one of the stacks of wood and called out to the men who surrounded her: "You all heard me! You all know what to do. Now I need all those who can ride a horse and brought one with them to step forward!"

Several of the villagers and a few castle guards that Burchard had assembled stepped out of the crowd and bent their knees before her.

Ayla did a quick count. "One, two, three, four, five, six... hm, yes, enough. There are seven farms on the eastern bank of the river, aren't there?"

The peasants nodded eagerly.

"We're going to have to warn them," she declared. "It will be impossible to protect the eastern half of the valley. They are going to have to come here and live in the village for a time. Each of you," she pointed towards the riders, "will take one of the farms, warn their owners and help them bring whatever is most precious to them back here."

She started pointing at the men, one after another. "You will go to Walding's farm. You to Albrecht's, you to Menning's, you to Horst's, you to Otto's, you to Autgar's!"

One of the more intellectual castle guards who had apparently learned to count to seven, raised a hand. "But, Milady, we are only six. How shall we warn the last family? Shall one of us visit two farms?"

Ayla shook her head. "No. Falkenstein's forces are already on the move. Who knows, he might already have sentries posted throughout the eastern valley. With no border patrols, how are we to know? It's too dangerous for anybody to stay out there long. Besides, there's no need to. There are seven farms and," she called her horse with a whistle and swung herself back into the saddle, "there are seven riders."

"Milady!" If Burchard's expression had been furious before, it was nothing to what his face looked like now. "You aren't seriously considering..."

"I'm not considering anything," she cut him off, turning her horse to face the bridge. "I'm riding to Gelther's farm."

Burchard strode towards her, a determined look in his eyes. "But you said yourself how it was dangerous for anyone to be out there. We have no idea who or what may lie in wait!"

"Exactly—which is why I have no time to waste." She pressed her boots into Eleanor's sides. "Run girl! Run like the wind!"

Burchard jumped forward, but too late. Before he could manage to grab the reins of her horse, she was already speeding towards the bridge.

"Milady!" he shouted. "Come back!"

Ignoring him, she raced across the bridge in full gallop. Just before she reached the other end, she looked back, shouting at the stunned crowd: "And woe betide you if I don't see a solid barricade when I return!"

Then she turned east again.

Burchard remained standing at the bridge, looking after her, worry and anger etched into his wrinkled face. Only if you looked closely could you see the tiniest hint of a grudgingly proud smile, as his eyes followed the girl riding fast towards the enemy, blond hair flying behind her.

# Sir Reuben and the Doll

Sir Reuben sat on his horse counting money. It was one of his favorite activities—the counting of money, not the sitting on the back of a horse. Not that he didn't like to ride. There was just the fact that if you did it long enough, it gave you a sore ass, which never happened from counting money.

"...twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two."

He closed the purse contentedly and let it hang loosely from his hand. There was nothing better than the tinkling of gold, except of course the tinkling of stolen gold.

Reuben smiled to himself.

The merchant had really been an amusing fellow. He honestly believed he had a _right_ to keep the money he had earned. Well, maybe he had, in a strictly judicial sense. But Reuben's sword tickling his chubby cheeks had soon convinced him otherwise.

The knight was so lost in his happy reminiscences that he almost missed the hoof prints. Almost, for he was Sir Reuben Rachwild. While one eye always looked at what he wanted to see, the other kept a close look on what he needed to see. It was a talent that had kept him alive these past six years.

The hoof prints were not deep. They were also very far apart, which indicated speed. A light, nimble animal whose rider was in a great hurry. It had to be a Palfrey or a Jennet. Knights' chargers, carthorses, and plowhorses were big, heavy animals that didn't move fast and whose hoofs left deep impressions in the dirt. Palfreys and Jennets were the only kinds of light horses. He would have given the matter no further thought, had he not suddenly reached a fork in the forest path he was riding on.

The hoof prints led down to the left.

Sir Reuben stopped his horse.

He had seen what was down there earlier, when he had come riding into this valley: nothing but a few farms and a lot of forest. It was a dead end. What would any rider be doing down there? Especially someone who rode such a light, nimble, and surely expensive horse?

Maybe it was a priest visiting his parishioners?

But then Reuben noticed a strange mark left in the dirt, inside the hoof print. Swiftly, he jumped to the ground and examined the dirt more closely. As part of the hoof print, there was the tiny print of a symbol left in the mud: a crest such as only nobles used to mark their precious horses.

Hm... no knight on his charger, that much had already been established. So it had to be a noblewoman. And for some reason she was riding to these farms, and from what he knew of noblewomen, probably not to spend the night there. She would come back soon, eager to return to her warm chamber and comfortable bed...

A grin spread over Sir Reuben's face.

This day just kept getting better and better. If there was one thing he enjoyed more than robbing people, it was robbing stuck-up, stinking rich noble people!

*~*~**~*~*

To say that Gelther the peasant was surprised when his mistress[11] rode up to his house in full gallop would be something of an understatement. He actually dropped the ax he was holding, and it was only sheer luck that he didn't slice off his toes.

"L-lady Ayla," he stammered, rushing forward to bow. "We are honored by your presence. Please, let me help you down."

But Ayla had already slid off Eleanor's back. She saw Gelther's wife peering out of the farmhouse door and swallowed. This was not going to be easy.

"We don't have time for pleasantries, Gelther," she said, her tone much more gentle than her words. "I come bearing black tidings."

She explained how Falkenstein had declared a feud, omitting only the marriage option. She was not sure how they would take the news that she had essentially refused peace. Although she knew Burchard was right and a feud against Falkenstein was infinitely preferable to peace united with him, she could not totally silence the small voice in the back of her mind that told her she had not done her duty to her people.

As she told her story, she could see the reality slowly sinking in: with every word she spoke, the expression of the husband grew grimmer, that of the wife more horrified. Finally, she was at the end.

"And you came all this way to warn us, Milady?" Gelther's wife Margret whispered.

"Well, thank you," her husband said, still grim-faced. "We will find a spot in the forest to hide. Maybe Falkenstein's men will not find us. Margret, get the children. We're leaving."

"What? Now?"

"Of course now!"

"What shall I pack? Where are we going? How...?"

"Just pack some food," he interrupted her. "We're leaving immediately, Margret. And I don't know where we're going yet."

Ayla could see it in the farmer's eyes: he had seen death before—unlike his wife. With a short bow to her, he wanted to turn and head into the house, but Ayla stepped forward and grabbed his arm. He looked back at her and saw the determined expression on her face.

"I did not just come to warn you. I came to offer you sanctuary. My men are erecting a barrier at the dale bridge as we speak. There we will brave the threat, and you are welcome to seek refuge in the village for as long as the feud lasts."

The farmer inhaled sharply. "Do you mean that, Milady?"

"Of course. Now get your things together! Everything you can carry. I will take as much as I can back with me on Eleanor, so don't hesitate to pack everything that is precious to you."

The farmer made no answer. He just dropped to his knees and bowed his head for a second. Then he was on his feet again and inside the house within a second, while his wife rushed towards Ayla and showered her with thanks.

This caused Ayla to blush furiously. The effusions of the peasant's wife were a testament to the poor conception many noblemen and -women had of their duties as liege lord and protector. These two people felt themselves infinitely indebted to her for what should have been their natural right: protection for themselves and their family.

After some time, Margret was called away by her husband into the house. Ayla, feeling guilty for having to drive them out of their home, did not follow and intrude on their last private moments there. Instead, she wandered around to the back of the house, from which she could see the road leading down into the valley from the east, between the lush green vegetation.

The road was still empty—at the moment. But soon troops would be marching down that road, troops emblazoned with the escutcheon[12] of the Margrave von Falkenstein: a sinister falcon on argent, separated by a bend[13] from black cross.

Ayla could not suppress a bitter smile. Somehow it was very fitting that Margrave Falkenstein's falcon should be sinister. While, in theory, _sinister_ was only a heraldic term for the left side of a coat of arms, it served as fair warning to all those who saw it: Here comes a man to fear, the hawk said. He will grab you with his claws and never let go again.

"Milady?"

She turned and saw Margret holding a small pile of objects in her arms.

"These things we would like you to take, if it is not too much for you..."

"No, no," Ayla said hurriedly. "Come, I'll help you stow them away."

She led the woman to Eleanor and opened the saddlebags.

Margret had been very restrained: after everything was stowed away, only half of the available space was taken. Ayla told the woman to get more, and after a short argument, protesting that it would be too much for the lady's fine horse, Margret did as requested.

Ayla returned to the back of the house. When Falkenstein's troops approached, she did not want to be caught off guard.

However, instead of an enemy soldier, she found a small girl at the back of the house, her hands behind her back, staring up at the lady garbed in fine clothes with eyes as big as saucers. This had to be one of Gelther and Margret's daughters.

"Hello." Ayla bent down and smiled at the little girl. "What's your name?"

The girl gave a frightened squeak and ran to hide behind a pile of firewood that was stacked against the side of the house.

"You know, I'm not in the habit of eating children," Ayla said to the empty air. "It's not something I generally do."

No reaction.

"And even if I did," she added, "I do it only on Mondays and Saturdays. Today's Wednesday, so you can come out."

For a few more seconds, there was silence.

Then a big eye, topped by a tangle of black hair, peeked around the corner. "Really? Only on Mondays and Saturdays? Promise?"

"Promise," Ayla said with a solemn expression, holding up her hand as if she were swearing an oath. "On my honor as a maiden."

For some reason, that made the girl come out at once, which made Ayla wonder whether she looked that innocent that everybody believed her immediately when she said she was a virgin. That thought annoyed her, so she tried to push it away and bent down to the girl, who only reached up to her waist and couldn't be more than five years old.

"Are you really Lady Ayla from the castle?" the girl asked. She was a bit hard to understand because she kept biting down on a fold of the old dress she wore, probably still slightly afraid that this strange, colorful creature would eat her. "I've never seen a real Lady before."

"Well, you have now. But it's nothing too special. I see myself every day in the mirror, and I'm none too pleased about it."

"Why? You're very pretty."

"Um... thanks."

_I'm blushing_ , Ayla thought furiously. _A five-year-old just told me I'm pretty and I'm blushing. Can you get any more pathetic?_

"Have you come to take Mommy and Daddy and Andris and me away?" the girl accused.

God, this was becoming uncomfortable! And Ayla used to think she was good with children! When this little thing grew up, she should join the Inquisition.

"Err... yes. But it's not like you think..."

"I don't want to go away!"

"I wouldn't either, in your place," Ayla said with a sad smile. "But, you see, there is this evil man coming who might do evil things, so you have to go somewhere where it is safe."

The girl scowled. "Can't you just kick him in the butt? You've got knights, haven't you?"

"Well, yes, but he has more."

"That wouldn't matter if yours were better," the girl proclaimed, sagely. "You see, I know. I hear from the bards every time they come to the village. A really good knight is better than a dozen bad ones. He can rescue princesses and fight dragons and bump baddies on the head and all that stuff."

Ayla didn't know whether to cry or smile. "Well, unfortunately, I haven't got any knights like that."

"Didn't you train yours properly?"

"Yes, that must be it. Dear me, how careless of me. I'll be sure to get some good knights as soon as I can find some."

The little girl nodded, satisfied. The silly grown-up had obviously learned her lesson. But then she remembered her original subject. "I don't want to go away," she repeated.

Ayla wished she could just vanish into thin air.

"Sorry," she said. "You have to. But it's only for a time."

"Really? You promise?"

Ayla nodded, and then wondered whether this was a promise she would be able to keep. "I'm here to help you move," she said, trying desperately to change the subject. "I've got a horse; it can carry a lot of things away so they will be safe from the evil man."

"Aye. I heard you and Mummy and Daddy talking." The girl bit down on her dress again.

Ayla noticed for the first time that during their entire talk the girl had been holding one hand behind her back.

"What is it?" she asked, sensing that the girl was battling with whether or not to ask something.

"Y-you... you can bring stuff where it's safe?"

"Yes."

"C-could you take Agnes?"

"Who's Agnes?" Ayla wanted to know.

In response, the girl pulled her hand out from behind her back and showed Ayla what she had been holding: it was a little leather doll with a painted face that could be female, or male, or could just as well be canine.

"I don't want the evil man to get his hands on her," the girl explained. "He'll lock her up in a tower or something! Baddies do that kind of stuff to girls."

Ah. Female.

"Yes," Ayla said, thoughtfully. "They do." Then she smiled and took the doll. "Of course I'll take Agnes. I'll take really good care of her, I promise."

The little girl threw her arms around Ayla's waist and hugged her with astonishing force for such a scrawny little creature. "Thank you! Thank you so much! I hope you find a really good knight real quick!"

"Yes," Ayla laughed, stroking the little girl's hair. "I do too."

Under the girl's watchful eye, Ayla stored the doll named Agnes in the most comfortable part of the saddlebags.

After packing the last of their treasured goods and with many expressions of thanks from the grateful couple, Ayla said her goodbyes and started back up the same path she had come down. As she threw a last look back at the farmhouse and beyond, she thought she could see a metallic glint at the eastern edge of the valley, heading down the road.

But it was probably just a trick of the light.

Hopefully.

*~*~**~*~*

Sir Reuben heard her coming up the path long before it was necessary for him to move a muscle.

So he just sat there until he'd finished the rabbit he'd roasted over an open fire. It was really delicious, particularly with those spices he had pinched from the merchant. Every person he robbed should come with a supply of spices, he decided. It was really inconsiderate of them to only ever carry money. Oh well, as a poor robber knight you had to take what you could get.

Lightly, he sprang to his feet and put his helmet on. The shiny red armor he was wearing did not hinder his movements in the slightest. There were knights who couldn't even get onto their horse without help in full armor. But not Sir Reuben, oh no. He was a very different sort of knight.

Easily, he swung himself easily into the saddle. From the brush where he was hidden, he could hear the light hoofs of the horse, approaching fast. The rider seemed to be in a hurry. Just when the animal was about to pass him, he pressed his feet into the sides of his stallion and broke free from the brush to block the path of whomever was unfortunate enough to be his prey this day.

"Halt!" he shouted.

# The Red Robber Knight

He came out of nowhere. One moment Ayla had been riding along peacefully, the next, a huge black stallion was blocking her path, bearing a tall figure in shiny red armor.

"Halt!" the man shouted.

Ayla's horse seemed to understand him. She reared and almost threw Ayla off. It took her a few minutes to calm Eleanor down, during which time the stranger—a knight judging by his armor—just sat on his horse and did nothing.

"You idiot!" Ayla shouted, still trying to calm her horse. "What did you mean by startling my horse like that? Do you have a screw loose somewhere, and I don't mean in your armor? You could have killed me."

"Well, that would have simplified matters," the stranger said in an off-hand tone.

At this, Ayla's eyes went wide. She quickly scanned the armored man. He was wearing an impressive bulwark of an armor in blood-red and gleaming steel-gray, which, strangely enough, didn't bear any crest. His visor was down, so she couldn't see his face. Could he be one of the Margrave's men?

Carefully, she made her horse take a few steps back.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"Now that's a simple enough question: all that you have."

She stared at the stranger, uncomprehending. Then, slowly, understanding came. A lone knight. A lone _red_ knight. _The_ red knight that had plagued her lands for weeks now. This wasn't one of the Margrave's men. This was worse.

"You!" she hissed.

"Aye," the stranger said, jovially. "I."

"Get out of my way," Ayla said with more bravery than she felt. "Go now! Leave this land and I will forget that you ever came here."

"What a generous offer, Milady. But alas, I have to rob you first. Even poor knights like myself have to live."

"Heel  Abominable villain! You dare defy me?"

The man scratched the side of his helmet, as if giving the matter serious thought. "Hmm... yes, I think I do. Dare defy you, I mean. Now can we please get on to the robbery part? I've got places to be."

"But you're a knight," she protested. "How can you do this? How can you rob a woman?"

He shrugged. "Oh, it's quite easy, if you know how to. I'll let you in on my secret if you promise to keep it to yourself. You see, unlike men, women don't usually carry weapons. That makes them very easy to rob."

Ayla just continued to sit on her horse, fuming. "And what about duty? Honor?"

"Ah, yes, those things. I think I had them once. Lost them about five years ago, and can't say I miss them particularly. Bothersome, they are."

"But you're a knight," she repeated stubbornly.

"A _robber_ knight," he corrected. "I rob from the rich to give to myself. It's a very nice arrangement. So, if Milady could please hand me her purse now, we can both go our separate ways."

Ayla didn't say anything. Then, she suddenly ducked, pressed her heels into Eleanor's sides, and tried to make the mare run past the stranger's black stallion. Before she had moved three feet, however, a metallic ringing met her ears and a blade appeared at her neck, sweeping away the golden curtain of her hair.

"You are either very brave or very foolish," the red knight said in a pleasant voice. "Considering that you're female, I would presume the latter. Perhaps I didn't make myself clear, girl. Give me your money— _now!_ " The last word he spoke was as steely as his blade.

Ayla stared down the shiny length of sharpened metal. Then her gaze wandered to the robber knight. Through his visor slit she could see his dark eyes. There was no hint of hesitation in them. The sword the man was holding was a monster of a weapon, broader than Ayla's slender neck.

Slowly, very slowly, she reached for her pocket and grabbed the purse she always carried with her for emergencies. It held only a few silver Thalers[15]—hopefully enough to satisfy this ravenous monster!

"Here," she said, scathingly, throwing her purse at the man in the hope he would lower his sword to catch it and she could escape. "May you choke on it!"

He caught the purse easily with his left hand, without taking his eyes from her or moving the sword an inch away from her throat.

"Thank you," he said, with an effected little bow. Ayla would have liked to slap him for that, but didn't dare. "And now get off your horse."

" _What_?"

He sighed. "And we were doing so well. Girl, I'm robbing you. That means I take everything I want. Get off your horse."

She stiffened, and her gaze hardened.

"If you think you can intimidate me, you villain, you are very much mistaken! I may have given you my money, but the only way you'll get me off this horse is if you drag me down forcibly."

Proudly, she raised her chin, ignoring the blade at her throat. She had called his bluff. Ha! Now what could he do?

He sighed again. "Oh well, if you insist..."

*~*~**~*~*

Five minutes later, a very ruffled and even angrier Lady Ayla stood beside her horse on the ground.

"Lecher,"[16] she hissed up the knight who was busy checking his armor for fingernail scratches.

"Oh please!" She could almost hear his eyes rolling. "If you think I purposefully touched you _there_ , you are _very_ much mistaken. I only meant to grab you around the waist."

"Well, you aimed a bit too high for that!"

"My hand slipped."

"So you say! I bet you did that on purpose!"

The knight snorted and picked a few long golden hairs from his breastplate. "You wish!"

Ayla gaped up at him in wordless indignation. The fiend had the audacity to suggest that she wanted, that she... It wasn't even possible for her to finish the thought in her mind! She could feel the color rising to her cheeks and gritted her teeth.

Finished with ridding himself of the remnants of the struggle, the knight looked down at her and laughed. "You look funny when you blush, do you know that, girl?"

"I can't find anything amusing about the situation," she hissed between gritted teeth.

"Just wait." He bent forward and patted her on the head. If he hadn't been too far up for her to reach and hadn't been wearing his helmet, she would have punched him in the face, sword or no sword. "In ten years or so, you'll tell this story to your friends, and it'll make the long winter evenings seem that much shorter."

"If they've found and hanged you by then," she snapped.

"Ha!" He threw his head back and barked in laughter. "You'll have to wait a very long time to hear that news."

Ayla didn't want to, but she believed him. The way he handled that sword of his... He wouldn't be caught. Not if he could help it.

"Blackguard," she muttered.

"You know, I was robbing another woman only three days or so ago, and she was much nicer than you."

An angry tear ran down Ayla's face.

"Until this day," she said, her voice quivering, "I had always thought knights to be men of honor. Apparently, I was mistaken."

"Oh, I do have honor, Milady. A lot."

"But you just said..."

"Not the sort of honor you mean, Milady—the sort that compels you to be courteous and pious. That sort of honor is, as I said, bothersome. The sort of honor I like is the kind you take away from pretty maidens." Ayla wasn't sure, but she thought she saw him wink through the slit of his visor. "And I have heaps of that."

He grabbed the reins of Ayla's horse and raised his free hand in farewell. "Good day, Milady."

With an encouraging curse, he spurred his horse forward and galloped off. Soon, he was nothing more than a black and red streak, flashing between distant trees.

"I'll find you, do you hear me?" she shouted after him. "I'll find you, and when I do, I'll have you hanged from the highest tower of Luntberg Castle! That I swear by all the bones of my ancestors!"

All she heard in reply was the rustling of the wind in the trees and maybe, just maybe, the faint echo of a devilish laugh in the distance.

Ayla touched the place where the cold steel had pressed against the tender skin of her throat. The Margrave von Falkenstein was one thing—but at least he still kept to a distorted semblance of chivalry, tried to adhere to the rules and laws that governed life within the Holy Roman Empire.[17] This fiend on the other hand... He had unsettled her in an unexpected manner. He had made her angry. Very angry.

Anger wasn't going to get her anywhere, though. Scowling at the surrounding forest, she turned and began stomping back towards the castle. If she ever got her hands on that robber knight, she would make sure that he never forgot the name of Lady Ayla von Luntberg!

#  Clash of Arms[18]

Ha! Reuben was immensely pleased with himself. Leisurely, he flipped open his visor and took a deep breath of the sweet-smelling air. It was a really nice day. He smiled to himself as he rode along, towing the girl's horse behind him. What a robbery!

The girl had really been funny, especially the way she had stared accusingly up at him after he had plucked her off her horse, as if she expected him to ravish her at any moment. She had honestly thought he had let his hands wander on purpose!

He chuckled lightly. As if a thin little slip of a girl, or any woman for that matter, could interest him! Women only cost money, caused trouble, and possessed no more brains or bravery than a rabbit.

Though now that he thought about it... He had to admit that the girl hadn't seemed frightened when he had revealed his intentions, not even when he had held the sword to her throat. She seemed to have more guts than the usual specimen of her sex.

On the other hand, she seemed underdeveloped in the brain department. Not being afraid when a sword was pressed against her throat was a pretty good indication of that.

All the girl seemed to have felt was anger. Reuben had robbed enough people to appreciate the unique reaction. It got a bit tedious over the years when everybody just handed you their money without protest. The girl had been fun. Her accusing expression had almost made him want to slap her on the rear, just to see if she would try to stab or strangle him.

He smiled to himself again, for no particular reason. Yes, that would have been amusing. And she had actually had the gall to threaten him with death! As if she would ever be in a position to have _his_ life in _her_ hands.

At a place where the path widened a little bit, he stopped and went to the girl's horse. This was always the part of being a robber knight he enjoyed the most: reaping his rewards. Appreciatively, he felt the bulging saddlebags and reached for the clasp.

"So," he muttered to himself, "let's see what riches or delicacies this fine lady has stored in her saddlebags."

He opened the first saddlebag, reached inside, and felt something heavy and lumpy. Ah, this was sure to be a purse, full of gold! He pulled it out and blinked at the small sack of corn he was holding in his hand.

Huh?

Was everything all right with his eyes?

Quickly, he reached into the saddlebag again and unearthed the following, in this order:

A second sack of corn

One hammer

Two little barrels filled with pickles

One rusted old horseshoe

Three dirty wooden bowls

One ugly little leather doll.

Sir Reuben stared at the leather doll for some time, although it was no very pleasing sight. She (or he, or it, it was hard to tell) had a painted face that looked like she was being pinched in the butt and didn't like it.

What kind of girl would be riding around the woods with _this_ in her saddlebags? Reuben was reconsidering his assessment of the wench. Maybe he should consider himself fortunate to have got away from her with his life. He had heard that witches[19] used dolls in their evil ceremonies. And who but a witch or a madwoman would be riding through the forest with such a load? Who knew what she was capable of?

Best to get as far away from her as possible, as fast as possible. Closing his visor, he sprang back into the saddle and brought his horse to a brisk trot that the animal could keep up over long distances.

His thoughts kept drifting back to the girl. Was she after him now, bent on exacting revenge? Well, if she was, he would face her as bravely as he had faced anything in the past. Mad or not mad, witch or no witch, he was not someone to be beaten by a girl!

Reuben's musings were interrupted when he heard noises. However, they didn't come from behind, they came from further up the path. And they weren't the kind of noises he expected, either. He heard the sound of marching feet.

He didn't slow down or try to hide, though. He never slowed down for _anybody_. Ever.

The noise kept getting louder and louder. After a few minutes, Reuben entered a large, circular clearing. A lesser man might have waited, might have stayed on the easily defensible forest path. But he was not one to be deterred from his path by anything. Besides, why should those men be bothered by him? The clearing would only make it easier to pass them.

A contingent of armed men came into view at the other end of the clearing and spread out. As soon as they spotted Reuben, the commander gave a sign to his men. They stopped and gripped their spears and guisarmes[20] more tightly at the sight of an approaching knight. Yet as soon as they saw that he was alone, they relaxed again.

Behind his visor, a derisive smile the men could not see flitted across Sir Reuben Rachwild's face. If they had known him, they would not have relaxed.

"Halt!" the commander shouted. "Halt in the name of the Margrave Markus von Falkenstein."

Reuben opened his visor again to have a better view of the surroundings. Quickly, his practiced eye scanned the soldiers. Forty, perhaps fifty men. Mercenaries probably. Well-armed and, to judge from the scars, battle-hardened. Their weapons were not new, but kept sharp for immediate use. They were professionals.

This was beginning to look like fun. The day was just getting better and better.

"And tell me," Reuben demanded, slowing down his horse but not stopping it, "why should I pay heed to any Margrave von Falkenstein?"

The commander drew his sword. "As you well know," he growled, "Margrave von Falkenstein has declared a feud on your mistress, Lady Ayla. So if you do not want me to cut you open like a freshly-caught fish, dismount and surrender!"

"I don't know any Lady Ayla." Reuben's voice was deadly calm, his face impassive. He did not stop his horse. "I am just passing through."

Surprise flitted across the commander's face. "You do not serve Lady Ayla, the mistress of these lands?"

"No."

"That may be so," the commander granted, "but since I have only your word for it, I must treat you as I would any of Lady Ayla's men."

"Meaning?" Reuben demanded, and there was a note of steel in his voice now.

"Meaning I must ask you to surrender your horses, money, armor, and weapons to me, and you will have to come along with me to the Margrave's camp."

Reuben's answer came clearly and calmly.

"No."

"You do not have any choice here," the commander persisted. "I must insist."

With one hand, Reuben reached for his sword, with the other for his shield. "Then I will resist. I will not surrender to lowly mercenaries such as you. Not while I still have a sword-arm attached to my body!"

"Don't be a fool," the commander growled. "I've got four dozen men! It will be your death."

"Maybe." Reuben shrugged and slammed down his visor. "But you see, the thing is: I do not fear death!"

*~*~**~*~*

Eleanor was gone.

The thought would have moved Ayla to tears. Would have—if she hadn't been fuming with anger. She had been robbed! Robbed on her own lands!

Eleanor, her dear friend. Her childhood companion. The sweet thing she had watched growing up from a filly to a beautiful mare.

And the impudence of the man! He had dared to lay his filthy hands on her! And now she was alone in the forest, on foot, with no help anywhere in sight, and Falkenstein's men could be lurking behind the next bend in the path, for all she knew. She forced herself not to let her thoughts drift in that direction. It would take her to the feeling that lay behind her anger, a feeling that would make her feet unsteady and fill her head with horrible images.

It took Ayla less time to reach help than she had expected. After only ten minutes or so, she heard the sound of pine-needles being crushed under heavy boots approaching. Peeking around a tree, she saw Burchard, followed by a few castle guards, marching up the forest path towards her.

Relief flooded through her at seeing the wrinkled face of the old steward. He was marching hurriedly, his face set like that of a grumpy old bulldog determined not to give up the scent. They had come after her!

She jumped out from between the trees and ran toward them. "Burchard! God, am I happy to see you!"

She threw her arms around him and hugged him fiercely. She didn't want to admit it to herself, but wandering through the forest alone had been scary—scarier than being robbed, in fact. While she was facing an enemy, she knew what to do. She knew that she could not back down. But alone, fearing that Falkenstein's soldiers might appear at any moment, and without a horse or other means to escape them, she had felt terribly vulnerable. It was comforting to have her arms around the solid bulk of her father's old friend.

Burchard gripped her shoulders and pushed her away. "Just a minute! What is this? Why are you walking? Where is your horse? _And why did you hug me_?"

"I'm walking because I don't have my horse. And I don't have it because it was stolen by some crimson-clad fiend who calls himself a knight," she said, choosing to ignore the last question.

"Stolen? By a robber knight?" The usual scowl on his face deepened. "Did he threaten you? Did he hurt you, Milady? I..."

"No," she hurriedly assured him. "I'm perfectly fine. He just took my money and my horse, that's all."

Not that that hadn't been enough. Just the thought of having lost Eleanor made her want to strangle the villain!

"Are you sure?" Burchard asked, disbelieving. "And the knight was wearing red?"

"Red like the devil," she confirmed. "Why do you ask? Do you know something I don't?"

He shook his head, but his eyes remained troubled.

"You know who this red knight might be, don't you?" Ayla asked with an eagerness that surprised herself.

Burchard scrutinized her closely, then said: "I have an idea. But if I'm right, it's all the more important to get out of the forest and back over the river as quickly as possible."

Ayla didn't much like the sound of that. Now that she had reinforcements, her first instinct was to go after the villainous knight and retrieve what was rightfully hers.

But to do so would have been foolish: he had horses, they didn't. And even if they managed to catch up to him, they were on a narrow forest path, wide enough for one man to defend alone, and he was standing on higher ground. Yes, he probably was no great fighter, cowardly thief that he was, but was she willing to risk her men's lives on that chance?

Taking a deep breath, she said: "Yes, Burchard, you're right. Let's h—"

The ring of metal on metal interrupted her. Cocking her head, she turned to face up the path that led out of the valley again.

"What was that?" she asked.

"I didn't hear anything, Milady."

"That's because you've got hair growing in your ears, Burchard. Psst! Be quiet!"

Everybody went still, and in the ensuing silence, they could hear the clash of metal upon metal in the distance, intensifying—yet not because it drew nearer, but because the blows became ever mightier and faster.

"Come on!" Ayla gestured up the path and had already started on her way back when Burchard grabbed her by the arm.

"Have you gone insane?" he exclaimed. "That's too dangerous!"

"I know it's too dangerous! That's why we're going to help whoever is fighting there."

"I meant too dangerous for you!"

"Well, I didn't."

Burchard rolled his eyes. "Why doesn't that surprise me? Milady, how do you even know that one side of the fight deserves help?"

"Because," she said with simple logic, "the other side is sure to be Falkenstein's men. Don't you hear it? That's more than two weapons up there. Who but him would dare to bring a battalion of soldiers onto my land?"

Burchard's grip only hardened. "And the prospect of walking up to a battalion of Falkenstein's soldiers doesn't worry you?" he demanded.

"Not really, no," she said, grinning grimly. "I will have my brave guards with me."

"And what makes you think," the steward growled, "that your brave guards won't just drag you back to the castle before allowing this foolishness?"

"Well," she said, and nimbly slipped out of his grasp, "they'd have to catch me first." Then she turned and ran back up the forest path. She had to help the poor souls that were fighting for their lives.

"After her!" Burchard yelled.

# Listening In

The sounds of battle slowly subsided as Ayla hurried towards their origin. One blade after another went silent and spoke no more. She knew why: its wielder had met with an untimely end, had met with a faster blade. One side seemed to be winning the combat. She hoped against hope that it was not Falkenstein.

With ruffled skirts, Ayla ran from tree to tree, always keeping behind cover and watching the path before her closely. Despite what Burchard might think, she was not an irresponsible girl taking every opportunity to stick her nose into trouble. She was a responsible woman taking every opportunity to stick her nose into trouble—if by so doing she could help others. Whoever was fighting up there was fighting against the Margrave Markus von Falkenstein, fighting valiantly by the sound of it. That was more than enough reason for her to risk her neck.

As she neared the place of the fight, she slipped from the path into the trees. Ayla knew this forest well; as a little girl she had gone riding out here often. She recognized the place in front of her. Not twenty yards away was a clearing where pilgrims and other travelers often stopped on their way to the castle. Now, it seemed, the clearing was much less peaceful.

The sound of the furious blows intensified as Ayla crept nearer. And then, suddenly, there were the cries of men:

"That's the devil! Run! He's not human!"

And another voice, trying to be commanding, but quivering with fear: "Stand and fight, you cowards! Fight or the Margrave will have your heads!"

Ayla tried to catch a glimpse of what was going on, but the foliage was too dense; it blocked her view.

And then, a second later, she was almost glad for it. From the center of the clearing came a truly frightening sound, an animalistic growl that seemed to reverberate around the entire forest and make even the trees shudder with fear. A hailstorm of blows followed, and a cacophony of cries of human pain.

"Stand and fight, or the Margrave..."

"Dammit, I don't care about the Margrave! Run!"

"Run for your lives!"

"Stand and fight, I say! You have sworn an oaaaarrr...!"

The cry ceased abruptly.

"Captain! Captain!"

But the captain did not answer.

Instead, another sound reverberated around the clearing, a sound even more frightening than the growl: a devilish laughter, seeming to glory in the violence and gore.

"Damn you! I'll kill you for that, I'll kill y—"

But apparently, this man was not any more successful than his commander and dozens of other men had been. The unknown force that had growled and laughed like the devil cut him short in mid-sentence.

"He's not human, I tell you! Run!"

"Run!"

The cry was picked up by many a fearful man. Then, suddenly, another terrified voice shouted:

"Conrad! Get him from behind! The others, get out of the way, now!"

There was a _zitt_ -noise, a thump, and then, suddenly, there was silence.

Utter silence.

Ayla was just about to peek around a tree and risk a glance into the clearing, when a man's hand grabbed her from behind. A scream raced up her throat, but before it could escape her mouth, a gloved hand clamped down over her lips.

"Are you totally insane?" Burchard hissed into her ear and dragged her back. "-Milady?" he added as a polite afterthought.

She shook her head.

"Well, you give a pretty damn good impression! Look!"

Slowly, he removed the hand from her mouth and pointed to a gap up between the branches of two tall trees, where the black and silver banner of the Margrave was visible.

"I had to come and see whether we could help," she hissed back.

"Of course you had! I almost wish I let you go out there just so I could have watched what you would have tried!"

"Really?"

"No, of course not," the steward growled. "Now let's get back before they notice us."

"No. We're not leaving until we have made sure that we can't help any of these unfortunate souls that have fallen prey to the Margrave."

"We are already too late. Whoever they were, they have lost the fight. May God have mercy on them."

"And what if there are wounded?" she asked in a whisper. "We can't leave yet."

"Milady..."

"Don't argue with me, Burchard. It'll be safer to leave once they've gone anyway. While they're here, they could hear us moving through the underbrush."

"Or they could hear us arguing!"

"Exactly. So you'd better give in," Ayla said with a sweet smile.

Burchard scowled at her. "I hate it when you're right."

Together, they cowered in the dense foliage of the forest and listened to Falkenstein's men shout and argue.

"We have to bring the others back to camp!"

"Are you mad?" a haughty voice sneered in response. "What if there are others like him lurking around? Do you truly want to chance another such encounter?"

"We can't just leave them here!"

"Look around you, man! They are dead! All dead! Not one of the blows that devil struck missed its mark! Let's leave them and get back to the camp. But before we go, you'll get me his things. Everything."

"What? I'm not going within twenty feet of that monster!"

"He's dead."

"He's possessed  Didn't you see what we did to him? And he didn't cry out once! Not once, Conrad!"

Ayla smiled grimly. Whoever had been fighting Falkenstein's men, they seemed to have held their own.

"Yes, he might rise from the dead and kill you," the man called Conrad said in his deadly sweet voice. "But, on the other hand, if you don't do as you are told, I will put an arrow through that empty head of yours! What do you think the Margrave will have to say when we tell him we lost an entire battalion of men to... that! And without any proof? Now go!"

"Yessir! As you say, Sir!"

Behind the trees and bushes that hid them from sight, Ayla leaned closer to Burchard and whispered: "Did you understand the meaning of any of that?"

He shook his head, frowning—even more than usual.

"Get on with it!" Ayla heard Conrad's voice. "Cut the arrows off, if you need to, but hurry!"

"No, it's all right. I can get it off easily enough; the arrows went in between two armor plates. Excellent shooting, Sir."

"I want results, not flattery. Get on with it, I say!"

"Yessir!"

There was movement in the clearing. To judge from the sound, someone was dragging around something heavy. Then they heard the clinking of metal.

"Can you make out a coat of arms?" the man called Conrad asked.

"No, Sir. Everything is matted with blood."

"Give it to me." A short pause. "Hm... something red, definitely." Conrad laughed. His laugh was as unpleasant as his voice. "Not that that's saying much. Everything is red with blood here. All right, let's get out here before another one of these maniacs comes along."

"Yessir."

The sound of heavy boots retreated from the clearing. As best as Ayla could tell, they were moving eastwards. While their trampling and the clinking of armor could still be heard, she and Burchard said nothing, didn't move a muscle. Still and silent, they sat among the trees and waited for their enemies to disappear.

A squirrel came running out of the direction of the clearing. It looked at Ayla with large, intelligent eyes and then ran off into the foliage. On the forest floor, it left behind small, muddy paw prints.

No, she realized—those weren't muddy paw prints. She squinted. The color was wrong. It was too bright, glossy... red. Slowly, very slowly she reached out and touched the bloody spot where the squirrel's foot had touched the ground.

A shudder ran down her back.

"Come," she said to Burchard and got up.

"Milady," he protested, "shouldn't we just return to the castle? It's dangerous for you out here."

"Come with me," she repeated.

Pushing aside the branches of a yew tree, she stepped into the clearing, followed by her loyal though reluctant steward.

# A Stranger among the Carrion

A terrible and strange sight met their eyes. Dozens of dead bodies littered the ground: bloody, mangled, their faces contorted into masks of terror frozen in death. What was strange, however, was not the enormity of the carnage, but the fact that of all the men lying in the clearing, only one did not bear the crest of the Falkensteins: a black-haired man in bloody linen clothes, lying on his face, with three arrows jutting out of his back. He lay at the center of a circle of enemy soldiers surrounding him.

Ayla tried to swallow but could not. Her eyes wandered over the dozens of Falkenstein's soldiers that lay slain. A grizzly sight, yes, but also one that gave her a strange, fierce kind of hope.

_It can be done!_ The thought shot through her head. _He is not invincible!_

"Where... where are all the men who did this?" she asked out loud. She tried to keep her voice steady, yet didn't quite manage it. Somehow, she felt queasy. What was wrong with her? Had she eaten something bad this morning? It couldn't be because of this, could it? These were her enemies!

She tried to avert her eyes from the slaughter but could not. "It had to have been a considerable force. Where could they have gone?"

"They probably fled," Burchard grunted.

Ayla threw him a sideways glance and was surprised to see that his face had turned pale. Did she, too, look like that?

"Except for this poor fellow." The steward pointed towards the fallen man with the arrows in his back.

The fallen man whose fingers twitched just at that moment.

Ayla gasped and started to run forward, jumping over dead bodies and bloody blades.

"Milady!" she heard Burchard shout behind her. Ignoring him, she rushed to the man on the ground and knelt by his side.

"Milady, what is it?" demanded the old steward, appearing beside her.

"He moved, Burchard! I swear! I think he isn't dead. Help me turn him over."

"Milady, I don't think..."

"Help me turn him over!"

Sighing, Burchard did as she asked. Together, they gripped the man's shoulder and pulled. Ayla could feel his hard muscles under her slender fingers. However, her attention was more focused on another thing her fingers felt: copious amounts of half-dried blood. How could the man still be alive? It was unbelievable. Aided by Burchard, she pulled and pulled. The man was heavier than he looked.

"We aren't going to manage it, Milady," Burchard said. "Maybe the arrows pinned him to the ground or something." He raised his arm and wiped the sweat from his face.

Ayla tugged once more—and suddenly, the man rolled onto his side, his head lolling from left to right. She gasped.

"What is it?" In a second, Burchard's arm was away from his face and he was staring down at the stranger. Then he turned to Ayla, a frown on his face. "What's the matter? He looks perfectly normal. He hasn't even got a scratch on his face."

True, Ayla had to admit. Only the reason for her surprise had nothing whatsoever to do with the young stranger lying before her having some grizzly injury across his face. She was not, however, about to divulge the true reason for her surprised gasp to Burchard—namely that with his long midnight-black hair, prominent chin, and high cheekbones, the young man was without doubt the most handsome man she had ever seen in her life. No, she definitely didn't feel like explaining this to Burchard.

Deprecatingly, she waved a hand, unable to form a coherent sentence.

The only thing that could be said to mar the young man's truly perfect face was a curved scar, like a scimitar,[22] on the left side of his forehead. However, this only served to give him a dangerous look which increased the allure of his features.

With some difficulty, Ayla looked away from the stranger's face and pressed her ear against his chest.

_Try to ignore that it is sticky with blood_ , she told herself. _Get a grip! You have a head on your shoulders, so use it!_

"He's still breathing," she announced with obvious relief in her voice. "He is alive, but barely." Straightening, she demanded: "We must get him to the castle, right now."

"What, just the two of us?" Burchard raised a bushy eyebrow. "Forgive me, Milady, but how are we going to accomplish that? The fellow is pretty big."

It was true. The young man was tall, probably six foot seven inches.

Ayla smiled. "Ah, but we are not alone." Turning to the brush, she called: "Come out! I know you're hiding out there somewhere! We need you out here."

A few moments elapsed. Nothing happened.

"The Margrave's men are long gone, by the way," she added.

With rather sheepish expressions on their faces, six castle guards emerged from the underbrush.

"We're going to make a stretcher. You and you," she ordered, pointing to two of them, "go find two solid and straight branches for me in the forest."

They ran off hurriedly, obviously eager to prove their loyalty, as long as it involved hacking at trees rather than well-trained soldiers. Ayla supposed she couldn't blame them. There hadn't been a conflict in this part of the Empire for decades. Her father's guards were more accustomed to taking a nap beside the gate than to fighting. Still, that didn't mean she would condone such lax behavior in the future.

Quickly, she went searching among the fallen enemy soldiers for a piece of cloth that would suit her purpose. All she found in the end was a banner bearing the escutcheon of the house of Falkenstein. Smiling at the irony, she returned with it to the injured young man, just as the two soldiers approached with one suitable branch each.

"Tie this banner around each of the branches," she ordered. "Then you lift him on the litter[23] and be careful to put him on his side so the arrows won't be twisted or broken. Each of you takes one end of the litter. The others scout ahead to make sure there aren't any surprises waiting for us on the way back to the castle. Report back to me immediately if you see something out of the ordinary."

The men obeyed her without question. Once the wounded stranger was lying on the makeshift litter, they lifted him up and made their way quickly and quietly back up the path towards the bridge, and away from the terrible field of death behind them.

Ayla stayed by the young man's side, not knowing entirely why. Just before they went around a bend in the path and the bloody clearing went out of sight, Ayla looked back with an odd kind of longing.

Burchard, who marched right beside her like a protective bear father beside his cub, noticed her look back and asked her what was wrong.

"I just wish I knew who managed to fell that many of the Margrave's men."

"Do you?"

"Of course! Such people would be valuable allies indeed in our current predicament. Don't you?"

Burchard grunted. "Not particularly, no."

"Why not?" she asked.

"Because, as strange as it may sound, there are more powerful, evil, and dangerous things walking this land than the Margrave von Falkenstein. Didn't you see what was done to the men back there?"

Ayla took a long, steadying breath so that she could answer in a more or less calm voice: "Not in any great detail, no. I must confess that I didn't look that closely."

Burchard's face grew even grimmer than usual, if that was possible. "I'm glad you didn't. They were... mutilated. In a very vicious, but precise and deadly way. Some were stabbed through the heart, others had their sword-arms or heads missing."

Ayla smiled wryly. "Is that so unusual in war?"

Burchard remained deadly serious. "Not technically, no. But only when none of the warriors are wearing heavy armor. A blow so powerful as to pierce chain mail,[24] sever the bone and flesh behind it and the second layer of chain mail at the back of the body..." The old steward shuddered. "It is not... usual."

"What exactly do you mean by that?"

"It is not... human."

Ayla frowned. "Burchard, I may not have looked closely, but I looked closely enough. The wounds on the soldiers back in the clearing—those were sword wounds. Wild animals don't wield swords, only humans do."

"Yes, I know."

"And you say no man could have inflicted those wounds?"

Burchard snorted. "Well, he could have. If he was half-crazy and didn't mind that his arm would be burning with pain like the very pits of hell after the second stroke. How can I explain it...? It would be like hitting a stone wall with your bare hand. You could do it again, and again, and again—if you didn't mind beating your own hand into a bloody pulp in the process."

Ayla gulped.

"So you see, anybody who did this," Burchard said, jamming his thumb over his shoulder, "would have to have been as wild with bloodlust as one of the Berserkers[25] of the Norsemen—more unholy beast than man. And yet, the blows were not wild and random, as many blows struck in the rage of battle, but placed as precisely and coldly as the strokes of a butcher's knife dismembering a carcass that was already dead and helpless before him. So no, Lady Ayla. Whoever did this—I would not want them as an ally."

The Lady of Luntberg Castle nodded slowly. "I understand. I'm glad that he at least," she pointed to the young man on the stretcher, "escaped the worst."

"Aye," Burchard said with another frown. "I'd like to know why both sides spared him, though."

"Spared him? He has three arrows in his back!"

"He's still breathing, isn't he?"

Ayla threw him a look. "You have an odd conception of mercy. Remind me never to get on your bad side."

"I'll do that."

"And now go and check on the guards that are scouting."

"Why?"

"Because I wasn't exactly impressed with their performance earlier. And because I'm the Lady of the castle and you have to do what I say."

Burchard's suspicious gaze wandered between her and the young man on the stretcher. "I don't know. I don't like leaving you alone with that fellow. We know nothing about him, after all."

Ayla rolled her eyes. "We know that he's in pretty bad shape. My virtue is in no immediate danger. Now go, before I have to start yelling at you."

"Yes, Milady!"

Ayla waited till Burchard was out of sight, then moved slightly closer to the young man on the stretcher and allowed herself a long look at his face. Just checking, she told herself, just checking if he was worse. That was all. Carefully, she reached out and brushed a lock of his midnight-black hair out of his face. The scar on his forehead shone prominently, glinting with sweat. He looked so innocent and vulnerable, lying there. Ayla wondered what his name was. She also wondered what color his eyes were. They were surely beautiful.

And then, suddenly, as if her wish had been heard, his eyelids fluttered open and a pair of intense gray eyes stared up at her. She held her breath. She couldn't have imagined that he could exude even more attraction—but that was before she had seen his eyes. They were brilliant, fiery, and of a gray as strong as the storm-clouds of an approaching autumn gale.

The young man raised his head a bit and his lips moved. Ayla realized that he was trying to speak. Eager to hear what he wanted to say to her, she bent closer.

The voice coming out of the young man's mouth was raspy. In a barely audible whisper, he said: "Oh God! Not you again!"

Then his eyes closed, and his head slumped back onto the stretcher.

*~*~**~*~*

The man in Italian armor was standing in his tent, holding up a map of Luntberg, when one of his subordinates hurried in and fell to one knee.

"Rise," the man said, lazily.

The soldier did as commanded.

"I suppose you've come to tell me that the patrol is back?"

The soldier swallowed. "Not... as such, Sir."

"Really?"

The man looked up from his map for the first time, a thin black eyebrow raised. "What then?"

"Only Conrad and a few others have returned, Sir."

"And the rest?"

Again, the soldier swallowed. Now came the hardest part. "Dead, Sir."

The eyebrow came down again. "You don't say."

A shiver ran down the soldier's back. He had expected anger, screams, even a beating. He had forgotten who he was talking to. Anger he could have accepted, but this... It was obvious that the man didn't care how many of his men died, as long as there were still enough left over to accomplish the task at hand. And that, to a soldier, was much more frightening than anger.

"Conrad would like to speak to you, Sir. To give his report."

"That can wait." The commander waved his soldier off. "I am planning our approach. Tell him to come to me at sundown."

"Yes, Sir. Conrad also said to give you this." The soldier gave a sign, and two others who had apparently been waiting right outside the tent came in, carrying a heavy burden in flaming red. "A gift for you. They procured it whilst scouting ahead."

"My, my."

Now the commander put his map aside. For the first time, he looked interested. "What a fine piece of armor. And an interesting coloring."

"Yes, Sir."

A long finger stroked a bloodstain on the metal. "Procured with difficulty, I see?"

"You will have to ask Conrad that, Sir."

"Yes, of course. It really is of no importance."

"A horse comes with the armor, Sir."

"Of similar quality?"

"Better, I'd say, Sir, if that's possible."

"Excellent! Have the armor brought to the smith for a thorough check and repairs, will you? And then have it packed on my new horse."

"Yessir!"

# The Living Nightmare

Reuben woke up in a bed that wasn't his, in a stone room he didn't recognize. That in itself wouldn't have been too strange: he often woke up in unfamiliar rooms, when he had gotten drunk the night before and the proprietor of the inn had had to carry him up the stairs. The fact that Reuben was missing his sword, tunic, and pants however, and that there seemed to be three arrows sticking out of his back, was slightly more disturbing.

Quickly, Reuben reached behind and checked where exactly the arrows had pierced his skin—on the right side, far away from his spine, his lungs, and his heart, so the injury was not life threatening. He wondered why he had passed out in the first place. He must have been thrown forward by the arrows and knocked his head on something. Of course, he couldn't remember feeling any pain in his head, but that was the only logical conclusion.

How embarrassing!

Because of this stupidity he now was here, probably the prisoner of the very men who earlier this day had had the audacity to demand his surrender. He, a prisoner? Bah! His face contorted in a grim smile. _We'll see about that._

Nimbly, he jumped to his feet. The arrows in his back twisted a bit from the motion. It was a curious feeling.

In a flash, he examined his surroundings. He was in a friendly, warm-looking room with a carpet on the floor and drapes displaying a cheery pattern of flowers in front of the narrow windows. Quickly, he took a few steps along the wall to measure the space. The room was about fifteen feet wide and twenty-three feet long. Its furniture looked well-made, and consisted of a comfortable bed, a chest, a wardrobe built into the wall, two chairs, and a table with a chess board on top. Beside the chess board stood a little vase, in which he could see a few daisies. Reuben frowned. This didn't look much like a prison cell.

He went to the door and pushed. It swung open, easily. A further indication that his original theory had not been correct. Reuben knew from long experience that prisons tended not to have unlocked doors.

He pulled the door shut again so that nobody passing outside would notice he had awoken and went to the window. The movement twisted the arrows in his back again, and he felt trickles of blood streaming from his wounds, but he paid them no heed. There were more important things to think about right now.

Having reached the window, he measured the narrow gap in the stone wall with a practiced eye. Too narrow for him to climb through—damn! Well, at least he could have a look where he was. Maybe that would give him a hint as to who was holding him and why they had brought him here.

Reuben had a very bad feeling about his current situation. If people took good care of you, that usually meant they wanted you to live so that they could have the pleasure of torturing or enslaving you later. Personally, he wasn't up for either of those options.

His plan was simple: to get out of this place and far away as quickly as possible. He had no clue where he was—the last thing he remembered was fighting the men in the clearing, and after that, there were only the strange and terrifying visions of unconsciousness. The dungeons... Yes, he remembered dreaming of the dungeons while he was unconscious, and of the aghast faces of his interrogators, and the darkness, and the girl...

Strange.

He frowned. Why had the girl played any role in his dreams? The girl he had robbed only today? Normally, only his torturous days in the dungeon plagued him. Nevertheless, he could have sworn that for a minute he saw her face floating above his. Why was that? Well, she had been a pain in the ass. Maybe, he thought with a wry smile, enough of one to be lumped in with his other nightmares.

Shaking his head, he berated himself. These useless meanderings got him nowhere. The girl was long gone and he was awake now. His only aim was to get out of this place, quickly, and if possible, alive.

Reuben took the last step to the window and his eyes widened. Before him lay the most beautiful view he had ever seen. A narrow, fast-flowing river, winding its path between gentle wooded slopes. They formed a valley, the same valley he had ridden through earlier. The house he was in had to stand on a tall hill, maybe a mountain even, right in the middle of the valley.

Reuben's eyes traveled downwards and saw one, no, two great walls surrounding the house, with towers here and there, atop which fluttered banners showing a white flower on a blue background. There was also a gatehouse with a portcullis with guards on duty. Servants were hurrying about and men in armor were gathering in the courtyard in front of the house.

No, not "house."

Reuben raised his hand and slowly caressed the thick stone wall beside the window. Not a house—a castle. _The_ castle. Reuben's heartbeat quickened. The castle where the lord of these lands lived. The man who was responsible for exacting justice on people like thieves, murderers, and, oh yes, robber knights.

He had to get out of here or he was a dead man.

*~*~**~*~*

Ayla was collecting all she needed from the kitchen and the store room. Both Burchard and her maid, Dilli, insisted on following her around, trying to dissuade her all the while.

"Milady, it is simply not proper," Burchard repeated his main argument for the twenty-seventh time.

"Would it be more proper for me to let him die?" she asked, taking a few medicinal plants from the cupboard and stuffing them into her bag.

"No, but..."

"And do you know anyone else with any medical experience around here but me?"

"Medical experience? You watched an old nun mixing brews while you were tutored at the convent! That's no medical experience."

"It's better than what you have. Or did you, by any chance, spend three years of your youth at a convent, disguised as a girl?"

Burchard turned fiery red and growled: "No!"

Despite her distress, Ayla allowed herself a small smile. "Good. I would have been shocked by your morality, otherwise. Honestly, Burchard, Sister Priscilla taught me one or two things. I have to try and help him. No one else can."

"It's still not proper," Burchard murmured. "To treat his wounds you will have to see him without his... It's not proper."

Beside him, Dilli, too shy to say a word, nodded vigorously, her brown curls bobbing up and down.

"Don't be silly, Burchard." She sighed and looked around at all the plants to choose from. "Dilli, I'm going to need a little bit more time to get everything together. Why don't you see how he is?"

The young girl pondered this for a few moments. "Err... because he is a half-naked stranger?" she suggested.

"Dilli?"

"Yes, Milady?"

"That was a rhetorical question. Go and see how he is."

The girl curtsied. "Yes, Milady." She hurried off, out of the kitchen and down the stone corridor towards the room where they had brought the injured young man.

*~*~**~*~*

Reuben had not taken two steps towards the door when something occurred to him. If he were in the custody of the lord of these lands and all his crimes were known, they would have locked that door. So perhaps there was still hope. But if they did not know who he was, why take his armor and sword? It was very confusing.

Well, he wouldn't find out anything by just sitting around and waiting for the answers to come to him. He opened the door and cursed, as he felt more blood flowing from the wounds on his back.

He would have to do something about that, before the loss of blood rendered him unconscious. What the hell did these people who had taken him think anyway, just leaving three arrows in his body? Damnable insolence!

He thrust open the door and strode down the corridor. Appreciatively, he let his eyes travel over the tapestries and fine weapons on the walls. This was a rich castle. Once they had healed and fed him, maybe he could empty their coffers of all gold before he disappeared. They surely wouldn't miss it, and it would be no more than they deserved for their insolent treatment of a knight.

When he was halfway down the corridor, a door to the side opened and a young servant girl entered. She had shoulder-length, curly brown hair and a pleasant, if not particularly intelligent, face. Well, what could you expect? She was a servant. Maybe she would be able to tell him what he wanted, nonetheless.

"Hey, you," he called out to her, raising a commanding hand. She turned.

As she saw him, her face drained of color and her mouth fell open, making her look even less intelligent than before.

"Don't stand there gawping," he admonished. "Tell me where I am, get me my sword, and then lead me to the lord of this castle. I wish to have words with him!"

The girl let loose a blood-curdling scream, turned, and fled down the corridor. Reuben looked after her, perplexed, wondering what on earth might have induced the silly girl to react so strangely.

Then he reasoned that the sight of a man spattered in blood and with three arrows sticking out of his back was probably enough cause. Females tended to be squeamish like that.

He tried to follow the girl, but stumbled and had to steady himself against a wall. Why was he feeling so dizzy all of a sudden? Lights started appearing in front of his eyes, and not the right kind of lights, either. They weren't where the windows in the corridor were, and their coloring went from red to blue and then to purple.

Still steadying himself against the wall with one hand, Reuben used the other to grope for the wounds on his back. Copious amounts of blood were streaming down from the arrows.

"Damn!" he muttered, and fell over.

*~*~**~*~*

When Reuben came to, he was lying under a blanket on the same bed as before. He blinked, slightly dazed. To his right, he heard the folds of a dress rustling. The servant girl.

"So you managed to get me back here again, did you?" he grunted. "Why on earth did you run away?"

"Run away?" came the reply in a steady, ironic voice. It sounded familiar, but it was not the voice of a servant. "You're not that scary. What are you talking about?"

"I..." He turned his head and stared into two large, blue eyes, set in a delicate ivory face surrounded by a crown of golden hair. With an exclamation, Reuben jerked backwards.

"You! I thought you were just a nightmare!" he growled.

The girl! The girl he had robbed. So he hadn't just dreamed that part—she had been there, after the fight. But if she had, that presented one interesting question: Why was he still alive? And who was she? And what on earth had she been doing out there in the woods in the first place, with mercenaries everywhere? All right, not one question. Many questions. And many chances to lose his head.

"Nightmare?" Anger flared in the girl's blue eyes. "No. I'm just the person who saved your hide, thank you very much!"

"You... saved me?"

"I don't know why you sound so surprised! Do I look like the kind of person who would just let a fellow Christian bleed to death?"

Measuring the fiery expression in the girl's eyes, Reuben decided to keep his real opinion in regard to this quiet and answered with all the civility he could muster: "Why, no, of course not, Lady...?"

The question mark at the end of the sentence was clearly audible. She ignored it completely.

"How very nice of you. Now, do you mind telling me what you were doing out in the forest without a cloak or a weapon with three arrows in your back?"

Without a... cloak?

It took a few moments for him to understand. Of course! They must have found him without his armor and without weapons. The mercenaries must have taken them, those greedy bastards, and left him for dead. The girl must have found him in the forest afterwards. She had _no idea_ who he was, thank the devil! He remembered her threats all too well.

"What were you doing out there?" she repeated.

"Bleeding," he said, with a haughty grin. "A lot." That would put her off and stop her from asking any more questions. Any mention of blood and women ran for the hills.

"I'll say." She scowled. "I ruined my dress bringing you up here."

He blinked, surprised. "You brought me up here yourself?"

"Well, not alone. You're a heavy fellow, you know. I had a few men helping—but I stayed, to make sure you were all right. It was messy."

She spoke the truth. Reuben hadn't noticed it before, but now that he took a closer look at her, he could see that the long dress concealing her maidenly figure was spattered in gore. She didn't even seem to notice. What kind of girl was this? The personal witch and executioner of the local lord? No, not lord, lady. The mercenary had said these parts were ruled by a woman, a Lady Ayla. That must be a horrible old hag, to have such an unnatural creature in her service.

"And what did your mistress have to say about you bringing a strange man into the castle?" Reuben asked, observing her closely.

"My mistress?"

"The mistress of this castle. Lady Ayla."

The girl smiled mischievously for some reason before saying: "Oh, she wasn't really pleased. You see, she doesn't particularly like to have ungrateful louts in her home. But in the end she agreed that we couldn't just let you bleed to death. Which brings me to the matter at hand: I've got to take care of those wounds in your back. Turn over."

Reuben hesitated. "So... you're the local wise woman?[26] The village witch?" She was wearing astonishingly fine clothes for that, if you looked past the bloodstains.

She nodded. "You could say that." With a commanding wave, she gestured him to turn over. "I'm also the local person in charge, so you had better turn around now. By the way, my name is Ayla. Lady Ayla."

# Push and Pull

Reuben's first thought was: _I'm in the captivity of the girl I robbed earlier today, she has sworn to have me killed, and she's the lady of the castle and has dozens of armed guards at her disposal!_

His second thought was: _So what? You've killed dozens of men before._

His third thought was: _Yes, but not without a sword and with three arrows in my back._

His fourth thought was: _At least she doesn't know who I am yet._

His fifth thought was: _Emphasis on "yet."_

His sixth thought was: _She's going to have me hacked into tiny little pieces if she finds out!_

His seventh thought was: _Wait just a minute! Did she just call me an ungrateful lout?_

The tumult of his emotions must have shown on his face, because the girl asked: "What's wrong? Don't like my name, do you?"

"Well," he said with a shrug, "in my opinion, it sounds like the name of a totally green, pompous, and bossy person who doesn't know when to shut her mouth. But that's probably just me."

Her eyes flashed again. "Probably. Now turn around. I'll have to get these arrows out or you'll die, and we wouldn't want that now, would we?"

Reuben hesitated. In his experience, it was never a good idea to turn your back on an enemy. But in this case, he probably didn't have any choice.

"Certainly, Milady," he said, pulling away the sheet from his impressive muscles and turning over. "Enjoy the view."

She snorted, but it didn't sound very convincing.

Reuben allowed himself a grin. Why not? He was turned to the wall; she couldn't see it.

"So tell me," he began, feeling her gaze bore into his back, "how does a noble lady come to know something about healing?"

"Why don't you tell me something for a change? How about your name? I've told you mine."

Should he tell her his real name? Why not? He hadn't mentioned it while robbing her. They hadn't had time for that much polite conversation. And he wasn't really creative enough to come up with anything else.

"Reuben."

"And what were you doing out in the forest, Reuben—besides bleeding, I mean?"

He felt something cool gently brush against his back and twitched.

"Relax," she said.

Oh. Those were her hands. Her touch was gentler than he had imagined. A lot gentler, actually.

"You aren't one of the men of the Margrave von Falkenstein, are you?"

"No," he said emphatically. "I'm a merchant," he added, thinking of the man he had robbed earlier that day.

"Good," she replied, her voice as gentle as her hands. "Because if you had been one of Falkenstein's fiends, I would have hanged you from the highest tower of my castle."

"Lucky me."

"Very lucky." She tapped on his back. "Looks like these wounds didn't even come close to any vital organs. As long as they don't get infected, you'll live." Her small hands moved away from his back, and he could feel her grasp the shafts. "Now, I'll just have to pull the arrows out..."

Reuben twisted as fast as a snake and had her hands captured in his in a heartbeat. She didn't utter a sound, just stared at his ferocious expression with undoubted fear in her bright blue eyes. She must have thought he was trying to attack her. It almost made him sorry for his reaction. Almost.

"Don't!" he said, breathing heavily. "Don't ever do that!"

"D-do what?" she asked, after a moment.

"Pull on arrows! You have no way of knowing if they have barbs!"[27]

"Barbs?"

"Sharp hooks on the arrowhead that are designed to keep the arrow where it is. If you try to pull out an arrow with barbs, it'll tear your flesh open and you won't get it out anyway. You'll die from internal bleeding."

He saw her swallow and try to get a hold of herself again. Part of him admired her guts, wanted to speak more softly to her, but the part of him that knew this little girl could just have killed him in a heartbeat was far bigger and angrier.

"I didn't know that," she said, softly. Her eyes were watery, but the tears didn't spill over.

"Well now you do," he growled. "And woe betide you if you don't remember it well!"

That drove the moisture from her eyes and made them narrow in a glare. Apparently, she didn't take kindly to being threatened.

"How does a merchant know so much about arrows?" she asked, suspiciously.

Reuben cursed himself for not thinking of a better profession for himself. But then he had an idea. "Every merchant has to know about the wares he buys and sells," he answered curtly, hoping that would satisfy her. "Now get on with it."

"Well, how am I supposed to get the arrows out if I'm not allowed to pull?"

He rolled his eyes. Typical woman. "Well, if you can't pull, what else can you do?"

"Push?"

"Yes."

"But that would mean pushing the arrows right through your flesh! Through your entire chest and out the front!"

"Obviously."

"It'll hurt," she pointed out.

"Maybe."

"Probably it'll hurt quite a bit," she continued, thoughtfully, apparently beginning to take a liking to the idea. "It might even be torturous."

Reuben smiled. She had no idea.

"It'll be all right," he said, in a superior tone, which of course only egged her on.

"You'll have to promise me not to scream or flinch if the pain gets too much for you," she said, sweetly. "After all, I'll have to concentrate on what I am doing. Do you think you can do that for me, brave man?"

"I think I'll manage."

"We'll see."

He could almost hear the anticipation in her voice and had to hold his hand over his mouth to stop himself from chuckling. Nothing remained of the anger he had felt a minute ago. This was going to be amusing.

She gripped the first arrow, a lot more forcefully than the first time.

"Break off the end, first," he suggested merrily. "So that it doesn't get stuck in there. I'd hate to walk around with goose feathers in my torso for the rest of my life."

Without comment, she placed her other hand on the shaft and tried to break it. The tough wood bent, but only a little.

"Too much for you?" he asked with a smile.

"No," she grunted.

"You could get help."

"No!"

Sighing, Reuben resigned himself to his fate. The girl was stubborn. It was going to take her a few minutes to figure out that she couldn't do it by herself. He only hoped she would hurry up with overcoming her pride. The wounds needed to be dressed; he couldn't afford any delay.

Snap!

Snap!

Snap!

Three times he heard the noise, in quick succession. It took Reuben a few moments to realize what had caused it.

"Here!"

The broken arrow-ends with fletching landed beside him on the bed. My, my. The girl actually had some muscle in her skinny arms. He ought not to be so surprised, perhaps. She was a good rider, and good riders had to have muscle. She had ridden that horse of hers like a queen—before he had stolen it, that is.

"Turn on your side. I'm going to push the arrows out now," she said, as a gleeful warning.

"Go ahead," he replied. He did as she had asked, and the smile crept back on his face. The fun was about to begin.

She gripped the first arrow and pushed. The tip sliced neatly through flesh for a few inches, then it slowed.

"What's the matter?" he asked in a polite, conversational tone.

"You're hard," she panted. "This isn't easy."

"You have my sympathies. After all, you're the one pushing a wooden stick, and I'm the one with three arrows in my back. Your lot is by far worse than mine."

"Does it hurt yet?" she asked hopefully, between clenched teeth.

"It's manageable," he smirked. "Don't stop on my account."

"Don't worry. I won't."

The girl—somehow he couldn't bring himself to think of her as the lady, she just seemed so young to him—increased the pressure and the arrow continued on its slow way through Reuben's flesh.

"Did you have me brought to this particular room?" Reuben asked.

"Yes," she grunted.

"Then I must thank you, Lady Ayla. It is a beautiful room, with an even more beautiful view."

"Think... nothing... of it."

"But no," he protested, smirking. "Your helping me at all is a marvelous act of Christian charity. But you taking such good and gentle care of me, that exceeds all my expectations."

"I'm... doing my best," she snarled and gave the arrow another shove. Reuben felt his chest. Good, it would soon be out now.

"I'm sure you are. And I'm sure the peaceful atmosphere here will be of great help to my convalescence."

For some inexplicable reason, that made her laugh. Yet it wasn't a happy laugh. It was dark and foreboding, and altogether too sad for one as young as her.

"I wouldn't be too sure about that."

He frowned. What did she mean by that? And why had she sounded so sad? Was there something upsetting her—besides himself, of course?

He was so occupied with his thoughts that at first he didn't notice when the arrow pierced the skin of his chest from inside. Only when the tip entered his field of vision was his attention drawn to it.

"Stop," he ordered. "I'll get it myself the rest of the way." He gripped the arrow just beneath the head and pulled. His fingers felt the sharp metal hooks. He had been right—there were indeed barbs on the arrow. Trying not to think too deeply about what would have happened had he not stopped the foolish girl in time, he continued to pull on the missile sticking in his chest. The shaft was slippery with blood, but that was something he was used to. Within seconds, he had pulled the arrow out and thrown it onto the floor.

With a bright smile, he nodded at the girl. "All right. The next one."

She stared at him, incredulous. "You've just pulled an arrow out of your chest and all you want to do is pull another?"

"Well, there are still two left in there. Do you think I should leave them where they are for a while?"

"No! But don't you want to... I don't know... rest a bit?"

"Rest? What for?"

"Maybe because it hurt?" she suggested.

He shrugged. "Not that much. If it's up to me, we can go on. Of course, if you need some rest..."

Her eyes blazed like blue fire. "No thanks, I'm fine," she snapped.

Quickly, she got to work again. The second arrow went out without any problems, too. But when she started pushing at the third, Reuben suddenly shouted: "Stop!"

Her hands dropped immediately. "What is it?" she asked, and he was more than a little surprised at her tone. Was that concern in her voice? No, surely he was mistaken. "Did I hurt you?"

"No, of course not," he grunted. "You're getting too close to my ribcage. If the arrow gets stuck in there, we'll never get it out. Point it further down!"

She didn't take well to his commanding tone, he could tell.

"As you wish," she grumbled.

Silently, Reuben berated himself. Why on earth did he have to be so rude to the girl? After all, he still had an arrow stuck in his chest. Why couldn't he wait until it was out of him? Then he could be as rude as he wanted.

Despite her anger, he could tell that she was doing her best to follow his orders. However, it was difficult to change the direction of the arrow while it was slicing through his flesh, and just before the head left his body, he could feel it catching on the lowest of his ribs.

"Oh!" Behind him, Reuben heard Ayla take in a quick breath. "It's stuck, isn't it? Oh, Reuben, I'm so, so sorry! I'll..."

He started at hearing his name from her lips. It sounded strange. Maybe because she had no idea who he really was, and could never know. So it was strange hearing her say his name as if she knew him.

"It's all right," he said gruffly. "It didn't get stuck. It just caught on the lowest rib. Push a bit harder, then it'll slide sideways, and that'll be it."

"But... won't that hurt?"

He almost laughed. "Don't worry about that. Just push."

He was expecting to have to argue with her for some time, but she just took a deep breath and said: "All right. I'll do my best."

Hm. She really had guts.

She pushed. Reuben could feel the arrowhead slowly sliding along his rib—and then it suddenly was free and pierced his skin, sliding halfway out of him in one go. Ayla fell forward with a gasp and landed on top of him. He could feel the warmth of her small body pressed against his back and stiffened at the unfamiliar contact. Though he had to admit, it didn't really feel bad...

Before either of them could move a muscle, they heard a knock on the door and a deep, gravelly voice: "Milady? Milady, it's me, Burchard. May I come in?"

# Among Enemies

Reuben had to admit, it was really impressive how fast Ayla could move when she put her mind to it. She was off him and across the room in a matter of seconds.

He turned and looked at her. Her smooth satin cheeks were suffused by a blush almost as deep red as the blood that stained the front of her dress, where she had landed on his bloody skin. He grinned at her, and in return she gave him a glare that could have made a general quake in his boots.

"Yes, you can come in, Burchard," he called.

Her mouth dropped open in astonishment at his affront, which only made him grin wider.

A massive elderly man with thick, black hair and beard entered the room. He glowered at Reuben as if he was breaking the law just by breathing. The knight thought it best to turn to the wall again, but still regarded the newcomer out of the corner of his eyes.

"I see our guest has recovered consciousness—and insolence," the black-bearded man grunted. "Who are you, if I may ask?"

Reuben was spared an answer by the girl. She stepped forward and said: "Burchard, can't you postpone the interrogation for five minutes? Can't you see that he's bleeding heavily?"

"I can. Actually, I'd hoped that fact might speed his tongue. Bandages are very hard to come by."

Burchard's eyes narrowed as they focused on Reuben. That look told it all. Reuben realized that here was a man as hard as flint, who wouldn't rest until he knew every single little thing about his unexpected guest and had confirmed he was no danger. Not good.

"Burchard!" Ayla chastised the man. Reuben wondered what position he held. Adviser? Weapons master? "How can you say such a thing! Unless you can control yourself, leave immediately!"

"Tell me," Burchard demanded of his mistress, completely ignoring her orders, "how that got on your clothing." He pointed to the bloodstains that surrounded the delicate neckline of her dress.

Ayla turned a lovely shade of red again, and Reuben quickly looked away.

"I had to get the arrows out of him," she said, sounding as if she were defending herself. "It got a bit... messy."

"Messy, eh?"

With a grunt, Burchard dragged one of the chairs into one corner of the room and sat down astride it, all the while not taking his eyes off Ayla. "I think I'd better stay. Just in case things get messy again."

Peeking, Reuben saw the girl roll her eyes. "Fine, if it makes you happy. Just don't get in my way."

Ayla went to the table and fetched a bowl of water and some clean linen.

"Here." She held out a linen cloth to Reuben. "I'll need you to press this on your chest, so that it won't bleed that heavily. Can you do that, in spite of the pain?" Despite the brusqueness of her voice, it wasn't an unkind question.

Reuben just nodded and pressed the cloth on his chest.

Ayla, meanwhile, began to methodically clean his back wounds. He was amazed that she still didn't seem deterred by his injuries. Now that the arrows didn't conceal the wounds anymore, they had to be a pretty grizzly sight, and bleeding heavily, if those on his chest were anything to judge by. Yet Ayla never hesitated, never wavered. Reuben could feel her small hands caressing his back through the wet linen—but no, he reminded himself, cleaning, not caressing. Cleaning.

"So," Burchard grunted, "start to talk, fellow. I'm mighty curious about you. What's your name? Who and what are you?"

Reuben opened his mouth.

"He's a merchant, and his name is Reuben," Ayla said.

"I didn't ask you!"

"No. And it was so rude of me to interrupt, since you asked so nicely."

Reuben was glad he was turned to the stone wall, so neither of them could see the grin on his face. Perhaps he wouldn't have to worry about answering questions, after all. He could just quietly lie here and listen to those two bite each other's heads off.

However, he was not so lucky. Burchard just ignored Ayla's retort and returned his attention to him.

"So, Reuben. What would a merchant be doing out alone in the forest?"

Pensively, Reuben stared at the texture of the stone wall. What on earth was it that merchants did? They always seemed to be rich when he robbed them, and trying to get richer, but how did they do it? What did they do to get all their money?

"Looking for people to trade with?" he suggested.

"Wouldn't a market be a better place for that?" Burchard's voice undoubtedly contained traces of sarcasm.

"Well, that was where I was heading, actually. I was going to... Frankfurt with a few bags of rare spices, when I ran into this group of mercenaries. They demanded that I give them all my wares and become their prisoner."

"And did you?"

"I probably would have," Reuben said, slipping increasingly into his role. "After all, I'm just a cowardly, helpless merchant. What was I to do?"

"Yes, very helpless," said Burchard, and Reuben could feel the man's gaze boring into him, examining the thick bands of muscles around his legs, arms, and torso. "And how exactly did you end up with three arrows in your back, helpless merchant, if you didn't fight?"

"I don't really know. Suddenly I heard screams, and these other men came charging out of the forest, attacking the mercenaries. They must have been robbers, I think. The next thing I can remember is waking up here."

"I'm sorry, Reuben," he heard Ayla's voice. He almost didn't recognize it, because her tone was so soft and hesitating for a change. "That must have been a terrible experience. I... I realize the things they did to you must hurt very badly. I'm doing my best to fix it as quickly as possible, I promise. I'd be quicker if he," she shot Burchard a look, "didn't interrupt me all the time."

"And that is all?" Burchard asked, not paying any attention to her.

_Hmm_... Reuben thought. Burchard still seemed skeptical. How to make them both believe his story? How best to play his role? Well, there was one way... "No, not really. There's one thing: you didn't by any chance find my wares, did you?"

"No, we didn't," Ayla said. "I'm sorry. The robbers must have carried them off."

Reuben sighed. "That is unfortunate. I guess, in that case, I have no choice but to demand compensation."

"Compensation?" Now the girl's tone was suspicious. "From whom?"

"Why, from you, of course, Milady. After all, you are the lady of these lands, are you not? As such you are responsible for upholding law and order within your domain. May I not expect compensation when I am wronged?"

She gasped and her hands flinched away from his back.

"You... you... ungrateful piece of..." she stuttered. "I just saved your life today!"

"And I'm very grateful for that," he said, in a pleasant voice. "However, if you had done your job properly and upheld law and order in your lands, there wouldn't have been any need to save my life in the first place, now, would there? But, as I said, I'm very grateful. If I now receive the compensation that is my due, I will have nothing to wish for."

She uttered a sound that was somewhere between a moan and a growl. It was cute, and he couldn't suppress a grin, particularly when he heard Burchard's laugh and knew that his strategy had worked.

"All right," the elderly man chuckled. "You really are a merchant. As for your compensation..."

"...We won't throw you out of the window," Ayla finished the sentence. "How's that for compensation?"

He dipped his head, graciously. "Most generous, Milady. Exactly what I would have expected from you."

Burchard sniggered again, and Ayla returned to washing Reuben's back, with considerably more force than before.

"Burchard," she said, "be a good steward and go and tell Dilli that I will be needing another bowl of water. Don't worry about what will happen while you're not here to watch. I promise I won't kill him—for now."

Burchard grunted and went to the door. Apparently, he was satisfied enough with Reuben's story to leave him alone for the moment—a fact that would have pleased the knight considerably, were it not for Ayla's words.

I promise I won't kill him—for now.

Reuben's throat went dry because the words were all too close to reality for his liking. She could kill him at any moment, if she chose to. All she had to do was call her guards. In his weakened state, Reuben would not be able to resist them.

Yes, she could kill him—and she would, if ever she found out who he really was.

Angrily, he clenched his teeth together. How come he had almost forgotten that? How come he had felt relaxed, amused, even somewhat at home here in this castle, in this room? He was in the midst of his enemies! It was not like him to forget something like that.

It wouldn't happen again. She was his enemy. He had to remember that.

# A Pot Full of Devil

Reuben was so deep in thought that, at first, he didn't notice when Ayla spoke to him. Only when the girl tapped him on the shoulder did he realize it.

"Hello, are you listening to me?"

He looked up at her, for some reason annoyed. "Not really, no."

She scowled. "You know, I am tempted to give you your compensation right now."

That made him grin. "You promised your steward not to harm me until he gets back," he reminded her.

"I'm sure he wouldn't mind. I don't know whether you've noticed, Reuben, but he doesn't exactly like you."

"Whatever gave you that idea?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Ha!" She laughed a short, humorless laugh. Again, why was there no real amusement in her laughter? Was something troubling her?

"What's his problem with me?" Reuben asked to distract himself.

Ayla sighed. "He doesn't like what he saw in the clearing where we found you. You know, what those robbers did? If it really was robbers. Whoever attacked the mercenaries must be quite vicious."

A grim smile tugged at the edges of Reuben's mouth. _That I am_ , he thought to himself. _Oh yes, that I am. And she must never know._

"He's an overprotective fool, really," the girl continued. "He seems to feel that keeping everything and everyone that has been in that clearing at arm's length is the best thing to do."

_Overprotective, perhaps_ , Reuben thought. _But no fool. I will have to watch out for that old man._

Another knock came from the door—much more timid than before. Obviously, it wasn't Burchard. Reuben opened his mouth, but before he could say a word, Ayla called, "Come in, Dilli!" and gave him a superior smile.

That annoying little minx!

The screaming servant girl from earlier entered, carrying a bowl of water. Her hands were shaking so badly that little waves appeared on the surface of the water. She looked as if she would like nothing better than to run away again.

"Come here, Dilli," Ayla ordered, "and put the bowl on the table."

"Y-yes, Milady," Dilly stammered.

She did as her lady had ordered, then curtsied hurriedly and almost ran out of the room.

"What is the matter with her?" Reuben wanted to know.

"You tell me," Ayla said. "Earlier today, I sent her to look in on you. Five minutes later, she came running back screaming 'MiladyMiladywalkingaroundheisthreearrowsthreearrowsthree! Soakedinbloodheisthedevilwehavethewalkingdeadinourcastle!' and then ran off again."

"I see." Reuben felt her hands leaving his back.

A moment later, he heard the sound of the bowl being moved from the table to the floor, and Ayla's gentle ministrations began again.

"Mind explaining what that means, master merchant?"

He shrugged. "How should I know? She's just a silly serving girl."

Ayla pressed an accusing finger into his back. "She may be a serving girl, but she's certainly not silly! And if I were you, I would be a bit more careful with remarks like that while you're under my roof!"

Reuben cursed himself. He should have guessed the girl would be a peasant-lover on top of everything else! Why should life be easy on him for a change by giving her an iota of sense and pride of rank?

"Of course, Milady," he said.

"When she came running to me earlier, I went to your room immediately and found you lying in the corridor in a pool of blood! If it weren't for her, you probably would have bled to death out there. What possessed you to try and get up with the arrows still in your back?"

_I wanted to find out whether you wanted to help or kill me_ , he thought. _And apparently, you want to do both, you just don't know it yet._

Instead of saying that, he nodded gravely. "You are quite right, Milady. It was foolish of me."

"You aren't trying to placate me, are you?"

"Of course not, Milady. I would never do something like that."

"Hmm."

She was quiet for a bit. Finally, she said:

"I've finished cleaning the wounds now. Next, I'm going to apply some ointment that should help ease the pain."

Reuben almost laughed—but since that would have been a very odd reaction, he stopped himself. She was not to know what he was. Better to let her apply the ointment. What could be the harm?

A moment later, when the smell of the mixture reached his nose, he had his answer to that question.

"W-what is that?" he coughed, and whipped his head around to face her. "Satan's hairy ass! Girl, what is that?"

All he got for an answer was a resounding slap in the face. His hands automatically clenched into fists and started to move. Not that the slap had hurt, of course, but he hadn't allowed someone to slap him since he was five years old.

_Calm_ , he told himself. _Just stay calm. She's not even worth the effort._

"Don't you dare swear in my castle!" she growled. "I never want to hear such foul language again, understood?"

He blinked at her, at the fire in her blue eyes, and his hands relaxed out of pure surprise. _That_ was why she had hit him?

"I'll swear as much as I want if I have cause enough," he said. "Besides, it wasn't a curse, it was a description—the only thing I could think of that could smell remotely as foul as what you've got there." He pointed to the clay pot in her hand. "What kind of hellish mixture is that?"

"It is a tried and tested recipe for ointment, and it does not smell like Satan's hairy a— like the devil's piliferous[28] rear end. I got the recipe from a wise sister in a nunnery where I used to live."

"I never knew nuns were on such good terms with the one in the pit."

Again, the girl stabbed him with a threatening finger. "Do you want me to hit you again or do you want me to finish fixing you up?"

"Would fixing me up include applying that grizzly mixture to my back?"

"Yes."

"Then I think I would prefer being hit again."

Wordlessly, Ayla scowled and placed the lid of the clay pot on the floor beside her.

Reuben sighed. "How did I know that wasn't going to work?"

"I have no idea."

"Perhaps you could just bandage me without smearing that mixture on me first. I'm sure my wounds will heal fine, and the pain isn't really that bad, take my word for it."

She ignored him, and he felt something cold touch his back.

Cursing again, he flinched away. "I said bandage me without it!"

"And I say hold still! If you don't stay where you are, I'm going to call a few men to hold you down."

Reuben could hear in her voice that she meant it. Of all the people to rescue him, why did it have to be such a Xanthippe?[29] Why couldn't he have ridden past another castle, with a lady that was obedient and demure and all the things females were supposed to be? But then, such a lady might have run away screaming if she'd found him in the forest instead of stopping to help. He would just have to take the rough with the smooth.

_The only problem with that_ , he thought, as the smell of the foul ointment invaded his nostrils and made him want to puke, _is that there seems to be significantly more rough than smooth_.

"Roll over," she commanded.

"Why?" Reuben asked, suspiciously.

"Because three guards are waiting just down the hall, ready to roll you over if you don't do it yourself."

Reuben nodded to himself. That seemed like a good enough reason. He had to respect someone who knew how to use their threats. Slowly, he turned so that he was facing her. She had a very odd expression on her face, one he couldn't place right away. There was a little crease between her eyebrows, and her lips were puckered. Was she angry at him? Well, he thought wryly, she had reason enough.

As soon as she noticed his look, the expression vanished, to be replaced by one supposedly far more fearsome. It almost made him laugh, because now he knew what her expression before had meant. It had only taken him so long to recognize because he hadn't seen that expression on another human face in a very long time. Silly girl! But it couldn't be, could it? Could she really be concerned for him?

"Now," she said, holding up a warning finger, "don't move," and she began to smear the disgusting ointment all over his chest.

"God's breath!"[30] He flinched back, away from her and the mixture on her hand. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Helping you. And I forbade you to curse!"

"That wasn't a curse either! You said that stuff came from a nunnery, didn't you? Well, something must have made it smell as bad as it does."

"That's blasphemy."

"Probably. Get used to it."

When Reuben retreated further up the wall, Ayla clenched her teeth and said, in a controlled voice:

"Come back here."

"No! Not if you come near my front with that stuff again. What's in that mixture of yours, anyway?"

"Nothing really bad. Just some rose oil."

"Rose oil? I know how roses smell. Definitely not like that."

"And some eggs, beeswax, cow fat, pus, and old wine."

"Pus? What kind of pus?"

"I don't know. You'll have to ask the stable master who provided it. Now come here!"

"No!"

The girl glared at him. "I will apply this ointment one way or another."

"Not right under my nose, you won't."

"You were the one who suggested I push the arrows out the front instead of pulling. It's your own fault you've got wounds on the chest as well as on the back."

Reuben snorted. "Oh, excuse me for not wanting my insides ripped open by barbs."

"You are excused. Now come here already!"

Reuben remained where he was, silent.

In reply, she simply put her finger in the pot and scooped out a bit of the foul mixture. She looked at him with those big blue eyes of hers, seeming to ask: _I want to help you, and you don't let me? Just because of a little smell?_

_Oh damnation!_ Before he knew what he was doing, he moved forward, took a deep breath, and held it. "Do it!" he said.

She began to apply the sticky paste. Her soft fingers slid over his chest around the area where the arrows had pierced the skin, just below his right nipple. Despite the stickiness of the ointment, it felt good for some reason. Reuben found himself relaxing.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid_ , he admonished himself. He shouldn't be relaxing. He wasn't safe here. He didn't even have a sword in his hand, which more or less equaled his conception of being safe. Why was he feeling like this?

"I'm going to apply the ointment directly to your wounds now," Ayla said. "It'll probably hurt very much. More even than when I pushed the arrows out. Do you think you can hold still?"

That was why. The girl was so hilarious! How could one not be relaxed?

"I think I'll manage," he replied, trying very hard not to laugh.

She caught on to his mood, though, and her eyes narrowed. "Very well."

She wasn't very gentle in applying the smelly stuff to his wounds. A few bits and pieces of skin came off. Reuben looked down at his chest curiously and wondered if this should hurt very much. Probably it should. What a strange world he was living in, sometimes. So different from anybody else's.

"Does it hurt very much?" she asked sweetly, rubbing it in in the most literal sense.

"Not at all," he replied. "You have a most gentle touch, Milady."

She pressed harder. "Do I?"

"Oh yes. The hands of a true healer."

"Well," she said, her eyes burning with blue fire, "I'm very glad you think so. Time to wrap this up." With a swift motion, she grabbed another linen from the table. "And you. Can you sit up?"

Reuben sat in response.

"Raise your arms."

"Why?" he asked, suspiciously.

"Because I will need to wrap this around your chest to stop you from bleeding," she replied, holding up the cloth. "And I don't think you would want me to tie your arms to your sides in the process. Although, now that you've mentioned it," she added, her lips twitching, "that might not be such a bad idea."

Reuben raised his arms without deeming an answer necessary. That absolved him from explaining why exactly he had hesitated: namely because, normally, when someone asked him to raise his arms, it was because they wanted to take him prisoner.

He was abruptly pulled from his thoughts when Ayla leant forward and suddenly their bodies were very, very close and... her arms were around him. This shouldn't have surprised him. It was only logical. She needed to reach around him to wrap the bandage around his chest. Once. Twice. Regretfully, he noticed that the linen bandage was nearly at an end. The girl reached around him a third and final time—and this time her hold lasted slightly longer.

Reuben felt his arms drop and reach forward to take the ends of the bandage from her. "Shall I help you with that?"

Somehow his hands didn't end up on the bandage, but on her shoulders.

"Err... I... Yes, please do. I mean, do it yourself!"

Quickly, she drew back and turned away. But not quickly enough. He had seen the rosy hue of her cheeks, and involuntarily grinned at the sight.

Jumping to her feet, she quickly went to the door and, without turning, said: "I have to go now. There's important business I must attend to."

"I'm sure," he said in an amused voice. "I can imagine that a lady such as you has many important tasks before her every day. When you take a break from combing your hair and plucking your eyebrows, do come and visit me. It's sure to be boring alone here."

She threw a scathing look over her shoulder. "Are you sure I didn't hurt you _at all_?"

"Nope," Reuben replied, jovially.

"What a pity. Well, I will try my best to visit and put that right. If I can't manage it, I can always send Burchard."

With that threat hanging in the room she rushed out, leaving Reuben behind grinning like a Cheshire cat.

#  Wobbling Bulwark[31]

The impudent scoundrel! Fuming, Ayla marched down the corridor away from the chamber where that saucy, villainous, brain-boiled bastard lay in peace, probably contemplating how best to get his "compensation" out of her, while she had to get out there and face the Margrave von Falkenstein. Plucking eyebrows indeed! What did he know about her and the tasks ahead of her? Nothing!

Yet what had aggravated her the most wasn't the fact that he seemed to radiate arrogance, nor that he had dared to order her servants about in her own castle, nor even the fact that he obviously thought of her as a brainless hen.

No, what angered her was that through the entire procedure of removing the arrows, a process which should have left a pampered merchant like him, or indeed any man, screaming in agony, he hadn't uttered so much as a single sound of pain. He had even made polite conversation with her, for heaven's sake—the only time during their short acquaintance when he had actually deigned to be polite, so far.

She had wanted to hurt him so badly—instead she ended up healing him. How she had wanted to hurt him! Especially, oh, especially when she had been forced to put her arms around him and—the thought almost made her blush even now—she had fallen on him.

His insolent grin had been enough for her to want to sink into the floor right there and then. She wondered at the fact that it hadn't burned an everlasting mark of shame on her forehead.

_Nonsense_ , she forced herself to think. _I was only bandaging him. And the falling on him, that was an accident._

_Ah_ , a small voice in the back of her head said. _But the problem isn't that it happened, is it? It's that you enjoyed it._

"Shut up!" she growled.

"Err... Milady? I didn't say anything."

Ayla looked up to see Dilli and three guards waiting at the end of the corridor. They stared at her with worried expressions.

"What is it, Milady?" Dilli asked.

Ayla just shook her head. "Nothing, Dilli. Will you look after our _guest_ for the time being? I have to get down to the bridge to check how the barricade is coming along."

The maid blanched slightly, but curtsied. "Certainly, Milady. If I may ask, Milady, what should I do if our guest asks for a meal? Should I prepare something special?"

Ayla scowled, not noticing the way her maid's voice shook when she mentioned their guest. "No! Just give him the same as the rest of us..." She stopped and considered for a moment. Thoughtfully, she tugged on her lower lip. "Actually, no, Dilli. You had a good idea there. Prepare him a meal according to the special diet for the sick and wounded by Hildegard von Bingen.[32] You know the recipe?"

"Yes, Milady. You taught it to me last winter, when the smith got taken ill." The maid hesitated. "Forgive me for asking, Milady, but what if our guest does not like his, err... special diet?"

Ayla smiled and shrugged. "He will just have to stomach it, now, won't he?"

"And... I am to bring him his meal myself? Alone? Without any guards accompanying me?"

Ayla was looking another way and didn't see the pleading look in her maid's eyes.

"Yes, yes. Sorry Dilli, but I can't chat anymore. I have to go now. You three!" She waved at the three guards. Still, there was a slightly vindictive smile on her face. She knew the special diet of Hildegard von Bingen. Reuben's reaction would be... interesting. "Follow me! We're heading down to the bridge."

*~*~**~*~*

"You seem in a good mood this afternoon, considering we're about to be attacked by an evil tyrant," Burchard remarked suspiciously as he beheld her striding towards the bridge.

"Yes, something came along that made me feel a lot better," Ayla replied with a smile.

"Is that so? Well, I hope it lasts after you've seen the barricade."

The barricade was indeed a sorry sight. It looked like an array of overgrown toothpicks. Men were wandering around asking each other questions like how they were supposed to make the posts stand upright and whether the pointy end should point upwards or downwards.

Ayla cursed herself for not noticing the confusion when she had passed through earlier. She had been too occupied with that scoundrel Reuben to even look at the fortifications, which had prevented her from noticing how very little fortified they actually appeared.

"Hey, you!" she called to the man who seemed to think he was in charge—he was the one who was shouting the loudest.

The big fellow immediately stopped shouting and came over to her, bowing. He was about two heads taller than Ayla and three times as hairy. Standing across from one another, they looked like a brutish bear and a little white lily. Yet it was the man that cowered, anxiously twisting his cap in his hands.

"Milady."

"What's your name?"

"Bardo, Milady."

"Then please tell me, Bardo: what is this," she pointed at the pseudo-barricade, "supposed to be?"

The big man scratched the back of his head uncomfortably. "Well... I don't rightly know myself, Milady. It's a bit of a mess, to be honest."

One of the poles chose this exact moment to topple over and fall onto the stones of the bridge with a loud clatter.

"I can see that," Ayla remarked. Bardo ducked, as if expecting to be slapped. Ayla immediately felt bad for taking her temper out on him. He was surely doing his best—his life and his family were as much at risk as anybody's here. It wasn't his fault that as a carpenter he had probably more often engaged in making desks and bedsteads than fortifications for an impending siege.

No, it wasn't his fault. On the contrary, it was hers. She should have engaged in a few bloody feuds with her neighbors instead of passing her days riding through the forest on Eleanor. Then maybe Bardo would have acquired some practice by now, she thought wryly.

And Eleanor might still be with her. The thought was painful.

Softening her voice, she said: "Do you think you would be able to manage if somebody showed you how to do it?"

Bardo nodded earnestly. "Yes, Milady. I'm good at what I do, good at working with wood. I just don't have any experience with this kind of thing, Milady."

"Well then, we will have to find someone who has," she concluded. Turning to Burchard, who had stood by her side silently all the time, she asked: "Do you think Sir Isenbard has any experience in anything like this?"

"He has been around for more than sixty years and fought his share of battles," the steward replied. "What do you think?"

Ayla nodded. "Then we're agreed. We must send word to him immediately, and to Sir Rudolfus and Sir Waldar, too. Thank God they live west of the river."

"I wouldn't be so hasty with my thanks," Burchard growled. "Sir Isenbard will be helpful, I agree. He might not be in his prime anymore, but he's hard as an old oak. Sir Rudolfus or Sir Waldar, however... that's another matter."

Ayla raised her hands in exasperation. "They're the only other vassals[33] my father has, Burchard."

"That's what worries me."

"What would you have me do? Even if they're no help at all, they will at least bring a few more men with them."

The steward shrugged. "You're right, I suppose."

"Send three riders out at once. And make sure the fastest rider is sent to Isenbard. I want him here as quickly as possible." Shaking her head, she examined their feeble attempt at a barricade again. "In fact, I wish he were here now. I'm a fool not to have sent for him already!"

"And how would you have done so?" Burchard asked. "All our seven riders, including yourself, were rather busy up until now. There's no sense in beating yourself up. For your first siege, you're doing great!"

"Oh really. And what makes you think so?"

"Well, we're not dead yet," the steward replied with a wolfish grin that showed his yellowing teeth. Before she could think of an answer to that, he walked off, beckoning three of the riders who had just returned from their rides to the eastern farms towards him.

Sighing, Ayla turned back to Bardo, who had waited silently, watching their conversation with apprehension.

"Well, it appears you'll soon get your help. Sir Isenbard will know what to do."

"Yes, Milady. Thank you, Milady."

She turned away, already considering what needed to be done next, but turned back one last time to look at the carpenter. "And one tip to start with..."

"Yes Milady?"

"The pointy ends go at the top."

# Sewing Survival Tactics

Ayla stood on the bridge looking after the three riders who were galloping off in different directions, but all of them generally westwards, all of them going in search of one of her vassals. She hoped to God the three knights would be at home and not out hunting or something similar. The defenders of Luntberg couldn't afford to lose any more time than they already had.

Looking to the west, Ayla noticed for the first time that the sun had begun to sink towards the horizon. She had been so busy trying to save the ungrateful hide of that villain up in the castle that she hadn't realized how much time had elapsed. The day was almost over. Worried, she turned towards the east and searched the landscape for approaching figures. The setting sun tinged the forests crimson, as though it were autumn and not summer—or as though blood had painted the leaves of the forest red.

Where were the peasants from the eastern farms? They should be here by now.

"Milady?" Burchard stepped onto the bridge beside her, accompanied by a few villagers. "Do you have any other commands?"

Ayla shook her head. She couldn't waste time worrying about those seven families now. There were dozens of families in her care. So many. Too many. And they all depended on _her_ , a seventeen-year-old girl, to guide them through the approaching darkness. For a moment, she was near tears. Then, taking a deep breath, she raised her chin defiantly, facing the sea of blood-red light which was flooding her eastern lands.

She was a Luntberg. She was her father's daughter, and she was not going to give up.

"Indeed, I have," she said, turning sideways to face the waiting people. "Burchard!"

The steward abruptly stood straighter, hearing the unusually commanding tone of her voice. "Yes, Milady!"

"Organize the best castle guards into a watch. They are to guard this bridge at all times. Always, at least six men are to be present: one stationed on the eastern side and one on the western side, each equipped with a torch during the night."

"And what of the remaining four, Milady?"

Ayla smiled. "Three are to be spread on the eastern bank as lookouts, one is to stay with a horse on the western bank. None of them are to have torches, and they are to keep themselves concealed at all times, so when the enemy approaches, Falkenstein's men won't be able to kill them from afar with bows and arrows. It will be the job of the three men on the eastern bank to defend the bridge until the rider has had time to fetch reinforcements."

Burchard bowed, a proud gleam in his eyes. "Yes, Milady."

"Oh, and one more thing." A hard glint entered Ayla's eyes. "If, by any chance, a knight in red armor should pass this way, seize him, clap him in irons, and bring him to me."

"Yes, Milady!"

"You." Ayla pointed to a peasant, who took a step backwards.

"Me, Milady?"

"Yes, you. I want you to gather all the wagons and handbarrows you can find, and some trustworthy men, and bring everything edible from the village into the castle."

Surprise and anger flitted across the man's face, before he could suppress the emotions. One could see his jaw working, as he knelt, and said: "As you wish, Milady."

He rose and began to turn, but Ayla said: "Stop."

The man turned back, looking even more resentful. Ayla could feel the stares of the other villagers on her. They didn't seem much happier about her order.

"Do you understand why I am giving you this order?" she asked in a soft voice.

"I think I do, Milady."

She shook her head. "No, I don't think so. What's your name? Wait, I think I recognize you. Aren't you Berthar? Your sister is married to one of the castle guards."

"Yes, Milady. I come to visit her sometimes."

"So, Berthar. Why did I give you that order?"

The man looked down, avoiding her eyes. "I couldn't say, Milady."

A smile tucked at the corners of Ayla's lips. This was a clever man. He knew how to use words. "You mean you _literally_ cannot say—because you're afraid of offending your mistress. Don't be afraid, Berthar. I'm not having all the food brought to the castle because I plan to leave you stranded out here alone, at the mercy of the mercenaries."

The man's head snapped up with evident surprise. "You're not? But I thought..." And then, realizing what he had said, he clamped his mouth shut quickly and looked down again. "Beg your pardon, Milady."

"There's nothing you need to apologize for." She took a step closer. "Berthar, look at me."

He did as she had commanded. There was uncertainty and fear in his round, stubbly face.

"I'm going to do my utmost to keep you all safe," Ayla said, trying to infuse the words with every ounce of earnestness in her heart. "I'm going to fight for you, your homes, and your families. But I'm not the warrior my father was. I'm young, inexperienced, and far less powerful than the Margrave von Falkenstein. There may come a time when we cannot hold out here any longer and must retreat into the castle."

Berthar nodded. "I understand, Milady."

"Do you?" She raised an eyebrow. "I said _we_."

Berthar was quick. His eyes flew open in astonishment.

A few moments later, she heard gasps of surprise all around her, as the others understood.

"Do you mean...? You can't mean..."

"I mean," Ayla said, her small, feminine voice easily silencing that of the man before her, "that if the worst comes to the worst, I will not flee alone and leave behind those to whom I have pledged my protection. I will take everyone along with me into the castle."

Burchard gripped her arm and hissed into her ear: "What are you saying? You know we can't..."

She silenced him with a single look. He let go of her arm.

"As we live together so we stand together," she told Berthar. "As we live together, so we fall together. Do you understand, Berthar?"

There was a fierce gleam in the peasant's eyes. "Aye, Milady!"

"Well? What are you waiting for? I would imagine gathering enough supplies for an entire village takes some time, so get to it!"

He fell to his knees, and all the other villagers around her followed suit. They stayed like that for three immeasurable seconds, then sprang up again and began to disperse, conversing eagerly about what needed to be done.

As soon as they were far enough away, Burchard grasped her arm again and pulled her towards him. "You foolish young girl!" he growled into her ear. "Have you any idea how quickly our supplies will be used up with the entire village quartered in the castle? You've just ruined our only chance of sitting out this siege!"

Ayla didn't reply; she just waited.

"You also," Burchard added grudgingly, as he observed the feverish activity among the peasants, "have just gained your men's undying loyalty. Well done."

"Thank you."

"I only hope you didn't pay too high a price."

Ayla threw her father's trusted old friend a sideways glance. "The price for rectitude can never be too high."

"Bah!" Burchard spat out. "Did your father teach you that fine saying?"

Ayla grinned, proudly. "No, I came up with that all by myself."

"Figures."

He let go of her, and Ayla turned towards the east again. In the light of the setting sun, she could see a few figures approaching. One of them was significantly smaller than the others, but seemed to be running faster. The Lady of Luntberg Castle took a deep, steadying breath. Finally. Her challenge was approaching.

"Dilli?"

The maid, who had followed Ayla out of the castle and watched the proceedings from a distance, hurried closer. "Yes, Milady?"

"I have a task for you, too. In fact it is the most important task of all."

Everybody still in the vicinity—Burchard, a few peasants, and some castle guards—looked up and listened intently.

Dilli swallowed. "Yes, Milady. I will do my best."

"Good. I'll need you to make me a doll."

Everyone, including Dilli, stared at Ayla with blank expressions on their faces.

"Err... Milady?" Dilli looked at her pleadingly. "A what?"

"A doll. You know what a doll is, don't you? The sort of thing little girls play with."

"Um... yes, Milady."

"You can sew, can't you?"

The maid nodded, still looking nonplussed.

"Are you good?"

"Yes, Milady, I think so."

"And quick?"

"I believe so."

"Then make me a doll out of leather. Paint a face on her and put her in a dress. Can you do that in, say..." Ayla gauged the remaining distance between the travelers and the bridge, "...half an hour?"

"If I have help, Milady, yes."

"Then get to it. And hurry, we don't have much time!"

As the maid hurried off, Burchard leant over to Ayla and asked in a low voice: "Forgive my ignorance, but how exactly will this help us win the fighting?"

Ayla smiled an apprehensive smile. "It won't. But it might help me stay alive long enough to actually see anything of the fighting."

*~*~**~*~*

Possibly her deadliest foe ever was approaching from the opposite side of the bridge. Ayla, however, didn't turn and run. Like a true Luntberg, she stood her ground and awaited the approach of the mighty one who would spell wreck and ruin if she did not give them what they wanted.

When the little girl had reached her, Ayla bent down, smiling, and said, without letting her fear show: "Hello there! Did you have a nice trip?"

"Where's my doll?" the girl demanded. "Where's my Agnes?"

Ayla winced. Right to the point. She had hoped to draw this out a little bit. Apparently, there was to be no mercy. Now, everything depended on Dilli's handiwork. If she ever got her hands on the crimson-clad fiend who had made her endure this...

"Look," she began in a nervous voice, "there's something I have to tell you..."

"Where's my doll?"

Persistent, too. May the crows and the pestilence chase that crimson cad.

"Your Agnes may be a little bit different than you remember," Ayla said, and she tried another smile. It ended up as more of a grimace.

The little girl's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Different? How different? You didn't let a baddy get to her and lock her in a tower, did you? I told you..."

"No, no," Ayla assured her hurriedly. "It's just that she met this other lady doll in my saddlebag, a very fine lady doll from the... um... the Emperor's Court, and this lady doll insisted on giving your Agnes a new dress and helping her look less like a wolfhou— um... even more fine than before. So, here she is."

Ayla removed her hand from behind her back and held out a leather doll in a fine silk dress, with a smiling face and sparkling stones for eyes.

For a few moments that lasted for an eternity, the little girl stared at the doll with an expressionless face. Ayla held her breath, awaiting her sentence.

Then, the girl snatched up the doll and threw her arms around Ayla's waist. "Thank you! Oh thank you, thank you! You've made Agnes look so much finer! She's a real lady now!"

"That she is," Ayla said, sighing with relief. "That she certainly is."

"Thank you so much, Lady Ayla! I gotta go show this to my mummy and daddy, yes? May I show them, please, please?"

"Yes, of course. Go on," Ayla laughed.

The little girl ran away with her new treasure pressed against her chest, her hair flying wildly behind her.

Ayla sighed again and wiped a few drops of sweat off her forehead. "Now for the easy part," she mumbled. "The siege."

# Feast, Feud, and Fennel

Reuben was bored. It had now been several hours since the mad girl who styled herself the lady of this castle had disappeared, and since then, nobody had come to see him. He had neither seen nor heard anything to arouse his interest. Did nothing ever happen in this dump?

There was a knock at the door. A nervous knock, a servant's knock. Reuben remembered what they sounded like all too well from the old days.

"Come in," he called. Anything to bring a bit of diversion.

The silly, screeching maid from earlier entered the room, holding a tray in her trembling hands, on which stood a steaming wooden bowl. She looked like a frightened bunny condemned to bring a wolf his food, hoping he wouldn't eat her instead of what she was carrying.

"Your s-supper, Sir," she stammered.

"Ah!" Reuben rubbed his hands together. He was almost as hungry as he was bored, and was looking forward to a hearty meal. "What do you have for me? Tell, tell."

"F-fennel soup, Sir."

Reuben's face went blank. "What?"

Trying to stay as far away from him as possible, the maid knelt and placed the tray in front of him. The bowl on it contained a greenish fluid which Reuben at a glance would have identified as stagnant pondwater.

"We have prepared a special diet for you, according to the teachings of the great abbess and healer Hildegard von Bingen," she explained, timidly. "She recommends that any who suffer from illness or wounds take only liquid food, and she places great emphasis on the healing effects of fennel."

"She does, does she?" Reuben growled. "And do all of your sick receive this affectionate treatment?"

"No, Sir," Dilli said hurriedly. "We would never dare! Lady Ayla gave me instructions to prepare this specially for you. I made the soup with e-extra f-fennel!"

"How... nice of you." Reuben's gray eyes glowed with the promise of steel and death. "Remind me to thank your mistress for this later, will you?"

Dilli nodded eagerly, obviously relieved beyond measure that he was pleased with the special care they took of him. "Yes, Sir."

The maid started to rise, but Reuben grabbed her arm. "Tell me—what is the Lady Ayla having for dinner?"

The girl hesitated for a moment, seeming to struggle with herself and as well as with the possibility of fainting from the fact that a mad monster, who was probably one of the undead, was clutching her arm in an iron grip.

"Ch-chicken p-pie with Lord's Sauce and honey wine, I heard, Sir."

Reuben's eyes almost sprang out of his head from anger, but he managed to smile at the silly girl. "Indeed?"

"As the first course of five. She's practically feasting."

"Ah. Thank you for telling me. Now I really look forward to my next meeting with your mistress."

That arrogant little minx! Reuben gnashed his teeth in anger. He would... well, he didn't know yet what he would do to exact his revenge on Ayla, but it would be something inventive.

He let go of the maid's arm and picked up the wooden spoon in the bowl as if he were about to start eating the ghastly substance.

Smiling happily, though apprehensively, she curtsied and left the room. Reuben had to mightily resist the urge to just throw the bowl at the closed door. No, that would not be wise. His host was obviously fond of her servant, and it wouldn't do to alienate his host. Carefully, he sniffed the bowl again. Perhaps he could just throw it out of the window? No, it would be found. He had to act inconspicuously. He couldn't afford to draw Ayla's attention and maybe make her realize who he really was.

_So be charming_ , he told himself. _You know how to. You once had all the ladies of the Imperial Court at your feet._

Yes, he had. He had also been a bloody fool back then. But that didn't mean he couldn't use his old skills to his advantage now. He smiled. The first rule of chivalry: whatever a lady gives you, accept it with grace and thanks, even if it stinks.

He stood up and grabbed the bowl. A movement that would have brought any other man with this kind of wounds to his knees howling in pain—but not him of course. With the bowl in hand, he went to the back of the room to what looked like the doors of a wardrobe, behind which, he hoped, lay the answer to his dilemma. He opened the doors and grinned in satisfaction.

He had found what he was looking for: a garderobe, a small wardrobe for precious clothes. It was attached to the outer wall of the keep, directly over the dungheap, and was open at the bottom. The stench wafting up was supposed to keep moths away. Reuben had always thought it quite an ingenious idea. If he were a moth, he'd certainly keep his distance.

He turned the bowl upside down and emptied its contents onto the dungheap. The second rule of chivalry: if the thing your lady gives you stinks, get rid of it in an inconspicuous manner.

Reuben supposed he would have to sneak down to the kitchen tonight and steal some real food. For now, though, that would have to wait. Still hungry and still bored, he went to the window, where at least the view might be mildly more interesting than when he lay on his back on the bed, staring at the stone ceiling.

In the red light of the setting sun, his experienced eye scanned the castle below, finding its strengths and weaknesses. There were not many of the latter. Whoever had built this place, he'd had more brains than the girl, Ayla. This was a mighty stronghold, standing in the midst of, he noticed as his eye skimmed over the landscape in the distance, a truly beautiful valley with lush green meadows and mighty forests.

An odd kind of longing tugged at Reuben's heart at the sight. What was it? Nostalgia? It had been a very long time since he had stood in a place like this. Slowly, his eyes slid shut and his fingers gripped the stone windowsill in a death grip. He could see it, feel it. See the countless other views from castle windows he had seen, feel the wind touching his face, the armor on his body, the blood-red cape with his escutcheon tugging at his neck. Most of all, he could feel the sword in his hand—the weapon of a knight. Of a man who sought honor and glory.

His eyes snapped open—there was the gathering dark.

A man who sought honor and glory? Bah! That man was a dead man. That man no longer existed. He had died from his wounds a long time ago, wounds severe enough to kill any mortal man. Nothing would ever bring him back again. And that was how it should be—that man had been a bloody fool.

Reuben's eyes zeroed in on a group of people in front of the stone bridge that spanned the river separating the valley into two halves. They were building something. Looked like they were erecting poles. For tents, perhaps? Yes! They were planning some kind of feast! That was why no one had come to see him. They were planning to make merry without inviting him! Abominable villains!

In a few strides, he was away from the window and over at the door. He would show them what it meant to slight Sir Reuben Rachwild!

His hand hesitated on the door.

He couldn't show them. Not yet. That blasted girl who fancied herself a great lady was sure to be there, feasting along with the rest of them, while he was supposed to be stuck here forcing down fennel soup. More importantly, her guards would also be there. If he so much as uttered the word "knight" in her presence, she would realize who he really was, and she would have his head on a pike.

Reuben felt his back and chest. There was no pain, naturally, but he could feel it in his bones: he wasn't ready to face them yet. He would have to endure this humiliation for a couple of days longer, until he was fully restored. Then he would reveal himself, and they would all cower before him! That he swore to himself, then marched back to his bedstead. He would have his revenge.

But the girl he would leave alive. Yes. Not out of compassion, of course. He was beyond that. No, it would be amusing to leave her alive and let her see his triumph. She was actually funny to have around, if she wasn't busy acting crazy. And he would love to see how _she_ liked fennel soup.

*~*~**~*~*

Ayla had just finished her supper and was crossing the entry hall when she almost bumped into Dilli who was coming out of the corridor that led to Reuben's chamber.

"Milady! I didn't expect to see you here. Are you on your way to see our guest?"

That was exactly what Ayla had been about to do, but she answered in a haughty tone: "Him? I'm not going to waste my time on the likes of him. No, I'm on my way to see my father."

Her face darkened, for it was no mere excuse. She had put the encounter off all day, telling herself that it was her duty to make all the necessary preparations first. But now that the watch was organized, the riders were dispatched, and everything else was taken care of, she had no choice but to go and tell her father that she, his only daughter, was the reason why hundreds of enemy soldiers would soon be marching into this peaceful valley.

"It is time someone told him his castle is about to be attacked."

Dilli hesitated. "Is that... wise, Milady? In his state of health?"

Ayla pulled a face. "Better he finds out now than when the arrows start raining down on us."

Dilli had to agree. "But do you have to tell him yourself, Milady?" The maid could see how much her young mistress dreaded the coming encounter and wanted to spare her this pain. "Surely, Burchard or one of the servants..."

"Did Burchard or the servants get us into this mess? No."

"But neither did you!" the maid protested loyally. "The fault is the Margrave's, Milady, not yours."

Ayla smiled at the maid's indignant expression at the thought of anyone laying blame on her mistress, even the mistress herself.

"That may be so, Dilli. But it was I who picked up the gauntlet, and so it is I who must answer to my father."

"If you say so, Milady."

Ayla was about to leave when Dilli hesitantly asked: "Milady?"

"Yes, Dilli?"

"Why did you ask me to tell our guest that we had a great feast and that you ate five courses, when in truth, you've ordered the entire castle, including yourself, to be set on strict rations as long as the threat from the Margrave lasts?"

Ayla grinned, feeling, just for the moment, completely free of worry. "For the fun of it, Dilli. Just for the fun of it."

Then she went away, whistling, leaving her confused maid behind.

*~*~**~*~*

Ayla's good mood lasted about two minutes, exactly the same amount of time it took her to climb the stairs to her father's bedchamber. He had deliberately chosen one of the high chambers, from which he could overlook the entire valley and enjoy the wonderful view. Ayla wished now that he hadn't. Surely he had already seen every bit of the siege preparations that had been going on down there. Count Thomas von Luntberg might be old, but he was neither blind nor senile. Exactly the opposite, in fact.

Finally, she reached the old oak door that led to the Count's chamber.

Raising a hand, Ayla knocked at the door, almost hoping he wouldn't hear. But of course he did.

"Come in, daughter," the Count called.

# Stolen Youth and Black Pudding

Ayla entered the familiar circular tower chamber with its bright tapestries and broad, horn-pane windows. She had always loved those windows, as had her father. This high up in the castle, far above the reach of any arrows, the builder had judged it safe to install really broad windows, not just broader versions of arrowslits, and they granted an even more impressive view of the valley than the narrow windows in the main hall or the guest rooms did.

Beside the largest of the windows stood a bed, and on the bed lay a frail figure.

"Ayla? Come closer so I can see you."

Hesitantly, Ayla stepped closer and knelt before the fragile old man. She was shocked by what she saw, and for a moment wondered why. After all, she had got used to how small and weak her father had become over the years. Yet, she realized, seeing another figure lying on another bedstead today, a figure in the prime of his youth and as tall and strong as the Count had once been, had brought the decline of old age into sharper focus.

Careful to keep the shock from her face, she raised her hand and stroked Count Thomas' white beard.

"Hello, Father," she said in a low voice, hardly able to keep herself from choking. Now she would have to tell him. She would have to destroy what little peace he still had. She couldn't bear it! But she had to tell him about the feud; it was her duty.

"Sorry I haven't come to see you all day. It's just... something has happened. I... um..."

"He has declared a feud, hasn't he?" The Count sighed. "I wonder what took him so long."

Ayla's mouth dropped open. "He? What do you mean he has declared...? How do you know? Which he?"

"The Margrave von Falkenstein, of course," Count Thomas said. "We are talking about the Margrave, aren't we? Don't say another power-hungry noble has beaten him to it?"

"It is the Margrave! What I want to know is how you knew already. He only sent me the gauntlet today!"

The Count sighed. "Oh, Ayla. I've known for a very long time that something like this was going to happen. For years and years I watched Falkenstein declare one feud after another, swallowing up every fiefdom in the neighborhood. His power has been growing constantly, and with his power his hunger for more. I tried to warn the other nobles, but nobody would listen to me."

"How come I didn't know anything about that?" Ayla demanded, anger replacing her shame. "How come you didn't tell me?"

"You were still a little girl, Ayla. Falkenstein has been playing this game for years, and he's a careful player, always sending out generous gifts to every noble around him, promising he is their friend, their ally—until his troops stand at the border and it is too late for them to realize his true nature." The Count's eyes became sad. "I'm sorry, Ayla. I should have taken action long ago, should have faced him in battle before he became as powerful as he is today. But I hesitated. To draw the bloody sword of war is a terrible thing. I hesitated too long. My sickness struck, and it was too late. Too late... Now I could not draw a sword even if I wanted to. Now you will have to face him. My little girl."

He held open his frail arms and Ayla rushed into his embrace, hugging him back with probably a little bit too much force. She quietly sobbed into his shoulder.

"Shh." The Count's voice was a raspy whisper. "It's all right. Everything is going to be all right, honey."

"No it's not, and you know that!"

"Yes, I do. I'm so sorry, Ayla."

"For what?"

"For you having to face the result of my negligence as a liege lord."

"Don't say that! There's never been a more just and honorable lord than you!"

"Well," he laughed drily, "now I will have to give up part of my dominion, no matter how just and honorable I am. Tell me, daughter, and do not try to shield me from the truth: how much did he demand?"

Frowning, Ayla drew back. "What do you mean, Father?"

"The Margrave von Falkenstein. How much did he demand?"

"I'm afraid I still can't follow you."

Now the Count was frowning, too. "But... this is always the way it is done. He threatens someone with feud, unless they give up a part of their lands. What does he want? The bridge and the toll rights, am I right? I suppose we will have to comply. I won't deny it will be a heavy loss, but we will manage to survive somehow. We can..." The Count's voice slowly faded as he saw the expression on his daughter's face.

"What did he want, Ayla?" he asked. "What did you agree to?"

Ayla said nothing.

"You did agree, didn't you?"

Still nothing.

"Ayla, child, what have you done?" The Count grasped her arms. The look in his ancient eyes told her that he already knew how she had responded to the Margrave's demands. "Send a messenger after the herald and tell him we accept the Margrave's terms. Child, this is no time for pride! The Margrave is not only powerful, he is as ruthless as _Amon_ [34] and as greedy as _Mammon_[  Better we give up some of our land than incur his wrath."

"You make the wrong comparisons, Father," Ayla said, sadly. "If you wish to compare the Margrave to a prince of hell, _Asmodeus_ would be the better choice."

The Count's grip tightened. There was a moment of deadly silence. Count Thomas knew the Bible well. These days, he had almost nothing else to do but read. He knew the names of all the saints and angels, and those of other things. Such as _Asmodeus_ —the demon of lust.

"What did he demand, Ayla?" Count Thomas asked.

Ayla felt her jaw tighten. She raised her gaze and looked her father directly in the eyes. "The alternative to war wasn't giving him a part of our land, Father. The alternative to war was giving myself to him."

Slowly first, then faster and faster like a river that has broken its banks and ravages the land in a flood, rage spread over the Count's ancient face and his hand went to the left of his belt where, long ago, his sword had hung. It fell limply onto the sheets when he realized that the sword wasn't there anymore.

"The devil be cursed for the weakness in my bones," he growled. "I wish I had the Margrave here. Then, aged or not, I would take my sword and split his skull open, God be my witness!"

"I know you would," Ayla said, a faint smile on her lips. Oh God, it was so hard to see him this way.

"I must get up. I must speak to Burchard, organize the men..."

Before Ayla could move to stop him, he had attempted to stand—and before he was fully upright, he fell, like a tree brought down by an ax. His hands slammed onto the stone floor and his arms gave way. Cursing, he landed face first on the cold stone.

"Father!"

"It's all right, everything is all right," he grunted, trying to disguise the pain in his voice. "I just stumbled. That's all."

But Ayla knew it was far more than that. She had watched him weaken over the years. She knew the accursed malady that was eating away at his bones, making him frail before his time.

"I must rise," he snarled, pushing himself up on his knees with every ounce of strength he still possessed. "I must rally the men."

Kneeling down before him, Ayla looked at him, sadness in every line of her ivory features and said: "You cannot."

It was no accusation, nor was it an expression of pity. It was simply a fact.

And the Count knew it.

Slowly, he let himself sink to the floor again.

"What have I come to, Ayla?" he whispered.

She didn't answer. Instead she just put her arms around him, grieving with him for what he could not do, and for what she knew she would have to do in his stead.

*~*~**~*~*

It was late when Ayla left her father's room to return to her chambers. After Ayla had helped the old man back to his bed, they had talked over everything that had to be taken care of—provisions, tactics, weapons of all kinds—all things of which Ayla knew little and of which she would never have had to learn had not fate struck down her father with premature old age.

Although Ayla hated to even contemplate harming someone, she was glad for everything her father could tell her. _At least_ , she thought, _I won't be unprepared. At least I will be able to defend my own people._

This thought had given her some confidence and had even brought a smile to her face as evening turned into night. But, seeing that, the Count had warned her: "What I can tell you is little enough: I was never part of a great campaign or a crusade, and besides, my knowledge is decades old. Honestly, I don't know what half of the defensive mechanisms in this castle of mine are for." His face was grim as he said that.

Ayla swallowed. "Sir Isenbard will know what to do," she said with conviction. "He was in the Crusades, and a great tournament fighter besides."

"He was," the Count granted, and then added, so low that she almost didn't catch it: "Thirty years ago..."

The Count took his daughter's hand. "Just be careful. Promise me? Be careful and listen to Isenbard."

Ayla nodded. "I promise."

If even the name of his oldest friend, Sir Isenbard, couldn't make Count Thomas optimistic, Ayla thought as she descended the staircase, oil lamp in hand, then things were really desperate. She had heard her father's comment. Thirty years ago... How much could weapons and castles change in thirty years? Could swords become any sharper than they already were, and stone walls stonier? Ayla would have doubted it very much, if not for the grim expression on her father's face. That expression told her all she needed to know.

They needed someone who knew what to do—and no one was in sight.

Just as she thought that, Ayla caught a glimpse of something moving further ahead. Quickly, she pressed herself against the corridor wall and shielded the lamp with her hand. None of the servants were supposed to be up this late! There were guards that were still awake, of course, but all of them were posted outside the keep. Who the devil was sneaking around in her castle in the middle of the night?

Peeking out of the stairway and into the corridor, she saw a massive dark figure moving towards the kitchen. _Him_? What was _he_ doing here?

*~*~**~*~*

Reuben was faced with a very hard choice. He had to choose between black pudding,[36] chicken, and apple pie. In the end, he decided to take some of each. _It couldn't hurt_ , he thought, and then grinned at his unintentional joke. No, it most definitely couldn't hurt.

Biting a chunk off the black pudding, he stuffed the rest under his arm and made his way back to his room. Even if anybody noticed the theft, nobody in his right mind would suspect him. After all, he was an invalid, grievously wounded and unable to move.

*~*~**~*~*

Ayla could hardly believe her eyes as she watched Reuben enter the kitchen. No, that wasn't putting it right. She couldn't _hardly_ believe her eyes, she could not believe her eyes _at all._

She had seen his wounds: seen them, cleaned them, and bandaged them. No one with that amount of damage to his body could stand without falling down, screaming in agony. And walking? Impossible!

Perhaps her eyes were playing tricks on her. She had only seen him in the moonlight, after all, having extinguished the oil lamp in her hand so as not to be seen. Yes, that must be it. It couldn't be Reuben. How could that arrogant, pampered merchant even lift a finger in his current state? Though now she thought of it, he had shown no sign of pain while she bandaged him. Could it be...? No!

Suddenly, the kitchen door opened again and a muscular black shape darted down the corridor, so fast that Ayla had not even taken a step before he was out of sight. No, that couldn't be Reuben! No merchant could move like that, with the speed of a snake and the strength of a lion.

Her heart hammering, she set out to follow the stranger. She grasped the oil lamp with both hands and held it like a club. Not a very effective club, but still, it was better than nothing.

_Yes, and a knife would be better than an oil lamp_ , she thought to herself, scathingly. _I need to have a talk with our master smith._

She reached the end of the corridor and looked around. Nobody was in sight, and three corridors led off in different directions. The stranger was long gone by now.

_If it even was a stranger_ , she admonished herself. _Maybe it was no man. Maybe it was just one of the maids fetching herself a glass of milk and you were being fanciful._

Nevertheless, she went to check on Reuben. Slowly, so as not to wake him, she pushed open the door to his room and stepped in.

*~*~**~*~*

Reuben heard the creak of the door and hurriedly lay down on top of a half-finished black pudding, pretending to be asleep. He heard soft steps approaching. No man. And none of the maids, either. He knew these steps, he had heard them before. Soft, and yet lively, like those of a young doe on a forest path. Ayla!

Why was she coming into his room in the middle of the night? Ice flooded Reuben's heart as he realized the only possible answer: she had realized who he was. She had recognized him, finally! Had she come to kill him in his sleep?

Her steps stopped next to him.

If that was so, he had to act quickly.

Reuben peeked up at her, standing over him, the sparkling blue of her eyes intensified by the moonlight. A smile lay on her face. And... and there was something metallic glinting in her hand! A knife, it had to be a knife! She was contemplating revenge for his robbery, he knew it! He had to act now!

One swift turn, knocking her legs out from under her, so she fell on top of him. One of his hands over her mouth to stop her from screaming, the other gripping her neck to provide leverage. Then a sharp twist to that delicate ivory neck and all would be over, and he would be safe. _So easy_ , Reuben told himself.

But then why wasn't he moving an inch?

Why did he lie here like a stone, while this girl, this girl with the sparkling blue eyes, was preparing to stab him?

Still, he didn't move as she bent down—and put her hand on his forehead.

_Ah_ , he thought, almost breathing out in relief. _She is only here to check on me. Nothing more._

Then he felt her soft little hand moving away from his forehead, down the side of his face. She stroked his cheek once, twice, a third time.

Then she drew back hurriedly and almost ran out of the room—leaving behind a robber knight who had suddenly forgotten all about the black pudding he was still lying on.

# Sir Isenbard

_I was only checking on his health. That's all. I was only checking on his health. My hand slipped from his forehead by pure accident._ That became Ayla's mantra the next morning, directly after waking up. She was more than a little disturbed by what she had done, what she had felt, when she had suddenly been so close to Reuben, and alone with him in the dark. That her dreams that night had reflected those feelings hadn't helped matters much. Just to think of them made Ayla blush.

She couldn't allow herself to think of him in that way. For God's sake, the man was a commoner, and an arrogant piece of horse manure to boot!

"Milady?"

Ayla's head jerked up. Dilli was standing in front of her, a steaming bowl of soup in her hands.

"Oh, Dilli, it's you. Why didn't you knock?"

"I did, Milady. Three times, in fact. You seemed to be... preoccupied."

"Sorry, Dilli. I was just thinking... about the siege. Yes, that's what I was thinking about." She eyed the bowl in Dilli's hand suspiciously. "What's that?"

"You had a tiring day, yesterday. I thought you might appreciate breakfast in bed."

"Thanks, Dilli. That's so nice of you."

With a smile, Ayla took the bowl from the maid and began to spoon the soup into her mouth. It was so hot that it almost burned her throat, but it helped to revive her and get her thoughts back to where they were supposed to be.

"How are things with the castle servants, Dilli?" she asked. "What do they think about this business?"

Dilli gnawed on her lower lip. "Well, everybody is anxious of course, and there's been a bit of rumbling about the rationing, when no one has even seen so much as one of Falkenstein's banners yet. But nothing serious."

"So they..." Ayla hesitated, then plowed on in a rush: "So they don't think I'm an incompetent little girl who is dooming them all to death and destruction?"

Dilli looked truly shocked. "No, of course not, Milady! Whoever could think such a thing?"

"Err... well, never mind," Ayla muttered and returned her attention to her soup, her face reddening.

Dilli didn't leave, eying her mistress with concern.

"Dilli?"

"Yes?"

"Did you wander through the castle last night?"

"During the night? No, Milady."

"And any of the other maids or servants?"

"Not to my knowledge, Milady."

"Thanks, Dilli."

Ayla fell into silence again and continued eating. She had almost finished her meal when, from outside the castle, there came a faint sound, long and deep.

Ayla's hand froze halfway to her mouth. "Did you hear that?"

"What, Milady?"

Again, the sound rang out, louder this time, unmistakable.

"That!" Ayla shouted and sprang up, delight shining on her face.

When she looked at Dilli, the maid's features were similarly glowing with relief and happiness. Of course! Everybody in the castle knew that sound, had known it ever since they were little: the horn[37] of Sir Isenbard.

"He has come!" Ayla cried. "Dilli, he has come! My things, quickly! I have to get down there! We haven't got a moment to lose!"

"Sir Isenbard is here," Dilli sighed, as she helped her mistress into her clothing. "Now we are safe."

_So much for her believing I could handle things_ —the thought shot through Ayla's mind. But she immediately pushed it aside. There were more important things at hand than battling her own silly insecurities. They needed to get that barricade up before the Margrave's troops arrived. Plus, being busy would help get her thoughts off Reuben.

She ran towards the door, hesitating there and turning back. "Dilli?"

"Yes, Milady?"

"Go to the captain of the guards and tell him to post a man in front of the kitchen at night, will you?"

"The kitchen?" Dilli looked confused, but nodded. "As you wish, Milady."

Ayla turned to the door again and rushed out. It couldn't have been Reuben last night. No, it couldn't have been—but better to be safe all the same.

*~*~**~*~*

Reuben lay in his room staring at the ceiling, once again. The view hadn't improved much in comparison with yesterday. A spider had expanded its web in the upper left corner a bit, and the morning light threw different shadows on the uneven stone—other than that, he supposed it looked quite the same. Yet he didn't really notice or care. His thoughts were on something completely different. Or rather _somebody_.

Slowly, he reached up and touched his cheek. His battle-hardened hand was almost as rough as the stubble on his face. Her touch had felt completely different. Soft, and warm, and gentle, and tender...

Tender? Aye, fat chance! She was just a crazy minx; that was all.

_Get a hold of yourself, Reuben_ , he told himself. _What's the matter with you? She probably touched you for the same reason that made her ride around with a horseshoe and a leather puppet in her saddlebags: because she's weird in the head!_

Taking a bite of his black pudding, he tried in vain to think of something else. The girl was so infuriating!

_Come on_ , whispered a little voice in the back of his mind. _We know that you're not really angry at her—you're angry at yourself, for what you did last night, or rather for what you didn't do last night._

Reuben knew it was true, though he hated to admit it. Last night, he should have killed the girl. He thought she was coming to kill him, and he should have killed her first. As it turned out, he had been wrong, but that didn't change the fact that he hadn't acted when he should have. In essence, he had risked his own life to preserve another's. He hadn't done something so stupid since... since... well, not for a very long time.

Her bewitching eyes had been the problem! Bewitching in the real sense of the word, sparkling like sapphires. And that wasn't just any old metaphor. He had stolen enough sapphires to know how they sparkled. Through her eyes, he was sure, she had laid some kind of spell on him. She must have! She must really be a witch—there was no other explanation for his foolishness!

Angrily, he jumped to his feet and started pacing up and down. Dammit! If he didn't need to recuperate, he would already be on his way out of here. He should get as far away from Ayla as possible. He was furious that he couldn't leave, and even more furious that some part of him was glad he couldn't. Why should he want to stay here, where his life was in danger? It must be this castle. He hadn't been in a place like this since the old days, a place that felt comfortable and welcoming.

_It is all illusion_ , he reminded himself. _This is not and can never be your home. If the people here knew who you are, they'd hang you from the gallows in the blink of an eye!_

Voices from outside his room distracted him. Shouts—a girl's voice. No, not a girl. _The_ girl. Ayla. She sounded excited, and Reuben couldn't detect what kind of excitement: the "I just got a wonderful present"-kind or the "I knew I'd heard his voice somewhere! Hang him!"-kind. Quickly, he grabbed a big, metal candle holder from the table and positioned himself behind the door. If she had finally come to take his life, he wouldn't go down without a fight. He would give them a battle to remember!

But the voices rushed past his room.

"He has come," Reuben heard Ayla's voice from outside. "Burchard! Get your behind down here! He has come!"

With curiosity, and also a twinge of annoyance he didn't quite understand, Reuben asked himself which "he" had managed to elicit the delight that was evident in her voice. Whoever he was, he must be someone special, for her to be bubbling over with joy like that. Perhaps her betrothed?

Reuben realized that he could easily satisfy his curiosity. His room afforded a beautiful view over most of the valley and the only path up the woody mountainside towards the castle. Before he knew it, he was standing at the window, peering down on an impressive sight.

A column of soldiers was approaching the castle from the west: twenty or thirty men at least, marching with the disciplined ease of hardened warriors. At the head rode a tall knight in a surcoat[38] and chain mail, his banner fluttering in the wind behind him: a gray wolf, just as gray as the massive stallion the man was riding. Reuben thought it a bit odd for guests to arrive at Ayla's castle dressed in chain mail, but he had noticed the way the man held himself in his saddle. This was a man that was always ready for battle.

As the rider approached, he pulled off his helmet and put a horn to his lips. A deep tone echoed all around the valley. Cheers broke out inside the castle, and the gate opened to welcome the visitors, yet Reuben didn't notice.

He didn't notice because, even at that distance, he could see that the man was old—very old indeed. His angular features were unmoving, his skin crinkly and tough like old leather. He had to be at least sixty, maybe seventy years of age. And this was to be Ayla's husband? That could hardly be the case. Reuben knew, of course, that young girls were often married to elderly men. It was an established custom among the nobility. Nevertheless, he found the idea of Ayla having to marry such an old man simply repugnant!

Surely, she would too? The visitor must be somebody else—perhaps a family member, a favorite uncle arriving for the planned festivities, to which _he_ had still not been invited.

Then it occurred to him the preparations he had seen might very well be for a wedding feast.

"Satan's hairy ass!" he growled. "If I only knew what's going on down there!"

From his observation point he could see Ayla running out of the castle towards the new arrivals and for a moment, just for a moment, he thought he felt a twinge in his chest.

*~*~**~*~*

"Sir Isenbard! Sir Isenbard is here!"

The shouts echoed all around Ayla as she marched down the road towards the gray-haired rider. For a moment, Ayla felt pain at the thought that, normally, she would be riding on Eleanor to meet her father's old friend. She missed her horse terribly, and the thought of Eleanor wandering through the forest alone, or worse, in the hands of the Margrave's men, sent shivers down her back.

But the joy of her people and her own relief at seeing Sir Isenbard soon drove away those feelings. He was old, yes, but he had brought thirty men with him, and the way he held himself, stiff and unbendable like a stubborn old oak, made one thing clear: this was still very much a man to be reckoned with.

She went up to him and took the reins of his horse.

"Uncle Ironbeard," she said, looking up at him and smiling at the use of her childhood nickname for the old man. "I'm terribly glad you're here!" She hugged his iron-clad leg, only just managing to keep her voice steady. "You don't know how glad. We need you."

"Greetings, Milady." Isenbard nodded. If one looked very closely, one could see the left corner of his mouth lifting slightly—Sir Isenbard's equivalent of a hug lasting three full minutes and tears of joy at a reunion of friends. "What's the matter? Your man said only to come quickly. Other than that, the fellow wasn't very coherent. You should get a man with more sense."

"That's why I sent for you, Uncle," she said, still smiling, though she could feel her eyes beginning to water.

"Watch what you're doing, girl! No crying, you'll get my armor rusty!" Sir Isenbard growled in what was probably an affectionate way.

"We wouldn't want that now, would we?" Ayla stepped back, sadness seeping into her voice. "Seeing as you're going to need it."

Though it hardly seemed possible, suddenly the old man's face was ten times as hard as before.

"Need my armor? What for?"

"For defending your liege lord," Ayla said, drawing herself up to her full height and meeting Isenbard's searching gaze. "Sir Isenbard, I call upon you to fulfill your oath of fealty."

Understanding flashed back and forth between them. Now she was no longer the girl he considered the closest thing he had to a daughter. Now she was his mistress, with her people gathering behind her, watching. And she needed him to speak.

With astounding grace for a man of his age, Isenbard slid out of the saddle. Then he knelt in the dirt before Ayla and said, in a deep voice that carried all the way up to the castle and beyond: "As I have pledged, so I hold. My sword and my life, all that I am and will ever be, is yours!"

As the people behind her cheered, Ayla smiled.

*~*~**~*~*

So he _was_ her betrothed! Grimly, Reuben stared down at the smiling Ayla. Even up here at the castle window, he had heard every word the old knight had spoken. And she was smiling, as that grandfather pledged himself to her! What kind of woman could be happy to give herself to a man thrice her age? He probably was a powerful noble, and she lusted for men with power and influence, like all the other women he had ever known—greedy, worthless creatures! The quicker he was out of here and on the road again, the better!

Though, for some reason, he suddenly felt the urge to test his dueling skills against that stone-faced, old pervert...

# Worse than the Village Scarecrow

Accompanied by a cheering crowd of villagers, Sir Isenbard, his men, Burchard, and Ayla made their way up to the castle.

"I trust you will see to it that Sir Isenbard's men receive appropriate quarters, Burchard?" Ayla said to her steward.

"Yes, Milady."

"Then do it, and we will meet later to discuss everything. I have to go and have a look at Reuben now."

"Reuben?" If Isenbard hadn't already had so many wrinkles on his forehead, one might have detected a frown there. "Who is Reuben?"

"Ayla found a wounded bird in the woods she had to take care of until he can fly again," Burchard grunted, rolling his eyes. "You know how she gets."

"You mean charitable and caring?" Ayla asked sweetly. "Yes, I do get like that. You should try it some time."

The steward pulled a face. "Actually, I meant foolish and reckless. We shouldn't be harboring any stranger in the castle now that we are about to be besieged! It is dangerous. We don't know anything about who he is or, more importantly, whom he serves."

"What would you have me do?" Ayla demanded. "Throw him out to die on the off chance that he might be a spy?"

"Doesn't sound like a bad idea to me."

"You had better concentrate on the real threats instead of making up imaginary ones," she chided him. "Catch me that red robber knight for a start!"

"He's not likely to show his face on this side of the river now that we've got an armed guard at the bridge. And to cross the river to search for him would be too dangerous. Falkenstein could have hundreds of men in the forest by now."

"So you're afraid?"

"Now listen here, you little slip of a girl..."

Isenbard had walked alongside them listening to their heated conversation without showing any emotion. Now he interrupted: "Milady?"

She took a deep breath and turned to him. "Yes, Uncle?"

"I think you said you needed my help. Against which of those two you mentioned? This robber knight or the Margrave von Falkenstein?"

"The Margrave," Burchard replied immediately.

"The Margrave," Ayla conceded grudgingly after a few moments. "Though I'd dearly love to see that villainous robber's head on a pike," she added.

"Your wishes are duly noted," Isenbard said with a bow of his head. "We shall discuss the matter of the Margrave as soon as my men are settled in at the castle."

Ayla frowned, momentarily thrown off. "At the castle? Why at the castle, Uncle? We're planning to head the enemy off at the bridge. Wouldn't it be better to erect barracks or tents for the men there?"

Isenbard shook his head. "No. The bridge may be the first line of defense, but the castle will be any enemy's main objective. It may be that they find a way across the river other than the bridge. If we leave the castle unguarded, they could take it before we even notice. Such things have happened before—I've heard of one case where a lord with all the castle folk went to a feast in the neighborhood. When they returned, the doors were locked and a different flag was flying from the tower. One of his supposed friends had simply snatched the place while nobody was in it. We cannot make the same mistake. The castle must be guarded. We will station a small force at the bridge, and if they need support, they will have to wait until help from the castle arrives."

Even though his words were grim, they brought a smile to Ayla's face, and she let herself bask in the security of his presence for a moment. This was why she needed Isenbard. He knew what he was doing. "Good. Burchard will see to your men's needs. I have to go and change Reuben's bandages now. Till later, Uncle."

They had reached the keep, and she started towards Reuben's room. From behind her, she heard Burchard shouting: "Make sure you've got a guard posted outside the door while you're alone with him!"

Rolling her eyes, she began to climb the stairs.

*~*~**~*~*

By the time she had reached Reuben's room, a bright smile had replaced the annoyed expression on Ayla's face. Sir Isenbard's arrival, and the fact that he was obviously still in fighting form, was such a blessing that Ayla couldn't be put out by anything on this fine day. It was obvious as soon as she opened the door, though, that Reuben did not share her happy mood. The merchant—it was still odd to think of him in that way, he looked nothing like a merchant—lay with his back to the wall, staring at the opposite wall as though it were a deadly enemy. The scowl on his handsome face was truly impressive.

"Got up on the wrong side of bed, did we?" she said, cheerfully.

"I didn't get up at all," he growled. "Injured, remember?"

"It was a figure of speech."

"Aye, I know. And a pretty stupid one to boot."

Normally, she would have been offended. But in her current good mood, she just shrugged it off. "Sorry if I'm annoying you. I can't help feeling happy today."

For some reason, that seemed to upset him even more. "Yes," he said, his teeth clenched. "Your guest has arrived. I heard."

"Sir Isenbard? Yes, he's exactly who I've been hoping for."

"Oh really?" His voice was sarcasm incarnate.

"What's the matter with you?" Ayla frowned. "You don't seem to like him very much. Have you met him?"

"No, I've never met him."

"Then what's the problem? Roll over, I have to change your bandages."

Reuben just shook his head. "I don't have any problems. And I already have a bandage, I don't need another one."

"No problems? When you mention Isenbard, your voice sounds like you've been force-fed vinegar. And one must change bandages regularly. If one doesn't, or moves about too much or gets them dirty, the wounds will fester and you'll get fever."

Reuben muttered something unintelligible. Ayla only caught Isenbard's name among some muttered words that didn't sound very polite.

"What did you say?" she demanded.

"I just think he's too old!" Reuben growled. "That's all."

Deeply offended, Ayla put her hands on her hips. This was her father's friend he was talking about! Her Uncle Ironbeard!

"What do you mean, too old? He can't help aging, now, can he? And he's in amazingly good condition for his age."

"You think so, do you?" he asked, mockingly, then added: "Well of course you do, or you wouldn't be doing what you're about to do."

Ayla stared down at her hands. "What I am about to do? What has any of this got to do with me changing your bandages?"

"I wasn't talking about the bandages."

Ayla was getting confused. What was the matter with him? She had to find out. "Well then, what were you talking about?"

There were a few moments of silence.

"Forget it," he said, his voice cool now.

Ayla stared at him angrily. So he wanted to annoy her, did he? Well, two could play at that game.

*~*~**~*~*

Reuben could almost feel her anger boiling. He was amazed at the show she put on. Seeing her infuriated like that, he could almost believe that she genuinely cared for that gray-bearded pervert. Yuck! That would be even worse than her intending to marry him for his lands or money.

"By the way," she said sweetly, "I wanted to ask you how you liked your supper yesterday. I hope you like fennel soup?"

He couldn't help grinning. So, it was time for her revenge, was it? _We'll see about that_ , he thought to himself.

"I liked it very much. Please send my compliments to your cook," he replied uber-politely.

Her mouth dropped open and formed a tiny little "O." It looked very cute, and his grin widened at the sight. Quickly though, she regained her composure. Her eyes narrowed and she said: "Good, very good. So you won't have any objections to eating nothing else for the rest of the week? It'll do you a world of good, believe me."

"No, that's fine. It is really an excellent soup. Thank you so much for your concern about my diet, Milady."

"It's my pleasure," she said, probably truthfully. He had to work hard not to chuckle.

"And there's something I wanted to ask you," he added.

"Yes?"

"Have you made a decision about my compensation yet?"

She gasped, and again he had to suppress a chuckle. In a voice that sounded endearing in her attempt to be intimidating, she said: "Not quite. Though I thought maybe I could give you a pot of fennel soup, since you like it so much."

He let his face assume a sad expression. "Alas, Milady, that will not be possible. You see, I am a merchant and will have to sell it to buy me new wares to trade with. And while I know that your fennel soup is excellent, the people on the nearest market might not share that opinion. They might even think it tastes like overcooked horse manure."

He had expected her to be angry, or to make some sarcastic remark, or something along those lines. Her actual response took him completely by surprise.

She laughed.

It was a wonderful sound, like the music of a harp—so wonderful that he found himself joining in. They laughed and laughed, and then their eyes met, and suddenly they were both silent. There was a moment where they just stared into each other's eyes. Reuben drank in the sapphire-blue and thought of nothing else: not of his life being in danger, not of the fact that she was his enemy and captor, not of the pains of his past.

Then the moment was over, and she lowered her gaze. "So you're still convinced you deserve compensation, are you?" she mumbled.

"Absolutely," Reuben stated confidently, true to his role as the greedy merchant.

"Interesting. I still think you deserve being thrown out of the window, ungrateful lout that you are."

Reuben made a show of holding out his arms as if about to be picked up. "You're welcome to try, Milady."

Her face flushed the most adorable shade of red. "You will behave," she said, wagging a finger in his face, "or I _will_ try—with the help of three of my guards. Understood?"

"That is hardly fair, four against one."

"Neither is it fair to talk ill of people simply because they're old," she chided. "I want to know—what do you have against Sir Isenbard?"

All of a sudden, Reuben's good mood evaporated. The mention of that pervert reminded him of what he had successfully managed to forget for the last few minutes: she was pledged to a man who could be her grandfather.

_Yes, she is_ , he thought. _But the real question is: What concern is it of mine? She could shack up with the village scarecrow and it shouldn't be any business of mine._

"I told you, Milady," he couldn't help saying. "I think he is too old for you. You should choose someone better suited."

*~*~**~*~*

Ayla stared at him quizzically. How could one be too old to tell people how to build a barricade?

"What do you mean, I should have chosen someone else?" she demanded. "People like Isenbard don't grow on trees, you know. He is immensely experienced and talented. I can't think of anyone half as good as him. Believe me, I have seen him in action."

Reuben's eyes bulged, and he looked about to choke for a moment. "Seen him... in action?" he managed.

"Yes. Reuben, what is the matter?"

"When?" he demanded. "When did you...?" He broke off, seemingly unable to continue.

"A few years ago. My father was having some troubles, and he called Isenbard in to assist him."

At that, his eyes almost popped out of his head. "Your _father_?"

"Yes, my father."

"And..." Reuben took a deep breath. "Did Sir Isenbard deliver a _satisfactory_ performance?"

"Yes, he did. So you see, you have nothing to worry about."

"Yes, I see." Reuben's voice was colder now. "I see that it's none of my business. I shouldn't have said anything. Please forgive me, Lady Ayla, for my discourteous speech."

She looked at his face in puzzlement, not having the slightest clue what was the matter with him, or what he had been rambling about just now. Maybe he already had a fever and was starting to talk nonsense?

Without thinking, she placed her hand on his forehead and felt the temperature. No fever. Then her thoughts, or more precisely her memories, caught up with her actions. She remembered how, last night, she had snuck into his room, touched his face and...

Her cheeks blossomed red, and she quickly said: "Turn over now, will you? I haven't got all day!"

Reuben met her eyes with an unreadable expression and turned without another word.

Ayla untied the knot in the bandages and removed one layer after another. When she pulled away the last piece of linen, her breath caught and she felt dizzy all of a sudden. The wounds were a bloody mess, literally. This was not how they were supposed to look. Worst of all, the skin around the wounds was beginning to turn red.

_Oh God, no_ , Ayla thought. _Please don't let it fester._

"Reuben?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. "Did you move around at all?"

"No," was his only reply.

Overcoming her apprehension, Ayla looked at his wounds again. Were they swollen? It was hard to tell. Innumerable bands of muscle bulged everywhere on Reuben's back, swelling him in an absolutely natural and, admittedly, even quite attractive way.

"Reuben?"

"Yes?"

"I'm going to touch your back now. I have to examine something. It will hurt a lot, but please hold still."

"That won't be a problem," he said. His voice still sounded gruff with anger, but why was there also a trace of amusement in it? Ayla would dearly liked to have known. She herself couldn't see anything funny about the situation.

Very, very carefully, she reached out and touched the red spot on Reuben's back, conscious of the fact that at any moment he would cry out and flinch away.

He did nothing of the sort. Instead, he took a deep breath, and his breathing slowed. What was the matter with this man?

As soon as she had felt the unhealthy bulge under the red skin, she could answer at least part of this question. Yes, there was a swelling. But that was only an indication, she reminded herself. It didn't necessarily mean the wounds were getting infected.

"I'm going to have to wash this," she said and rose to her feet. "Don't move while I get some water and fresh cloth."

*~*~**~*~*

Reuben just lay there, thinking, while Ayla worked over him for almost an hour. He didn't really know or cared what she did. The wounds didn't bother him, they would heal soon enough, and then he would be out of here, away from her.

She had looked so radiant when she had come into the room earlier, so utterly happy. She must be a damn good actress to appear happy because of that stone-faced old creep. He had almost, almost believed that she was really looking forward to marrying that fellow—until her cheeks had reddened when she had touched his face.

That blush had sent a tumult of emotions tumbling around in his chest. So many, so various, that he didn't know which to name first. The strongest, however, was one he wasn't able to identify at all. A tugging sensation near his heart. It was almost as though his heart was hurting. But that was ridiculous, of course! Nothing could ever hurt _him_ , least of all such a soft, slender creature.

_Best you remember that_ , he told himself. _And remember what kind of a gross witch she is_. He wasn't all that keen on morals himself, but to freely admit she had been busy with her future husband _and her father_...

_God in heaven_ , he thought. _At least the last woman I fell for pretended to be honorable and kind. This little monster in an angel's guise freely admits to debauchery and bloodthirst, and still I can't help thinking about her. She really must have put a spell on me. The quicker I get out of here, the better!_

# The Enemy

Tired but satisfied, Ayla left Reuben's quarters an hour later. She was fairly sure she had prevented any festering. Just before she left, she had drilled it into him again to move as little as possible. But she knew he wouldn't be able to anyway. Any movement would still cause enough pain to have him writhing on the floor. He would have to stay where he was, and he would get better.

The question was: Why did that knowledge fill her with such overwhelming relief?

Shaking her head, she pushed Reuben to the back of her mind, where he belonged. Crossing the entry hall, she stepped out of the keep and saw Isenbard already waiting at the gates of the inner wall ring, his stallion beside him.

He nodded to her and pointed down towards the bridge, raising an eyebrow a fraction of an inch. This had always been his way: never waste a word you might need later.

"Yes, we're going," she said.

He climbed his horse. Ayla didn't waste time calling for another horse to be saddled. She felt too sad about the loss of Eleanor to be riding herself anyway. "Could you give me a lift, Uncle?"

He held out a gauntleted hand. She took it and swung herself into the saddle in front of him. He spurred his horse and they galloped out of the gate and down the mountain path. Ayla held on tightly to the arms clasped around her waist so as not to fall off the gigantic animal. She wasn't used to riding a horse this big and powerful.

"Are your men settled in?" she asked, breathlessly.

"Yes."

"And Burchard told you everything?"

"Everything about the feud, Milady."

You always had to listen very closely to Isenbard. There was always more to his short sentences than was apparent at first.

"So what didn't he tell you?"

"He wasn't very specific about this robber knight, Milady."

"Does he matter? He's somewhere on the other side on the river, and he's just one man."

"Every enemy matters. Tell me."

Ayla knew it was useless to argue with Isenbard. You could just as well try and persuade a mountain to move. So she told him about the robbery—except the details about where the knight had grabbed her to get her off her horse. No way was she going to admit that to her Uncle Ironbeard! He listened with the intensity of a man who knew how to be silent. However, while paying close attention, he didn't seem very interested in the story—not until she mentioned the knight's red attire.

Immediately, she could feel him stiffen behind her.

"Red?" he asked sharply. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, absolutely. Blood-red. Why do you ask?"

"Not that one," she heard him mutter under his breath. "Lord, let it be someone else."

"Uncle?" She tried to twist around to look at his face.

"Sit still, girl! We're galloping down a mountain! Do you want to fall off and break your neck?"

"Sorry!" she whispered, turning to face the path again. "Uncle, what's the matter?"

He sighed. "I guess you wouldn't know, you've never been to a tournament. Red isn't a color that is used in coats of arms within the Holy Roman Empire, generally. It's only used abroad, for example in England. Did the knight sound foreign to you?"

"I don't think so." Ayla's reply was hesitant. "But then, I've never met an Englishman. He didn't sound foreign to me."

Isenbard was silent.

"So what do you think?" she probed. "That he was English?"

"No, I don't think that."

"Then what?"

"There is one knight I heard spoken of, shortly after I had to end my days as a tournament fighter because my bones got too old and brittle."

She could feel him shudder even through several layers of armor. It was a moment before she could link the feeling to the probable cause. But no, that couldn't be. Her Uncle Ironbeard frightened?

"Mind you, I only heard rumors. But what I did hear... Let's just say I'd rather be facing a hundred Englishmen than that devil of a knight on his own. If it truly was he that robbed you, you're lucky to have got away with your life."

Ayla frowned. The knight had been arrogant and rude, he'd even threatened her, but somehow, looking back, she didn't believe he would actually have hurt her. Bound her to a tree and made fun of her, yes, but not hurt her.

"He didn't hurt me," she felt it incumbent upon her to point out, "and he had ample opportunity."

"Hmm. Well, perhaps it was not the one I have in mind. Let's pray to God it isn't, and that if it is, he's far, far away by now from you and your castle."

*~*~**~*~*

As soon as Ayla was out of the room, Reuben jumped up and went over to the chest in which he had stored his remaining hoard from his raid on the kitchen last night. He wasn't really that hungry yet, but Ayla had told him that he had to stay in bed, so he naturally wanted to stretch his legs. He snorted as he tore into a chicken leg. Trying to give him orders! The girl had some nerve.

After he had eaten all he could and jogged a few times up and down the room just for the fun of it, he went to the window. Strange—it hadn't been all that warm half an hour ago, but now he had started sweating and felt the need to feel a cool breeze on his face. Leaning out the window, he breathed in deeply, and then let his eyes wander over the beautiful valley.

The first thing he saw was Ayla, clutched tightly in the arms of the old gray-beard, riding down the mountain. Beautiful valley his ass! It shouldn't surprise him, after what he'd heard from her own lips, but it still disgusted and enraged him just to look at the two of them. Suddenly, he felt dizzy. Wiping sweat off his face, he stepped back from the window and sat on his bedstead, staring angrily at the wall opposite him.

*~*~**~*~*

Riding on Isenbard's powerful gray warhorse, Ayla and her vassal reached the bridge within a couple of minutes. He slid off the horse's back and then, as he had done ever since she was five years old, held out his arms to help her down. And she, as she'd done since she'd been five years old, slid down the other side.

He made no comment but turned towards the bridge. His eyes widened. "What was it you said you were trying to build here?" he asked.

"A barricade," Ayla told him.

"Well." Scrutinizing the disorderly heap of wood in front of him, he scratched his beard. "I can see why you sent for me."

"Since when have you been learned in sarcasm, Uncle Ironbeard?"

"I was being perfectly serious."

Still, a few men were hopelessly trying to arrange the logs in a more barricading order. When they spotted Sir Isenbard, they stopped what they were doing, and Bardo the carpenter came hurrying over to them.

"Sir Isenbard! The Lord be praised, I heard you had come!" He made a bow which, Ayla noticed, was even deeper than the ones he had made to her. It didn't surprise her, really. She would have to gain a lot more experience and self-confidence before she could command people's respect with as much ease as the old Sir Isenbard.

"What do you think?" she asked, pointing to the bridge. "How long will it take to raise a barricade?"

"Give me a day and it shall be done," the old knight responded, and then, without further ado, he proceeded to issue orders to the surrounding people at lightning speed, demanding more men, wood, nails, shovels, and a host of other things. After only ten minutes, they had dug a hole deep enough for the first pole to be planted in the damp earth.

"Good!" Sir Isenbard shouted, marching through the lines of sweating workers. "But you can do better! You can be quicker! Your families' lives are on the line here! You there, yes you, the scrawny fellow! Get me ropes! And hides, as many as you can lay your hands on!"

Ayla watched the proceedings, conflicting feelings raging in her. On the one hand, she was terribly anxious for her friends and family. They were all in mortal danger and their lives depended on what arose out of the earth in front of her eyes. On the other, she was also excited. Never had she been to any big tournament, or even a city, or any of the exciting places the minstrels[39] sang of. She had never even ventured beyond the borders of her father's land. Now the outside world would come to her bearing a bloody sword, and a battle the likes of which she had only heard of in tales would be fought on her very doorstep.

"Milady! Sir Isenbard! Look out!"

The shout of the watchman on the other side of the river pulled her abruptly from her thoughts. Her head snapped up, just in time to see a dark figure darting between the trees on the edge of the forest beyond the river.

"Get down!"

Not until Sir Isenbard rammed into her, knocking her to the ground, did Ayla realize that his shouted warning had been meant for her.

"Use your senses, girl," the knight growled, in his anxiety forgetting her proper title. "That's an enemy scout! He might have bow and arrow!"

"So what?" she protested, struggling to get free. But the heavy, chain mail-clad figure of the old knight pressed her firmly to the ground. "The Margrave wants to marry me, not murder me! Get off me, Isenbard!"

"He might prefer to have you as his wife—that would give his conquest a semblance of legality. However, that doesn't mean he won't consider your head on a platter a viable alternative. Do you think that's a risk I'm willing to take?"

That was about the longest speech Ayla had heard him make in years. She stopped struggling. Only when they heard the lookout shouting, "He's turned around! He's heading into the forest!" did Isenbard roll off her and get to his feet. He offered her his hand to help her up.

"Oh sure," she mumbled. "First knock me down, then help me up. Very courtly manners, indeed."

She took a look at her dress and almost groaned. This morning, she had put on one of her finest dresses, a white silk with gold trimmings. Now, it was covered with muddy brown stains.

"Oh no! Another dress ruined! Why did you do this, Isenbard?"

Isenbard snorted. "Because I had rather that your dress be stained brown than red."

Ayla rolled her eyes. "Men! Have you any idea how long it is going to take to get rid of those stains?"

The sound of a horn came from the eastern end of the valley. Everyone looked that way and saw above them, in the distance, where the forest path left the valley, a standard rising above the treetops. A standard in silver and black: the colors of Falkenstein.

"No I don't," Isenbard said in a quiet voice. "And if you don't mind, you'll have to wait until later to tell me." Running towards the half-finished barricade, he shouted: "What are you staring at, you wooden-headed louts? Get working! Get working again or I'll have the skin off your backs!"

From the midst of the men, Isenbard threw Ayla one single look and nodded towards the castle. She understood, and for once, she was in no mood to argue.

She ran.

The horns of Falkenstein echoed behind her.

*~*~**~*~*

In his dark mood, Reuben again heard horns blowing. What was this? The first contingent of wedding guests arriving? Though he didn't particularly want to know how disgusting the wedding guests were sure to be, considering the nature of the groom, he got up and walked to the window. Morbid curiosity be damned.

At first, he didn't know what he was seeing. The scene in the valley had totally changed. Oh, there were still birds singing in the trees, the sun glittering on the river water. But there was an anxiety and tension in the air he hadn't felt before. And in the middle of it all was the gray-bearded knight, shouting and waving his arms about as if the men he was commanding were building a bulwark for a desperate final battle instead of erecting tents for a wedding feast.

Then, Reuben's gaze focused on what he was seeing and his eyes widened. He had seen the kind of thing they were building before. Many times. And it was no tent for a feast—unless it be a feast of blood.

His eyes snapped up to where the sound of the horn had come from. And there they were, men in glinting armor, with sharp swords and hard faces. There it was, the standard of a mighty noble about to wage war.

"Satan's hairy ass!" he breathed. "What's happening here?"

# Hot Dispute

_They're already here_ , Ayla thought desperately, running back up to the castle as fast as her legs would carry her. _Already approaching, and we haven't even had word from Sir Rudolfus or Sir Waldar yet! What if Falkenstein's men attack before they and their reinforcements arrive? Or worse yet, what if they attack before the barricade is finished?_

These thoughts continued to haunt her as she fled into the castle, for the first time really appreciating how thick and solid its walls were. They haunted her as she ran up the steps, and they haunted her as she hurried down the corridor. Only when she came to a standstill in front of one of the castle's oak doors did she realize that, without thinking, her feet had carried her to Reuben's room.

_Why here? What do I want here?_ she asked herself. And then the answer came: she wanted someone to talk to, someone to share her fears with. Both Burchard and Isenbard were more than occupied right now. And apart from them, who was there that wouldn't already be more frightened than she was? The guards? The servants? It was her job to instill confidence in them, not undermine it! There was only one person she was fairly sure would not panic at the news.

Hesitantly, she opened the door and stepped in.

"Reuben?"

He was waiting for her, glaring up at her from his bed as if she had sent him an entire cauldron of fennel soup for breakfast.

"Reuben?" she asked, her voice wavering slightly. "What's the matter?"

"You aren't getting married, are you?" he growled.

She blinked, taken aback. "What kind of question is that?"

"The kind I would like to have answered!"

"Well then," she snapped, her temper rising at his officious tone, "no, I'm not. Not if I can help it," she added, thinking of the Margrave's ultimatum.

"Then what is that old fellow doing here?" Reuben demanded. "And what is _that_ supposed to be?" He pointed towards the window. "That thing you're building in front of the bridge?"

"If by 'that old fellow' you are referring to Sir Isenbard—he is here in fulfillment of his oath of fealty to my father," she said indignantly. "And the barricade is being built to protect us against the coming attack."

*~*~**~*~*

Reuben's eyes narrowed. "What attack would that be?"

He saw a puzzled expression spread over her face. "The attack by the Margrave von Falkenstein of course! I'm sure I mentioned it before."

"No, you did not," Reuben replied, trying to keep his voice calm, but finding it increasingly difficult. He wished he could just get up and shake the girl! But no normal man would have been able to do that. It would immediately give away his special talent. His _curse_.

"Oh." Ayla gnawed on her lower lip. Reuben thought she looked very cute when she did that, and would have tried to rein in his rage, but then she said: "Are you sure? Because I could swear I told you one time or another."

He raised an eyebrow. "I think I'd remember you mentioning our impending slaughter."

"Well, it must have slipped my mind, I guess," she mumbled. "I'm sorry."

"Yes, because sudden death is so easy to forget." Reuben's voice was dripping with sarcasm.

"I said I was sorry," she snapped.

"For dragging me into this death-trap of a castle? Well, I hope you understand my reluctance to accept your apology for drawing me into your own private war!"

"Would you have preferred being left to bleed to death out in the forest?"

"Hmm... let me think... Yes, I would have! Because then I wouldn't have had to deal with you before I died."

He could see her sapphire eyes tearing up. "Nobody is going to die!" she managed in a hoarse voice. "We're going to stop the attack!"

Reuben remembered the soldiers in the forest. He remembered their hard eyes and their sharp swords. The girl looked so vulnerable, standing there in front of him, tears streaming down her face. How could she hope to win against such forces? He would have liked to be able to comfort her, to shelter her. Instead, he felt only anger. Anger at her, because apparently she was crazy enough to try and place herself in the soldiers' way. Anger at himself, because now that he knew of an approaching danger, there was no longer an excuse for him to stay.

A derisive snort escaped him. "Stop it? How? With your measly little barricade? That won't hold an enemy for a day!"

"What would you know of such matters?" she snapped. "You're nothing but a merchant! A commoner with less experience than a woman on the field of battle!"

If it had been anyone else speaking, Reuben would have killed them for this insult on the spot. As it was, he almost laughed! If she only knew... It made him want to tell her, to throw the truth in her face. Just in time, he remembered that he could not. She could never know the truth; she would have his head for it. And why waste one second standing here arguing with this wench, anyway? He had to leave, the quicker the better! He didn't want to get mixed up in this mess, did he...?

Clenching his teeth, he said: "You're right. I'm nothing but a commoner. A commoner who wants to stay alive. I'm leaving. Now!"

"Fine!" Ayla spat. "I don't need you anyway!"

She stormed out, slamming the door behind her and leaving Reuben behind, feeling guilty for some reason he couldn't fathom.

*~*~**~*~*

Immediately after leaving Reuben's chamber, Ayla ran into a broom cupboard and locked herself in to indulge for about a quarter of an hour in a fit of angry tears. Then, having finished with that, she had another fit, because she realized she had had the first one not because of the approaching army but because Reuben was leaving.

How could she even think of something like that at a time like this? She was supposed to be responsible and care for her people with sense and foresight, not lie sniffling in a corner because of some arrogant, self-centered, incredibly handsome rogue! Silliness like that definitely justified another fit of hysteria. Nobody, not even Dilli, would find her here.

Drawing her knees up to her face and burying her face in the muddy folds of her dress, she recalled what it felt like to touch his skin, to look into his gray eyes on one of those rare occasions when he was smiling. Never before had she felt something like the feeling that flooded her in moments like those. But she had heard it described many times. When minstrels came to Luntberg Castle, they always sang at least one song about it, often many. They sang of two people meeting, of fate, of a bond that could not be broken. They sang of love.

Yet they never sang of unrequited love.

_This is reality_ , she thought, sadly. Getting to her feet, she opened the door and stepped over to the nearest window. Through a veil of tears, she watched her approaching black and silver doom.

The Margrave's banners fluttered high over the treetops. Relieved, she saw that the enemy wasn't approaching very fast. There seemed to be many foot soldiers and heavily loaded wagons among them. At their current rate of progress, Isenbard would be able to finish the barricade before the enemy was even out of the forest.

Then the foot soldiers moved aside and Ayla saw a detachment of riders gallop past. They advanced swiftly down the forest path, towards the bridge. The sharp points of their spears glinted in the midday sunlight.

"No!" Ayla moaned. "Please no!"

But like the pitiless blade of the executioner's ax, the riders continued on their way towards the bridge, towards the workers, towards her people. And from where they stood, they couldn't see it! The forest blocked the riders from the sight of everyone who was standing down in the valley by the bridge. Someone had to warn them!

Someone?

No, not someone. She.

Ayla looked around at the stone corridor. What was she doing here? Her place was down there, with her people. If she was going to run from every threat that advanced towards her, she might as well give up the castle right away and let the Margrave have it, the village, the fields, the woods—everything, even herself.

Wiping the remaining tears from her face, she turned and almost ran out of the castle.

"A horse," she shouted to one of the stable lads. "Get me a horse, now!"

*~*~**~*~*

Reuben waited long enough for Ayla's footsteps to no longer be audible, then he sprang up, wobbling slightly as he did so. Damn uneven floor! The shoddy workmanship of whoever had built this sorry excuse for a castle made it more difficult than usual for him to stay on his feet. In addition, beads of sweat kept running down his face. Must be the climate. Even that was going haywire around the little minx. Nothing was normal where she was involved, he thought angrily—all the while knowing it was not her he was really angry with, but himself.

Not for the not inconsiderable number of mistakes he had made since entering this accursed castle. Not for his slowness in recognizing the real situation, the danger he was in. Not even for letting himself be knocked out and getting into this mess in the first place.

No, he was angry at himself because the first thought that flashed through his mind when he heard her explanation of the goings on in the valley and the building of the barricade was: _So, she's not going to marry that old creep after all—thank God!_

He was in mortal danger and the thing he most cared about was some silly girl's matrimonial arrangements, or lack thereof? Was he losing his marbles? The girl was his enemy. He should wish her all manner of evil, including a warty old troll for a husband. And yet he just couldn't help feeling relieved. He had to get out of this place and away from her before she robbed him of what little sense he still had left.

_Remember last time_ , he told himself. _Remember what happened when you thought there was a woman you could trust! They're all the same. Think of what the maid told you—the lady of the castle is feasting! Feasting when troops are marching to ravage her lands and plunge her people into misery and starvation. What person with a shred of honor would do something like that? These so-called "ladies" are all the same._

Hot emotions boiling within him, Reuben stormed to the garderobe and was about to grab all the clothes in there and stuff his pockets with everything of value he could find in the room, when he hesitated.

Whatever else might be said of Ayla, she had in fact saved his life. This was how he was going to repay her? He had robbed many people in his life—more than he could count. But never had he laid hands on the possessions of someone he was beholden to.

All right, this was because he had never actually been beholden to anyone, but still! He didn't feel comfortable taking her possessions. A rough laugh escaped his throat. He still had some of those... _things_ left? What were they called again? _Principles_?

"Satan's hairy ass," he cursed and stormed over to the chest where he had stored his half-eaten black pudding and chicken. She probably wouldn't want those in their current state anyway, so he might as well take them.

With his meager supplies stuffed into his pockets, he thrust open the door and ran down the empty corridor, eager to escape this place before the army arrived—or before he saw the girl again and changed his mind about leaving.

The floor here in the corridor was even more uneven than in his room. Damn, was it hard to stay on one's feet! The floor actually seemed to wobble. More and more sweat ran down his forehead, and the stone corridor before him came in and out of focus. What was the matter with him? He had braved entire armies by himself, surely it would be within his powers to walk ten more steps to the staircase? And from there it would be easy. Down. Just down and out and away.

He reached the staircase, though he had to steady himself against the wall to manage it. Carefully, he raised a foot and tried to find the first stair. He felt curiously light-headed, not at all like himself. Well, from now on, it would be easy. Down. Just down.

His foot came down. Missing the stair, it slipped from under him, and he fell. Or maybe flew?

Down.

Just down.

Into darkness.

# Flying Death

Ayla rode as if the devil were at her heels. Halfway to the bridge she met Burchard, who was running the other way.

When he caught sight of her, he skidded to a halt and his mustache bristled. "What are you doing here?" he yelled at her.

"Riding!" she yelled back, without stopping.

"Get the hell back to the castle! You're not..."

The rest Ayla didn't hear. It was drowned out by the thunderous pounding of her horse's hoofs. Her ride was no Eleanor, but he was quick enough. After only a few minutes, she had reached her goal and slid off the horse's back to storm towards the bridge, waving with her arms to attract the men's attention. To say that Isenbard didn't look pleased to see her would have been the understatement of the century.

"Back!" he growled, pointing to the castle.

"No." She shook her head. "I came to warn you. There are riders approaching."

"Already?" Isenbard didn't curse. He was a true knight and never a foul word came over his lips. But the expression on his hard face spoke volumes. "I had hoped for them to take at least another day!"

"I saw them from the castle and came to warn you."

"I should have stationed a lookout there," he mumbled to himself. Then he pointed at the castle again. "Well, now you've warned us, you can go back."

"No."

"This is no place for a girl, Ayla. And I need you to go back to alert my men at the castle. We need them down here as quickly as possible."

She met his eyes without flinching. Behind her, a horn sounded. "I have already alerted your men. They are marching here as we speak. I have also posted a lookout on the highest tower of the castle. And where do you think my place would be, Sir Isenbard, if not here with my people?"

He held her gaze for a second or two—then he nodded. "Stay behind the barricade. Don't alert the enemy to your presence."

She just nodded, knowing that it was useless to argue further. He was probably only letting her stay because he had no time to drag her back to the castle himself, and none of the villagers would dare manhandle her, even with an enraged Sir Isenbard glaring at them.

Anxiously, she looked toward the castle, watching out for Sir Isenbard's men. The enemy riders hadn't been very numerous, but still, would twenty warriors be enough to repel them? Without the barricade finished?

"Were they knights?"

Startled, she looked around. Isenbard was standing there like a pillar of stone, staring in the same direction as she did.

"Who?"

"The riders. Were they knights?"

"I... I don't know. I'm afraid I don't know very much about warriors. But they must have been. Who, other than a knight, would dare ride into battle on a horse? Only knights are allowed to do that, aren't they?"

"Did they have crests? Banners?"

"I saw none."

He grunted, as if this confirmed a suspicion. "Mercenary cavalry, probably."

Ayla was aghast. "You mean the Margrave has common killers in his service that ride into battle armored as knights?"

Isenbard nodded grimly. "Killers, yes. Whether they be common I cannot say. I have not crossed blades with them yet."

From beyond the river, Ayla could hear cries and the thumping of hoofs. Quickly, she ran towards the half-finished barricade and peered around it.

"Back!" Roughly, Isenbard grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her away. "Didn't you hear what I said? You stay behind the barricade!"

But it was too late. Ayla had already seen the riders flooding from the forest onto the meadow.

"Those are at least a hundred!" she gasped.

"About fifty, I would estimate," Isenbard corrected her.

"We'll be crushed—even if your men get here in time!"

"We'll see. And what do you mean if? They are already here."

Startled, Ayla turned. And indeed, she had been so intent on watching the riders, that she hadn't noticed the small host[40] that was now marching down the path from the mountain towards them. At first Ayla thought it would take them ages to get there, but they were almost as quick as she had been on horseback.

"You can go," Isenbard told the villagers who had been helping to build the barricade. They had been standing around, uncertain what to do, throwing fearful glances at the approaching riders. "This is a matter for soldiers."

The relief on their faces was evident. They ran, evading the small force that was marching the other way, shouting encouragement to the hard-faced men in armor.

The warriors reached the bridge and looked to Isenbard.

At a silent hand gesture from the old knight, five of them took up positions blocking the narrow bridge. The rest arrayed themselves in a line on the meadow behind them. Then they stood and waited.

And waited.

While the riders advanced.

"What's the matter?" Ayla hissed. "Why aren't they doing anything?"

"Like what?" asked Isenbard, not taking his eyes off the approaching enemy cavalry.

"Attacking those riders, for instance!"

"The bridge is the best defensive position. Wait and see. And remember."

The mercenary cavalry gathered speed. They were only a few hundred feet away now. The riders lowered their lances to the height of a man's chest. Ayla could see their grips tighten, their spurs pressing into the sides of their stallions. The thunder of the hoofs grew louder and louder.

"And what are those men behind them doing?" she demanded. "Those on the meadow? Tell them to join the others! Never can five men hold the bridge against such an assault!"

Isenbard didn't reply.

"Uncle? Did you hear what I said?"

Isenbard raised his arm.

"Ready your bows!" he shouted, and his voice sounded even over the thundering hoofs.

As if one man, the fifteen on the meadow threw their cloaks back, revealing long bows and quivers.

"Nock!"

The men put arrows to their strings and placed the bows against the ground for leverage.

"Mark."

The bows shifted slightly.

"Draw!"

Isenbard's voice was hard as stone, and just as unemotional. Fifteen bowstrings were drawn back at his command. Ayla's heart hammered as her gaze went back and forth between Isenbard's men and the mercenaries—the mercenaries whose eyes widened at the sight of the weapons aimed at them.

"Hold..." Isenbard growled. "Hold... Hold..."

The riders gathered even more speed. Blood gushed from the sides of their horses as they drove their spurs into the flesh in a desperate rush to close the distance.

"Loose!"

Like a dozen angry hawks, the arrows took flight, splitting the air before them and heading straight for their targets. Quickly, Ayla ducked and closed her eyes. But she could still hear the anguished cry of the first horse and the thump as it stumbled and fell, smashing its rider into a bloody pulp. More cries erupted from all around her as other arrows found their mark.

"Nock! Mark! Draw, and... loose!"[41]

A second volley erupted into the air with the swish of sudden death.

"Nock, mark, draw! Loose!"

And a third.

"Nock, mark, draw! Loose!"

And a fourth. And fifth, and sixth, and seventh.

All of it took not much more than a minute. Yet, for Ayla, it seemed like hours as she cowered behind the barricade, listening to the sounds of men dying—dying for her.

_No, not for me_ , she reminded herself. _For all our freedom._

That didn't make her feel much better, though.

What am I doing? I came here to be there for my people and now all I'm doing is cowering behind a barricade. I have to face the enemy.

Finally, she gathered all her courage, stood up, and turned to look past the barricade—just in time to see the last rider yank his horse around and gallop back towards the safety of the forest. The meadow was strewn with the bodies of men and horses. The lush grass which had formerly been green was now dyed red. Ayla felt bile rise up in her throat from the violent sight and quickly turned away.

After a few moments, she felt someone's eyes on her. Looking up, she saw Isenbard studying her intently. Defiantly, she raised her chin and met his gaze. "Yes? What is it?"

"You had the courage to watch, Milady. At the very end, you found it."

To everybody else, it sounded like a simple statement. Ayla, however, knew that it was more—much more.

She nodded thankfully.

"You want to see. To be there," Isenbard continued.

It wasn't a question.

"I have to," she said.

"And there's nothing I can say to dissuade you?"

She shook her head, repeating: "I have to."

Isenbard nodded to the soldiers who still hadn't moved. "None of them would think any worse of you if you didn't, and neither would the villagers."

"I know that they wouldn't, Uncle, but... I would."

The old knight nodded again. "I see. Then perhaps, next time, you will find the courage to give the order yourself."

Ayla looked back at the field of death across the river. A shiver ran down her spine. "Perhaps," she whispered.

*~*~**~*~*

One of Isenbard's men was sent into the village to fetch back the peasants and carpenters. Work on the barricade still wasn't finished and Isenbard seemed to be in a hurry.

"Why, though?" Ayla asked, looking at the slain enemies. Though the sight filled her with dread, it also filled her with a strange, fierce kind of hope. "You were perfectly able to handle their cavalry. Why not the foot soldiers, too?"

Isenbard looked at her with sad eyes. "Think, girl."

Ayla stared at him. "I don't know what you mean, Uncle."

"What did they come here for? What are they expecting?"

"Err... a siege, I presume."

"And would you bring many riders to a siege?"

"I don't know. I'm no expert at tactics."

"Can horses climb castle walls?"

"No, of course not!"

"Then let me ask you again, would you bring many riders to a siege?"

"Err... no?"

"Exactly. And yet they had _fifty_ riders—a force double the size of mine. How large do you think their force of foot soldiers will be?"

There was silence. Ayla could almost taste her fear on her tongue. Isenbard looked uneasy. He probably would have put a comforting arm around her—but he'd had problems with gestures like that ever since she had grown into a young woman. His personal code of chivalry and respect for the honor of the fair sex forbade him to touch just about any spot on her, apart from her foot when helping her into a saddle.

"Come." Isenbard nodded towards the castle. "You need to rest. And I need to report to your father."

"But what about the bridge? Who will guard it?"

Isenbard looked back to his men. One stepped forward and bowed. "We will defend it to the last man," the soldier said.

The old knight nodded, as if he had expected nothing less.

Then, to Ayla's utter surprise, the soldier turned and bowed to her. "I have never seen a lady leave her castle to be with her men in battle. I am honored to serve you, Milady. Your father must be proud of you."

The sincerity of his voice was unmistakable. Ayla couldn't help smiling. "Thank you. Be careful. I wouldn't want anything to happen to you—any of you."

"We will fight with all we have. God be with you, Milady."

"And with you."

Ayla and Isenbard shared one horse again on their way back to the castle. Halfway there, Ayla asked: "What about the barricade? Don't you need to be there to make sure the villagers do their job properly?"

"I have instructed them already. They can get by for an hour or so without me. I have to report to my liege lord."

Ayla appreciated his need to keep the Count in the picture. The two had been childhood friends, Count Thomas always the stronger, the quicker, the more powerful one. Now he was lying up in his tower chamber, an invalid, watching powerless while his friend had to defend his lands and his only daughter.

With horror, she realized that her father had probably seen the entire battle from up there, had seen how she ran down towards the fight. The thought filled her with guilt, though she knew she wouldn't have acted differently even had she thought of it beforehand. It had been her duty. Her father would understand, even if he might not like it.

At least, if he had seen the battle, he would also see her riding back to safety, unharmed.

But the thought of what battles he might yet have to watch filled her with dread. Fifty men killed... and yet, according to Isenbard, they had hardly inflicted a scratch on the enemy. She shuddered.

"Uncle Ironbeard?" she asked.

"Yes, Milady?"

"Are we going to survive this?"

There was silence for a moment, apart from the pounding of hoofs.

"I don't know, Milady."

Silence again—silence filled with fear.

"But I do know one thing," he added.

"Yes?"

"We will not stop fighting until the end."

Ayla felt a feeling flood her. It wasn't happiness. It wasn't even hope. No, it was... determination.

"No," she said. "We won't."

They rode in silence the rest of the way to the castle. Now though, the fear was gone. Having passed through both gates, Ayla jumped off the horse and ran up towards the keep. In front of the door she hesitated, remembering how she had run up the keep just about an hour ago. Remembering Reuben.

Pain shot through her chest, and for a moment she thought she knew how the mercenaries must have felt—she thought she knew how it must feel to have an arrow pierce your heart. Then she pushed those thoughts aside and wiped away a small tear that had escaped her. Reuben was long gone now. It was useless to think of him.

She pushed open the door and marched towards the staircase. Only when she was almost upon it, did she see the lifeless body lying at the foot of the stairs.

Her scream echoed all around the valley.

# Welcome Weakness

Three seconds later, Isenbard came storming into the entrance hall, sword in hand and a ferocious glint in his icy eyes. Ayla's scream had sounded as if a dozen enemies had invaded the castle, but inside, the knight could see nobody but his mistress.

"Ayla?" In a blink he was at her side. "Are you hurt? What's the matter?"

He gripped Ayla, who was kneeling on the floor, roughly by the shoulders, turned her, and inspected her. Only when he was finished with his inspection did he notice the man on the floor beside his lord's daughter—and the tears on her face.

"Who is that?" he demanded.

Ayla tried to speak, but apparently couldn't. The sight of the man lying there in a tangled heap had knocked the breath out of her.

"Who is he?" Isenbard repeated with mounting concern.

"He... he..." Ayla swallowed and tried again. "That's... Reuben."

"Reuben? The fellow you were taking care of?"

Ayla nodded. Isenbard's eyes wandered between the man on the floor and Ayla's tears, reassessing the situation.

"Well," he said gruffly, "let's get him upstairs."

"He isn't... isn't... d-dea—"

The old knight knelt and checked the man's heartbeat. "He's alive."

Ayla sank against the wall. "Thank God."

"Hey, you!" Isenbard called to two guards who were passing the keep outside. "Come here!"

The two men hurried inside, and at a gesture from Isenbard, picked up the unconscious fellow on the floor without asking questions. The old knight pointed towards the staircase and the guards started upstairs, needing no further instruction.

Isenbard's mind was hard at work trying to figure out Ayla's response to seeing this fellow Reuben being hurt. It was natural enough, he supposed. She had been through a lot today, seen death and destruction. Having it follow her to her own home had probably been too much. Yes, that had to be it.

Isenbard didn't want to consider the alternative explanation—that her distress had nothing to do with finding a badly-wounded man, but rather with the fact that it was this particular man. That look in Ayla's eyes...

He pushed away the thought. He had other things to worry about at the moment. Anyway, maybe Ayla's surprising behavior didn't need any logical explanation. After all, although mildly sensible, she was a girl.

The surprises of the day weren't over yet. Two castle guards carried the fellow called Reuben up the stairs while Isenbard, supporting Ayla, brought up the rear. Halfway up the stairs, one of the guards almost stumbled over a half-eaten black pudding and chicken leg which lay on the steps. When Ayla saw them, first a smile flickered on her tearful face, then she moaned, "That cheater! That scoundrel of a cheater!" and broke into another fit of tears. Not knowing what else to do with a crying female, Isenbard tried to maneuver her, as gently as possible, into her room.

However, in spite of all the tears blocking her sight, Ayla's eyes still seemed to work fine. She caught on to the fact that she wasn't going the same way as the two guards and wouldn't move another step. So Isenbard just shoved her in after them, into the room where they had put the fellow, and then went in search of some female able to cope with this situation.

*~*~**~*~*

When Reuben opened his eyes, everything was fuzzy for a moment. Once his sight became a bit clearer, he saw a by now very familiar stone ceiling. Slowly, he began to turn his head sideways—an action which took a lot more effort than usual—and he spotted a slender figure in a brown dress with brown hair sitting beside him, her face in her hands, turned away from him.

He squinted. No, the dress wasn't actually brown, and neither was the hair for that matter.

"Ayla?" he croaked.

At the sound of his voice, the girl spun around, and her hands fell from her face.

"Reuben? Reuben, you are awake? How are you?"

Reuben ignored the question, continuing instead to stare at her astonishing brownishness. "Why are you covered in mud?" he inquired.

"What mud? Oh, that... Isenbard threw me down and jumped on top of me in a muddy field, that's all."

" _What?_ "

Reuben's eyes almost emitted sparks at her casual statement. That creepy old bastard! Maybe he hadn't been so far off the mark with his first suspicions after all.

Seeing the look on his face, Ayla's eyes began to sparkle. "Does that bother you?" she asked in a teasing tone.

"No," he grunted. "Why should it?"

"Oh, I don't know." The sparkle in her eyes increased and now he could see that it stemmed from the moisture which threatened to spill down her fair face. "Personally, I'm glad he did it, because otherwise, I might have been shot today. But I don't know why _you_ would care about that, I really don't!"

She hid her face in her hands again and began to cry quietly. Reuben tried to raise his hand—somehow he wanted to comfort her, though he didn't know how. His hand didn't move an inch. His whole body felt incredibly overheated and sluggish.

With great effort, it seemed, Ayla appeared from her hiding place and wiped her face with her sleeve. Still sniffling, she demanded: "Now are you going to tell me how you are or will I have to beat it out of you?"

"That might be interesting to see."

"How—are—you?"

"Not too bad..."

"Don't lie to me!"

"Well, all right." He sighed. "I feel terrible. Weak and hot and unable to move a muscle. Never felt anything like it in my life."

"That's because you have a fever," she said, bending forward and feeling his forehead. "Somehow your wounds got infected. I have no idea how." She peered at him suspiciously, her eyes still wet. "You did follow my instructions, didn't you?"

"To the letter," he assured her.

"Really?"

"Oh yes."

"Then can you tell me what this is?" She dangled a half-eaten black pudding in front of his nose.

He managed a ghost of his usual insolent grin. "There may have been a few little deviations."

"You stupid fool!" She smacked his arm, and her eyes started tearing up again. "Those things I told you weren't simply meant for my amusement! They were meant to help you get better!"

Reuben's mouth opened slightly, but for once, he didn't know how to respond. No cheeky remark, no sarcastic words sprang to his lips.

"Which of the kitchen maids did you coerce into bringing you this? What did you promise in return?"

That brought the grin back to Reuben's face. "Why? Jealous of what I might have promised the fair maiden?"

Her cheeks blossomed red, which made Reuben's grin only widen.

"I... you... Answer my question!"

"Not until you answer mine."

Angrily, she threw the black pudding behind her. It hit the stone wall with a resounding smack. "You're impossible!"

For a few moments she just sat there beside his bed in angry silence.

Finally, he decided it was time to say something, preferably something that didn't get her temper up again. "How bad am I?" he asked, quietly.

"I don't know! If you'd done what I said, you'd probably be on your feet in a couple of days. But now—you fell down the stairs and have bruises on every inch of your body."

"You checked?" he couldn't help asking, winking at her.

Her cheeks burned an even deeper red than before, but she continued, determined. "It's a miracle you didn't break your neck! For that matter, with your wounds, it was a miracle that you even got as far as the stairs. I don't know what in the world possessed you to try!" She glared at him, as if any silly plan by which he could put himself in harm's way was a personal affront to her. It almost made him chuckle. "But the bruises and the wounds aren't what bother me. It's the fever and the infection. Reuben... I... I don't know whether you will survive this."

She buried her head in her hands again. He tried to lift his hand as before to comfort her, and this time he managed, pulling one of her small hands away and holding it in his. It felt natural, somehow, holding her hand—even if his own hand was unnaturally hot at the moment. Her soft, cool little hand felt incredibly soothing.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, and realized with some astonishment that he actually meant it.

"For what?" she half sobbed, half snapped, gripping his hand with a force he wouldn't have thought her capable of. "I'm the one who let you wander off with a fever. I should be publicly disgraced! I've shamed my teacher and don't deserve to call myself a healer."

"Don't talk like that." Reuben's thumb began to stroke the back of her hand instinctively, trying to calm her. "None of this is your fault. It's mine, and I'm sorry."

"What for?" she repeated.

"For yelling at you. For behaving the way I did, and... for wanting to leave at all."

"Why shouldn't you want to leave?" There was a despair in her voice that cut Reuben to the heart. "We're all doomed here."

A flash of anger shot through him at the thought of the men who had caused her anguish. If he wasn't lying here like an accursed invalid, he would...

"Well," he said in a teasing tone, trying to lighten the mood and chase away his own thoughts, "I still haven't got my compensation. It seems I will have to stay and make sure you win this little war of yours so that I get what I want."

His attempt at levity worked. A small, tearful giggle escaped Ayla.

"It's not like I could go anywhere, in any case, with this fever," he added, his voice sounding a bit too happy for his own liking.

"Don't worry." Her hand pressed his again, and she leaned over to stroke his face. He let her, and enjoyed it. Oh yes, he enjoyed it. "I will look after you. I... I'm so glad you're alive, Reuben. So glad. When I saw you lying at the bottom of the stairs, still and pale, I thought for a moment—"

She stopped speaking and looked down, struggling against the tears.

"Shh." With all his remaining strength, Reuben raised their entwined hands to her face and stroked her golden hair. The glittering strands felt softer than silk. "I'm not that easy to kill, believe me."

"Why...?" She broke off before she could finish the question.

Reuben raised an eyebrow. "Why what?"

"Why are you so nice all of a sudden?"

A weak laugh escaped him. "You sound so suspicious! As if being nice is something out of the ordinary."

"Well," she mumbled, "it is for you."

"Thank you for the compliment."

"You are welcome. So are you going to answer my question?"

"I don't..." his voice faltered.

"That's not fair! I want to know."

He shook his head and felt dizzy from the movement. "No, I mean I don't feel too good. I... Satan's hairy ass!"

"Don't curse!" she scolded. But when he didn't reply, her voice became concerned. "Reuben?"

"I... feel strange..." His vision blurred. He felt blood pulsing in his ears.

"Reuben! Reuben, are you all right?"

"Ayla, I..." But he could no longer find the strength to speak.

_Ayla_ , he thought as he sank deeper into the darkness.

"Oh my God, Reuben, stay with me! Dilli! Dilli, bring me cold water and my bag of herbs and clean linen! Now! Reuben, stay with me! Stay with me, Reuben!"

# Admonishments by a Frightened Bunny

Reuben was in a wonderful and terrible place. A maelstrom of hot, unforgiving darkness surrounded him. In between periods of darkness, he saw strange flashes of light mixed with images of faces. Some part of him recognized the experience—he was slipping in and out of consciousness, as he had been after the accident, so many years ago. Only one thing was different: the face hovering most often above him was not that of a surgeon or a priest, it was that of a girl. What was her name again? Oh yes... Ayla.

There had been a girl back then, too. But she had never hovered over him, never had a moment's concern for his well-being as he lay, grievously wounded. She had been too busy for that. Ayla was always there. Or was that just his wishful thinking? Was he dreaming of her, and in fact she was not there?

Reuben didn't really care if she was only a vision or reality. Her deep blue eyes, dark as the cool waters of a bottomless lake, were the only thing that soothed and sustained him as he lay there, burning. Not burning in the sense the priests had wanted to burn him all those years ago, no. This time the fire was in his flesh. He couldn't feel the pain of it, but he could feel the heat. The merciless force of death eating its way through his body.

Would it succeed? Would he... what was the word again? _Die_? Yes, it was _die_. Would he die?

Hmm. One would have to see.

Looking back on his life, he pondered the question of whether, if there was a God, it would merit a trip to heaven or to hell. Hell, probably. Reuben knew his life's story. It was said that God was merciful, but he doubted anyone in their right mind could be _that_ merciful.

When Reuben opened his eyes and saw a red glow, he knew he had been right. Hell. Oh well, he supposed he would find something to do here. It couldn't be much worse than the world of the living, now, could it?

Then he remembered Ayla and bit his lip. Yes, it could. She was still there and would surely never join him. He had been a fool! He had had his chance at life and wasted it.

Trying to keep the tears out of his eyes, he blinked—and suddenly realized that the red glow around him was illuminating a stone ceiling. A very familiar stone ceiling. He didn't know all that much about hell, but it probably didn't have the same ceiling as his room in the Castle of Luntberg. He also realized that the red glow looked suspiciously like the light of sunrise.

From behind him, he heard the light footsteps of a woman.

Could the devil be a woman? He rolled his eyes. What a silly question. Of course he could. But with all the other indications pointing to this not being hell, he was willing to have a look. The chances of him receiving a poke in the eye with a red hot pitchfork were pretty slim.

There indeed was someone in the room with him, and it wasn't the devil. It was a girl—not _the_ girl, not Ayla, just _a_ girl. But he _had_ seen her before. Frowning, he tried to get his mind to work. If only his head didn't feel this fuzzy...

"It's you," he croaked, realizing who it was: the silly maid who had brought him the disgusting soup.

When she heard his voice, the maid jumped, threw him a look not unlike a frightened rabbit who was sneaking past a sleeping wolf only to discover he was, in fact, wide awake, and retreated into a corner.

Reuben scowled. "You don't need to be afraid of me, you know. I'm not going to eat you. I'm no monster."

She swallowed. It was obvious she wasn't convinced on this point. "Y-you walk around with three arrows in your back as if there is nothing wrong with you," she accused.

"Only on the weekends."

"That's unnatural!"

Reuben gave her a devilish grin. "You think so? I could do it on Wednesdays instead."

She pouted. It was probably supposed to be a frown, but she was far too harmless to manage one. Now, she looked like an angry bunny about to steel herself for a one-on-one with the wolf and not liking it one bit. "That's not all. You made Lady Ayla cry!"

She made it sound as if this was an offense comparable to mass murder. Reuben was inclined to agree, but there was no way he was going to admit that. So instead, he just shrugged, wincing when he almost couldn't get his shoulders to lift. It was humiliating to be so infuriatingly weak!

"I probably did. I'm so terribly sorry for falling down the stairs and almost breaking my neck because that distressed your mistress. I promise to do my best to avoid something similar in the future."

"Don't you _ever_ talk about something in a serious manner?"

"Not if I can avoid it."

Her pout returned. "You made her cry! How could you? After everything she has done for you? She saved your life, and you only hurt her in return!"

"Why the hell do you care?" he asked angrily. "I thought you'd be glad, the way she has been treating you, and all her serfs!"

He waited for an answer, but none came. With effort, he focused his blurry sight on the maid and saw that she had stuffed her fingers in her ears.

"Take your fingers out," he mouthed at her.

"Only if you stop cursing, you villain! Don't use the 'H'-word again!"

Rolling his eyes, he nodded, and she removed her fingers from her ears.

"Why would you care if I think ill of your lady?" he repeated his question in a calmer tone. "This castle is about to be besieged, and she's feasting, snatching food from the mouths of people who are desperately going to need it."

The maid's warm brown eyes flashed indignantly. Apparently, the bunny had finally decided on a frontal attack. "She is not feasting! She's on reduced rations, the same as the rest of us!"

"But... you told me yourself that..."

"She told me to tell you that."

A confused frown appeared on Reuben's sweaty face. "Why would she do that?"

The girl shrugged. "I think she liked the idea of that thought being served to you as the dessert for your fennel soup."

For a moment or two, Reuben wavered, asking himself whether he should be angry. Then a wide grin appeared on his face, dispelling the frown in a heartbeat. "What a woman," he said, shaking his head in wonder.

The maid nodded, her jaw set. "She is. Do you know what else she did, besides imposing the same restrictions on herself as on her people? She ordered a barricade built so that not just the men and women in the castle but everybody would be protected. When it turned out that there wasn't room for them all in the village, she took in the families of the farmers from the other side of the river. And when the Margrave's men attacked, she rode out herself to face them!"

She took a breath and continued: "She's the sweetest, bravest, most kind-hearted lady in the whole world! I'm going to fetch her now because she said to wake her the minute you woke up, but if you ever do anything to upset her again you'll... you'll..."

She floundered around for something fitting to say. It was obvious she wasn't very practiced at making threats. "...Well, you'll be sorry!" she finally finished. Glaring at him one last time from her safe corner, she gathered her skirts and fled from the room.

Reuben wagered she wouldn't dare approach him for the next week or so. She had probably only been brave enough for this encounter because he was lying in bed with a high fever, unable to move a muscle.

Yes, because of that—and because she loved her mistress dearly. Perhaps he had been wrong about that maid. Perhaps she wasn't so silly after all. Perhaps he had been wrong about Ayla, too. He would so dearly love to believe that she wasn't a heartless shrew. She was so bewitching. A witch.

He closed his eyes. Then, when he heard the door swing open, he opened them again and saw Ayla standing in the doorway. She looked a vision in a long blue dress with golden trimming that matched her hair and eyes exactly, and that didn't have mud all over it this time. Her lips parted to smile at him, and he felt pain, real, tangible pain, for the first time in years. Pain in his heart at the glorious sight of her.

_What's the good of lying to yourself any longer, Reuben?_ he thought. _You only need to be good at lying to other people, not yourself. Ayla isn't a shrew; she isn't a witch. She is a lovely girl, and she hasn't put a spell on you or bewitched you—unless it be in the way any girl may bewitch a man if his heart is willing to fall to her magic._

Again he felt the pain in his heart, the exquisite pain. Why this girl? Why did it have to be her? His savior. His sworn enemy. The one girl he could never have.

But then, you should never say never...

# The Sweetness of Water

Through a crack in the door, Ayla peeked into the room. Dilli had told her that, finally, Reuben was awake, and so he was, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. The door squeaked as she pushed it farther open, and his eyes snapped to her. Suddenly, their expression changed dramatically.

"Reuben!" Ayla rushed forward as she saw the flash of pain in his eyes—something which, she realized, she had never seen before. "What is it? What is hurting?"

"Nothing," he said, gruffly. "Don't concern yourself."

"Don't be ridiculous," she chided. "I'm responsible for your welfare. If you are hurting and there's anything I can do to make it better, you must tell me."

For a moment he looked up at her with a curious expression on his sweaty face—and then he started laughing. He laughed so hard; she would hardly have thought anyone capable of laughing this hard in the state he was in at the moment.

"Reuben?" Ayla's brow creased. "Did I say something funny?"

"No, I..." The laughter changed into a cough that wracked Reuben's body under the blankets and furs that were heaped over him to keep him warm.

When the fit finally subsided, he smiled up at her weakly and murmured: "It's not funny, really, when you think about it. But it sort of seemed humorous for a moment."

"And are you going to tell me what you are talking about?"

There was that flash of pain in his eyes again. He hid it well, but it was there. "Maybe later, Lady Ayla."

She didn't want to let it go, but then he was sick, so now probably wasn't the best moment for an argument. Instead, she said: "You can forget about the 'lady' part. I'm going to have to nurse you back to health after all, and I'd feel funny if you called me 'Milady' all the time. The patients at the cloister where I learned never did, either."

*~*~**~*~*

He almost replied, "Well then, you must call me Reuben, not _Sir_ Reuben," when he remembered that she already did. He wasn't a sir here. Damned ruse!

"Err... thank you, Milady." He made a little bow of his head. "But I think I owe you the respect of your noble blood."

Plus, I'm already too interested in you. No need to make it worse by becoming more familiar.

With effort, he looked around. Still the same room, in the same castle. It was undoubtedly morning, with the sunlight streaming in from the east. But which morning?

"How long have I been out? What has happened?"

"Well, as to your first question—not too long, considering your condition, thank the Lord. It felt long enough to me, though. You were unconscious the entire night."

Reuben studied the rings under her eyes. It looked like she had been up most of that night. So he hadn't been wrong. She had been watching over him.

"Would you like something to drink?" she asked, a tender look in her eyes. "You sweated out gallons last night."

Only when she said it did Reuben realize that his throat was parched. "Yes please." He grinned. "Do you have beer? Or better yet, wine? With a lot of honey please—I like my drink sweet."

She scowled at him. "I bet you do. But water is much healthier."

His grin didn't waver. "Somehow I knew you were going to say that."

*~*~**~*~*

Ayla tried to be angry with him as she left the bedroom and ran to the kitchen to get some water. She really tried—but she couldn't. She was just so overjoyed to see him alive, to see that stupid, arrogant, devilish grin on his face and see those steel-gray eyes twinkling as they looked up at her.

The last night had been one of the worst nights of her life. She had been working ceaselessly over Reuben, hoping against hope that he wasn't going to slip from her grasp and disappear into the darkness. More than once, when his breathing had been labored and the sweat had streamed down his face in rivulets, had she believed her efforts would be in vain. And even in moments like these, no, especially then, she could not stop noticing how incredibly handsome Reuben's face was, longing to touch it just once without a cold linen in her hand, without the thought of impending death in her mind.

She had really believed that he was going to die.

But somehow, he had survived. She didn't know how, and she didn't really care. He was alive, and he was with her.

Before that unseemly thought could take root, she pushed open the kitchen door and grabbed one of the pitchers of water that was left over from her efforts in the night.

Returning to Reuben, she knelt beside his bedstead and held the pitcher out to him.

"Can you hold it yourself?"

He lifted his hand and tried to hold the pitcher, really tried. You could see his jaw working and the massive muscles in his arms bunching—but it was no use.

"No," he growled.

"It's no problem, you know. I can hold it for you. You're sick. Just because you're too weak to hold a pitcher full of water, you are no less of a man."

He closed his eyes and groaned. "Will you just get on with it?"

Obviously, he didn't quite share her opinion. He didn't like that she had to hold something for him because he was too weak.

Smiling with silent satisfaction, Ayla put the pitcher to his lips with one hand, while with the other, she softly gripped his neck from behind and pushed his head up.

Reuben's eyes flew open in surprise.

"You don't need to hold me," he protested. "I'm no infant that can't move on his own!"

"Of course not. Just humor me, will you?" she said, smiling at him, stroking the back of his neck with her thumb.

He opened his mouth—and no protest came. "All right, get on with it," he sighed. "If only this were honey wine,[42] then it would be worth all this trouble."

"Oh, water can be sweet too, after you get used to it."

"Which I hope never to accomplish."

"Drink already, will you? I haven't got all day."

He did as she asked, and she grinned down at him, triumphantly. "Sweet enough for you?" she asked.

Instead of answering with one of his usual sarcastic remarks, Reuben fixed her with a gaze that felt as though it would make her melt inside. Quickly, so quickly she wasn't even sure it happened, he raised a hand and stroked a strand of her hair that was hanging into his face. "Yes, sweet enough," he said. "Without a doubt."

She flinched, and his head slipped from her grasp, thudding onto the bedpost.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry!" Hurriedly, she put the pitcher away and bent forward to examine his head.

Reuben let out a theatrical, pained groan. "You really are?" he wanted to know.

"Yes, of course I am!"

"Well, in that case... I guess you can get rid of that water and get my wine now."

She stopped examining his head. He couldn't be hurt too badly. Everything seemed to be working just as before.

"I was talking about letting go of your head, not about the water!"

"Oh, that's a shame."

" _I_ don't think so."

"Why won't you get me some honey wine? I heard from a healer once that a bit of alcohol now and then is very healthy."

"It is," Ayla said, raising an eyebrow. "For the digestion. So I'll get you your honey wine when you've got the runs. At the moment, water is better. A lot of water—and fennel soup."

He scowled and she scowled back. How could anybody be so obstinate? More to the point, how could anyone be so obstinate and so endearing at the same time?

"I'm not going to lie about what I've learned," she told him. "Those are the things that will make you better, and you're going to have to stomach them, whether you like it or not!"

Slowly, his scowl disappeared. What remained was an inscrutable expression that lent a mysterious touch to his ruggedly handsome features. She felt a sudden impulse to reach out and touch his face—without an excuse, this time.

"How am I?" he asked. "How am I, really? The truth. All of it."

Hurriedly, Ayla shook off the strange feeling and replied in a voice that was softer than she intended it to be, "I'm not entirely sure. Last night... I think it was close. You could have... could have..." She couldn't bring herself to continue.

His face softened and he nodded. "I understand," he said. "Go on."

Grateful, she continued: "It isn't over. The wounds are still infected, the fever is still there. I must regularly change your cold cataplasms."

"My cold what?" Reuben looked confused, as if he hadn't known he had such a strange body part.

Ayla simply had to laugh at his facial expression. "Cold wraps around your legs. Don't you feel them?"

"Now that you mention it, something has been itching down there."

Ayla tried hard not to let the thought of "down there" distract her. "Um, yes, well. Those are called cold cataplasms, or cold wraps. But I think I already mentioned that, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did."

"Um, very well. I'll have to change those regularly. They help to keep the fever down, and that's the most important thing at the moment. There's various other things I can do to help." Ayla's voice became steadier again as she returned to familiar ground. "I won't lie to you, Reuben, it still looks grim. But I swear to you, I will do the best I can."

He nodded. "I know you will."

Ayla smiled. His trust in her warmed her heart like nothing else had ever done before. "Thanks, Reuben."

"I've got just one question."

"Yes?"

"In my current condition..."

"Yes?"

"Can I leave?"

"No!"

*~*~**~*~*

"No!"

Was it only his own imagination that turned the word into an anguished outcry?

Ayla leaned towards him, her face fierce. "You wouldn't get a hundred feet," she said, urgently. "Reuben, you couldn't even get up on a horse. And even if you could, even if you could get away, the effort would kill you."

He knew it was true. He could feel the sickness eating away at him. He needed to stay here. He needed her.

_Well, now you've got your answer_ , he thought sarcastically. _The answer you know you should be devastated about. The answer you secretly hoped for._

He stared up into Ayla's sapphire eyes, which were peering down at him with an anxious expression. It was clear that she remembered his earlier outburst, his fit of rage at learning about the siege. Only now he realized why he had really been angry that day. Not because of the siege, no. Why would he, Sir Reuben Rachwild, who had been in more battles than one could count on all the fingers of the people in this little castle, fear one paltry siege? No. What had truly enraged him was that learning the truth had robbed him of his only excuse to stay, to enjoy the sparkle of those two sapphires, which were becoming more precious with every passing moment, for a few more days. How could he justify staying when every bit of sense in his brain told him to go?

Sense had served him well in the past. It had helped him stay alive.

Now he had his excuse back—and she was anxious that he would be angry _now_! He almost laughed.

"Good," he said, grinning. "We can spend the time discussing my compensation."

Her voice was stern, but she couldn't keep the corners of her small mouth from turning up. "What's there to discuss? The window is over there."

# Opposing Forces

When Ayla left the room a little later, having changed Reuben's cataplasms while trying not to think about what parts of him she was seeing and touching, she had a little smile on her face. In the corridor, she met Isenbard.

"He's better, isn't he?" the knight asked, studying her face.

"How did you know?" Ayla inquired, perplexed.

Isenbard shrugged. "Just guessed." He raised his hand to scratch his beard—on the back of his armored glove, Ayla could see dried smears of blood. Guilt welled up in her, and fearful of what might be hidden behind the usual stoic expression of the old knight, she rushed towards him.

"Oh God, Isenbard, I... I'm so sorry. I totally forgot about Falkenstein's approach! Has there been another battle? There has, hasn't there...? Oh, I'm so terribly sorry. It's just, if I hadn't been there all night, I'm sure he would have died, and I couldn't..."

He interrupted her with a wave of his hand. "No."

"No? What do you mean, no?"

"There's been no battle. I just don't clean my mail very often."

Ayla let out a sigh of relief—but the relief was short-lived. As she pondered Isenbard's words, a frown spread over her face. "But why haven't they attacked? They're all here by now, surely? What are they waiting for?"

"Their commander." Isenbard's face darkened. Not that any of his features actually moved, no. Rather, the shadows in his wrinkles seemed to get more distinct. "He's a careful one. Waits until all is secure. His soldiers are searching the forest as we speak."

"Searching the forest? For what?"

"Traps. Ambushes. Mercenaries expect everybody to fight as dirty as they do."

The words carried the unspoken message that he would never act in such a dastardly way. Ayla thought that was rather silly. If she had thought of an ambush and it could help her people, she would have tried it immediately. But since she also thought it rather sweet, and couldn't imagine Isenbard without his unimpeachable sense of honor, she said nothing.

That moment, a terrible thought came to her.

"Isenbard," she asked, her voice trembling, "the commander... it's not going to be Falkenstein, is it? Please, tell me it won't be him."

He shook his head. "I doubt it. Falkenstein has hounds to do his hunting for him."

Relief flooded through Ayla like sweet nectar. She had been terrified of having to face the man who had so callously demanded her surrender ever since that day the herald had presented that golden ring to her. It wouldn't be so bad if the Margrave desired only her lands, as he had done with all the other nobles whom he had fought. But this was different. The herald had made it quite clear that the Margrave didn't only want land. He wanted _her_ —body, mind, and soul.

Well, probably mostly body.

As if this awarded her any protection, she crossed her arms in front of her. The thought alone of that man looking at her, leering at her, was enough to make her blood run cold.

"Ayla? Did you hear what I said?"

She blinked at Isenbard. "What?"

"Something wrong? You looked worried."

If Isenbard of all people had noticed, she must have looked scared out of her wits. Ayla made a mental note not to show her feelings on this matter to anyone. She was the mistress of the castle. She needed to be strong. For everyone.

She gave a small, shaky laugh. "Well, no, apart from the whole being besieged bit, I'm perfectly fine, thank you very much."

Isenbard studied her for a moment and then shrugged, apparently deciding to categorize her expression in the wide and mysterious category "strange things women do for some reason."

"The enemy has taken up position on the other side of the river, out of the range of our bows, and begun to build a camp," he reported. "They do not seem to plan another attack until their base is established."

"Take me down there, will you?"

The old knight shifted uncomfortably. "Girl, you have been up most of the night. You need to rest."

Ayla squared her shoulders. "Take me down there, _Sir_ Isenbard. I wish to see our enemy."

The knight bowed, recognizing the tone of command. "Yes, Milady."

*~*~**~*~*

Reuben lay on his bed staring up at the ceiling. If a week ago somebody had told him it could be a pleasant experience to have ice-cold cloths wrapped around one's calves, he would have shown that somebody the indecent finger.[43] Now he was already wondering how long it was going to take for these damn things to heat up and be replaced. Couldn't his fever manage to be a bit higher?

Ayla had been very careful to touch him as little as possible. It had almost been funny to watch her carefully roll up the legs of his trousers and attempt to wind the cool cloth around his calves without lifting them, as if his skin were poisonous. But it had only almost been funny, not quite, because the whole time he had been wondering why she didn't want to touch him.

Was she disgusted by the idea? Did she find him repellant?

He might have been certain of that if he hadn't seen her blush whenever their eyes met. Perhaps it was just her shyness. Although he had to admit, chuckling as he thought of it, she hadn't been very shy with her retorts. Quite the contrary.

There was one possibility left.

Maybe, just maybe, she was being shy because she felt attracted to him. And why not? Back in his days at the court, women had flocked around him like flies around a pot of extra-delicious honey. It was only natural. One of the few firm principles Reuben had left was that he was the strongest and best-looking man in the world, and he hadn't yet met anybody who dared disagree with him.

Surely, she wouldn't be the first.

Of course, he had never met a girl with eyes that blue, hair that golden, and a temper that easily inflammable. He had also never met a girl who was crazy enough to ride around with a rusty horseshoe and an old leather doll in her saddlebags. She was different.

And that was why he wanted her.

Would she be the first to reject him? No, Reuben calmed himself. His charms had never proven ineffective before. Not once. Why should they now?

Of course, there was that little matter of her having sworn to see him hanged. But he could overlook that for now.

From outside, he heard the shouts of men and the clatter of armor. His jaw tightened. The siege, no doubt. Now there was a thing he did _not_ plan to overlook.

His right hand traveled down to his waist, wishing a sword hung there.

*~*~**~*~*

Ayla sat on her horse, overlooking the enemy camp, trying not to let her fear take over.

_So many_ , she thought desperately as her eyes traveled over the endless lines of tents.

Swallowing, she asked: "How many?"

Isenbard's face—unsurprisingly—showed no emotion. "At least six hundred. More are still arriving."

"Six hundred," she mouthed, aghast. "That has us outnumbered at least... at least..." She bit her lip. She had been an exemplary student at the convent her father had sent her to in almost every subject—arithmetic being the reason for the "almost."

"At least ten to one," Isenbard said.

"Mary Mother of God," Ayla breathed. "How are we to stand against such numbers?"

"With courage," was the old knight's simple reply. Ayla would have preferred he'd said something like "with better weapons" or "with a lot of reinforcements." But she appreciated the unswerving loyalty of the stoic, stone-faced old warrior so much that she didn't make a corresponding remark.

"What do you think?" she wanted to know. "When will they attack?"

He shrugged. "Only God can tell. We can only be vigilant."

There was a pause.

"Milady?"

"Yes, Uncle?" His tone had been as quietly unemotional as always. But she had known him long enough to detect the hint of apprehension in his voice. It made her nervous.

"I have to tell you something else."

"What?"

"An hour ago, I received a message. The other two riders have returned. They bear word that your two remaining vassals, Sir Waldar and Sir Rudolfus, will be arriving within the hour."

"How wonderful!" A broad smile started to spread over Ayla's face—until she saw Isenbard's expression. "It is wonderful, isn't it? You just said it yourself; we haven't got nearly enough men. There's nothing bad about reinforcements, surely."

"If you say so, Milady."

Once again, she heard more than he said.

"Isenbard? _Is_ there something bad about reinforcements?"

"That depends on who recruits, trains, and commands them, Milady."

Just then, shouts went up from the scouts stationed on the other side of the village, whose job it was to look out for the approach of Ayla's remaining vassals. They both turned and, looking towards the west, saw two groups of men approaching. Groups, not columns. It was obvious, even to Ayla's untrained eye, that these men, unlike Isenbard's soldiers, were not marching, but simply walking.

"It's a long time since Sir Waldar and Sir Rudolfus have been on a visit here," she said, timidly. "I don't really know them at all. Are they... err... very capable commanders?"

Isenbard didn't reply.

# Vacillating Vassals

It was about an hour later that the door to Reuben's room swung open and Ayla staggered in, one hand covering her eyes.

"You don't mind if I sit here and contemplate our doom for a while, do you?" she asked, slumping down at the foot of his bed without waiting for a reply, and without removing her hand from her face.

"Err... no, not at all."

"Good. Oh, and by the way, you were right. We are all going to be slaughtered."

Reuben had spent a lot of time in female company, and had perfected the art of reading their moods and outbursts. He might be wrong, but something told him that something had transpired, something which wasn't very encouraging and promising.

"What has happened to you, Ayla?" He reached out and tried to pull her hand away from her face—in vain. He couldn't have lifted a leaf from the ground, he was so weak. Damn! "Ayla, talk to me! What happened? Did you have an encounter with the enemy?"

"Worse," she groaned. "I just met our allies."

Reuben relaxed, rolled his eyes, and let his hand sink back onto the bed. "So that's it. You're simply overreacting."

"You haven't met Sir Rudolfus and Sir Waldar before, have you?"

"I must admit that I haven't had the pleasure, no."

"Then do me a favor and don't speak of things you don't understand."

"Come on. It can't have been _that_ bad."

Ayla turned around and lowered her hand. For the first time since she'd entered the room, Reuben could see her expression—and flinched at the sight.

"That bad?" he asked with trepidation.

*~*~**~*~*

Ayla watched nervously as the knight leading the first group approached. At least she hoped he was a knight. He wore no mail, preferring instead baggy robes that made him look more like a scholar than a warrior. Yet he was the only one among the men riding on a horse, so who else could he be but their lord?

About ten paces away from her, the horse came to a halt. The gangly youth on its back tried to dismount, but somehow managed to get his foot stuck in his riding gear. It took a while for him to disentangle himself.

When he had finally managed, he approached Ayla on his over-long legs and gave an awkward bow, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I... err... hear that you are having some slight difficulty with one of your neighbors, Milady, and require my assistance?"

"Slight difficulty? Yes, you could say that." Ayla pointed across the river to the sea of enemy tents behind her. "That's my slight difficulty."

The young man's eyes went even wider than they already had been. "Dear me. Those are a lot of tents. Why would all those people be camping in front of the bridge like that?"

"I guess it's because they want to conquer and kill us."

"Conquer and... kill? My goodness. Have you talked to them? Asked them nicely not to?"

*~*~**~*~*

Ayla contemplated Reuben's question for a moment, remembering. Then she nodded.

"Yes," she answered Reuben. "That bad."

*~*~**~*~*

Sir Waldar arrived a few minutes later. Three men helped him off his horse. The poor animal seemed to be exceedingly glad to be free of the burden.

"Isenbard, you old sack full of sauerkraut!" Sir Waldar stamped towards them and slapped his paunch, a greeting he apparently considered more appropriate than a bow. Or maybe he just would have fallen over if he'd tried that. "How are ye holding up?"

"I am well, thank you," Isenbard responded. "Greetings, Sir Waldar."

"Greetings Sir Waldar? Greetings!" Waldar burst out laughing as if the word were the best joke he had ever heard. "Listen to him! Going on like we're at the Emperor's court."

"We are not," Isenbard said. "In fact, we are at the court of your liege lord, the Lady Ayla von Luntberg. I believe you have yet to pay homage."

He indicated Ayla who stood beside him, staring at Sir Waldar with open amazement.

Waldar glanced over at her and grinned. Several of his teeth were missing. "Oh. Sorry, lass, didn't see you there."

"You need not apologize, Sir Knight," she said, raising an eyebrow. "Not everybody draws attention as easily as you do."

He blinked at her for a moment, then burst out laughing again. "You mean not everybody is as fat a fart as old Waldar? Well, you're right!" He slapped his enormous belly again. "When I saw you just now, I thought you were no good, but now I see you're really old Luntberg's girl. You've got spunk!"

"If I do have 'spunk', as you put it, Sir, I assure you it accumulated merely accidentally. Do you know why you have been summoned hither?"

"God's breath! Just like the old Count! He used to get all formal too when something tickled his gall bladder."

"Kindly refrain from befouling the air with your tongue whilst on my land, Sir Waldar. Will you be so kind as to answer my question now?"

"Sure, lass, sure." The jolly little fat man nodded. "You've got some trouble with that upstart little pisser of a Margrave and want Waldar to rush to the rescue." He leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered: "You have absolutely nothing to worry about. It's good swordsmen you need? Well, let me tell you, I am a master of the steel!"

Ayla felt a tiny glimmer of hope. Perhaps the appearance of the man was deceiving. Perhaps he was a fierce warrior who just didn't look the part.

"At least as long as the steel comes in the form of a metal beer mug," he added, and burst out laughing again. "Ha! Got you! That was a good one, wasn't it?"

*~*~**~*~*

Ayla seemed to consider the matter for a moment longer, and then added: "In fact, maybe even a little bit worse than that bad. Really, really, really bad."

Reuben looked up at her. Even seen from below, as she looked down upon him, she appeared to be such a vulnerable creature. She had felt incredibly soft and small in his arms when he had plucked her from the saddle during that fateful robbery. And although she was so vulnerable, she had shown nothing but strength and bravery then, staring him down along four feet of deadly steel. Just as she showed nothing but strength and bravery now, faced by even greater danger and the incompetence of those who were sworn to protect her.

If only he were out of this bed and on his feet again, with a sword in his hand...

"Where is the enemy now?" he asked to distract himself from useless wishful thinking.

"Camping on the other side of the river, opposite the bridge and the barricade, which is, at least, finished now, thank the Lord."

"And is it a good barricade?"

"It didn't fall apart when I knocked on it. That's all I can tell you, I'm afraid."

"How high is it?"

"About seven feet, I think."

"What kind of wood? How thick? With or without a guard's walkway? With or without murder holes?"[44] The questions were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. Too late, as Ayla looked at him oddly, he realized how strange they must sound coming from a merchant.

"Why would you want to know what kind of wood it is made of, Reuben? And what in God's name is a murder hole?"

"Just something I heard," he muttered.

She leaned forward, a concerned expression on her face, and laid a hand on his forehead. Satan's hairy ass, she thought he was rambling from the fever! Well, at least that made it unnecessary for him to come up with a clever lie. His head felt so slow and heavy, he couldn't think straight enough to lie convincingly. And with him, that meant something. He could have lied convincingly while tap-dancing on a poisonous snake.

But he couldn't just shut up now and pretend to be delirious. He needed to know more. He needed to know what kind of danger she was in. He was useless now, but he wouldn't always be. Soon he would be on his feet again, and then these accursed mercenaries would find out just whom they were dealing with.

"What does this Margrave want from you?" he asked.

Ayla's face darkened. "He wants my hand."

"Your... hand?" For a moment, Reuben didn't understand. Then the meaning came to him, and he sucked in a sharp breath.

"He wants to force me into marriage and gain my father's lands." Never had her face looked this pale, her eyes that much like shining blue ice. But although she was in command of herself, he saw her lower lip tremble. "Though I gather, from what his herald told me, that land is not all he hopes to gain from the union."

Taking her hand from his forehead, she wrapped her arms around herself and looked down at the floor.

Reuben wished so much that he could take her in his arms right now, that he could shelter her as she was so obviously trying to do herself. But he didn't have the strength for it.

Anger rose in his chest. Anger the like of which he hadn't felt in a long, long time. Not since the tournament. His hand reached for his sword—but still the place at his belt was empty. He dreamed of having a blade in his hands, almost as fiercely as he dreamed of having Ayla.

She peeked down at him. He could see the moisture in her eyes, ready to spill over. Yet when her eyes fell on him, the fear in her face was replaced with curiosity.

"Why do you do that?" she asked.

"Do what?"

"Clutch your belt. You do it whenever you're angry. I've seen you do it a number of times now."

"I'm wishing for a sword to cut off the Margrave's head," he told her.

She stared at him for a moment, wide-eyed. Then a grin spread across her face and she started giggling. "Reuben! You're so funny!"

"That wasn't supposed to be funny," he protested. And it hadn't been. For once, he had told her the truth—and she was laughing at it. Well, all the better. "I'd love to cut off his head. Then you wouldn't be troubled by him anymore."

"That's sweet of you."

She leaned forward, and before he knew what had happened, her lips brushed against his forehead. She herself didn't seem aware of what she had done. But he was. She was totally innocent. But he wasn't.

"However," she continued, "I wouldn't want you to throw your life away for me."

"And why do you think I wouldn't be successful?" he asked, breathless. His mind was still elsewhere—still experiencing the moment when her lips had touched his forehead. Did he dare call it a kiss?

She giggled again. "Reuben, _you_ , swinging a sword? Please! You look strong enough, but you're no fighter. You're too good a merchant."

He raised an eyebrow. "You think I'm such a good merchant, do you?"

"Well..." She blushed. "You could make _me_ give you pretty much anything for free, just for one of those cheeky smiles of yours."

This immediately brought said cheeky smile to Reuben's face, more radiant than ever before. "Really? Anything?"

"If you're going to ask for honey wine, forget it. You're not getting any."

That wasn't what had been on Reuben's mind. But it was probably better to let her think so and keep his real wishes to himself—for a while. Unless he was very much mistaken, she was just starting to like him. Definitely not the right moment to provoke her into slapping his face.

# Know Thyself

Ayla changed Reuben's cataplasms again and gave him some more water, then left reluctantly, not able to think of another excuse to stay and enjoy his company.

She had just returned to her own room when she realized what she had done. Terrified, she slapped her hands over her mouth and sank against the wall, groaning. "Oh God, no!"

Heilswinda, another one of her maids, though not as close a confidante as Dilli, was just folding linen in a corner of the room. Leaving her work immediately, she came hurrying over to support her mistress. "Milady? Are you alright? Are you ill?"

"No, it's not that. I... I..."

"What then?"

"What have I done?" Ayla moaned.

Heilswinda's young and kind but simple face wrinkled in confusion. "Well, I don't know. You should know that best yourself, shouldn't you?"

"I do!"

"Then what are you asking me for, Milady?"

"I... oh, forget it!"

There was a moment of silence while Ayla contemplated her shame.

"Well, what was it?" Heilswinda asked, face alight with curiosity.

"What was what?"

"What did you do?"

Ayla hesitated. But although she was curious, Heilswinda wasn't one to gossip. And it would be good to confess to someone.

"I kissed Reuben," she admitted, shame-faced.

The curiosity in Heilswinda's face increased tenfold. "And?" she demanded. "Was he good?"

"Was he... Heilswinda!" Ayla's face turned a brilliant shade of scarlet.

"Sorry, Milady."

"It wasn't like that. I kissed him on the forehead."

"Oh." The maid seemed severely disappointed. And Ayla had to admit, part of her felt the same.

However, she didn't have much time to dwell on this improper feeling. Just then, there came three knocks from the closed door, and Isenbard called: "Milady? I need you. Urgently."

Quickly, or at least as quickly as possible, Ayla banished thoughts of Reuben from her mind. When Isenbard said things were urgent, they were.

"You say nothing about this to anyone, understand?" she whispered to Heilswinda.

The maid giggled and nodded. "Mum's the word, Milady."

Ayla opened the door and met the eyes of her father's old friend apprehensively. She was sure that her shameless action would be written on her forehead, plain for all to see, or at least that the blush in her cheeks would give her away. But Isenbard didn't seem to notice.

"Follow me, Milady. The enemy is flying a white flag."

Ayla's eyes widened. "They want to surrender?"

For a split second, she could have sworn the corner of the knight's mouth twitched. But probably she was mistaken.

"No. A white flag is not only used to surrender, but also to signal a parley. They want to talk."

That made Ayla's eyes only widen further. "Talk to whom?" she asked, though she thought she already knew.

"The liege lord must lead such negotiations, Milady."

Ayla knew what that meant. She knew because her father hadn't left his bed for years. She knew because Isenbard called her "Milady" in that special, deferential tone. He only did that when official business was at hand.

"They wish to talk to the liege lord?" She straightened and swept her long, golden hair back. "Then they shall. Lead the way, Sir Isenbard."

He bowed. "Milady."

Just as before, they took a single horse down to the barricade. Ayla still couldn't find it in her heart to find a replacement for Eleanor. She felt like, if she did that, she would banish her dear friend from her heart, making sure that she would never see her again.

It was silly, and she knew it, but she just couldn't let go. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

As they rode out of the gates and Ayla turned, looking back up at the castle, she remembered something that thankfully drove Eleanor from her thoughts.

"Isenbard?" she asked.

"Yes, Milady?"

"What's a murder hole?"

There were a few moments of silence. Then Isenbard answered in a careful tone: "A contraption used in the building of the most modern castles, Milady. At the very top of the wall, there are constructed platforms with holes in them. On these platforms men stand and drop things on the enemy."

The way he said the word "things" made Ayla suspicious. "What kind of things?"

"Rocks. Pitch. Boiling oil. Things like that. The holes through which these things are thrown are called murder holes for a good reason."

"I see."

"It is one of the more devious and highly effective methods of siege warfare—and not commonly known. If I may ask you, Milady, where did you hear this term?"

"Reuben mentioned it."

"Is that so?" Isenbard scratched his beard, thoughtfully. "Interesting fellow, your Reuben. I'd like to meet him."

"He isn't _my_ Reuben."

"Of course not, Milady."

"Isenbard? Why do you sound as if you are placating me?"

"Placating, Milady? I sound as I always do."

"That's exactly the problem. You manage to sound placating while at the same time sounding just as you always do."

"Milady?"

Ayla was just about to tell him what was going to happen to him if he said "Milady" one more time in this stupid, innocent way, when about a hundred yards in front of her, the barricade appeared from behind a gently rising hill. Behind the barricade, she could see dozens of enemy banners fluttering in the breeze. In contrast, the four small banners mounted atop the barricade, showing the brown bear, the star, the gray wolf, and the white lily, seemed to hang sad and limply.

A horn sounded from beyond the barricade. Ayla knew that it was not one of hers. It was the enemy, announcing his approach. Isenbard reined back his horse in front of the barricade, climbed down, and offered Ayla a hand.

She slid down on the other side.

From behind the horse, she heard something like a chuckle. But that couldn't be, could it? After all, it was Sir Isenbard who stood there.

She rounded the horse, and indeed there he stood, just as solemn and dignified as ever.

The horn sounded again.

"If you want me to come up on the barricade with you..." he offered, but she interrupted him: "No, Uncle Ironbeard. This is something I need to do alone."

"Are you sure?"

"Sir Isenbard, I just gave you an order, didn't I?"

"Yes you did, Milady. How could I have overlooked that?"

He stood aside and let her climb the barricade.

"If one of them decides your head is worth more than his honor and shoots at you, duck quickly!" he shouted after her.

With those encouraging words, Ayla climbed the ladder leading up to the guard walk. The wood felt rough through the thin leather of her shoes. Not nearly as rough, however, as what was awaiting her beyond the barricade.

For one moment, just one moment, she hesitated.

No, she couldn't turn back now. She had a responsibility towards her people. She was their liege lord, and she had to act like it. So she made herself climb up farther and farther. Finally, she stood atop the finished barricade for the first time, looking out over the enemy camp.

To say that it was an impressive sight would have been a lie.

It was a terrifying sight.

Rows upon rows of tents, a sea of tents, stretched as far as the eye could see, with the subtle hint of bloodthirsty sharks moving everywhere under the waves of canvas. Armor rattled and hammers fell heavy on metal. It was the sound of a giant pack of beasts preparing for attack.

Yet nothing was as frightening as when all these noises suddenly cut off.

The horn rang out one more time. A white flag appeared between the tents, slowly moving forward.

Ayla stood straight atop the barricade, taking a deep breath. She was about to come face to face with the man who was preparing to attack her castle and her people. She vowed to herself not to be intimidated by the Margrave's chief killer, whoever he might be, whatever he might look like. If he were a giant Norseman, she would not be afraid. If he were a ruthless, scarred mercenary, she would not be afraid. Even if the Margrave himself were to ride out to meet her, she would not be afraid. She was the Lady Ayla von Luntberg, and she would let nothing and no one intimidate her.

An enormous mounted figure approached through the enemy camp. Even from this far off and with the tents blocking most of her view, Ayla could catch glimpses of the massive rider. She caught a glimpse of red.

Her heart beat faster, threatening to burst out of her chest. No, she feared nothing and no one.

Except, perhaps...

# Know Thy Enemy

Out from the sea of tents he rode: a knight in blood-red armor on a gigantic stallion as black as midnight, a spear held aloft in his gauntleted fist, a double-bladed ax strapped to his back.

Out from the sea of tents he rode, the figure that had haunted her, that she had hated, ever since that day in the forest when he had held a sword to her throat and taken her Eleanor away from her.

The red robber knight.

Ayla had asked herself ever since that day in the forest why he had left her alive. Why not simply take her honor as he had taken her horse and then slit her throat, like any other cutthroat would have done?

Now she knew.

He was no ordinary villain.

He was her greatest enemy, and evil to the core. He had wanted to humiliate her first, bring her to the cusp between life and death, only to return now, when she thought herself safe within her own lands, and show her she was safe nowhere. Not from him. Not with such a force behind him.

"Look at me," he seemed to be saying. "I held your life in my hands before—now I do so again. I can destroy you anywhere, at any moment of my choosing. You had better surrender now and put that ring on your finger, while you still have fingers."

The red knight rode up to the barricade and stopped only a few yards away from Ayla. Although she stood higher than he, the crimson fiend seemed to be towering over her.

He raised a hand. "Greetings, Milady," he said in a low and subtly menacing sing-song. "I am Sir Luca DeLombardi, commander of all the forces of his Grace, the mighty Margrave von Falkenstein."

Ayla frowned. His voice was different from how she remembered it. This lilting accent hadn't been there the last time she had met him, had it? She shook the thought off. It was unimportant.

"So glad you could join us, Sir Luca," she said, managing to keep her voice from trembling. "And may I ask why the mighty Margrave himself does not honor us with his presence? Is he too afraid to face an honest woman? Does he think I might best him on the field of battle, and is he cowering in a corner somewhere?"

Sir Luca laughed. The movement rattled his red armor. "The Margrave doesn't waste his valuable time on the likes of you! You're far too unimportant for him to be bothered with."

"And yet he must think me to be of considerable importance, seeing as he wants me as his wife," Ayla countered, her face reddening.

The red knight snorted. "If you consider it a sign of special importance to be the only one of his whores with a golden ring on her finger, then please go ahead and flatter yourself."

From red, Ayla's face abruptly went to white. This wasn't just banter. The man meant every word he said.

"Enough of this," he commanded. "I have not come hither to bandy words with an ignorant wench. I am here to dictate the terms of your surrender."

Ayla swallowed. This was the moment she had been gathering courage for. Licking her lips, she opened her mouth and said:

"No."

The single word sounded weak and foolish, spoken to the giant warrior on his black horse.

"Excuse me?" he said, his voice still a deceptively sweet sing-song.

Ayla gritted her teeth. "I said no," she repeated, putting more strength and conviction into her voice. "I will never surrender. Never!"

Turning his head from left to right, the red knight observed the barricade she was standing on. "Yes, I surmised as much when I saw this pitiful obstacle. And you really think that will hold me back? You, wench, are going to try and stop me and my army?"

"Yes!" She raised her head proudly. "I would rather die than hand over my land and my people."

"Excellent." Sir Luca clapped his hands and bowed as deeply as he could on horseback. "You have my thanks, Milady."

She stared at him, open-mouthed, which made him chuckle. "If you had any idea how stupid you look just now. It is very entertaining."

"W-why...?" she stammered.

"Why I would thank you for not surrendering?" She could almost see his glinting teeth as he grinned, even through the visor of his helmet. "You see, Milady, if you were to surrender and give up your lands to the Margrave freely, then I would simply have to report back to him and take you along with me. The only big event to look forward to then would be your marriage, and frankly, I'm more interested in pig shit than in your matrimonial arrangements. Now that you've refused, however, I have something else to look forward to—the sacking of your lands and castle. A tenth of the plunder will be mine to do with as I wish, and who knows, maybe after the attack the two of us might even find ourselves alone in a room together."

Ayla's mouth was suddenly dry. "What do you mean?" she asked.

"You really have to ask that question? Why, surely it is obvious, Milady. I mean that war is a messy business, and no one is really interested in what happens to the losing party. I mean that if we are alone in a room, a tenth of the plunder is not the only thing that will be mine to do with as I wish. You would probably look a lot less stupid with your clothes off."

That was the point where Ayla snapped. She was afraid, and tired, and she missed Eleanor terribly, and this... abomination just sat there on his horse saying things to her that would make a tavern keeper blush. She didn't remember much of the conversation with the red knight after that, mostly because it's hard to pay attention while you're screaming yourself hoarse. It took her about half an hour to run out of steam.

Finally, the crimson fiend chuckled and nodded. "I see you've got some fire in you, you little blue-eyed strumpet. It'll be fun taming you. And I don't think the Margrave would object. After all, he wants a woman, not a bucking beast."

Turning his horse, he galloped away, back towards the camp. Over his shoulder he shouted: "Prepare yourself, Milady. Soon, a storm of steel will engulf your lands, that I vow to you, I, Sir Luca DeLombardi! And I always keep my promises!"

Ayla stood on the guard's walkway for a minute longer, exhausted. Not so much from the shouting as from the dread. She knew him, knew what a monster he was. Yes, he would keep his promise. Death was coming for all of them.

Just not for her. For her, he had an even worse fate prepared.

Slowly, she turned and climbed down from the barricade.

Isenbard raised an eyebrow at her. "Impressive."

"Thank you."

"Though I must say I haven't heard you use such... inventive language before. Where did you pick up those words?"

"I don't recall using any special words."

"Well, I do. I thought the part where you suggested that he shove his surrender terms up the devil's piliferous rear end was particularly inventive."

"Thank you," she said again in a toneless voice and swung herself into the saddle of his horse.

"Milady! What are you doing?"

"I... just need to go somewhere. Somewhere quiet."

"Girl? I know you." Isenbard had changed from his vassal-voice to his kind-uncle-voice. "Something is wrong. What is the matter? You're not upset by what that Italian bastard said, are you? He..."

Ayla shook her head. Somehow, it wouldn't stop shaking. Then she realized she was shaking all over.

"No," she managed. "Not by what he said. By what he looked like."

She gave the big warhorse the spurs and galloped up the hill towards the castle.

Behind her, she could hear Isenbard shouting something after her about her not being able to control the horse and about this silly obsession females had with looks, but she just rode on. She had just come face to face with her worst enemy. What she now needed more than anything else in the world was a friend.

*~*~**~*~*

Only an hour or so after Ayla had left, Reuben again heard light footsteps approaching. His heart quickened in the hope that it might be Ayla. Part of him was slightly embarrassed at the way he was reacting. He had known hundreds of girls before, and none of them had caused him to make such a fool of himself. Perhaps it wasn't her but his illness that made his heart hammer like this...

She opened the door and all thoughts flew out the window. Reuben stared at her. He had never seen her look like this. Her face was pale, her beautiful eyes wide, and there was a sadness in them he did not like seeing at all. It was the sadness of someone gearing up for a battle she feared she was going to lose.

"Ayla," he croaked. Coughing, he tried to bring a little moisture to his dry mouth. "Ayla," he repeated. "What is the matter?"

She waved away his question. "Nothing really. May I sit here again for a while?"

"Yes, of course. It's your castle, after all."

She didn't reply but just came over and sat, her back to him. Reuben waited for her to speak, but she didn't.

After a while, he started to get fidgety. "Ayla, what is the matter with you? Has something happened?"

She nodded, still not turning to him. "Oh yes, something has happened. Something terrible."

"What?" he demanded.

"You remember the day we found you in the forest?"

"I got shot in the back. Something like that isn't easy to forget," he joked.

"I guess so."

Her tone was still the same. Frightened. Defeated. She hadn't even realized he had been trying to lighten the mood. What was up with her?

"Before I found you that day," she continued, her voice a dead monotone, "I had an unpleasant encounter with a certain robber knight."

The words hit him in the stomach like a sledgehammer. He was hardly able to keep his voice steady. "You did, did you?"

"Yes."

"And... what was he like?"

"I swore to see him hanged. Does that tell you enough?"

"Yes, it does. But why bring this up now?"

Still, she hadn't turned around. He wished so much she would turn so he could read her face, so that he could read the truth in her eyes. So that he knew whether he would have to kill her now and run.

"Well, it turns out that monster is closer than I thought," Ayla whispered. "Very, very close."

She knew!

There was no doubt in his mind anymore. She knew. Slowly, he lifted his hands up towards her delicate ivory neck.

She knew! But if she knew, why weren't there any guards with her? She had sworn to have him hanged, and still she wasn't ordering her men to carry him off to the gallows. Instead, she was just sitting there, sad and frightened. He had expected her to be angry, furious even.

No matter. Soon enough she would call the guards and do what she had promised him. He wouldn't let her! He liked his neck just the way it was, without a rope around it. He was going to stop her.

One of his hands descended on her shoulder—and she sighed, relaxing under his touch.

That was the moment he knew he couldn't do it. Not because he lacked the strength. He would have been able to find it, somehow. No, even if he were at his full strength, clad in armor, and holding a sword in each hand, he would never be able to so much as scratch her.

So he just lay there, a hand on her shoulder.

He was an idiot!

"He's close, you say?" Reuben thought his voice sounded even raspier than usual. Well, he didn't relish the idea of dying on the gallows. But it was best to get this over with. "How close exactly?"

"I've just had a chat with him down at the bridge."

Reuben's hand dropped from Ayla's shoulder. " _What_?"

"Apparently, he's the commander of the forces that are about to attack my castle."

"Err... Ayla? Are you sure about this?"

Now, she finally did turn to him. "What do you mean 'are you sure about this'? I just talked with the fiend for almost an hour! He called me a... a lady of questionable morals and threatened to kill me! Yes, I am sure about this!"

She glared down at him in an accusing, incredibly cute manner. Reuben tried to think of a good way to say, "Ah, but you see, I'm also pretty sure that I am me, and since it was I who robbed you that day and now I'm here with you, I can't very well be out there commanding an army that is about to kill us all." However, such a thing was difficult to express at the best of times, and these were not the best of times. Reuben's head still felt like it was stuffed with wet wool, and he was getting hotter and hotter.

"I threatened to kill you?" he asked, blinking up at her, trying to focus on that lovely face. This was getting confusing.

"Not you, you blockhead! The red robber knight, Sir Luca DeLombardi."

"My name isn't Luca."

"I know that. Why are you talking gibberish?"

Suddenly, her facial expression turned from accusing to concern. "Oh my God, it isn't the fever, is it? Reuben, I'm so sorry. I was so caught up in my own problems, I totally forgot that you're sick. Can you forgive me?"

She grabbed his hand. It felt cool and smooth in his.

Reuben pondered her question for a while and then nodded. "Aye, probably," he said, grinning, still trying to focus. "If you give me a kiss again."

It was interesting, he observed, how, although he was supposed to be the one with the fever, it was her face that now turned red with heat. That just went to show that you could never trust this medical stuff.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she mumbled, avoiding his gaze.

"Oh yes, you do."

"I... that... that was totally innocent. It was nothing."

"Nothing out of the ordinary?"

"Exactly."

"So you go around doing it with everybody?"

"No! I... oh just turn over! I need to change your bandages and cataplasms."

"As you wish, Milady." Reuben turned around, grinning. He didn't exactly know whether he was delirious or not, but he was having fun, so why the hell should he care? "Enjoy the view," he added, and felt her fingers twitch back, just as they were about to roll up his trouser legs.

Oh yes, he was most definitely having fun.

Sometime during the procedure, the hot wool filling his skull seemed to grow out of his ears and cover his head, slowly casting the world into darkness. Before, he hadn't been able to think clearly. Now he had lost the ability to think at all. Just a few words stuck in his mind before he slipped off into unconsciousness.

Commander of enemy army...

Threatened to kill...

To kill...

Kill...

Ayla...

*~*~**~*~*

Ayla stood on the battlements of Luntberg Castle looking out over the valley, when behind her she heard the clinking of chain mail.

Turning halfway around, she saw Isenbard approaching, his helmet held under his left arm.

"Studying the enemy?" he asked.

"Yes," Ayla told him. What she didn't tell him was the secondary reason for coming up here—namely letting the wind cool her face which had been very hot indeed from spending time with Reuben. And not because the man had a fever. It should be illegal for a man of low birth to be exuding such devious attraction while he was just lying on his back, unconscious, not doing anything!

"Ayla?"

"W-what?" Ayla looked at Isenbard again. "Did you say something?"

Isenbard had a serious frown on his forehead. "I just asked you what you were staring at. Twice in fact. You have been staring down into the valley for the last five minutes without saying a word."

"Have I? Well, I was thinking, I guess."

"About the enemy?"

Exactly the opposite had been the case, but Ayla grasped the excuse gladly. "Yes, about the enemy," she said, and tried not to sound too relieved.

_You need to concentrate on what is really important_ , she admonished herself. _You have a responsibility to yourself and to your people_. So she let her eyes wander once more out towards the enemy camp on the other side of the river.

The river.

It had always seemed so broad and swift to her. Growing up, she had wished it might be smaller and the current less strong, so she could swim in it. Now she wished it might be three times as wide and fast-flowing.

On the eastern bank, the last columns of men were marching into the camp. The assembled host looked even more impressive than it had a few hours earlier. She shuddered to think of what it would look like arrayed ready for attack.

"What do you think, Isenbard?" she asked. "Will they attack tonight?"

"I doubt it," the old knight said. "They have a long day's march behind them, and mercenaries like their sleep as much as the next man."

"And will they tomorrow?"

"That is what they have come for."

He hadn't said it, not outright. But the awful truth settled in and fear gripped Ayla's heart with claws of ice and iron.

This was it. Tonight they would sleep in peace for the last time.

Tomorrow, there would be war.

*~*~**~*~*

Reuben jerked awake abruptly. The light of the morning streamed in through the window, but it was not beautiful to him. It was just red. Like blood.

The words, formerly incomprehensible, muddled by fever, were now clear in his mind, which for the first time in days was working right again.

That fly-bitten bastard! He had threatened to kill Ayla!

In the distance, from the other side of the river, came the sound of horns calling men to arms.

# Red Dawn

Her father's hand closed tightly around hers as he heard the horns call men to arms. He looked at her imploringly. "Stay here with me, will you?" Count Thomas asked.

Ayla shook her head, sadly. "I can't. I have to go downstairs and prepare. You know that. I'm the only one with any decent training in healing around here. I have to take care of the wounded."

Taking a deep, rattling breath, the Count nodded his ancient white head. "Yes, I know. Still, I'd rather you stay here with me. But I know you have to go. Just promise me..."

"What?"

"Promise me that you won't go out there, outside the castle. Let the wounded be brought to you, into the castle. And for God's sake, don't go anywhere near the battle."

Ayla hesitated.

The grip of her father's wrinkled fingers around her own small hand tightened even more, and he said, in a commanding tone he almost never used anymore: "Ayla! It is far too dangerous for you to set foot outside the castle. Promise me!"

Slowly, she nodded. "I promise."

The Count relaxed back into his pillows. "Good."

They heard the horn sound again. "Now go. I know you need to."

Ayla jumped up and rushed to the door.

Outside, Isenbard waited for her. "What did you tell him?" he asked her, eying the oak door behind her.

"A lie he needed to hear," was her only reply. "Follow me, Sir Isenbard. We have work to do."

Ayla rode on a horse of her own this time, as the two of them left the castle and approached the bridge. Every step of the way hurt her heart. She felt as though she were betraying her faithful mare by riding another horse. But this was no time to be sentimental. It was quicker this way, and Sir Isenbard's horse might need all its strength in the approaching fight.

To Ayla's surprise, a few tents had been erected on their side of the bridge, on a small meadow. She inquired what these might be.

"Our tents," the knight replied, urging his horse forward to keep up with her.

"What do you mean, 'our tents'?" she persisted, glancing at the knight riding beside her with slight disapproval. This was no time for Isenbard's usual terseness.

"I made the men put them up. One for me, one for you, and one command tent."

"A tent for me? Do you think I intend on sleeping out here, then?"

"It's not for sleeping. It's for treating the wounded."

"Really?" She raised an eyebrow. "Didn't you hear me promise the Count that I would steer clear of the battlefield?"

"I also heard that in the Orient, fish can fly and men can breathe fire. Doesn't mean I believe it."

"Ha!"

Only a few yards away from the tents, Ayla brought her horse to a halt and slid off its back, glad to be on her own two feet again. "And what do _you_ need a tent for?"

"I need some place to put on my armor."

The lady of Luntberg appraised her knight as he dismounted. From head to toe he was covered in glittering metal. "Don't you have armor on now?"

Isenbard shook his head.

"Then what is that you're wearing?"

"Chain mail."

"That's armor too, isn't it?"

"No." The face of the knight was unusually grim as he said this. Apart from the fact that it was what knights wore while fighting each other, Ayla knew next to nothing about armor. But Isenbard's hardened face made her wary.

"How so?" she asked with mounting trepidation. "It looks like armor to me."

"Not for a battle it isn't. Imagine... how can I explain it?" He looked away. For some reason he didn't want to meet her eye.

"Isenbard?"

"Imagine going to a ball, Ayla. This is what you have been trained for your whole life as a lady. Imagine entering the ballroom, imagine all eyes are fixed upon you."

Ayla had no trouble conjuring the image. She had dreamed of attending a big ball pretty much all her life. There was always a tall and dark stranger in her fantasies, whose attention she immediately attracted. Lately, this stranger had started to look more and more like Reuben.

"Can you imagine it?" Isenbard asked.

"Oh yes."

"Good. And now imagine that scene with you wearing no dress."

Blood flooded Ayla's face. Why the heck did she have to bring Reuben into the picture! Now he wouldn't disappear.

"Uncle!"

"I'm trying to teach you something, Ayla." Isenbard's voice was cold and hard as stone. Still he wasn't looking at her. "Entering a battlefield while wearing nothing but chain mail is like entering a ballroom in your... um... _underthings_. It leaves you vulnerable. The difference is, while as a lady in a ballroom you might earn disdain for appearing thus, I might earn death instead. What a ballroom gown is to a lady, plate armor[45] is to the knight. I am about to don my gown for the field. And I am not sure whether my shoulders can still bear the weight, Milady. Come, and I will show you."

She followed him without question. He led her into his tent, where a young man waited for them, beside something very bulky covered by a large cloth.

"My squire, Theoderich." Isenbard nodded to the youth. "Lad, make your bow to Lady Ayla von Luntberg."

The squire bowed perfectly and immediately, clearly demonstrating the rigors of Isenbard's regime.

"Show the Lady Ayla my armor, lad."

The squire gripped the large cloth with both hands and pulled. It came away, revealing a metal monstrosity.

Ayla had often seen suits of armor before, but never had she been so close to one, or had had a reason to contemplate its purpose. The armor was a head taller than her, and made out of large steel plates that were welded together in some places, layered in others. It only seemed to be designed to protect the upper body, lacking metal plates to protect the legs and feet, as it hung there on a wooden construct. Ayla supposed she should be glad it didn't encase the whole body, because this would make it easier to move in. But somehow, the fact that it had no legs made the armor look even more frightening, like a man cut in half. And that half metal man looked more than heavy enough to bring you down. Ayla didn't see how anyone stuck inside there could move an inch.

The empty visor stared at her accusingly.

"And... knights walk around in these things?" she asked in a tentative voice.

"Most don't." Isenbard's voice was totally neutral. "Most can't walk two steps after putting it on. They have to be heaved onto their horses with cranes before any battle or tournament. If they fall from their horses, they are lost. They lie on the ground, helpless as an overturned tortoise."

"But you don't. You can walk around with it?" she demanded to know. _Please say yes. Please._

"I used to." The old knight met her eye. "Yet I haven't worn one of these for over fifteen years."

Carefully, he grasped her hand and guided it towards one of the metal arms.

"Lift it," he said.

"I don't think that is such a good idea. I..."

"Lift it!" It was no request. She put her hand under the metal and heaved.

The steel stayed where it was.

"I can't, Isenbard. I can't lift it."

"I know." His voice was suddenly gentle, like she had heard it only on the rarest occasions.

"Why are you showing me this?" Panic welled up inside Ayla. She didn't like where this was going. She didn't like it at all. "Why me?"

"Because you need to know," he said, his voice returning to his usual terseness. "You are the lady of the castle. You need to know what our situation is."

"Why? What am I supposed to do?"

He scratched his beard thoughtfully. His gaze seemed to reach far off into the distance. "Lead your people," he finally replied. "And pray that the Lord sends you a knight who is still worthy of the title."

She gave him a weak smile. "That would be a miracle, Isenbard. They only happen for prophets and saints, not for normal people like me."

He patted her shoulder awkwardly. "Well, they have been known to happen now and again, girl, even for normal folk. Now leave me. I must prepare for battle."

As she left the tent, Ayla turned one last time and saw the squire fastening the central part of the armor around Sir Isenbard's torso. His shoulders sagged under the weight, and suddenly his face looked very old.

Ayla stepped out into the dawn to face a sun glowing the color of blood, and prayed that it might not be an omen. And for some silly reason, she also prayed for a knight to come save her. How incredibly stupid. Her castle was under siege. She was beyond anyone's reach. And who would want to save _her_ , in any case?

# Battle of the Bridge

Ayla's tent was situated about three hundred yards away from the barricade, far enough back so as not to be hit by any arrows from the battle, as long as the barricade wasn't breached. It was also situated to the side, so that Ayla could see past their defensive line to whatever lay beyond. She was both grateful and frightened that Isenbard had placed it thus.

Grateful because it showed her he trusted in her ability to handle what she saw.

Frightened because it left her no choice but to see.

She saw beyond the barricade. And at that moment, seeing beyond the barricade meant that she could see the enemy approaching in full force.

So, apparently, could Sir Rudolfus and Sir Waldar, who had joined her on the meadow behind the barricade. They hurried over to her.

"Milady! Milady, do you see this?" With a shaking finger, Sir Rudolfus pointed towards the opposite bank.

Ayla studied the hundreds of pikemen and archers approaching the barricade. The sun glittered on the tips of a forest of spears.

"I would say they are rather hard to miss," she pointed out.

"We must surrender immediately!"

"Must we?" She raised an eyebrow. "I was under the impression that I am the one in charge here."

"Now look here, girl," Waldar chuckled nervously. "You can't honestly expect us to fight this many men. Quit this silly game and tell this Sir Luca you're surrendering."

Behind the two men, Ayla could see a massive iron-clad figure leaving Isenbard's tent. He moved slowly, but held himself perfectly erect. _Thank the Lord!_

Returning her attention to her other two vassals, she fixed them with a death-stare. "I do not consider protecting the lives of my subjects a silly game, Sir Waldar," she said. "And when conversing with me, you will kindly use the proper form of address. Listen closely now. I have no intention of surrendering my land and my people to some villainous invader! I have commanded you to defend those lands, and you are sworn to defend me. If you choose to break that vow, then you had better go to the castle dungeons and lock yourselves in, traitors that you are. I have not the men to spare to do it for you!"

She let her gaze wander from one to the other. Behind them, the iron-clad figure of the knight took up his position and gripped his sword. "Now are you two going to follow my orders, yes or no?"

Sir Rudolfus swallowed, hard. "I will do my duty, as you command, Milady. Though I do not know what use I will be in battle."

"That we will have to see. Sir Waldar?"

The fat man's three chins worked for a moment. And for a moment longer. And longer. A deep sound came out of his throat. It took Ayla a moment to realize it was laughter, getting louder and louder.

"Ha!" the fat man boomed. "Haaahahaha! You're a good one! All right, Milady! I've never avoided a drunken brawl, maybe it's time I get into one while I'm sober! Let's go show these sons of bitches what stuff we're made of!"

Ayla breathed out in relief. "An admirable attitude, Sir Waldar. Though I would appreciate it if you could moderate your language. Then we are decided?"

The two men nodded.

"Very well. Sir Isenbard?"

Both Sir Waldar and Sir Rudolfus whirled around, and then flinched at the sight of the imposing knight, his hand on his sword. Neither of them, so it seemed, had been aware that he had been standing behind them the whole time.

"Yes, Milady?" A deep and strangely unfamiliar metallic voice came from behind the visor.

"I hereby appoint you supreme commander of all our armed forces. Defend us as you see fit. All our lives are in your hands, all my vassals at your command." She threw a significant look at Sir Waldar and Sir Rudolfus. They understood.

Sir Isenbard bowed. "As you wish, Milady. Sir Waldar? Sir Rudolfus? Please call your men and follow me."

She watched them march down towards the barricade. Under Sir Isenbard's orders, the force of about fifty men, consisting of the three knights' warriors and her own castle guards, positioned themselves behind the barricade. At a beckon of Isenbard's armored fist, five of his own men climbed onto the guard walk, stationing themselves atop the barricade shoulder to shoulder. With a shiver, Ayla realized that they would have to deal with the brunt of the attack.

Across the river, the horn blew again, drawing her eyes.

There he was. The red robber knight, in full armor. Now that Isenbard had shown her, she knew what wearing full armor meant. And now that she wasn't looking down on him from atop a barricade, she could fully appreciate the monstrous thing he was wearing. In the light of the morning sun, his armor glinted, as evil and impenetrable as the scales of a dragon.

Suddenly, she heard footsteps approaching and whirled around, gripping one of the surgical knives she had brought with her. But it was only Dilli. Relieved, Ayla clutched at her heart.

"Mary Mother of God, Dilli, you scared the wits out of me! I thought you were an attack from the rear! What on earth are you doing out here?"

The maid eyed the knife in her mistress' hand apprehensively. Quickly, Ayla put it away and repeated her question: "What are you doing here?"

"I have a favor to ask, Milady."

Ayla looked back to the red knight.

"Men!" he shouted, his deep, strangely accented voice carrying all the way over the river and to the two women beside the tents. "Today we will win a great victory! We will triumph over this nanny who calls himself a knight and does a woman's bidding!"

A roar went up from the assembled soldiers as they raised their spears and axes.

"Err... I'm happy to help you any way I can, Dilli," Ayla replied, not letting Sir Luca out of her sight. "Only not just now, maybe? As you see, I'm a little bit busy."

"Forward," the red fiend shouted. "Forward to honor and victory!"

"Oh yes," Ayla mumbled. "Honor. I'm sure there's a lot of honor in attacking innocent people and threatening to burn their homes to the ground. Blackguard!"

She felt Dilli tug at her sleeve, but at the moment she had eyes only for her foe and his forces, slowly approaching the bridge.

Again, Dilli tugged at her sleeve. "I can't go back, Milady. I... c-came to help. Please... let me help with the wounded."

That got Ayla's attention. She turned to stare at her maid and friend. "But you're terrified of anything that bleeds, Dilli. Once, you walked by farmer Albert's house when he was beheading a chicken, and you almost fainted. You came running back to the castle in tears."

Dilli squared her tiny shoulders and nodded, her brown curls bobbing up and down with the motion. "I know. But I still want to help."

"Err... I'm touched, Dilli. But your place isn't here on the battlefield."

"My place is by your side, Milady, wherever that is." The smaller Dilli looked up at Ayla with big, begging, doe eyes. "This is my only chance to help you. Please, Milady, let me stay."

Across the river, the men who had been marching so far broke into a run. A fearsome battlecry rose up from hundreds of bloodthirsty throats. The red robber knight urged his stallion into a gallop.

To her surprise, Ayla found herself grinning at Dilli. But was it really that surprising? In all probability, every last one of them was going to die. Why not meet death with a smile on your lips and a friend at your side?

"Do you promise not to puke all over me?" she inquired.

Dilli returned her smile, weakly. "I promise to try."

"Fair enough. Go into the tent and start unrolling the bandages that are stacked there, will you. We're going to need them."

The maid nodded and hurried into the tent. Ayla thanked the Lord for her friend's innocent mind. It prevented her from guessing the true motive behind Ayla sending her into the tent. The enemy army, still gathering speed, had now come within range. Dilli would see enough blood today. But she didn't need to see this. The hammer of attack was about to strike the anvil of defense, forging war.

On the barricade, the strange iron figure she had still trouble thinking of as Isenbard, raised an arm.

"Nock! Mark! Draw!"

Ayla shuddered, knowing what would come next.

"Hold... hold... loose!"

If Ayla had expected the arrows to have the same devastating effect as last time, she was bitterly disappointed. Where last time the arrows had been as bolts of lightning striking down impudent mortals, this time they were like the sting of a fly to a hydra. The many-headed monster of Sir Luca's army moved on, trampling the few who had fallen under its feet. They reached the barricade in a matter of minutes. Stones with ropes attached flew through the air, ladders were thrust upwards. The defenders hacked furiously at the ropes, tried to push back the ladders. Still, a few remained long enough for men to scramble onto the guard walk. Most were cut down immediately, falling under a storm of blows. But some remained upright, fought, and stood long enough for a second and a third man to follow them.

What was most terrible and most surprising though, in all the mayhem, was the absence of blood.

Ayla had expected fountains of blood to spew forth, but no such thing happened. The thick mail and leather armor the soldiers wore seemed to protect both sides from the sharp edges of the enemy's blades. It did not, however, protect them from the strength of the blows.

Ayla winced every time she heard it: the sickening crunch of breaking bones. Never in her life had she imagined a battle to be like this. Not a glorious duel to the death, but a violent brawl where you just hit hard enough to break your enemy's bones and trod him down into the dirt, not caring whether he was still alive, because he was in too much pain to harm you anymore.

Concerned, Ayla looked for Isenbard in the clamor. Finally she found him, fending off three enemy mercenaries at once. She had not seen much swordplay in her life, but from the very fact that he was fighting three enemies and was still alive, she deduced that his had to be extraordinary. It _looked_ extraordinary, too: Somehow, his sword, a graceful silver bringer of death, kept all three enemies at bay, dealing blow after blow, until two finally collapsed. The third he gripped by the throat and threw off the barricade, accompanied by cheers from his men.

"I-is it over yet?" came Dilli's timid voice from inside the tent.

Ayla didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "They haven't even brought us the first wounded man yet, Dilli. This is a battle. What do you think?"

"I was just asking."

Ayla's concern grew. Yes, Isenbard was holding his own. But he was tiring, it was obvious. As the fight wore on, his movements became slower, his blows weaker. Once, an enemy struck him on the ribs, another time in the stomach, which caused the old knight to bellow in pain.

If Ayla hadn't been three hundred yards away, she would have used her surgical knife there and then on that miserable mercenary—and not to perform surgery.

At the foot of the barricade, a few men were lying in a tangled mess. Other men hastened to help them, grasped their arms and legs and started to carry them towards Ayla. She tensed, knowing why they were approaching.

"Prepare yourself, Dilli," she called. "I think they're bringing us our first patients."

"Y-yes, Milady."

"Dilli?"

"M-Milady?"

"Remember the first rule of the craft of healing. No puking on the patient."

"Y-yes Milady."

Ayla's eyes were drawn back to the barricade. A fresh wave of attackers had just climbed the wooden fortifications. Four of the mercenaries made a dash at a figure among the defenders which she recognized with horror as Sir Isenbard. The knight raised his sword, fending off blows from two of the men. Then the third raised his blade—and struck Isenbard on the head.

"No!" Ayla screamed as the old knight went down and disappeared into the violent mass of bodies.

# Fallen

Reuben lay in his room staring at the stone ceiling, fury raging through his veins. While his mind had been slow before, dulled by fever, now it was almost painfully alert. He saw what must have happened with absolute clarity: after beating him into the dirt, the mercenaries must have taken the horses, his sword, and his armor and brought them to their master. And now that colverd[46] piece of pig shit was riding his horse, wearing his armor, and swinging his sword in battle.

Reuben's blood boiled at the insult!

A tiny voice in the back of his mind reminded him that maybe he should be glad that this Sir Luca had stolen his armor. Now Ayla was unlikely to uncover his true identity. But the larger part of him shrank from such thoughts. It should be a good thing the enemy was carrying his sword, when at this very moment, that sword was probably being used to cut down one of Ayla's defenders after another?

Reuben could hear the rising sounds of battle from afar. They sounded strange. He had often heard the music of death played with instruments of iron, but never from far away. Always he had been in the midst of the action.

He yearned to be there now, to be up against the fiend who dared raise his own sword against Ayla's defenders; maybe, he realized, even against _her_.

Reuben tried to stop it, but couldn't. He imagined Ayla, slender as a lily, her sapphire eyes shining with unshod tears, shrinking back from the violent blade. The image was too much.

"Someone!" the red robber knight yelled. "Someone bring me a sword! And ready a horse for me!"

Then he realized that nobody would be listening. Everybody who wasn't fighting would be watching the fight from the castle walls, hoping against hope for a victory and praying for the safe return of their loved ones. And even if they heard him, why would they do as he asked? They would think he was raving from the fever. They would continue to pray.

Reuben didn't set much store in prayers. There were few things a good, sharp blade couldn't achieve more effectively.

"Satan's hairy ass!" he growled. "So I'll have do everything myself, as usual."

Taking a deep breath, he braced himself against the bedstead and pushed with his arms to get into a sitting position.

Nothing happened.

His arms were too weak to raise him even an inch from the bed.

"Hellfire and damnation!" Reuben roared, fury at himself raging in every one of his veins. "Up! Up with you! You've eviscerated entire armies! You can get off this bed! You will!"

Outside, the noises of battle were getting louder. War cries and the rush of flying arrows accompanied Reuben's groan as he attempted to lift himself, or at least roll, off this accursed bed that was holding him prisoner. Sweat spilled down his forehead in a waterfall. His heart hammered at twice its normal pace. Again and again he attempted to rise—to no avail.

It was not the bed that was at fault. It was he himself. His own weakness was holding him prisoner.

No! He would not give up yet. He had to go down there and help!

One last time he pressed his big hands against the bed. His muscles bunched in an attempt to lift his torso. Reuben felt the fever burning through him in waves of heat, felt it burning the strength out of him. He had just managed to raise himself about an inch, when his fingers gave way and he slumped back onto the bed.

He lay there, panting, too weak to even utter the string of violent curses that flitted through his mind. There, in his mind, he painted a picture in tones of red. A picture that showed what he wanted to be doing at this very moment out on the battlefield.

Just mind games.

In the end, there was nothing for him to do but one thing: lie there on the bed and face the fact of his own impotence.

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

Lying there, listening to the sounds of battle and not knowing whether Ayla was out there, whether or not she was still alive, was the worst kind of torture. The only kind, for him.

Cursed as he was, he had not known pain for years. He had almost forgotten what it felt like, sometimes wishing he could feel it again just to interrupt the monotony.

He laughed a bitter laugh. How he now cursed this foolish wish. True pain, he realized, doesn't come from being branded with hot irons or stretched on the rack. True pain comes from seeing those you care about in danger.

He only wished that lesson didn't come at this high a price.

_I vow to myself that I will beat this illness_ , he thought, fiercely. _I cannot rise yet, but I will beat this accursed fever. I have triumphed over worse afflictions in my time. I will beat this one as I have beaten any other enemy that dared stand in my way, and then I will take up my sword and make this Sir Luca rue the day he presumed to don the armor of Sir Reuben Rachwild!_

From outside, above the clamor of battle, he thought he heard the scream of a woman. The scream of a very familiar voice.

No. It couldn't be. She couldn't be... No, please no!

Reuben balled his fists and bellowed out his rage against the bare stone walls.

*~*~**~*~*

Desperately, Ayla stared at the empty space where just a moment ago her Uncle Ironbeard, her only pillar of strength, had stood. Now he was gone, and she was doomed. Tears began to cloud her sight.

Suddenly, like a piece of wood you push under water, Sir Isenbard resurfaced from the sea of writhing bodies. In total astonishment, Ayla stumbled back a few steps. The mercenary on the wall wasn't any less surprised. Isenbard drew back his iron fist and hit the fiend so hard in the chest that the man flew backwards over the top of the barricade and into the roiling mass of pikemen below. His scream was abruptly cut short as he was skewered on a dozen spears.

"Yes!" Ayla punched the air. "Yes! Yes!"

Only then did she realize that she was still holding the surgical knife in her hand and that a few soldiers, bearing several wounded comrades, had nearly reached her. They stayed back a few steps, eying the knife in her fist apprehensively.

"Oh, sorry." Hurriedly, Ayla put the knife away and gestured to the tent. "Bring them in. We'll do what we can."

After that, Ayla didn't catch much of the battle outside. The rest of the day for her was a confusing medley of broken bones, skulls bashed in, and screams of pain. The latter, luckily, weren't as bad as they could have been, due to an unexpected medical contribution from one of her vassals. Sir Waldar had only brought eight men with him, but they had carried enough wine for an entire army to drink itself into oblivion. Sir Isenbard, recognizing the strategic value of such supplies, had confiscated Waldar's entire store of alcohol and put it into the tent, at Ayla's disposal. Thus, most of the soldiers Ayla operated on were drunk as a lord before she used the knife and hardly noticed what was going on.

While she carefully removed the broken-off tip of a sword from a man's arm, she contemplated the expression. _Drunk as a lord_. It was silly, really. Her father was a lord, and he was never drunk. On the other hand, the castle guards seemed to like getting drunk, as did several of the villagers, and... Reuben. Yes, the expression was silly. Drunk as a very drunk man, that made a lot more sense than drunk as a lord.

Ayla knew that her own thoughts weren't making a great deal of sense at the moment. But thinking about castle guards, silly expressions, and Reuben helped her to keep her thoughts away from the blood on her hands, and from the work they had to do. Especially thoughts of Reuben. Oh, Reuben...

Why couldn't the man have been born a nobleman? Why couldn't he have been a knight or something, but had to be a merchant? Then things might be different. Then it might actually have been right for her to feel the way she was beginning to feel.

Having removed the bloody piece of steel, Ayla wrapped a cloth around the man's arm.

"Thank you, Milady." He rose quickly and bowed. "Thank you so much."

"Come to me again in a couple of days. I'll have to check if the wound is healing properly," she ordered him.

He bowed again, deeply. Ayla could see something she hadn't seen in many soldiers' eyes before: respect. The man knew what such a small wound could do if it wasn't treated correctly.

She smiled at him. "You'll be all right. Now run along and send the next one in."

The man left the tent. Ayla let herself fall back against one of the tent poles and breathed in deeply. She was exhausted. She had cut, stitched, and mended more this day than in the whole course of her life. But it wasn't over yet. Footsteps were approaching from outside the tent. She looked to the flap just as Dilli came in, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. She blushed as she saw Ayla watching her.

"Oh, Milady. I'm sorry, I just had to step out to err... get a breath of fresh air."

"And vomit into the river?"

"Milady!"

"It's all right. I'm sure the river didn't mind. It'll have to carry off worse than the contents of your stomach before the battle is over."

Dilli stared at her in astonishment. "Milady... don't you know?"

"Know what?"

Her friend came towards her, a smile spreading on her face. "The battle is won. The enemy has retreated!"

*~*~**~*~*

Rushing out of the tent, Ayla saw the truth of Dilli's words. The giant monster of the Margrave's army was retreating, the defenders still standing atop the barricade, sending volley after volley of arrows after their enemy. In their midst stood Isenbard, his helmet dented, but otherwise appearing unhurt.

When he saw Ayla, the old knight climbed down the barricade and advanced towards her. She rushed to meet him and threw her arms around him, armor and all.

"Uncle! You did it! You did it!"

"I'm aware of the fact. Now let go of me, girl! You'll ruin your dress."

"Are you kidding? My dress is one single bloodstain anyway."

Isenbard tried to find a spot where he could grab her and push her away that wasn't unseemly for a knight to touch on a lady. "Well... then you'll ruin my armor."

"Oh, if that's the case, of course I'll let go of you." Ayla grinned up at him. "But I was just saying thank you."

"You can refrain from such outbursts of thankfulness in the future, Milady. I was merely doing my duty."

"You," she said, tapping on his armor, "did the impossible. You drove away their army. How did you do it? There were so many!"

From what she could see of his face through the visor, he looked troubled, and very, very tired. "That's the thing," he murmured. "I didn't. I didn't drive them away. They suddenly retreated, just like that. I have no idea why."

Frowning, Ayla let go of him. "But why would they...?"

"Ayla, not now."

Her frown deepened. His voice sounded strange. "Uncle? What's the matter?"

"Let's go into the tent, where no one can see," he replied.

After a moment studying his face through the visor, she led the way, and he followed. Dilli had left the tent again and was probably somewhere either celebrating or rinsing her mouth. Two other young women were in the back of the tent, piling blood-stained bandages into a washing basket. Isenbard gestured to them wordlessly, and they scurried out.

"Isenbard?" Ayla asked, concerned. "What's the matter?"

The old knight didn't answer. He stood, stock-still, in the middle of the tent. No, not stock-still. Looking more closely, Ayla saw that he was swaying slightly.

"Close the tent flap, will you, girl?"

Ayla did as he wished.

"Are they all gone?" Isenbard asked.

"Yes."

"And no one is in sight?"

"No, Uncle Ironbeard." She stepped up to him, worry etched into her face. "Now will you tell me what is the matter?"

"You are absolutely sure that no one is watching? None of the soldiers?"

"Yes!"

"Good," he said.

And without uttering another sound, Isenbard collapsed, crashing to the ground.

# Brave Defender of the Dirt Pile

The proud, stupid old fool! In horror, Ayla stared at the big, gradually darkening bruise on the side of Isenbard's head. How he had managed to keep himself upright at all with that injury was a complete mystery to her. Still more astonishingly, he had managed to keep from falling unconscious through almost half of the battle. Ayla was sure that he had received that bruise from the blow to the head she had witnessed. And still he had fought on and on and on.

Now, however, the rest of his body had certainly caught up with his head.

"Don't die on me, do you hear me?" she whispered, tears streaming down her face. "You stubborn, old stone-face, don't you die on me!"

"But Milady," Dilli dared to whisper, "he's just got a bruise. He's not even wounded. Why do you think he would die?"

Ayla simply shook her head in despair. She didn't feel like explaining right now. But she knew. She knew all too well that from such a blow as Isenbard had received, a man could slip into a deep sleep from which he would never wake again. There would be no blood, no screams—only an endless, terrible silence, and then death.

Isenbard was in a dark hell of his own mind now, and only the Lord's grace could release him from that prison.

"Milady?"

Abruptly, Ayla looked up from the stretcher on which Isenbard was lying. She hadn't realized how far they had come. Their little party—she, Dilli, and two villagers who were carrying the stretcher—had reached the outer castle gates, and the guard was looking at her in concern.

"Milady? Shall I open the gates?"

"Of course! Can't you see who this is? We need to get into the keep, now!"

The guard's eyes strayed to the face of the man on the stretcher and he blanched. "God have mercy on us," he muttered and quickly unlocked the side gate. "Through here, Milady, that's quicker."

Ayla nodded thankfully at the man and stepped first through the side gate.

It seemed to take them forever to reach the second gate. On their way up, people crowded around them and blocked their way, badgering Ayla with questions. Women were wailing at the sight of Sir Isenbard on the stretcher, and the men looked grimmer than Ayla had ever seen them.

_He was their hope_ , she realized with dismay. _And now he's fading away_. She guessed she had known it all along, but it was hard to accept nevertheless. Without her only real knight, she was lost.

_Don't give up_ , she chastised herself. _He won a great victory today. He might wake up at any moment. Don't make your life more sinister than it is._

It was sinister enough already.

Ayla tried to be patient with the people who surrounded her, tried to assuage their fears and give them confidence. Inside though, she was screaming for them to get out of the way.

Finally, she reached the second gate.

"Don't let anybody into the keep who has no business there," she ordered the guard. "I'll be busy enough the next few hours."

He bowed respectfully. "As you wish, Milady."

At the door to the keep, she met Burchard. His dark frown would have robbed her of her last bit of confidence if she hadn't known that he always looked like this.

"How is he?" the steward asked without bothering with social niceties.

"Not good," she answered, and he nodded.

"Where shall we bring him, Milady?" one of the villagers asked. "From what the others said, every free room in the keep is already filled with two or three wounded men."

Ayla thought for a moment, then gestured for them to follow. "Come with me." She led them up the stairs and to a door she knew very well by now. The door to the only room that didn't have more than one invalid in it at the moment. Raising her hand, she knocked.

*~*~**~*~*

Reuben's eyes flew to the door when he heard the gentle knock on the oak wood. The footsteps outside had sounded like those of heavy men, but the knock... Could he dare to hope that she was alive and well?

"It's all right," he heard a familiar, sweet voice from outside. "He's probably asleep. Come in, but be quiet. He needs his sleep."

Reuben closed his eyes in an ecstasy of relief. She was alive and well! And more importantly, she was still able to give orders to others. That could only mean that she was no prisoner of another, but still mistress of her own castle. The day was won!

And he hadn't been fighting.

Well, there would always be another day...

The door was opened and he pressed his eyes shut more tightly, not sure he had the strength to look at her yet. He heard feet shuffling as they carried something into the room. His nostrils flared as he caught the metallic scent of blood. No, they weren't carrying something into the room. It was someone. Someone bleeding.

"Where should we put him?" a man asked. "There's no space. And we need space for two people, if possible. We still have to put the fellow with the head wound somewhere, and all the other rooms are full."

"Burchard, can you help me drag Reuben's bed over to the window?" she asked. "That will give us enough space."

So it wasn't the steward who was hurt. That made sense. Though a beast of a man, he didn't look like a trained fighter. But who then? Reuben could clearly hear the anguish in Ayla's voice. He felt a sudden stab of envy for whoever could excite such feelings in her. He longed to look, but he also wanted to listen. So he kept his eyes closed for now.

Strong arms gripped the posts of his bedstead and shoved. Soon he was beside the window and could feel a cool breeze on his face. It was quite comforting, reminiscent of Ayla's cool, soothing touch—though nowhere near as exciting.

"Out," Ayla commanded everybody when they had finished moving things around. "I need to look after him, and I need to concentrate."

"Milady," Burchard's deep voice growled, "we should discuss our plans. We are in serious trouble without..."

"Later, Burchard! Now, everybody, out! I won't repeat myself again."

They left, albeit grumbling, in Burchard's case.

For a minute or two, Reuben heard nothing but quiet steps, the clinking of metal, and the swishing of cloth. Opening his eyes a fraction, he risked a look. Ayla was standing at the opposite end of the room, bent over a man in armor. From where he lay, Reuben couldn't see the man's face. Ayla began to turn, and quickly Reuben closed his eyes again.

Once more, clinking and swishing.

And then, Reuben heard something much worse: one quiet, heart-breaking sob.

Ayla was crying.

Reuben had to use all his strength to stay still. The need to get up and go to her, comfort her, was so strong that he thought it might even have overcome the weakness of the fever. But he stayed where he was, listening closely.

Not long after, Ayla left the room, and Reuben opened his eyes. There were two other beds in the room. On the first lay a soldier with a blood-soaked bandage around his head. On the other bed in the room lay a knight. His heart suddenly constricting with fear, Reuben stared into the limp, gray-bearded face of Sir Isenbard. Her last protector.

*~*~**~*~*

Not wanting to walk into the arms of the many curious people still waiting out front, Ayla left the keep through the back exit. She had done all that was in her power for Isenbard. All that she could now do was wait and see what would happen. Preferably in some quiet place where people wouldn't be pestering her with questions. Questions would only lead her to think of what might happen next. And any thoughts of what might happen next would make her cry.

As she stepped out into the back courtyard, Ayla saw a little figure sitting in the dirt, playing with two dolls. The figure seemed familiar, somehow. She blinked, for a moment forgetting her distress.

"Is it you?" she asked.

Farmer Gelther's daughter turned her head, and a broad grin appeared on her face as she recognized the approaching adult.

"Lady Ayla!"

The little girl sprang up, ran up to her, and threw herself at Ayla with such force as to almost make her topple over.

"Hey there! I'm glad to see you too," she laughed. "Though I have to admit, I don't even know your name. I've only been introduced to your doll, Agnes."

" _Lady_ Agnes," the girl corrected her admonishingly, proudly holding up her new doll in the fine silk dress.

Ayla nodded gravely. "Of course. Where have I left my manners—Lady Agnes. I humbly beg your pardon. And what is your name, if I may ask?"

"Fye. My name is Fye. And you have to call her 'Milady'. That's what you call a lady, you know, when you're talking to her."

"Certainly." Ayla inclined her head towards the doll. "Once again, my most sincere apologies, Milady. It won't happen again."

"Thank you, Milady." Fye made what was probably supposed to be a curtsey and grinned up at Ayla. "Lady Agnes is very pleased. And she knows you're a lady too, so she won't have you whipped for your dis... your discussy..."

"Discourtesy?"

"That's it!"

"Well, I'm very relieved," Ayla said. She pointed at the other doll. "And who is Lady Agnes' companion? I don't believe I have seen him before."

"No, you haven't. That's the knight who has come to rescue Lady Agnes from the evil man who wants to steal her castle." The girl pointed towards a pile of dirt in the middle of the yard. "It's over there."

"I can see why she wouldn't want to lose such a magnificent fortress." Ayla had to work hard to keep the smile off her face.

"By the way, have you brought your knights up to scratch yet?" the girl inquired.

Ayla knelt down beside her. For some reason, thinking of Isenbard just now did not make her want to cry in desperation. How could it be that she couldn't talk to Burchard about the bleak prospects facing them, couldn't even think about it herself, but she could talk about them to this imp of a girl?

"Not quite," she admitted. "My only real knight has just been knocked out."

"Silly of him," Fye commented. "He should have been quicker."

"Yes, he should. But he's a stubborn old ox. Never knew when it was time to retreat instead of attack."

"Oh, he's old, is he?"

"Yes."

"Why?" Fye frowned. "Couldn't you get any young ones?"

"They're in rather short supply."

"Rubbish. You see, Lady Agnes had no problem getting Sir Reuben here." Fye held up her self-made knight doll.

Ayla nearly choked. "Sir _who_?"

"Sir Reuben. I named him after that man that's lying in that room up in the castle, the one you brought in a couple of days back. He looks like a real knight, strong and handsome."

Ayla didn't really know what to say to that, so she didn't say anything. She had enough difficulty with keeping her face from catching fire.

"Why are you blushing?" Fye inquired, obviously interested in the strange adult reaction.

"Um... it's nothing, really. But I have to disappoint you. Reuben is no knight. He's just a merchant."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"That's odd."

"Why should that be odd?"

"He was yelling for people to bring him a sword and a horse earlier," Fye said, frowning. "I heard him, shouting from up there, yelling for people to bring him a sword and horse." And she pointed up to Reuben's window.

"Yes, of course he was." Ayla shook her head, bemused. The things children dreamed up when they played... She leaned closer to inspect the tattered Sir Reuben in Fye's hand, made out of strips of cloth and rusted metal. "He probably really needs them to defend Lady Agnes."

"Yes, he does." Fye nodded. "And do you know why he wants to defend her so badly?"

Ayla leaned even closer and whispered conspiratorially: "No, I don't. How did she ever manage to get such an ardent defender?"

Fye whispered, as if sharing a great secret: "He's in _love_ with her."

"Oh." Ayla blushed again and inwardly slapped herself. _Where did she pick stuff like that up?_ she asked herself. _She can't be older than four years!_

"It's not surprising, really," Fye said with a shrug. "She's very beautiful." She eyed Ayla's slim figure and luscious blond hair speculatively. "You're not so bad yourself. You should be able to get some knight to fall for you, even if he won't be near as good as Sir Reuben."

"Oh really?" Ayla rose, trying desperately to think of a diplomatic answer. "Err... that's very generous of you. Well, I'd better go now. I have... things to do. A siege to get rid of, you know."

"Of course. You run along, Milady."

Dismissed thus, Ayla fled the back yard.

_If I get out of this alive_ , she told herself, _I'd rather become an old maid than marry and have a child, or God forbid, several of them!_

_Well yes_ , a small voice in the back of her mind said. _Unless a certain stunning gray-eyed merchant could be prevailed upon to be your groom, hmm?_

Blushing even more furiously than before, she hastened her steps.

# Garden of Blossoms

Desperate to calm her thoughts and to find a haven where she could think about everything that was happening, Ayla rushed to the small orchard behind the keep. Perhaps "orchard" was too big a word: it was really just a few apple trees and bushes growing in the shade of the monumental stone building and snuggling up against it like cubs against their mama bear. The trees were in full bloom now, shining with white and rose apple blossoms. Ayla smiled at the sight.

This had always been a place of refuge for her when she needed to find some peaceful solitude. She came here almost every day—except for the last few days, she realized. Blushing, the probable reason for this occurred to her: lately she had found refuge somewhere else, or to be more precise, _in someone_ else. Solitude hadn't seemed nearly as appealing as before.

But now Reuben was asleep, and anyway, she needed to get away from him for a time. She needed to think seriously, and being near him made it difficult to think about anything but him. To stare into his intense gray eyes was more than her concentration could take. She knew, if she were with him, she would lose herself in those eyes, and she would lean closer, aching to touch his face again...

_Stop it!_ she chastised herself. _Isenbard is unconscious; your people are in serious danger! You need to think now, not daydream._

Wandering through the orchard, she inhaled the sweet smell of the apple blossoms. It helped to bring her back into the here and now. This was her home, which she needed to defend. Slowly, she reached out and plucked one of the apple blossoms from a tree. Holding it to her nose, she smelled it. Ah, how sweet.

Some part of her mind wondered what Reuben smelled like. The salve she had been using on his wounds had many excellent attributes, but the fact that it stank like a dog's territory mark wasn't one of them. She hadn't been able to smell anything of him. Would he smell... alluring?

_Stop it!_ she repeated in her head. _Even if he did, so what? He's a commoner, and not for you! You can't get involved with a commoner, even if he would want that. And he wouldn't. Would he?_

She inhaled again, trying to find peace in the familiar scent.

*~*~**~*~*

Reuben awoke with a start. He couldn't remember having fallen asleep. The exhaustion of the fever must have claimed its due. Though, he had to admit, the fever wasn't nearly as bad as it had been earlier. These infernal cold caterpillars, or whatever they were called, which Ayla had wrapped around his arms and legs, had to be doing their job. She really did know what she was doing, he had to admit, grudgingly.

Slowly, his head still feeling a bit dizzy, he looked around. The first thing he noticed was that the soldier who had shared his room was gone. From the copious amounts of dried blood on the sheets of his bedstead, Reuben surmised that the man had not gone back to his family—unless it be wrapped in a shroud.

Reuben turned his head to look out of the window and to turn his mind from thoughts of blood and death.

That aim he achieved immediately.

In a small orchard directly underneath his window stood a slender, white figure with golden hair, clutching a flower in her hand, her nose gently brushing the petals of the blossom. It was the most beautiful picture Reuben had ever beheld, and it made him ache with longing. Ache! Him, the knight who knew no pain.

He wanted her. And he was going to get her.

But first, he had to get off this accursed bed!

*~*~**~*~*

A strange noise woke Ayla from her reverie. She was thoroughly glad of it. She had been stroking the blossom in her hand, trying hard not to remember how Reuben's skin felt in comparison. She was a virtuous maiden! Or at least she was supposed to be. The thoughts that had accosted her lately were strange, new, and frankly, somewhat disturbing.

The only problem was that they also happened to be wonderful.

Thwak! Thwak!

She frowned. There it was again, that noise: like a woodpecker, only far off and irregular. Ayla wandered through the orchard in search of the origin of the sound, until she came to the edge of her little sanctum. Continuing, she walked till she had reached the inner castle wall. The noise seemed to be coming from beyond. Entering one of the towers, she climbed up the stairs onto the wall and looked out over the valley.

The noise was coming from beyond, as she had suspected. From beyond the river, out of the forest.

Staring out towards the distant sea of needles and leaves, towards what was now enemy territory, Ayla saw the first tree fall.

*~*~**~*~*

"They're doing _what_?" Burchard asked in a disbelieving tone.

"Felling trees," Ayla told him again.

The grumpy old steward looked very surprised, his bushy black eyebrows almost disappearing into his mane of hair. Finally, he shrugged. "Well, I say let them. Better that they cut down trees than our men."

Ayla shook her head, frowning. "They're not just cutting wood for their campfires. There's something behind this. I don't know what, but I don't like it one bit. I wish," she added after a pause, "that Isenbard were awake."

Burchard grunted. "We all wish that."

"We need him."

"I know that, Ayla."

"They are planning something."

The steward sighed heavily. "You are probably right."

"Then what are we going to do, Burchard? What am _I_ going to do?" she asked him in tones of rising panic, gesturing to all the people visible through the window of the main hall where they were talking. Some of the people were still milling around the entrance, badgering the guards with questions about Sir Isenbard, others were on the walls, looking towards the east. "What am I going to tell them? What am I going to tell Sir Rudolfus, Sir Waldar, and the soldiers? That I haven't the faintest clue what our enemy is planning, but that they should just lean back and trust that I, a seventeen-year-old girl, can handle it?"

"Shh. Come here." Burchard held open his big, beefy arms and Ayla let herself be hugged by him, let herself be hugged like she had when she had been a little girl, here, in this empty room, where none of her people could see her weakness. "I don't know what you should tell them," Burchard said. "I'm sorry, but you are the Lady of Luntberg—not I."

"But you have so much more experience than I!"

"Experience at planting cherry trees and giving farmers who don't pay their tithes a good kick in the backside, maybe."

In spite of the tears now streaming down her face, Ayla had to laugh.

"I'm sorry, Milady." Burchard opened his arms again and pushed her slightly away. "Isenbard was the only one among us with any experience in leading men in war. Except, perhaps..." he hesitated.

"What?" Ayla asked, eagerly.

"Well... you could always ask your father."

She jerked back. "No! Burchard, what are you thinking? He will be out of his mind with worry! I won't allow that, not in his state of health. Don't you dare tell him that we barely survived the first attack, or that Isenbard is unconscious either, understand?"

Burchard unhappily chewed on his mustache.

"Do you understand, Burchard?"

"Yes, Milady," he growled.

Wiping the tears from her eyes, Ayla straightened and tried to calm herself. She couldn't go to pieces. She was a lady and had to behave like one.

"Assemble Sir Waldar, Sir Rudolfus, and the soldiers' captains in this room in one hour. We will discuss our strategy then. Now I have to check how the sick and injured are doing. I'm sure some of them need my attention."

"As you wish, Milady."

Ayla's steps led her first to Reuben and Isenbard's room. Some part of her wanted to insist that this was mostly because of her concern for the latter, but she knew better. Her thoughts were on Reuben. She wondered at the fact that this arrogant, ruggedly handsome stranger could mean more to her than a man she had known her whole life. For a moment, she asked herself whether she should be appalled by the fact. She wasn't. Instead, she was thrilled she would be seeing him again. In the name of God, she had spoken to him only yesterday! That was surely not long enough a separation to pine for anyone's company. What was the matter with her?

_I am a virtuous maiden, I will not think licentious thoughts_ , she repeated over and over in her head. _I am a virtuous maiden, and I will not think licentious thoughts_.

It worked fine—until she opened the door to Reuben's room and saw him lying on his bed, turned toward her, his face covered in sweat and the sweetest, most devious grin on his handsome features.

Dear saints and martyrs!

"Hello, Reuben," she said, and for some reason couldn't help it—a smile appeared on her face.

# The Lady and Her Lances

Reuben looked up at Ayla, who stood in the doorway smiling, and was sure that not all his sweating came from the fever. Christ, she had only said his name and "hello"! What was the matter with him? His name was nothing special. Well, in fact, it _was_ special. After all, it was the name of Sir Reuben Rachwild himself, but still—he had heard it often enough before. Why did it sound so special coming from her lips?

Appreciatively, his gaze swept over the ivory skin of her face and the maidenly figure concealed by the white dress she was wearing. Now that he thought about it, that could be enough reason for him to start sweating...

"Greetings, Milady," he said with a smile so dazzling that it could charm the pants off anybody. And hopefully the skirts, too.

Ayla didn't lose her skirts, but she did blush and her smile broadened, which gave Reuben immense satisfaction. Never for a moment had he doubted the efficiency of his charms—but the girl, however intriguing she might be, was probably also not quite right in the head. Reuben hadn't forgotten the strange objects in her saddlebags that day he had robbed her in the forest, and he had been concerned whether his charms would affect a creature such as this. Apparently, they worked just as well on crazy girls as on normal people. How gratifying.

"You know, you don't always have to call me by my title," Ayla chided him. "Most of the people I looked after at the nunnery where I learned the craft of healing never did, either." But in spite of her words, Reuben could tell she was pleased by his use of the title. Some girls were like that, they liked respectful and old-fashioned manners. He thought she would be one of those, and he had been absolutely right.

"What if I want to?" he asked. "You are a beautiful young lady and deserve to be honored with the title. In fact, I would rather think 'queen' more appropriate than simply 'Milady'."

This piece of flattery, however, didn't have its intended effect. Instead of fluttering her eyelashes at him suggestively, like any lady at the Imperial Court would have done, Ayla didn't even seem to register his compliment on her beauty. Instead, her face fell and she busied herself with the linen and water she had brought, so as not to have to meet his gaze.

"I'm no queen," she mumbled. "I don't even deserve to be the lady of a castle. Now turn over, will you? I have to change your cataplasms."

Reuben didn't move. "What's wrong?" he asked with a softness in his voice that surprised even himself.

Ayla's eyes flitted to the gray-bearded knight on the other bed.

"Oh." Now Reuben understood. "My new roommate?"

"Yes," Ayla whispered.

"But surely you don't blame yourself for that. He went onto the battlefield to protect you, to fulfill his oath of fealty. That he lies here isn't your fault, but the fault of the man who struck him down."

"No, I don't blame myself for what happened, Reuben."

He studied her face closely. "But you do blame yourself for _something_?"

"How is it you know me so well?" Ayla asked, seeming half annoyed, half amused.

"Well, you've had a pretty close look at me over the last few days. I've tried to do my best to return the favor," he said, grinning up at her and lifting a suggestive eyebrow.

She smacked him with a wet cloth. "You be careful what you say or I'll stuff one of these down your throat!"

"Yes, Milady. Certainly, Milady." He waited for a few moments, but when she didn't say anything, just continued her ministrations in silence, he asked: , "So, what is it you blame yourself for?"

"You don't give up, do you?"

"Never."

The playful mood in the room shifted, and when Ayla continued, her voice was soft and somber. "I blame myself for not knowing what to do, now that he's not there anymore. A real mistress of a castle should know what to do. She would know how to defend her lands and her people."

Reuben smirked. "Are young girls hereabouts usually taught swordplay? Did your father forget that in your education?"

"Of course not!"

"Neither is that practice very widespread anywhere else, I think. That's hardly your fault."

"I wasn't talking about defending my lands personally, with a sword in my hand. I was talking about knowing what to do. What orders to give, how to appear as a confident leader, what to expect of the enemy. They are planning something, I know it. I just have no idea what, and I feel lost and alone."

_You won't be alone much longer_ , Reuben thought. _As soon as I get off this sickbed, I will make your enemies quake in their boots._

But it was too early for that. He couldn't say it. Even if he could, she wouldn't believe him.

_And if she did, she would hang you_ , came the grizzly afterthought.

A fresh cataplasm was wrapped around Reuben's calf by Ayla's gentle hands. He shuddered under the touch—and not because of the coldness of the water. Satan's hairy ass! This girl was... alluring. Despite the fact that, or maybe even because, she wanted to see him swing from the highest tower.

"By the way," he said quickly, to keep his imagination from getting out of hand, "these cold thingies really seem to work."

He couldn't see her smile because he had his back to her, but he could feel it, could hear it in her voice.

"The cataplasms? Of course they do. I'm good at what I do."

"Yes, you are," he said, closing his eyes and carefully flexing the muscles in his leg, under her fingers. " _Very_ good. Please don't let me interrupt you."

A wet cloth slapped against the sole of his bare foot, and he yelped in surprise.

"We were, I believe, talking of the defense of this castle," she said in a haughty tone. "Let's stick to that subject, shall we? Now turn around, I have to wind those cloths all the way around your legs."

Reuben did as she asked and lay on his back, staring up at her face. She was looking down at his calves, and the blond curtain of her hair shielded most of her face from him, but her cheeks had definitely reddened. Oh yes, she was blushing.

He grinned as he watched her pick up the next cold cloth. But then the cloth slipped through her fingers and fell to the floor. With a jolt, Reuben realized that her hands were shaking. Guilt, hot fiery guilt, washed through him. She was beset by her enemies, had just lost her only protector, and he was making fun of her! Could he be any crueler? Yes, he probably could, but still...

He didn't want to make fun of her. All right, maybe he sometimes did, but not now, not when she was in need. Now, he just wanted to help.

But how could he? He was tied to this bed. He couldn't even get up, he was so weak.

Her words came back to him: _I was talking about knowing what to do. What orders to give, how to appear as a confident leader, what to expect of the enemy._

Could he help with this? How, without blowing his cover? And if that happened, she would hang him...

"I... I'm sorry," she whispered, picking up the cloth. "I'm just not feeling very well right now."

Oh, hang his cover! And himself, if need be.

"Soldiers are organized into lances,"[47] he said suddenly, "tactical units of varying size and shape. A number of lances in turn make up a banner. Lances are usually commanded by a knight, or in his absence, by an appointed captain."

Ayla's head jerked up. The cold cloth in her hands was forgotten as she stared at him. "H-how do you know that?"

"When the lances and banners go into battle," Reuben continued in a rush, "it is the knights who lead the charge against the enemy, riding full gallop with their lances in hand to try and break the ranks of the enemy. The bannermen come after them, destroying what is left. Since you are fighting a siege, a protracted battle without wide open areas and with good defensive positions, there will be greater emphasis on the foot soldiers than on knights. You will have to defend a barricade, not charge the enemy on an open field, the only place where knights could bring the mounted charge with lances, their most powerful weapon, to bear. Isenbard's incapacitation, tragic though it is, might not be the catastrophe it appears to you now. One knight more or less does not win or lose you a siege. With the right leadership, a few lances of good foot soldiers can hold that bridge of yours against an army."

By the time he had finished his lecture, Ayla's mouth was open in the cutest "O" in the history of the alphabet.

"Are you making fun of me?" she demanded.

*~*~**~*~*

The devil of a man actually managed to look hurt!

"Does it sound like I am?" he demanded.

After a few seconds, Ayla slowly shook her head, still too confused to really know what to think. "No, Reuben. As strange as that sounds, what you've said actually seems to make some sense."

"Why, thank you, Milady."

"But where did all this stuff come from, Reuben? You're a merchant, not a mercenary."

He grinned at her, that devilish grin she just couldn't resist. It made his gray eyes burn right through her to the center of her soul. "Even merchants have brains, you know."

She pouted. " _I_ have brains, and eyes and ears, _and_ I've lived in a castle with soldiers and knights all my life—but I didn't know half the things that just came tumbling out of your mouth."

Reuben shrugged. "Well, I guess I'm a very special merchant." He raised an eyebrow at her, which made the scimitar scar on his forehead crinkle up in the most adorable way.

Oh, how Ayla wanted to touch the scar, to stroke it with gentle fingers. She couldn't help it; her expression softened and a smile suffused her features. "That you are," she said, staring deeply into his predatory gray eyes. "And I'm supposed to believe everything you've said, just like that? What guarantee do I have that you aren't just making it up?"

"You could just trust me," he suggested innocently.

" _Trust you_?" She snorted derisively. "Yes, of course! Do I look that stupid?"

*~*~**~*~*

"...greater emphasis on the foot soldiers than on the knights," Ayla said. "You will have to defend a barricade, not charge the enemy on an open field, which is the only place where knights can bring the mounted charge with lances, their most powerful weapon, to bear. Isenbard's incapacitation, tragic though it is, might not be the catastrophe it appears to you now. One knight more or less does not win or lose you a siege. With the right leadership, a few lances of good foot soldiers can hold that bridge of ours against an army."

The captain of the guard, Burchard, Sir Rudolfus, and Sir Waldar sat around the lord's table in the great hall, staring at her, their mouths hanging open. This looked particularly unattractive in Sir Waldar's case, who still had a half-eaten piece of mutton stuck between his teeth.

"Well... err..." The captain of the guard scratched his head, then bowed to her. It was not an empty gesture. "That was really convincing, Milady. Thank you. And how should we position ourselves?"

"How many lances do you have?"

"Six, Milady."

"How many men in each?"

"Three lances of ten men in the castle guard, Milady. Sir Isenbard brought one lance of twenty with him, and Sir Waldar and Sir Rudolfus each one lance of five."

Ayla frowned. "We must organize a constant watch of about the same number of soldiers. You know the men best, Captain. You have fought beside them. Do you think it would be best to divide them up into more regular units or leave them as they are, with their familiar comrades?"

The captain shuffled uncomfortably. "Either way, these men will die to protect you, Milady."

The frown disappeared from Ayla's face and was replaced by a smile. "I'm touched by your words, Captain. I am sure they come from the heart. Yet I do not wish these men to die in defense of me. I wish them to fight in defense of their home and live through it."

"Yes, Milady."

"Also, you did not answer my question, Captain. When I ask a question, I expect to be answered."

"Yes, Milady. I... think the men would prefer to stay as they are. They know the men in their own lances, know they can trust them to protect their backs."

"I see. Then the lances will remain as they are. Please see to it that one lance of castle guards, supplemented by the other lances so as to bring up the total number of men to at least twenty, is always guarding the barricade."

"Yes, Milady."

"Also ensure that the soldiers from the different lances are quartered next to each other and mingle when they are not on guard duty. I want them to get to know and trust each other. We cannot afford strife amongst ourselves if we wish to win this struggle. If there are any problems with discipline or morale, I wish to be informed immediately, do you understand?"

"I do, Milady. It shall be done as you wish."

"You are dismissed, Captain."

The soldier bowed and left the room, a spring in his step.

Next, Ayla turned to Sir Rudolfus and Sir Waldar. To Sir Rudolfus she entrusted the inventory of their stocks of food and everything that could be handy in a siege, reminding him that the pen was mightier than the sword. He almost fell over his feet thanking her. To Sir Waldar she entrusted the leadership of the castle guard while their captain was in charge of the barricade's defense, reminding him that the sword was mightier than the wine bottle. He snorted with laughter and marched out of the room, his belly wobbling.

When they were alone, Ayla's eyes strayed to Burchard.

His mouth was still hanging open.

"Where," he asked, and she couldn't decide whether he sounded angry or curious or impressed or all at the same time, "did all that just come from?"

Ayla gave him her most dazzling smile. "I am simply an inspiring military leader with a natural talent for strategy."

His bushy eyebrows drew together. "Are you now? Since when, exactly?"

"Oh, just shut up."

# Cupid's Arrows

Over the next few days, an atmosphere of tense silence began to descend over Luntberg Castle. The enemy didn't attack. The only sign of their presence was the continued sound of axes from the forest. Now and then, a tree fell. Every piece of dead wood that hit the ground stoked the fires of Ayla's anxiety. What was the enemy up to? This quiet wasn't natural. There was something coming, she was sure of that.

However, only a small part of her mind could be bothered with fears like this. With the defense of the barricade in the hands of the very capable captain of the guard, Linhart, she could, at least for now, concentrate her full attention on the sick and wounded.

Every day, she spent hours doing her best to reduce the ugly swelling at the side of Isenbard's head, and she succeeded. After a couple of days, she thought its color might slowly be beginning to change back from a disturbing black and blue to a more natural color. She would have been relieved and very proud of herself indeed, were it not for one bitter fact: Isenbard did not wake. He did not even stir or mutter a word in his deep, unnatural sleep. After the swelling had begun to retreat, there was nothing Ayla could do, except wait, hope for the best, and look after all the other sick people in the castle. They needed her full attention. Especially one of them.

"Eat," she said, putting the bowl in front of Reuben and holding out a wooden spoon.

He wrinkled his nose at the smell of the fennel soup. "Do I have to?"

"You do, if you want to get on your feet again. Come on. Do it for me."

Immediately, he took the spoon and began shoveling the stuff into his mouth. Ayla was so surprised that she just sat there gaping at him.

After a while, Reuben glanced up at her and saw her expression. "What?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"You actually did what I said."

"Well, I want to get well again."

"That hasn't stopped you from ignoring my orders before and generally behaving like an egotistical brat."

"You are too kind, Milady."

"So what changed your mind?"

He flashed her his trademark devil's grin. Until a few days ago, Ayla would have said everything about the devil was abominable. But that grin... She could see the evil behind it, and still, all she wanted to do was grin foolishly back at him, happy that he was happy.

"It was your gentle persuasion, of course," he murmured very, very convincingly. "You are simply irresistible."

She gave him a slap on his arm. This was one of the few ways of touching him she didn't feel too guilty about, and one she frequently indulged in. He certainly gave her plenty of cause. "Be serious, please! I don't want to hear things like that from you, understand?"

Suddenly, the grin had vanished from his face. It was replaced by an unexpected earnestness that left her breathless. "Why not?" he asked.

Ayla blinked. Had she imagined it or was there... hurt in his voice?

"Because you don't mean them," she whispered.

"What if I do?"

Almost without realizing it, Ayla had moved closer to Reuben, until only a few inches separated her face from his. His face, his wild, hard, handsome face. He looked much stronger now already, his cheeks a healthy color and only a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. Sweat that actually might not come from the fever. Ayla reached up, touching her own face which was flushed and moist with excitement.

"Reuben, I..."

Precisely at that moment, the door swung open.

Guiltily, Ayla jerked around, thinking that it might be Burchard. He had developed the annoying habit of interrupting her when she was with Reuben with increasing frequency, God only knew why.

But it wasn't Burchard. It was Heilswinda.

The maid stared at her mistress leaning over the face of the handsome man on the bed, her cheeks flushed. A grin appeared on her face, and she curtsied.

"Begging your pardon, Milady. Didn't want to interrupt." She turned on the spot, waggling her hips suggestively before closing the door. "Mum's the word," she called from outside in an excited, girly voice.

They could hear her giggling as she hurried away down the corridor.

Reuben raised an eyebrow at Ayla. "Mum's the word?"

Ayla wished heartily she could sink into the floor.

*~*~**~*~*

Apart from moments such as these, Ayla felt quite marvelous considering there was a siege going on which could result in sudden and violent death. Every time she looked at Reuben's face, feelings of tenderness and desire swept through her that she didn't know how to deal with.

She spent hours dreaming of running her hand over his face, once, just once, not pretending it was to check his temperature but for the simple feel of him under her fingers. A feel that sent shivers up her arm and played music on her heartstrings.

Sometimes she dreamed that he was a knight who came to her rescue. Then she berated herself. She was being as silly as a four-year-old—playing with her mind, while reality was very different. The bleak truth was: Reuben was not hers, nor would he ever be. The thought sent an aching pain through her heart. A pain so great that she started dreaming of the impossible again, just for a few hours while she sat at his bed, gazing at his relaxed, sleeping face and listening to the axes hacking away at the forest beyond the river.

The sound still made her uneasy. But she was heartened by another sound: Reuben's strong, regular breathing. He was getting better quickly, now strictly following all her instructions. She was amazed at his rate of recovery: it seemed almost as though he were consciously fighting the illness, determined to get on his feet as quickly as possible for some reason. Though what that reason might be, she couldn't fathom. She could only be thankful for his increasing recovery, feeling a fear she hadn't really known was there drain out of her with every day his health improved. All that was in her power to bring him back to health she did without hesitation, changing his bandages and cataplasms several times a day, applying salves, and force-feeding him all manner of medicines.

Ayla didn't know why exactly, but she didn't just care for Reuben's wounds, she had also taken to discussing her problems with him. Perhaps it was the strangely insightful advice that he always seemed able to give about military matters, or maybe it was because he was one of the few people in the castle she didn't feel she had to prove something to. Or maybe it was the fact that he was insanely handsome and she wanted to spend every single minute of her time in his company.

She didn't know what it was, but she found herself telling him more and more about the enemy, their odds of survival, her hopes and fears.

And he listened. Listened kindly, while she unloaded all the terrible things that were weighing heavily on her heart.

*~*~**~*~*

"...six hundred men, maybe seven hundred. They outnumber us ten to one, Reuben. Even if Isenbard's continued absence from the battlefield doesn't make such a terrible difference as I thought it would, yes even if he wakes up, I don't know how we're going to survive this," she told him, dejectedly.

"So you're in a pretty grim situation?" Reuben asked softly. He could see the fear in her eyes and wished there were something he could do. But there wasn't. Not yet.

Ayla sighed and nodded in answer to his question. Then, though the situation appeared to Reuben to be anything but humorous, a grin spread across her face and she giggled. "Well, unless _Sir Reuben_ comes to my rescue."

Reuben's eyes widened in shock.

*~*~**~*~*

Ayla saw Reuben blanch and his eyes widen, and couldn't help it. She laughed out loud. "Look at you! You look like you're actually taking me seriously!"

"You... are not serious?"

"Please!" Ayla rolled her eyes. "The day I wait for _you_ to rescue me will be the day the clouds drop from heaven!"

Then she explained about Fye, and the dolls, one of which she had named Sir Reuben, and her chat with the girl.

He tried to hide it, but Ayla could see it clearly: the self-satisfied smirk on Reuben's face.

"So she thought I looked like a knight in shining armor, did she?"

"Yes. Poor child. Her parents must really see to it that she gets some sense before she grows up."

He quirked an eyebrow. "Really? She must have had a reason to think I was a knight."

"Yes, indeed. She thought you look strong and handsome."

"And what do you think?"

*~*~**~*~*

The question was out of his mouth before Reuben knew, and then it was too late to recall the words.

Damn! Damn the fool that he was!

Reuben saw her beautiful blue eyes widen and cursed himself for the foolish question. What possessed him to make advances to this girl? Yes, she was damnably beautiful, even if she was a bit young. Yes, if you got past her craziness, she was even quite... nice. But he couldn't start something with her, no matter how much he might want to! It was against all his survival instincts. She had threatened to hang him, for heaven's sake! What was wrong with his head?

Reuben shuddered at the possibility of what would happen if they got closer and she found out about him. He didn't want to contemplate it. And even worse: What if he wouldn't even have that chance? What if she found him repellant? After all, her taste in men might be as crazy as the rest of her, plus, he wasn't exactly in mint condition right now.

Best to cut his losses and withdraw while he could, wasn't it?

No, no! He wanted this girl, wanted her badly. He wasn't giving up. However, he thought, suppressing a wry smile, that might not be up to him. She might be the exception to the female rule and not find him attractive. She had been the exception to the rule in pretty much everything so far. Why not now? It was a painful thought.

But then, Ayla cast her eyes down and her cheeks blossomed apple-red. Without looking at him, she muttered: "Well, maybe Fye wasn't totally mistaken."

At her words, a triumphant grin spread over Reuben's face and a thrill shot through his veins. He knew it! He knew all along that no woman on earth could resist his charms! She was drawn to him. Maybe not as much as other women up and down the country had been, not by a long shot, but she wasn't immune to his allure.

"Wipe that self-satisfied grin off your face," Ayla mumbled, peeking up at him with her big blue eyes from under her lashes in a way that made Reuben's heart pick up the pace.

Reuben's grin only broadened in response. "Why? What's wrong with my grin?"

"Nothing. It's beautiful. That's the problem."

Reuben's heart hammered even faster. Damn it, what was wrong with him? He had heard compliments like this hundreds of times from all sorts of women. It wasn't anything special. He knew they were simply telling the truth, after all, he saw himself in the mirror often enough. But when Ayla said it, the words made him feel... warm.

Well, he still had a fever. That was probably it.

"Beautiful, hmm?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Well, it's not the only thing in this room to which that adjective could be applied."

Carefully, still not sure how much of his strength he had recovered, he raised a hand and lightly stroked Ayla's golden hair. If his ears did not deceive him, she sucked in a quick breath as his fingers touched the glimmering strands. A sign of fear? It was reasonable, he supposed. She didn't know him all that well. Was she afraid to be alone with him now that he had indicated his intentions? Would she leave?

Anxious to make the most of the moment before she was gone, he moved his hand from her hair to her cheek. Her skin was soft and warm. Warm? He still had a fever. How could her cheeks be feeling warm in comparison?

A delicious blush was suffusing her face and heating her cheeks now, that was how. Another sign of fear? Would she leave?

But instead of leaving, she sighed, leaning into his touch and briefly closing her eyes. When she opened them again, they were slightly unfocused.

Unable to hold it up any longer, Reuben dropped his hand.

She looked down at him with a slightly fuzzy, confused look in her eyes. "Why did you do that?" she asked.

He couldn't resist grinning again. "Well, you've fondled me quite a lot over the last couple of days. I thought I'd reciprocate."

"I didn't mean the touching," she said, softly. "I meant the letting go."

This time it was Reuben who sucked in a sharp breath. He was about to try to come up with a witty response, when suddenly her brow furrowed and her eyes narrowed, as for the first time his words seemed to register with her.

"What do you mean I have _fondled you over the last couple of days_? I was attending to your medical needs!"

*~*~**~*~*

The insolent bastar— the insolent buffoon had the gall to wink at her! Ayla had never seen something as disarming and lascivious as that wink. Her face turned from pink to burning red.

"Yes, you did. And you enjoyed every minute of it," he gloated. "Admit it."

"I did not!"

"Oh yes, you did."

"Did not!"

"You did."

"No!"

He shrugged. "Well, _I_ did."

Ayla gasped at his insolence. Gripping a wet cloth from the table, she was about to slap him with it when he raised his hand in an imploring gesture.

"Please! I surrender! I'm no match for your skills with the wet linen, my fierce lady!"

He looked so adorable, so handsome in that moment, peeking up at her through his fingers which were spread in defense in front of his face, that she couldn't help it. She began to giggle. No matter how angry she was supposed to be at him, she just couldn't be. Not at Reuben. Not when he looked at her like this, his trademark devil's grin gleaming through the gaps between his fingers. Not when he had called her "my fierce lady." Mine. His.

"You... you're impossible!" She giggled, dropping the wet cloth to the floor and supporting herself on his bedstead so as not to keel over from laughing.

After a moment or two, he joined in and they laughed together. His deep, booming laughter was a joy to hear.

It took quite a long time for them to calm down again. Ayla hadn't laughed in days, and it was a cathartic experience. It forced all the tension, anxiety, and fear of the last few days out of her system and gave her a few precious minutes of bliss. Eventually though, they calmed down, and Ayla, her brain starting to work again, slowly realized what he had said.

Well, I did.

He had been enjoying himself. He had enjoyed her touching him. Was it just the relief of having someone there who cared for him in his illness, or was there more? _Please_ , she thought, _please, Lord, let there be more._

Gathering all her courage, she met his predatory gray eyes and asked, in a barely audible voice: "What exactly did you mean? Just now, when you said..."

Her voice dwindled. Her courage had run out.

He looked directly back at her, as if he found her eyes just as enamoring as she found his. Impossible, surely...

"I mean," he said, "that you can touch me any time you want."

Again, Ayla moved almost without knowing what she was doing, and stretched out her hand. His cheek was so close. Oh, how much she wanted to stroke that stubbly cheek of his, run her fingers over the high cheekbones, cup his face in her hands. And why not?

He has asked me. He wants me to.

The thought was dream-like. Almost unbelievable. Her fingers were only a few inches away from his face...

And then, from across the river, they heard the sound of the horns of the enemy, summoning the mercenaries to attack.

# Hypothetical Arrows

Once more, the enemy's horn sounded. Then there came the defenders' horn, echoing the other one, sounding the alarm. Ayla's hand, only inches away from Reuben's face, suddenly froze—as did her heart. Frantically, she looked over at Isenbard. But time had run out. The enemy was coming, and Isenbard lay just as motionless as he had yesterday or the day before. There was nobody to help her.

She felt a strong hand grip her own and looked down to see Reuben grasping her fingers. All his weariness seemed to have vanished, and there was a fire smoldering in his gray eyes. It made a shiver run down her back.

"Help me up," he rasped.

"What? Reuben, have you totally lost your mind?"

"Help me up! I need to get down there!"

"I think you have that slightly confused. _I_ need to get down there. _You_ need to stay here."

She tugged her hand from his and it went easily, his momentary strength vanishing as he broke into a sweat and tremors shook his body.

"Stay where you are," she yelled, jumping up and running to the door. "Don't you dare follow me down there, Reuben, or I'll swear I'll put you into the stocks for a day!"

For some insane reason, that made him laugh. "Oh please!" he gasped. "Can't you think up a worse punishment? You're not at your best today."

"I'll think of something if you don't stay here, I promise you!"

"I couldn't get down there anyway," he spit out between clenched teeth, all humor suddenly disappearing from his face again. "I... don't have the strength."

"Good!" She threw open the door. Just as she was about to hurry out, she heard her name called behind her.

"Ayla!"

One final time, she turned and looked at Reuben. The intensity of his gaze nearly took her breath away.

"Survive," he whispered.

She nodded, mutely. Then she dashed down the corridor, down the stairs, and out into the courtyard as quickly as her long dress would allow. Thanking God she'd had the foresight to order a horse to be ready and waiting for her at all times, she swung herself onto the animal's back and spurred it on.

Arriving at the bridge only two minutes later on a totally exhausted horse, she was aghast to find only two guards atop the barricade. Two! She had ordered _twenty_ to be there at all times, and when an actual attack came, even more were supposed to rush to the defense! And now there were only two, and these two weren't even looking in the right direction. They were staring off to the side, totally oblivious to whatever enemy was crossing the bridge.

Quickly sliding off her horse, she climbed the barricade and grabbed the arm of one of the soldiers. "What's the matter with you, man? The enemy is ther—"

The words stuck in her throat.

From atop the barricade, she could see what had previously been out of her field of vision. She could see the meadow across the river, she could see the forest beyond, and she could see the bridge. There were no mercenaries on it. Not a single one.

"What's the matter with you?" she asked the soldier, breathless. "What possessed you to sound the alarm? There's nobody here!"

Wordlessly, the man raised an arm, pointing in the direction he had been staring the whole time, off towards the left, to the river. Annoyed, Ayla turned her head. What could possibly be on the river that could be of any interest?

And then she saw them. The sight hit her in the stomach like a fist of iron.

Boats. Dozens of rough, small, wooden rowing boats. Some of them had the marks of axes and bits of bark still on them. All of them carried soldiers, moving determinedly across the river, using rough wooden paddles. They weren't going very fast, but the river wasn't very broad, either. They would be across soon. And there were many. Too many.

Behind them, clearly visible on a small hill overlooking the river, the red robber knight sat on his stallion and watched the proceedings calmly. The deadly aura radiating off him was almost palpable.

"Shoot them," Ayla yelled, pointing to the soldiers on the river. Was it only her imagination or did her voice sound slightly higher than usual? "Shoot them all! Now!"

Before all the words were out of her mouth, she spotted Waldar on the bank of the river beside a company of archers, his arm raised. Suddenly, the fat man didn't seem quite so silly to Ayla anymore. He had already given the orders. Now, his arm came down, and the arrows took flight.

The soldiers in the boats, however, had apparently just waited for this. Quickly, they discarded their paddles in favor of wooden shields, holding them up over their heads as the hail of arrows came down upon them. The arrows stuck in the shields or even bounced off harmlessly. Laughter erupted from the boats, and Ayla's eyes widened in shock.

Nothing! Their counter-attack had had no effect whatsoever. Her eyes darted towards the red robber knight. He still sat on his horse which hadn't moved an inch. He didn't need to shout commands or run about. He was master of the battlefield. Slowly, he raised his arm in her direction and held up his hand in the most threatening greeting she had ever seen.

Near tears, Ayla wrung her hands in desperation. What was she supposed to do now? Was there another way of counter-attack? Anything else her soldiers could do?

As if in answer to her silent question, Sir Waldar turned and saw her standing on the barricade. For once, he was not laughing or making jokes. Fixing her with his eyes, he shook his head.

That was it. He didn't know how to repel the soldiers. And Ayla? She had no idea. There were at least a hundred of them in the boats. Once they were across, there would be no stopping them. They had already covered a quarter of the way. Regardless of how many arrows Ayla's men fired, they would only distract their enemies, not destroy them. Soon they would come ashore, and then it would be over.

Ha! Bitter self-disgust shot through Ayla. She had played at being a leader for these last couple of days, but that was all it had been—a play. When things got dirty and bloody, she had no clue what to do. How could she? No one had ever prepared her for something like this. She was no commander.

Unlike the red robber knight.

There was only one person who could help her now. Only one person who could possibly know what to do.

Suddenly decided, she slid down the ladder and ran to her horse. The poor animal could hardly stand, but she swung herself into the saddle regardless. If she didn't do this, they would all suffer the consequences. She, her people, even the poor animal panting underneath her as she drove it on towards the castle.

For that matter, they might still suffer—if God in his mercy didn't work a miracle today for the man she needed.

_Please let Isenbard be awake_ , she prayed. _Please let him be awake!_

*~*~**~*~*

By the time Ayla arrived at the keep, her horse was half dead. It tore at her heart to have to hurt a faithful animal so, but she couldn't spare any thoughts on it now.

Jumping from the horse, she raced up the stairs to the front door and didn't slow down inside, making her way up the inner stairs and down the corridor in record time.

Exhausted as she was, she almost fell against the door and into the room. Next to Isenbard's bedstead, she collapsed onto her knees and began to shake the old knight by the arm.

"Wake up!" she shouted. "Wake up, we need you! Please!"

Isenbard's head rolled from side to side from her shaking. Other than that, nothing happened. He didn't reply, didn't even open his eyes. His unnatural sleep was as deep as ever.

"On your feet, Sir Knight!" She tried to keep back the sobs that were threatening to break through, tried to make her voice sound commanding. "We need you now! Please, wake up at least. I don't know what to do..."

No response. Isenbard's lined features didn't twitch. It was as if she hadn't spoken.

"Please, Uncle, I beg you." There was no holding back the sobs; they forced their way out into the open. This was the end. If Isenbard didn't wake now, he would never wake again. It would be endless darkness for him, for her, for everybody.

Again, she shook him, although she knew it was to no avail. He wouldn't wake. The enemy had as good as won.

"Ayla, what is the matter? He's sick! You can't wake him and you shouldn't even try, you told me so yourself."

For a moment, Ayla didn't recognize the voice coming from behind her. Then a set of warm, muscular arms enfolded her and she remembered. Oh yes. Reuben. Reuben was here.

"Shh," he said, gently pulling her away from Isenbard. Ayla was so distraught, she didn't even think to ask herself how he could move in his still weakened state. "Don't try to wake him. Don't."

"But I have to," Ayla wailed. "He's the only one. The only one who might be able to help me."

"Help you how? Ayla, he can't help anyone just now. What's the matter? Tell me!"

It made absolutely no sense, wasting time like this, telling a sick merchant who couldn't even stand straight of their approaching doom, with the enemy probably halfway across the river by now. But somehow the entire story tumbled out of her mouth.

"...and when they've crossed they're going to kill everyone, except me. Me they will take and bring to Falkenstein and he... he..."

Ayla found she didn't have the strength to continue. Reuben had held her in his arms the whole time she had spoken. She was really glad for it, feeling safe there, warm and protected. Of course, it was only an illusion. Nobody was safe anymore. But it was a nice illusion to indulge in. Just a few minutes more before the soldiers came and dragged her off into captivity...

"They are crossing the river on wooden boats?" Reuben's voice was toneless.

"Yes."

"Do you have lard?" he asked.

"What?" Ayla sobbed.

Reuben let go of her, and Ayla wanted to shout in protest. _No! Please no_. She wanted to be in his arms for a few more minutes before the end. But then he turned her around and every other thought in Ayla's mind was eradicated by the look on his face.

"Do—you—have—lard?" he asked, enunciating each word, his voice flaming with fiery fury. "You know lard? The stuff that makes pigs' bottoms fat?"

"Reuben, what has that got to do with anyth—?"

" _Answer me_!" he bellowed, and she shrank back, her tears halting from the sheer shock of seeing him like this.

"I... I think so," she stuttered. "The peasants in the village... They must have some, I think."

"Good. Now listen to me, My Lady of Luntberg. Return to the battlefield. Make them bring you lard. As much lard as they have. Wrap your arrows in rags, cover them with lard and set them on fire. Then shoot them at the boats of the enemy. Do you understand?"

She stared into his gray eyes, which burned so intensely that it almost seemed they alone could burn the approaching boats of doom down for her. He seemed certainly willing to try, no matter how insane his idea. Lard was used for baking, mostly, and in some medicinal salves. Yes, it burned well, and poor people used it in their lamps, but still...

"Reuben," she said, her voice choked, "I appreciate that you're trying to help, but..."

" _Do you understand_?"

Again she shrank back from his violent roar. She almost wanted to do as he asked just to keep him from yelling at her again.

But she couldn't. She couldn't give into hope. Not now that she had already abandoned herself. She was too weak to continue fighting, so she just shook her head and let it sink to her chest in defeat.

A finger appeared in her field of vision, coaxing her chin up. Surprised by the gentle touch, when a moment ago the owner of the hand had been shouting at her with enough ferocity to bring the castle down, she looked up into his dear, devilish face.

"Ayla, do you trust me?"

And amazingly, stupidly, she nodded. Because she really did trust him, trusted him more than anybody else in her life.

"Then go," he whispered. "Please?"

She knelt there for one moment more, then sprang up and rushed to the door. As she ran down the corridor, her tears began to flow again. If she died today, it would not be in his arms.

# Flaming Arrows

When Ayla's horse, half-dead from exhaustion, crashed to the ground before the bridge, dozens of soldiers cried out in alarm and hastened to aid her. Yet she jumped up and held out her hands, directing them back to their posts. Her ribs hurt terribly from the fall, but now was not the time to show weakness.

"I'm fine! Eyes on the enemy, men!"

She had ridden like a demon to get back to the bridge in time and seemed to have managed it. The enemy had just about covered half the distance. Her horse, however, might not survive the experience.

_So what?_ a tiny part of her thought. _We are all going to die anyway._

All emotion had drained out of her. She had cried all she could up at the castle. Now, all that was left was a blazing determination to carry out this insane plan of a silly merchant who had delusions of grandeur and fancied himself a military commander. Why not? It was no worse end than any other. At least she would go down fighting.

"Have you lost your mind?"

Someone grabbed her from behind. As she was turned around, she could see that it was Burchard. "Riding down the mountain like that—you could have broken your neck! What game do you think you're playing?"

"War," she replied curtly. "Bring me three barrels of lard, and tell the archers to wrap rags around their arrows."

"What? You haven't..."

" _That was an order_."

He studied her for a second, then bowed his head and ran off as fast as his stout legs would carry him. Ayla looked over to the archers who were supposed to be arrayed along the bank of the river in a watchful line. Now they stood in a loose group halfway between the water and her panting, fallen horse. They were all eying her warily.

"Eyes on the enemy, I said," she yelled, and marched towards them. "Someone bring me something that burns, anything! The rest of you, form a line facing the water!"

They looked uncertainly between Sir Waldar and her. None of them was used to taking direct commands in battle from a woman, especially one as young as her.

"You are sworn to obey me! Move!"

None of them moved. They still looked uncertain.

"And I'm sworn to protect you," she added, in a softer voice. "Now, for the last time: move."

They unfroze and hurriedly formed a line at the edge of the water.

"What are we going to do, Milady?" Captain Linhart asked, undisguised fear in his eyes as he watched the boats of the mercenaries draw closer. "They will crush us."

"They will never reach the shore," Ayla replied with a conviction she didn't know she had. She most certainly didn't know where it was coming from. This entire inane plan was based on the ideas of a fever-stricken merchant, for heaven's sake!

A fever-stricken merchant who knows how a feudal army is structured and commanded.

"We cannot stop them, Milady," the captain said in a soft voice. "Our arrows won't harm them. We already tried that."

Ayla fixed him with her most lady-of-the-castle-like stare. "I wasn't suggesting to try that again. We have no time for arguments. You will just have to be silent and do as you're told. Can you do that, Captain?"

Linhart hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, Milady." And by the resigned tone of his voice, Ayla knew he had said it because it didn't much signify to him how he was going to spend the last minutes of his life.

_He thinks he will die here_ , she mused. _Do I think that, too?_

And she realized that no, she didn't. She had thought so only minutes ago, but now... Reuben was right. She did trust him. It made no logical sense, but she was actually beginning to think his plan was going to work.

With a small smile growing on her face, she watched several deathly pale villagers carry three barrels of lard towards Luntberg's archers. Bemused, she noticed Captain Linhart peeking at her out of the corner of his eye. He probably thought she wanted to start baking pastries or make sausages on the battlefield. Maybe he thought she was losing her mind. Well, maybe he was right.

"Place the barrels here," she commanded the villagers, pointing to a spot directly before the archers. They did as she asked and then ran. Maybe to bar their doors, maybe to grab what they could and flee. Ayla didn't know, and in that moment, didn't care. She had a task to accomplish.

"Dip your arrows in the lard," she commanded. "Make sure that the rags are soaked in it."

Now all the men looked at her as if she was crazy.

"Do it!"

Hastily, they did as she said.

"Fire!" she called. "Where is my fire?"

A guard hurried over from the bridge with a burning branch in his hand. Ayla gave a silent prayer of thanks for the fact that the men always had a cooking fire going to heat up gruel or some hot drink. In her panic, she hadn't thought of where the fire she needed would come from before leaving the castle.

Hurriedly, she waved the man with his makeshift torch towards the line of archers. "When I say so, you will set fire to the arrows. Understood?"

He swallowed. "Yes, Milady."

Ayla took a deep breath and looked out over the river. The enemy boats had now crossed more than half the distance. She could see the greedy eyes of many a soldier fixed upon her, the only woman on the battlefield. Well, she would see to it that these men remembered her until their dying day.

Or in other words: until today.

This was it.

She remembered the words, remembered them exactly from that time Isenbard had shouted them out and brought down the enemy's cavalry.

"Nock!" Ayla called.

Twenty archers put arrows to the strings.

"Mark!"

The arrows swiveled to face the enemy. The mercenaries raised their shields in preparation. Before their wooden protection went up, Ayla could see their malevolent grins. They felt safe and superior. As earlier, nasty laughter drifted over from the boats.

"Draw!"

The archers pulled back the strings, their muscles bunching under the tension.

"Set fire to the arrows!"

The man with the burning branch hurried along the line of archers, trying not to disturb their aim while he lit one arrow after another. Flames sprang up along the line of soldiers and enveloped the slim wooden shafts on their bows. Ayla knew she had only seconds before they would be consumed. Feeling the weight of rule descending on her shoulders, she raised a hand, just as Isenbard had done in this very meadow, not so long ago.

There was an immeasurable second of silence, during which Ayla's eyes sought the red robber knight on the opposite shore. He wasn't sitting quietly anymore. Instead, he had ridden closer and was watching the proceedings with suspiciously narrowed eyes. Ayla fixed those eyes with the closest approximation of a death-stare she was capable of, and let her arm fall.

"Loose!"

*~*~**~*~*

Reuben lay on his bed, breathing heavily. The effort to go over to Ayla at the other side of the room had cost him a lot of his limited strength, and he was sweating all over. But that wasn't the only reason he was panting like this. He had held her in his arms. For just a few moments, he had felt her soft, slender figure pressed against him. It had been an exhilarating experience.

At another time, he might have spent more time thinking about this. But right now, the unwelcome knowledge that he might very well have sent Ayla to her death was a little bit distracting.

_I might never see her again_ , he realized. _Then that memory will be all I have left of her._

The thought was so incredibly painful. He choked out a half-laugh. A few weeks ago nothing in the world could have hurt him, and now a mere thought could inflict pain on him? How pathetic was that? If he only knew how the battle was going. If he only knew whether or not Ayla was still alive.

*~*~**~*~*

At Ayla's command, the archers let go of their bowstrings and twenty fiery predators arched through the air. They hit the enemy boats, and again Ayla could hear laughter from the mercenaries—which abruptly cut off as flames began licking up the sides of the boats and over the soldiers' wooden shields.

Had the enemy kept a cool head, Ayla realized later, things might have gone differently, considering how fresh and wet the wood of the boats had to be. Had they kept a cool head, Luntberg Castle might have fallen that day. Yet it is difficult to a keep cool head in the face of fire.

Ayla watched as the first shields dropped, listened as yells of alarm went up from the boats. Suddenly, things weren't going as planned anymore for the mercenaries. More shields were thrown aside or simply dropped into the water to see where the hell those flames were coming from!

"Dip!"

Ayla's soldiers followed her order immediately this time, dunking their arrows into the barrels of lard, their eyes wide with disbelief as they stared at the enemy vessels: by now, the mercenaries were frantically trying to put out the fires spawned by the flaming missiles; many of them had lost their shields already and most had stopped paddling. Some boats were turning around and around in circles, because only the soldiers on one side were still dipping their oars into the water. The enemy attack was falling apart.

"Nock! Mark! Draw!"

Again, twenty strong arms pulled back bowstrings. The man with the makeshift torch didn't need prompting this time. He hurried along the line of archers, leaving fire in his wake. Twenty flaming projectiles pointed skywards.

"Loose!"

The second volley of arrows struck the enemy undefended by their wooden shields, most of which were floating downriver by now. Screams of anger and surprise turned into screams of agony as, this time, flaming blades cut not into wood, but into flesh. The mercenaries' thin clothing and oiled armor ignited like dry tinder, and screams of agony morphed into bestial roars as men turned into living torches.

Ayla would have liked to look away—but she could not. It was her duty to look, and to command, and to continue.

She _had_ to look at the burning men, if only to know what it was she had done.

So she watched, as again the flaming arrows buried themselves in the sides of the enemy boats—boats which by now were burning bright red. The mercenaries that were still alive tried desperately to extinguish the flames, screaming at each other to get water out of the river, or to rip the arrows out, or simply screaming in pain as they, too, caught fire. Chaos was spreading with the flames, and man after man fell into the water, crying out wordless prayers and curses. Most of the men didn't resurface.

"Dip! Nock! Mark! Loose!"

Ayla's lips moved almost without her being aware of it, pronouncing the death of her enemies. It had only taken a couple of minutes to completely reverse the situation, though it seemed much longer than that. Where a few minutes ago the mercenaries had been sure of victory, now they were being crushed. Most of the boats had been overturned or were rotating aimlessly in the river, most of their oarsmen were gone. There was burning chaos among the enemy. Clearly, none of them were thinking of attack anymore, not even of retreat. No, they thought only of flight, desperate to get away.

Away from _her_ , Ayla suddenly realized. They were afraid of _her_. The knowledge was chilling, but also sent a grim surge of satisfaction through her veins.

Her eyes straying to her own soldiers, Ayla saw the awe and fear in their eyes. She understood, because she was feeling exactly the same. Everybody knew that lard[48] burned, and that wood could _be_ burned. But to see these simple elements wreak such untold havoc was deeply disturbing. Ayla knew that if she hadn't been there, the soldiers would have stopped shooting, or at least stopped igniting the terrible fire on their arrows, now that most of the enemy shields were floating in the water. But she kept them repeating the hailstorm of fire, again and again.

_You are killing people who are fleeing_ , said a voice in the back of her mind.

_I am killing people who want to kill my people_ , she thought, determinedly. _Each mercenary that falls today can't strike a blow at us tomorrow._

This was no time to get skittish. She was a leader and had to act like one.

Soon, no more boats were floating on the water. The only things that were floating were burning pieces of debris, and men—face down.

Ayla lifted her eyes from what she had wrought to meet the gaze of the red robber knight on the other side of the river. He didn't curse, yell, shout—in fact he didn't do anything but raise his hand again. This time, Ayla knew, it was no warning, but a respectful salute.

She nodded.

The robber knight whirled his stallion around and galloped back to the camp, leaving his dead behind to rot.

After a moment to gather herself, Ayla walked down to her soldiers. Smoke was drifting over the battlefield from the river, but Ayla forced her eyes not to water. She couldn't afford to cry. Not here, not now. Not in front of the men she had commanded.

The captain met her, the others behind him. They all looked like they had woken up from a dream. Not a nice dream.

"Milady." The captain nodded and gestured to the destruction on the river. "I gather Sir Isenbard has awoken?"

Ayla raised her chin and met his gaze head on. "No, Captain, he has not."

Linhart's eyes widened. "Then you..."

"What did you think, Captain?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "That the feverish merchant in the castle's guest chamber came up with the battle plan that saved all our lives today?"

The captain fell to his knees, and all his men followed suit. "Forgive me for ever doubting you, Milady. Your wisdom in battle surpasses all that I have seen before."

_Well_ , she wanted to say, _my wisdom in battle is about comparable to that of an oyster, and as for doubting me—great job you were doing! You were spot on! Go right on doubting me._

Instead, she just nodded gracefully.

"All you men have done me proud this day," she called, gesturing towards the river. "You have stood between your families and the enemy, and you have not faltered but won a stunning victory. If we continue to be as vigilant, I have no doubt we will prevail, no matter the odds."

She took a deep breath.

"Captain, I shall leave it to you to establish a guard that patrols the bank of the river night and day. If the enemy should attempt another crossing, you know what to do now. With the Lord's help, we will destroy them!"

Her eyes fixed on the burning debris and the dead, she added, in a low voice: " _Fire and sulphur rained from heaven and destroyed them all_."

The captain rose, a new determined light shining in his eyes. He may not have been familiar with much of the Bible in his mother tongue, but he was able to recognize the word of the Lord when he heard it.

"As you command, Milady," he said, his voice reverent. Then he raised his arm. "Three cheers for our Lady Ayla!"

Ayla's mouth dropped open as a cheer went up for her. And another. And another. Soldiers were cheering _her_ , as their leader. It was an overwhelming feeling, one that she had never expected to experience. And she hadn't missed the significance of what the captain had said: Not "yes, Milady" or "as you wish, Milady" but "as you _command_ , Milady." She was a commander now. And all these men had accepted that, placing their lives in her hands. Even Sir Waldar was cheering along, though his cheering was interrupted by loud bursts of laughter. They believed in her ability to lead them through the coming battles.

_Mary, mother of God!_ What was she going to do?

# Misused Candlesticks

Though her horse had collapsed on the ride down to the bridge and had by no means recovered yet, Ayla had no problem getting back to the castle: she was carried up there on the shoulders of a cheering crowd. It was sweet, and wonderful, and so terribly embarrassing! She longed to tell the people that it hadn't been her idea, that somebody else deserved the credit for saving their lives, but she couldn't. If she told them that they owed their lives to the crazy ideas of a feverish merchant instead of the wisdom of their mistress, they would lose their morale, and very rightly so. Ayla herself felt like losing her morale, and her mind and temper along with it.

What drove her nearly crazy was the question: _How on earth had he known_? How had Reuben, the merchant, managed to come up with a functioning battle plan revealing a knowledge of tactics and weaponry possibly surpassing even that of Sir Isenbard? It was infuriating!

Yes, he had, of course, saved her life in a way, but that was no reason why she couldn't be angry with him, was it? She was going to get the truth out of him if it was the last thing she did!

It took her quite a while to get away from the crowd and into the keep, mostly because people wouldn't stop bowing and cheering.

Finally, she managed to slip up the stairs of the keep and shut the doors behind her. With a sigh, she leaned against the old wood, closing her eyes in relief. Outside, people were still chanting her name.

How could they cheer her for this? For something that hadn't even been her idea? And worse still, for something that should not be cause for cheers? To kill the mercenaries had been no glorious or great deed—it had been necessary, but that was all. Behind her closed eyelids, she could still see the boats burning, hear the screams of the dying men. These were things she knew would haunt her unto her dying day.

And it hadn't even been her idea. It had been _his_.

After a brief respite, she opened her eyes again and proceeded up the stairs. Reuben was going to tell her everything!

*~*~**~*~*

When the cheering started, Reuben knew that all was well. Not because of the cheering itself—all soldiers cheered after a victory, whether friend or enemy. No, it was because of _what_ they were shouting. _Whom_ they were cheering.

"Lady Ayla! Long live Lady Ayla!"

"Huzzah! Huzzah!"

"Three cheers for the Lady of Luntberg!"

They were cheering Ayla. They were cheering their victorious lady. Reuben felt his entire body relax. Sir Luca had lost. She had triumphed over that bootless beetle-headed haggard! Abruptly, he felt a swelling of pride in his chest. He tried to suppress it. Why should he be proud of her? She had nothing to do with him. She was just some girl.

_No, she isn't. Not to you_ , he thought, shaking his head. _And you know that perfectly well._

He _was_ proud of her. His beautiful girl had done the impossible and beaten an experienced commander in battle. She had to be a witch, in a way, to accomplish that. She didn't just put him under her spell, but everybody.

Yet the fact that she had won this time didn't mean that he was ever going to let her do something as dangerous as this again. Oh no, as soon as he was back on his feet she would stay nicely at home in her big castle with its solid walls and he would take care of that puking malt-worm Sir Luca who had dared to steal his armor. He would take care of every danger for her.

Carefully, Reuben flexed his muscles. He wasn't strong enough yet, but he soon would be. All of his rage and determination—and he had plenty of both—were focused on burning the illness out of his body. Even if at the moment he still had to lie here, that didn't mean he had to stay idle. He could practice. It would do him good, take his mind off things.

He gripped a cloth that was lying on the floor beside him. With a flick of his hand, he whipped it around so it caught on a candlestick standing on the only table in the room. The candlestick was catapulted off the table, rotating through the air. Reuben's arm shot up with almost all its usual dexterity and caught it. Ah, excellent! Some strength seemed to be returning to his arms, at least, if not yet his legs.

Placing his left hand at his hip, he held the candlestick out from him as if it were a sword and turned it from side to side. It was a poor replacement for a real blade, of course, but it would have to do, for now. Creating an imaginary enemy in front of him, Reuben let his arm dart upwards. It moved with a fluid grace belying his still less than perfect state of health. His airy enemy blocked the strike, and Reuben moved to the side to duck and deliver a pommel strike to the man's chin. Then, in a swift left-to-right move, he cut right through the middle. Had his enemy been real, he would just have suffered a fatal blow to the gut.

In his mind's eye, the appearance of his enemy was indistinct. Reuben didn't know yet what this Sir Luca looked like. He would have to ask. You needed to know things like that if you wanted to kill somebody.

Or perhaps he would just go after the red armor. _His_ red armor. The fiend had it now—but he wouldn't have it for long. Reuben repeated his attack on the air, his teeth clenched and his moves increasingly ferocious as he imagined cutting Luca into a thousand pieces.

He was just in the middle of a particularly complicated move when, suddenly, the door swung open.

*~*~**~*~*

Stopping in front of the door, Ayla took a deep breath to compose herself. Now she was going to get her answers! She tried putting on a stern expression. Sister Priscilla at the convent where she had been educated had been very good at stern expressions, which she utilized in extracting all kinds of guilty confessions from the novices. Hoping hers would be half as effective, Ayla pushed open the door.

"Now listen here, Reuben, I want to know..."

Her voice died away as she saw him lying in bed, staring into the air with intense concentration, wildly swinging a candlestick from left to right. His head whipped around as he saw her, and the candlestick dropped from his hand.

"Ayla."

"Err... yes it's me." She regarded him, concerned. For a moment, her gaze flickered to the candlestick on the floor. "Reuben, um... are you all right? Are you feeling quite well? Has the fever risen again?"

"What? Oh." He chuckled, following her gaze to the candlestick. "No, I'm not crazy with fever and trying to drive invisible demons away, if that's what you think. A fly was bothering me, that's all."

"Must have been a ferocious fly," Ayla muttered and carefully approached him. She was still slightly apprehensive. The way he had swung that candlestick around had looked as if he had been doing battle with a deadly enemy. His mischievous grin soon made her relax, though. It always had that effect on her.

"It was, Milady. A terrible beast. But now you're here to protect me." He winked.

She stopped a foot or so away from him. Gazing into his stormy gray eyes, she wondered why exactly she had come here. She had wanted to ask him something, right? Yes, that had been it. But it couldn't have been that important, could it?

Slowly, Ayla sank onto the floor beside Reuben, not taking her eyes off him. And he, in turn, didn't take his eyes off her. They silently gazed at each other like this for a minute or two.

"I was slightly worried," he finally admitted in a low voice, as if confessing to a terrible sin. "For a few minutes, I thought you were going to die out there and I would never get my compensation."

Ayla bristled, and he winked again, causing her expression to soften instantly. Oh, he was so teasing!

"But I need not have worried, it seems," he continued, pointing to his bandage. "Your skills at protecting your lands against robbers, raiders, and mercenaries seem to have improved since my unfortunate experience."

She nodded, trapped in his gray gaze.

Slowly, he extended one of his over-hot hands to her and grasped her slender fingers. Sighing, Ayla closed her eyes. Being held by him... It felt so right, so secure...

But closing her eyes had been a grave mistake. Before, she had been distracted by him, by his devilish, enchanting grin. Now that her eyes were closed and she didn't have a continuous stream of images to distract her mind, she felt other images coming to the forefront. Images that she had tried to rationalize and repress during the battle, long enough to save her people. Images of boats burning and men screaming in terrible agony.

What was the matter with her? She hadn't even seen one drop of blood today. It had all been smoke and fire. She shouldn't feel this horrible.

But she did. The absence of blood didn't matter. It was the presence of violence that preyed on her mind and her conscience. The presence of death. God, what had she done?

She opened her eyes again, desperate to replace those ghastly images.

*~*~**~*~*

Reuben saw the panic and pain flare up in her sapphire eyes as clearly as if it had been written on her face. His grip on her hand tightened instinctively. "Ayla, what is it?"

"I... Oh Reuben!"

And suddenly she fell forward, throwing her arms around him.

To say that Reuben was startled wouldn't even come close to expressing what he felt. All right, he admitted to himself, he had certainly thought about the possibility of such a moment—Ayla throwing herself at him and lacing her arms behind his neck—but in his imagination, there had always been fewer tears and a lot more passionate romping. This was confusing. She was just... lying there, crying her eyes out. What was he supposed to do?

He carefully reached out and stroked Ayla's hair. That only seemed to increase the number of her sobs, however, so he stopped quickly and attempted to push her away.

"No," she choked. "Don't stop. Hold me. Please."

She didn't have to tell him twice.

Carefully, Reuben put his arms around her and pulled her close. Her slender body felt incredibly soft against his hard-muscled chest—particularly in a certain upper area. Reuben tried not to concentrate too much on that. He needed to think straight right now, to find out why she was sobbing into his tunic. And thinking about that particular soft area would be sure to distract him from that.

"What is wrong?" he asked. Then suddenly an idea entered his head and his voice rose in anger. "Did they hurt you? Are you wounded?" He hadn't seen any wounds on her as she entered, but that seemed like the only reasonable explanation.

"No. No, I'm all right," she mewled. "It's just been so horrible..."

Reuben frowned. Horrible? "But you won, didn't you?" he asked, confused.

"Yes! But I had to kill so many people."

"Yes... but surely only the enemy," he reasoned, his confusion increasing.

With surprising strength for a female who had just collapsed weeping on top of him, Ayla pushed herself away from Reuben's chest and glared down at him. "Reuben! What does it matter if they were the enemy? They were still people!"

"Err... people who wanted to kill you."

"So what?"

"So you had to kill them first."

"Oh Reuben!"

And she collapsed on him again, weeping harder than before. Carefully, he resumed stroking her hair, anxious about eliciting another insane reaction. Hair-stroking seemed to be fine, though.

"Reuben?"

"Hmm?"

"Has anyone ever told you that you are a soulless bastard with the empathic capacity of a dung-beetle?"

"Not in so many words. But a few people have expressed similar opinions."

He felt her face shift against his chest. Fearing that she was preparing for another round of tears he looked down at her—only to discover that she was actually smiling, while the tears were still glittering on her face. Satan's hairy ass, were all females this confusing? Surely not!

"Why are you smiling? What's so funny?"

"You!" She giggled and quickly put a hand in front of her mouth, trying to suppress her mirth. "You are making me laugh, even though all I want to do is cry! How do you manage to do that, make me feel better even when I don't want to?"

"Haven't the foggiest. I only know that I'm feeling pretty well myself just now." Pulling her closer towards him so that every curve of her slender body was pressed tightly against him, he whispered in her ear: "And I know _exactly_ where _that_ feeling is coming from."

*~*~**~*~*

When she heard those words, Ayla's breathing halted abruptly. Had he really said that? Did it really mean what she thought it meant?

O yes, yes please. Let him mean it.

What if he did?

Part of her wanted to push away, to chastise him for his brazen words, or better yet, slap him in the face.

But another, new, deliciously daring part of her wanted to explore the possibility. Explore him.

And yet another part of her kicked her in the derriere and screamed: _You might be killed in battle tomorrow for all you know! What are you waiting for? Get on with it!_

Impulsively, she tightened her grip around his neck and snuggled against his chest. She was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath directly beneath her, reverberating through her entire being. Her heart rate quickened as she realized that maybe, maybe, Reuben really wanted this.

She breathed in slowly, luxuriating in the thought—and gagged. Quickly, she pushed away from him and he let her go.

*~*~**~*~*

"What is the matter?" he asked, trembling at the revulsion on her face. Heavens, he had thought she might actually be attracted to him! But the way she was looking... so utterly repulsed... What had he done to deserve this? What had he done to repel her?

"Err..." Ayla gestured at his chest, clearly embarrassed, and coughed. "It's the salve under your bandages. I forgot about it and breathed in. It's not a very appetizing scent. Like a sledgehammer up your nose."

Reuben burst out laughing. "You're telling me! I'm the one who has had to bear the stench for the last couple of days. It's disgusting."

She cocked an eyebrow. "Really? You seem extraordinarily amused about something so disgusting."

He shrugged, still grinning. "Well, you get used to it after a while. And..." he hesitated. Compliments and hints to desirable girls had always come naturally to him. So why was it now, when he desired this girl more than he had desired any female ever before, that he felt awkward about expressing himself?

"And what?"

"And... I'm just very relieved you didn't flinch away from me for another reason," he whispered.

He saw her face relax immediately and she moved closer, taking his hand again. "I would never flinch away from you, Reuben," she said, her eyes big, and clear, and blue. They were filled to the brim with earnestness, and something more. Reuben was just about to respond when she added: "Why should I? I know that you're a very, very good man."

Reuben's heart contracted painfully. She honestly thought that? How little she knew.

He was no good man. He had lied to her. If she ever found out... Well, she mustn't ever find out. If she ever had any idea who he really was, she would have him killed.

"Really? A good man?" Trying to disguise his anxiety, he smirked at her. "I thought I was a soulless bastard with the empathic capacity of a dung-beetle."

"That, too."

"And how exactly are the two compatible?"

Ayla smiled down at him, sweetly. "Haven't the foggiest."

They just sat like that for a while again, gazing at each other and holding hands. Reuben couldn't get enough of looking into her eyes. And the feeling of her small hand in his? He never wanted to let go again. It felt right. Secure. He wondered whether she could possibly feel the same.

*~*~**~*~*

Ayla didn't know exactly how long she had sat there, just enjoying the feeling of being with Reuben. But suddenly, she was ripped from the quiet contemplation of the rugged beauty of his face and thrown back into reality.

With a small outcry, she ripped her hand from his and slapped it over her mouth. "Oh my God. Reuben, I'm so sorry! I've been sitting here all this time worrying you with my troubles, when you're sick and really it's me who should be taking care of you, not the other way around."

"It's no trouble, Milady. You can come and worry me any time again."

"No, I shouldn't..."

"As long as you throw yourself at me again, that is."

"Reuben!" This time she really did smack him on the arm.

He shook his head earnestly. "No, not like that. You need to put both your hands around my neck. Come on. You managed it last time."

"Reuben, sometimes..."

"Yes?"

His devilish grin was so hopeful, she just couldn't be angry with him. Not when she had thought, not too long ago, that she was never going to see that grin again, the one that lit up her soul like the sun did the sky.

"You are so exasperating sometimes."

"We dung-beetles are like that."

"Just be quiet, will you? I've exhausted you long enough with all my talk. I need to change your bandages now."

Reuben shook his head. "We should talk a bit more first."

Ayla frowned. For a change, he seemed to be serious. "What about? Your tendency to make inappropriate remarks in the presence of a lady?"

"Well, we could talk about that, too. But actually I was thinking we should talk over what happened down at the bridge."

Ayla's eyes widened, and she could feel her breathing quickening. No! She couldn't have another breakdown! Not here! Not now! Not when she knew perfectly well that she would throw herself into his arms again as soon as her tears started to flow.

"I... I think that's not a good idea right now. I should change your bandages. They haven't been changed in a long time, and they should be, regularly."

"Ayla, it's important that I know what..."

"Reuben. Please, let me change your bandages now. We'll talk later, all right?"

For a moment, Reuben's gray eyes were searching her face. Perhaps they saw something of her chaotic feelings there, because he reached up and stroked her hair. Just once, lightly, with the back of his hand.

"All right, all right." Reuben capitulated with a wave of his hand. "You can mollycoddle me all you want. But before you start..." He fixed her with an earnest, probing gaze. "There's just one thing I'd like to ask you. Something very important."

Ayla's heart almost jumped out of her chest with delicious anticipation. The way he was staring at her, so intently... She could swear he wasn't talking about the battle anymore.

"Yes," she whispered.

"Well, could you explain to me why you were crying about killing your enemies, earlier? I didn't quite get it the first time."

*~*~**~*~*

Ayla tried. She really tried to explain it to him. But it was like trying to explain knitting to a flock of sheep. He didn't understand. After changing Reuben's bandages, telling him off for being callous three times, and hugging him four times more, Ayla gathered her things together and left. She planned to return later in the day to see how Isenbard was doing, but first, she needed to look after her other duties as the mistress of Luntberg, and then she needed to look after herself. Three harrowing horse rides and commanding a battle had taken a lot out of her. She needed to eat and to sleep, badly.

Only when she was already down the corridor from Reuben's room did Ayla remember that she had wanted to grill Reuben about his extraordinary military knowledge, and had quite forgotten it. Darn those distractingly hypnotic gray eyes of his!

# To Kill or Not to Kill

Ayla didn't have the energy to return to Reuben and demand the answers to her questions. After she had left him, she suddenly felt bone-crushingly tired. The battle had taken its toll on her: she hardly managed to return to her chambers and cross the room to the bed before she collapsed and the darkness claimed her.

Although she'd had a good night's sleep the night before the battle, she slept for a full five hours. Not even thoughts of Reuben could keep her awake, though a certain devilish smile never left her alone in her dreams. She wasn't even as embarrassed about that fact when she woke up as she ordinarily might have been. Imagining what bloody specters might have plagued her dreams instead, she was really rather grateful.

She yawned and stretched, enjoying the warmth of the bed for just one moment more. But she knew she had to get up. Looking out of the window, she saw that the sun was nearing the horizon. It was time for dinner. She had a duty to perform.

For the first time in many days, she got up and went to the main hall to eat. She had preferred to eat in her chambers lately, which afforded her the privacy to think about her troubles undisturbed and meant she didn't have to put on a mask of confidence. But after the battle, she felt her responsibility stronger than before. Who was to give confidence to the people of Luntberg if not she, the mistress of the castle?

A hush fell over the assembled crowd as she entered the main hall. Dinner had just been served, and everybody was about to start eating. When they saw her, spoons and knives stopped in mid-air, and all eyes went to her.

Suddenly, a sense of significance overcame Ayla. Her eyes went to her father's high-backed chair, the lord's chair, in the center of the room. Then they strayed to the smaller chair beside it, which she usually sat in during mealtimes, although her father never sat beside her. It had seemed wrong to appropriate her father's place. There had never been a need to, and even if there had been, she didn't feel ready.

Now though...

Her gaze met Burchard's. The old steward sat one table further down from the raised platform of the lord's table, and was studying her more intently than anyone else in the hall. His face gave nothing away. Most of it was hidden, as usual, behind that giant bushy mustache and those eyebrows of his.

Ayla raised her chin a tiny little bit and marched over to the lord's table. Climbing onto the raised platform, she went directly to the lord's chair and sat down.

Everyone let out a breath they hadn't realized they'd been holding. Ayla knocked on the table with a knife.

"Everybody, please start eating, don't wait for me. I'm sure you all have a lot of work to do to ensure our continued safety, and I wouldn't want to keep you here because of courtly manners. They won't keep us alive."

Ayla chanced a look at her steward. Burchard's face was still impassive. But Ayla thought his mustache looked more relaxed—perhaps even a bit proud of her.

"Burchard?" She waved him over. "Please come here, sit next to me. We have a few matters to discuss."

Rising, he made an unusually deep bow and said: "As you command, Milady."

She knew his words to be no empty show.

As he came to sit next to her, servants came scurrying to the table with platters of bread and bowls of porridge—people who she had known only casually all her life and who now treated her with an extraordinary mix of love and deference. A mix she hadn't witnessed for years—not since her father had been well. They had treated him exactly like that.

Part of her ached for replacing him, but another part knew that she wasn't replacing him. She was taking up his standard. That, and the respect of her people, made her feel warm inside. It also made her feel a bit queasy.

"The bridge, the defenses..." she asked the steward, "is all being done as I said?"

His mustache twitched. "After your performance today, I think none would dare do anything different."

"What do you mean?" she asked, lowering her voice.

"Well, they might be afraid that you'll set them on fire."

"What's that supposed to mean? I intimidate people?"

"No, of course not, Milady. You just single-handedly came up with a plan that killed a hundred enemy soldiers—people are _bound_ to think of you as a harmless little rabbit."

Ayla winced. She wanted to tell him that it hadn't been her idea. She didn't like taking the credit for someone else's plan. But even though, unlike with her other people, Burchard's morale wasn't likely to be shattered by the revelation, he would get suspicious about Reuben. Very suspicious indeed. Ayla wasn't sure herself where Reuben had acquired the knowledge that had saved their lives, but she was determined to get the answers herself and not have Burchard interfere. He was suspicious enough of Reuben as it was.

In any case, another piece of information had distracted her from the gray-eyed merchant for the time being.

"How many?" she asked, eyes wide. She wasn't sure she had heard correctly.

"One hundred, Milady. You killed one hundred enemy soldiers." Burchard spoke more softly than usual, regarding her with compassion. There! It wasn't impossible for men to understand that killing people wasn't a nice pastime! Why couldn't Reuben get it through his thick skull? "We are still counting, of course, and we will never be entirely sure. Many enemy soldiers got dragged to the bottom of the river by their armor, others floated too far downstream for us to find or washed up on the eastern bank."

"Then how do you know it's a hundred?" Ayla wanted to know. Was her voice as steady as usual? She hoped it was.

Burchard shrugged. "We calculated from the number of tents that vanished on the eastern bank. Bodies are still being washed ashore as we speak, so we might have a better idea of the numbers tomorrow."

"See that you get as exact a count as possible."

"I will do my best."

"What about the river patrols? Are they all set up?"

"Yes, Milady. Captain Linhart is very competent. No enemy will slip through. We have patrols all along the river, right up to the rapids. If they attempt to cross there, they'll quickly find out that not only our arrows can be deadly. The night patrols are equipped with torches and are more numerous than the daytime patrols, so we won't miss anything, even in the dark."

Ayla gave the hairy old man a smile. "Excellent work, Burchard."

"Thank you, Milady."

Lowering her voice, Ayla added: "I have another question. The most important one of all."

Burchard's already serious face became more serious. "Yes, Milady?"

"How much of this did my father see?"

Some of the tension went out of the steward's face, but not all. His mustache twitched, thoughtfully. "As far as I'm aware, nothing, Milady. My Lord of Luntberg was taking his midday nap when the enemy attacked. The shutters of his tower room were closed, and you know his hearing is not what it used to be. I believe he slept through the entire battle."

Ayla exhaled in relief. "Good."

"You... don't want him to know, Milady?"

"Of course I don't want him to know, Burchard!"

There were a few moments of silence.

"Why don't you go to see him?" Burchard suggested, gently. "I'm sure you can find the time. You take your duties too seriously, you know. You do not need to work yourself to death for our sakes. And you don't have to tell him about the battle if you don't want to. Go to see him and..."

"No." Quickly, Ayla shook her head. She had trouble keeping the moisture out of her eyes. "If I go to see him, he'll ask me what happened, ask me how I am. What do you think, Burchard, will I be able to tell him that everything is fine, that _I_ am fine?"

She looked at him.

He looked right back, his mustache twitching in a grumpy smile. "No. You've always been a terrible liar."

She managed to return a hint of a smile. "You see? Better he lives in blessed ignorance. You know how fragile his health is. I can't go up there and tell him the terrible things that have been happening here."

There was another reason she didn't want to go up to the tower chamber, although she didn't admit that to Burchard. Her father had raised her to be as kind and gentle a lady as she could be. If she went up to him and told him all the terrible things she had done... What would he think of her? She shuddered at the thought.

"You really think it's better this way?" Burchard asked.

"Yes." She nodded. "Please respect my wishes in this."

He hesitated. "As you wish, Milady."

She gave a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Burchard. Thank you very much. That will be all. Go back to your place. I don't want to keep you from your food, I'm sure you've earned it."

The steward didn't rise. He looked uncomfortable. "I can't go yet, Milady. There's one more matter we need to discuss."

"Really?"

Ayla dipped a piece of bread into the porridge that had been her daily meal since the beginning of the rationing she herself had ordered. It really didn't taste that bad once you got used to it. And she was ravenously hungry. The battle wasn't just taking its toll in the form of tiredness.

"Yes, Milady. I need your orders as to what we should do with the bodies."

The bread stopped halfway to her mouth. Suddenly, Ayla didn't feel like eating anymore. "The bodies that washed up on the bank?"

"Yes, Milady."

"Why do you want to do anything with them?"

"Milady..." Burchard swallowed. "I realize you have never been in a war before. Neither have I. But I have heard a few of Sir Isenbard's darker tales of his exploits. Tales he wouldn't tell to a young girl. It isn't good to let bodies lie out in the open, especially in the warm sun, and where there is water. Things get... unpleasant."

"Leave them there?" Ayla was shocked her own words might have been construed that way. "No, Burchard, I didn't mean for you to leave them. I just..." She shuddered and broke off.

After a few moments, she could feel the steward's big, leathery hand on her shoulder.

Slowly, she turned to him, her eyes brimming with moisture. "I just have seen enough dead men to last me a lifetime. And those are the worst—because I killed them."

"You didn't. You didn't even shoot one arrow."

"I ordered the arrows to be shot. That is the same."

The steward hesitated again, then seemed to decide it was best to get off this subject as quickly as possible and return to practical matters.

"So what should I do with them?" he asked.

"You? Nothing."

Ayla dipped her last piece of bread into the bowl to wipe it out and rose.

"Milady..."

She fixed her gaze on him, and the look in her eyes was so sad and soft it stunned Burchard into silence.

"I brought death to those men," she said. "The least I can do now is bring them peace."

*~*~**~*~*

Reuben was busy thinking. Ayla had given him a lot to consider. For example, this business about not liking to kill people, even if they were your enemies. That was just insane. But then, he had already decided she was slightly insane, so that fit her perfectly.

Everything about her was perfect.

Now that Reuben thought about it, he realized that Ayla had always been more prone to help people than to hurt or kill them. She had taken care of countless wounded men after the first battle. She had taken care of a stranger she found in the woods. She was a gentle creature who wanted to help everybody.

Except him, of course. She wanted to hang him. The real him, anyway.

It was quite funny in a sense. Well, not _funny,_ really. He didn't relish the thought of having a rope around his neck. But when he thought of the desires of other women around him in the past, it appeared funny.

He remembered the courtly ladies in the stands at the tournaments all too well. They had never wanted him dead—although they had been quite eager to see him smash his opponents into a pulp. Ayla was an interesting change. The ladies at the tournaments had felt bloodlust. All Ayla seemed to have felt that day in the woods was hurt and righteous indignation. And yet the ladies at the court had never wanted him dead, and Ayla did.

She was so different from all the women he had known. In particular, she was so different from _her_.

Wincing, Reuben slammed the shutters of his mind closed on that particular memory. No. He would not think of _her_ and Ayla in the same sentence. Indeed, he had sworn never to think about _her_ at all, ever again.

_Aye_ , a sarcastic voice at the back of his mind said. _You also swore you would never be duped by a pretty face again, would never let a woman rule you again. Now look what you're doing._

But Ayla was different.

Is she really?

She had to be!

But what if she isn't?

She found him in the woods that day and brought him back with her, without thinking of a reward. She could have just let him die. She certainly had enough problems of her own to deal with. But she had brought a stranger into her home, dear, trusting, mad little soul that she was. She had to be different. Different from _her_ , and different from himself.

In that moment, Reuben realized that while he might not understand Ayla, he wouldn't want her to be any different than she was. It was her tenderness and care that had first brought the two of them together. Well, not _first_ perhaps. It had been him stealing her horse and purse that had _first_ brought them together, which weren't the most romantic of circumstances.

But they had not really been brought together until she took him into the castle when he had been wounded. That first meeting in the forest didn't really count—she hadn't seen his face back then, and he hadn't yet known he shouldn't rob her because he would fall in love with her.

It was their second meeting that...

Wait just a minute.

What had he just thought?

_Fall in love_ with her? No. Oh no, no, no. He had sworn to himself he would never again fall under the spell of a woman in that way. All right, he had known that he was attracted to Ayla, that he wanted her, but falling _in love_? No, no, no! He didn't want to fall in love ever again. The one time it had happened, it had ended in... He shuddered, not wanting to remember, not daring to put words to the events, even in his thoughts.

_She_ had been the worst thing that ever happened to him.

But did he really think Ayla was like _her_?

Even if he didn't think so, he shouldn't take the risk. He hadn't thought _she_ was worthless all those years ago, and yet _she_ had turned out to be. Why should it be different with Ayla? He would just be crushed again. He shouldn't think about Ayla in that way. It was wrong. He had sworn he would never fall in love ever again. He had taken a solemn oath!

Never.

Love.

Again.

He had sworn it.

Then again, as a knight he had sworn a great many things. He had sworn to honor the church (several of which he had burned down), to protect the weak and innocent from marauders and robbers (oh, right... he _was_ a robber), and to always be courteous (oh yes he had, by Satan's hairy ass!). He had broken every single vow he had sworn over the years.

So why not break this one?

The thought brought a smile to his face.

*~*~**~*~*

"Let me, please."

"But Milady, that's no work for..."

"Give the hammer to me, soldier. Now! This is my responsibility."

After another moment of hesitation, the soldier gave Ayla the wooden hammer. She took it and used it to hammer the simple wooden cross over the graves of the thirty or so mercenaries they had been able to find, deeper into the damp earth.

For a moment, she rested her hand on the rough wood.

"You might not have lived in it," she whispered, "but at least rest in peace. May God forgive you—and me."

Then she stood back to listen, together with the men who had helped her gather the bodies, to the short sermon of the village priest, about peace, the meaning of Christianity, and loving your neighbor.

_Well, the last bit is going to be rather difficult_ , she thought, as she felt a surge of hatred for the man who had made her do this. In that moment, she wanted to hurt the Margrave von Falkenstein, badly. He was the real enemy. If not for him and his lust for power, she would live in peace, and all those men would probably still be above the ground.

She felt her eyes stinging, but knew she mustn't cry. Not here, not now. Not in front of her men.

_Oh, if only there were some way to let me forget all this for just a few minutes_ , she sighed, inwardly.

And then she realized that there was—in a room, not too far, up in the castle.

*~*~**~*~*

There was a soft knock at the door.

"Yes?"

"Reuben? May I come in?"

He would have known that voice anywhere.

"Of course, Ayla," he said, frowning. Her voice sounded oddly unsteady.

She entered shyly, as if this were a stranger's house and not her own castle.

"May I..." She swallowed and started again: "May I come sit by you for a while?"

"Of course," Reuben repeated.

She came, her steps small and uncertain. When she was at his side, she almost collapsed beside him, her maidenly figure falling against his side. Her large blue eyes looked imploringly up at him, and he didn't need her to ask for it to know what she wanted this time. He just put his arms around her and held her close.

Reuben didn't understand why she had come running to him, looking so terrified. His mind turned back to the last time she'd come into his room, looking for comfort. Had she needed to kill some more people? That didn't seem likely, though. He hadn't heard any sounds of battle from outside, only the dull tones of a priest preaching. That might be enough to send _him_ running off in terror, but he didn't think Ayla shared his views of the clergy.

What could he do to make it better?

_Tell her you love her, you idiot_ , he thought, furious with himself. _If she's anything like the other females you've known, she'll throw herself into your arms right away._

Except, of course, that she wasn't anything like the other females he had known.

And, oh yes, she was already _in_ his arms—though he had no idea why, which was immensely irritating.

Tell her you love her! Go on! Tell her!

But for some reason his usually so eloquent tongue seemed to be stuck to the roof of his mouth.

# Rising Darkness

Quiet returned to the castle. Over the next few days, everything was peaceful. The enemy did not make a single move—and it nearly drove Ayla insane with worry. The last time the red robber knight hadn't shown his forces or himself for days, he had been hatching an evil plan that had nearly destroyed them all. And back then, there at least had been the sound of axes to give her a clue as to what the enemy was doing, even if she hadn't realized it in time. Now, there was nothing. The many-headed monster of the enemy army just sat across the river, waiting.

Isenbard's condition wasn't doing anything for Ayla's peace of mind, either. His bruise had faded to a yellowish color by now, but he was still completely unresponsive. No matter what Ayla tried, he remained in his too-deep sleep, and Ayla had no idea how to help him. She had already tried everything the nuns at the convent had taught her. Once, when Reuben was asleep and couldn't see what she was doing, she had even tried emptying a bucket of ice-cold water into the old knight's face. When that didn't work, she tried holding a piece of dung under his nose.

The only result was that she'd had to wash her hands six times until she got rid of the smell.

So, all in all, things weren't going too well within Luntberg Castle. And the silence, the silence from outside—it was slowly driving Ayla to distraction. She believed she really would have gone insane if it hadn't been for Reuben.

He held her when she cried, joked with her when her spirits were low, and threatened to cut off Falkenstein's head whenever she was frightened. He had even once or twice suggested cutting off other parts of the Margrave's anatomy which weren't as suitable for polite conversation, but had stopped for her sake.

The weird thing about his threats against the Margrave was that, sometimes, Ayla actually believed he wanted and could do it—which made her feel safe while he was talking about severed heads, and turn scarlet when he slipped and mentioned some particular part of the male anatomy.

She chided herself for these feelings of safety. It was an illusion. Reuben was just a lowly merchant and couldn't protect her from anything, let alone a lord and warrior as powerful and accomplished as the Margrave von Falkenstein. Yet when Reuben's strong arms were around her, it was all too easy to indulge in this illusion of safety.

Besides, Reuben's moral support wasn't the only thing about him that improved Ayla's spirits. As opposed to Isenbard's, Reuben's recovery was progressing at an amazing rate. Just two days after the attack over the river, he was able to sit up without help, and three days later he managed, with the help of a servant supporting him, to get up and make his first few clumsy steps around the room.

He protested continuously that he didn't need the servant's help and tried to push the poor man away, until Ayla got tired of his tantrums and relieved the relieved servant of his duty. From then on, she supported Reuben herself with an arm around his waist, her body pressed tightly against his. He didn't seem to mind that for some reason.

Two or three more times, when Ayla came into his room to check on him, she caught him lying on his back, stabbing at the air with a candlestick. Yet, regardless of how closely she looked, she could never see the fly he claimed to be chasing away.

Since his fever had mostly retreated, she wasn't afraid anymore that this might be some febrile delirium, and she just accepted it as part of the puzzling person that was Reuben. The puzzling, warm, ferocious, wildly handsome person she held dearer with every passing day.

Simply sitting quietly beside him was such a joy that it never seemed to be the right time to question him about his curiously comprehensive military knowledge. When she was with him, all she really wanted to do was smile, and hold his hand, and stare into his deep, stormy gray eyes.

Well not _all_ , perhaps. There were a few other things she would have liked to do with him, but even thinking about them made her blush, so she didn't. Most of the time.

Yet these very feelings that gave Ayla strength and happiness unknown, also frightened her. Reuben was far removed from eligible circles, and that wasn't even the worst part. What if he didn't want her the same way she wanted him? What, she thought, and this was the most terrible of all possibilities, a new torment to her since she had begun to entertain the possibility of letting her feelings for him grow, what if he was already taken?

He was a heartbreakingly handsome man, after all, and a few years older than she. Certainly old enough to be pledged or even—she shuddered at the thought—married. True, he had never mentioned a betrothed or a wife to her, but then, why should he? They had known each other only for a short while. Why should he disclose the details of his very private life to her?

Of course, she could always ask him.

Oh yes. She could say something like: "By the way, Reuben, are you already pledged to be married?" That would be totally not embarrassing. Her motive for asking the question would be practically printed on her forehead! And even worse... What if he said yes?

The closer she got to Reuben, the harder it became to work up the courage to ask this question. Yet the closer she got to Reuben, the harder it also became to not ask it. She was desperate to know the answer, and became increasingly agitated, sometimes trying to avoid Reuben's eyes, sometimes trying to read the answer to her question in them—without success.

Then, one day, she was caring for Sir Isenbard, her back to Reuben, when she heard the words: "Reuben... are you pledged?"

It took her a few seconds to realize that the question had come from her own lips. She cringed, waiting for the blow that might follow, the blow that would shatter her heart.

"No, I'm not," Reuben's unusually soft voice came from behind her.

Ayla breathed a sigh of relief.

He wasn't pledged! He was free. As free as she was.

A small, rational part of her mind tried to remind her that she wasn't free, by no means. She was a noble lady with duties to her station and her people, and she couldn't just go running off marrying a mere merchant simply because she wanted to. Plus, she had no idea whether he might want to. He was still a mystery to her, as inscrutable as on the very first day.

Yet, in spite of these doubts, possibilities opened up in front of her like a beautiful blossom, and she suddenly saw a vision in her mind's eye:

Reuben, holding her in his arms before the doors of a church, both of them glowing with happiness, a ring on her ring-finger... not a ring put there by force, but put on by a loving hand. They started forward and passed between crowds of cheering friends towards a carriage drawn by two beautiful horses, one stallion and one mare...

Ayla's daydream broke off abruptly. In her vision, she had imagined one of the horses to be Eleanor, only to remember that her dear friend was lost to her forever. Suddenly, her happiness was gone. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she covered her face with her hands.

*~*~**~*~*

What now? Reuben had expected some kind of response from Ayla, but she just sat there, her back to him, and didn't say anything. Had there been a purpose behind her question about his marital status? A shiver ran down his spine at the thought.

Him?

Married?

Once, he would have laughed at the idea and kicked the one who suggested it in the ass. However, that didn't seem to be a wise choice here and now.

Had she really meant what he thought she meant? Him? Marrying... her? But then, why wasn't she saying anything? He tried to put himself in her position. What if _he_ had suspected _she_ might be pledged, or, the devil forbid, married?

Jealousy, red, hot, and unforgiving, coursed through his veins. Just the thought made him want to rip somebody apart! What if he had found out that such fears had been unjustified? How would he feel?

That question was easy to answer.

It would be the best feeling in his entire existence. Relief mingled with unbelievable hope. Was she feeling something similar at this moment? He dared to hope that was the case. What other than utter happiness could explain her prolonged silence?

"Ayla," he said, gently.

Suddenly, she whipped around. Reuben had just enough time to see the tears in her eyes before she jumped out and ran out of the room. He could hear her sobs from somewhere out in the corridor.

What? He had just told her he was still available, and she had run out of the room sobbing? Angrily, Reuben turned to the wall.

That was it! He had had enough of trying to figure out women for one day.

*~*~**~*~*

It took some time for Ayla to cry herself out. She had thought that the pain of losing Eleanor might go away with time, or at least might be pushed away by the more pressing concerns of the siege, but not so. She still missed her beloved friend just as much as on the day the diabolical red robber knight had taken her away.

On a small bench in her little orchard, she finally found some peace. It was a beautiful place, with ivy growing up the wall of the keep and forming a sort of arch over the heads of those who sat on the bench, sheltering them from the world. Her father used to sit with her here and tell her about all the lands that were under the protection of the house of Luntberg, and of the greater nobles of the Empire, and of the time he had been at the court of the Holy Roman Emperor himself.

These matters had all sounded very impressive and weighty to Ayla back then. With big, round eyes she had sat here on this bench and listened to her father's tales. Now she couldn't care less about emperors and grand nobles.

Well, except perhaps the one who was besieging her castle at the moment.

But even he, she realized, wasn't as important as the central question that plagued her. The question that was more important than the siege, or Falkenstein, or Reuben's lowly station in society. The most important question of all.

How was she going to get an answer?

Her eyes strayed to the apple trees and their beautiful blossoms. Why not? It was as good a method as any. Maybe it would help calm her nerves.

Getting up, she picked one of the apple blossoms and tugged at one of the petals. The soft thing came loose and fluttered to the ground.

"He loves me," she whispered.

Another petal floated towards the earth.

"He loves me not."

Another petal.

"He loves me."

And another.

*~*~**~*~*

Reuben had soon grown tired of staring at the wall. He had turned instead to look out of the window and saw Ayla sitting down there in the little garden. She suddenly got up, went to one of the apple trees, and plucked a blossom. Slowly, she began to peel it apart, petal by petal.

He frowned.

What was she doing now? Collecting ingredients for some foul new medicine? But no, she didn't keep the petals, she just let them fall to the ground. Where was the sense in that? Would he ever get to the bottom of her?

*~*~**~*~*

"...loves me not."

And yet another.

"He loves me."

There were only a few petals left. Should she count how many? No, that wasn't how it worked.

"He—"

"Hey!" At the sound of the squeaky little voice directly behind her, Ayla flinched and dropped what remained of the apple blossom. Turning, she saw Fye standing there, looking up at her expectantly. "You look kind of silly, just standing here, doing nothing. Are you going to stand there all day or are you going to come play with me?"

Ayla blinked. Was it part of the duties of a castle lady to play with children? Well, the child certainly seemed to think so.

"Err... well..."

"You know, it's silly to waste your time like this."

Ayla looked down at the blossom on the ground. Fye had stepped on it, and it was reduced to mush.

"You're probably right," she sighed. "We'll just have to wait and see. Let's go play. How's Sir Reuben doing?"

"Great! He has just decapitated one of his worst enemies! It was reaaallly bloody."

"Um... that's good. I suppose. Let's go and see if we can find any more enemies for him, shall we?"

"Yes, please!"

*~*~**~*~*

Ayla had hoped fervently that when the little girl spoke of blood, she was only speaking figuratively. Her hopes were not dashed—they were just playing, after all. So instead of blood, Fye used mud.

When Ayla could finally escape the clutches of the little girl, she needed two hours to get moderately clean. And when that was accomplished, Sir Rudolfus appeared, having completed his inventory of the castle supplies. Ayla was rather surprised that while not possessing a sharp sword, or indeed any sword, the young knight did possess an extraordinarily sharp mind. When not intimidated by too many people, he became quite loquacious, giving advice on which food would persist the longest, how to protect it against rats and other vermin, and how best to ration supplies.

"How do you know all this?" Ayla inquired.

"Well, fighting has never been a particular talent of mine," he admitted with a lopsided grin, his big ears turning an even darker red than usual.

"Yes, I've noticed."

"So I had to find something else to occupy my time. Learning how to manage my father's estate seemed the obvious choice. We had a lousy steward—until I got rid of him."

"You? You got rid of somebody?"

The young man shrugged self-consciously. "Well, as I said, he was lousy at his job. I owed it to my father and our vassals."

Ayla looked intently at the young man, seeing him with different eyes this time. Suddenly, he didn't appear quite as ridiculous as before. "If you continue like this, you might very well turn out to be the most useful knight in the entire castle," she said, giving him a smile.

He blushed furiously. "Do you really think so?"

"Yes."

"Well, I don't," he said in a low voice, staring down at the floor. "We can ration all we want—in the end it will come down to steel against steel. And I won't be any help to you there."

His words, all too true, sent a shiver down Ayla's back. But she refused to be haunted by fear all the time, here, in her castle, her own home.

Having concluded her business with Rudolfus and presided over dinner in the great hall, she turned in for the night, grateful that all her troubles, regardless of what they were, would wait until morning.

*~*~**~*~*

She was ripped from her sleep and at first didn't understand where she was or what was happening. It was completely dark around her, and in the distance she could hear shouts and the sound of metal on metal. What was going on?

"Dilli! What is the matter?"

Her maid did not answer. But had it not been she who had woken her? Had it been the noise outside? But what was the noise?

Then she heard the alarm sound and knew what was happening.

They were coming. They were coming in the dead of night.

# Enemy Ascending

"Milady!" Someone started hammering against her door. "Milady, come quickly! The enemy is approaching!"

Ayla scrambled out of her bed and reached for her dress.

"Milady!" Again, the fist hit the door. "We need you!"

No time! Grabbing a cloak that hung over the armrest of a chair, she threw it over her thin nightgown and rushed out of the room. Outside, a soldier was waiting, carrying a torch in his hand. The acrid stench of the torch bit into Ayla's nose and she almost choked from the smoke, but she didn't say a word about it. The expression on the soldier's face told her that just now, there were much more important matters to attend to.

"They are coming?" she demanded.

"Yes, Milady."

"Lead the way."

Without another word, the soldier hurried ahead, lighting her way through the pitch-black castle. The moon wasn't shining this night. It was hiding behind a thick clump of clouds. If not for the flickering red light of the flame, Ayla would have been lost in her own castle.

"Where are they attacking?" she asked while they hurried down a flight of stairs. "How many are there?"

"I do not know, Milady. I was sent up here as soon as our guards spotted the enemy. Captain Linhart thought it best to inform you at once and not waste any time counting the approaching forces."

"That was the right decision. How long did it take you to come up here?"

"Only a few minutes, Milady. I used our fastest horse. And we should be able to return in about the same time. When I arrived, I gave orders to the stable boy to bring out two horses for us."

"Well done, soldier."

"Thank you, Milady. Here's the door."

Holding up the torch, the soldier pushed the keep door open for her. She stumbled out into the front yard and looked upon a foreign world:

Apart from flickering red dots here and there, Luntberg Castle was in utter darkness. The walls rose up on all sides, a deeper, more menacing black, competing with the stormy gloom of the sky above. Men were running around, shouting and cursing, all carrying some small light, like fireflies about to be swallowed up by a giant predator. As the soldier emerged from the keep behind her and the light of his torch shone a little more brightly, Ayla could just make out the forms of two horses in the yard. In the dim light, she thought their large eyes glinted fearfully. Or maybe that was just the reflection of what was in her own eyes at that very moment.

She jumped into the saddle and didn't wait for the soldier to do the same before she pressed her legs against the horse's sides and urged it forward, towards the first gate. The stable boy who had been holding the horse's reins jumped back with a startled yelp, and horse and rider dashed off into the darkness.

Ayla's vision narrowed, until all she could see were the two small flames burning on either side of the inner castle gate. Behind her, she could hear the clatter of the other horse's hoofs on the cobblestones, and she urged her ride to go even faster. This was a race against time, and she was losing. Ayla was an experienced rider, but she wasn't used to the big horses that made up the majority of Luntberg's stable. Instead, she was used to small, agile animals. To one animal in particular...

Furiously, she shook her head. No, she couldn't allow her mind to dwell on Eleanor now. She had a task before her.

Somewhere on the mountain path down into the valley, the soldier caught up with her. He was obviously an excellent rider, and perfectly capable of handling large animals, which was probably the reason why he had been chosen as courier. Ayla was angry because it meant he was faster than she, but she was also grateful. There were things she needed to know.

"How many men are at the barricade?" she panted, not taking her eyes off the path. Letting the horse make one false step would be deadly here.

"The usual watch of twenty," came the soldier's gruff reply.

No more than twenty. That was what Ayla had expected. It was also what she had feared.

_Please, oh Lord, don't let the enemy attack in full force_ , she prayed, desperately. _Please let this only be a small skirmish._

She wished now that she had made the regular watch bigger. But in her heart she knew she couldn't have. She had only sixty men at her disposal, and soldiers needed their sleep. She also couldn't have taken more men out of the castle, just in case the enemy found a different way to cross the river and made a surprise attack. It was as it had to be: twenty soldiers, no more.

"What about the rest of the soldiers?" she asked, desperately.

"Marching not far behind us, Milady. I left instructions with the sergeant to march as if the devil was burning his ass off."

"Soldier!"

"Sorry, Milady."

They approached the bridge in a whirlwind of flying dirt and water. Down in the valley, near the river, the ground was wet during the night, and Ayla was splattered with mud by the time she brought her horse to a halt in front of the bridge.

_Mud_ , she thought. _Soon it will be blood. No play. Real blood._

The bridge was alight with flames. Open fires had been lit behind the barricade, illuminating the ladder leading up to the walkway and the grim faces of the soldiers at the top, waiting, their weapons at the ready. Only the enemy was nowhere in sight.

Frowning, Ayla slid off her horse and approached Captain Linhart, who was standing at the very edge of the bridge, leaning over the railing to see around the barricade.

"Captain, what is the matter? The alarm was sounded, but I see nothing of Sir Luca or his army."

"That's because they approached in darkness," he said grimly. "Trying to catch us off guard, I suppose. We can thank the Lord that our scouts have sharp ears and caught their approach."

Ayla looked out over the water, on which strange, hellish reflections danced in the red torch light. The light lasted only for a few feet all around the bridge. Beyond that was only darkness. God alone knew what horrors it held.

She threw an anxious glance over her shoulder. Somewhere on the path down from Luntberg Castle, she could see torches moving. Those must be their reinforcements. But in the dark, she couldn't measure the distance.

Slowly, she returned her eyes to the blackness across the river.

"You mean to say that they're out there? Right now?"

"Oh yes," the captain affirmed. "I imagine they'll drop the pretense soon enough. We've made it pretty obvious that we know they're here."

As if in response to his words, flames began to light up everywhere on the opposite bank. Ayla trembled at the sight. Flames, which only a few days ago had saved them from destruction, were now heralding their doom.

"There are so many," she whispered.

"Aye," the captain agreed. "If every sergeant is carrying one, I'll guess at least three hundred men."

"Three hundred? That's not the full..."

Ayla's voice cut off as, suddenly, more flames appeared on the opposite bank. And more. And more. The land seemed to be awash with them.

Beside her, she heard Linhart draw in a sharp breath. "God's teeth!"

And for once in her life, she couldn't find it in herself to rebuke a man for cursing. Her chest tightened as she watched hundreds upon hundreds of blades, glinting wickedly in the torchlight, being drawn and raised towards the sky in a bloody promise.

"Rally!" she yelled, panic welling up inside her. "All rally to me! Defend the bridge!"

And the enemy charged.

*~*~**~*~*

The tent in which Ayla had worked during the last battle was still up, and she dearly wished she could use it. But there was little enough light under the open sky, let alone in an enclosed space where no torches could be lit for fear of suffocation. So she had to operate in the open, and the men she cared for had to watch their comrades fight and die while they fought for their own lives.

Ayla did her best not to look towards the barricade. She was needed. She had a job to do, and couldn't afford distractions. Yet every now and again, she couldn't help it. Her eyes flitted up towards the merciless waves of attackers pounding against the barricade. Every time their numbers seemed to be larger, every time the defenders seemed more tired and...

"Aaaarr!"

Terrified, Ayla looked down again at the soldier lying in front of her. Had she done something wrong? Brought him pain because of her distraction? No, she hadn't even touched him yet. Grimacing, the soldier pointed to his leg, where several pieces of mail had been driven into the flesh by the savage blow of some blunt weapon. Suppressing the urge to look away from the gruesome sight, Ayla handed the soldier a piece of hardened leather.

"Here. Bite down on this, so you won't bite your tongue off while I attend to your leg."

He put the piece of leather between his teeth, then looked at her and nodded.

Picking up a pair of pincers, Ayla proceeded to pull out the metal links one by one. It was no easy task: the pieces were meshed together by the force of the blow and the soldier kept jerking and twitching, moans escaping his throat again and again. Ayla's heart constricted every time she heard his pain, but she steeled herself and went on. No time for crying now. Later, when this was all over.

Finally, she was finished, and put the instruments aside. Washing the wound, she noticed with appreciation that the soldier had stopped jerking. He was a strong man.

"There," she sighed, wiping the water off. "That's it!"

When she got no reply, she looked up and saw that the soldier had passed out.

Soldier? For the first time she noticed that he was really quite young, only a few years older than her. He was hardly more than a boy. And yet, there were rings under his eyes. The past few days had clearly been too much for him—as for everybody else.

Looking up further, Ayla saw Captain Linhart and Sir Waldar atop the barricade. Captain Linhart was commanding the men, while Sir Waldar was swinging a gigantic mace and grinning madly, as if this were a giant orgy[49] and not a battle for life or death.

Linhart, in contrast, did not smile. He just stood there, directing his men with calm, determined efficiency. For a moment, his eyes looked at Ayla and she thought he looked... sorrowful? Apologetic?

Two men appeared at Ayla's side, taking the unconscious soldier with them and placing another wounded man in front of her.

_We cannot keep this up all night_ , Ayla thought, depressed. _We are few, and they are many. No matter how well we fight, they will grind us into dust like a millstone does the corn._

The moon chose this moment to appear from behind the clouds and Ayla gasped. In the white light of the nocturnal celestial majesty, she could, for the first time, see the true extent of the enemy army. They truly had come in full force. It looked to Ayla like even more soldiers must have joined the Margrave's army in the gloom of evening—the murderous mass of steel stretched all the way from the wood to the forest, clamoring for advance, for attack, for blood.

On the same hill as before, Ayla saw the figure of the robber knight, not red now, but in the night, which robbed all things of color, as black as his stallion, as black as his accursed soul that he had sold to the devil! The Lady of Luntberg still couldn't see much in the faint light of the moon, but she could see the figure on the horse, outlined against the shimmering sky. She could see him raising a hand, staring directly at her.

The message was clear. He had come to crush them.

Would he succeed?

*~*~**~*~*

Reuben stirred in his sleep. Something... something was near. The night wasn't as silent as it was supposed to be. Night? Why was he waking in the middle of the night?

His eyes snapped open—and he beheld a dark figure in the shadows, towering over him, spattered from head to toe in mud and gore. His hand went to his belt lightning fast!

# Confession

The figure stepped out of the shadows and Reuben recognized Ayla's lovely, dirty face. She was frowning down at him.

"What are you looking at me like that for?" she asked. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Reuben breathed in a heavy sigh of relief, and let his hand drop from his belt at which, of course, no sword hung.

"Err... nothing. You just startled me, that's all." He looked around the room, which was dark, except for a candle Ayla had probably brought with her, standing on the table, too far away for its light to quite reach him. Looking back at her, he smiled, suggestively. "I'm just not used to waking up in the middle of the night and finding a beautiful girl in my room," he lied smoothly.

Ayla's face changed color. Reuben thought she might be blushing at the compliment, though under all the mud it was difficult to tell.

"I... I'm sorry, Reuben. I suppose I should have let you sleep. It's just, I was so excited, I simply had to come and tell you, I couldn't wait! We won! We actually won!"

Reuben's brow creased.

"Won? Won what?"

"Why, the battle of course."

"The _what_?"

*~*~**~*~*

Even in the semi-darkness, Ayla could see Reuben's eyes go wide.

"Battle? Ayla, what do you mean, battle? There was no battle!"

"Yes, there was. Just now, down at the bridge."

"Just now, during the night? Do you mean to say there was a battle and _I slept through it_?"

He seemed to be affronted by the idea, as if it were his personal responsibility to be awake and ready for each and every violent altercation.

Ayla found it hard to suppress a smile. "Apparently."

"Tell me what happened!" he demanded.

"Well, as I said, we won," she replied, a warm, proud glow spreading through her.

"I would like to hear it in a little more detail if you don't mind," he said between clenched teeth.

Nothing would have suited Ayla better. It was the middle of the night, and she was hungry, dirty, and exhausted, but she didn't want to eat, she didn't want to wash, and she most certainly didn't want to sleep. She was much too excited for that.

She, Ayla, a seventeen-year-old girl, had won a battle against an experienced mercenary commander. She could hardly believe it herself, and all she wanted to do was share the news with everybody who wanted to hear it. Reuben seemed eager enough.

Quickly, she took a seat next to Reuben on his bedstead and began.

"You see, it was like this: we came down to the bridge and at first we thought there was nobody there, but then we realized that the entire enemy army was actually right in front of us."

Raising an eyebrow, Reuben cut her off. "Really? And how exactly did you manage to overlook it, at first?"

"It was dark, stupid! And don't interrupt."

"My apologies, Milady. Please carry on."

"So, they noticed we had spotted them and lit their torches and charged. They were like a swarm of locusts. There were so many, it was unbelievable!"

"How many, exactly?"

Airily, she waved a hand. What did these details matter? Why didn't he let her get on with the story?

"I don't know! And I said don't interrupt!"

"Sorry."

"You should be. We stood there on the barricade and there were only about twenty of us, and hundreds of them out there, bloodthirsty and armed to the teeth; they really wanted to kill us!"

"I would imagine so. They're enemy soldiers."

Ayla waved a threatening finger at him. "Will you stop interrupting? Where was I...?"

"They wanted to kill you."

"Ah, yes! I could see the reinforcements were still a long way off, and I shouted for them to hurry up, for everybody to rally and defend the bridge! The first minutes were terrible! Only twenty of us and hundreds of them out there...!"

"Yes, you mentioned that before."

"Then help started arriving, and things improved a little. But we were still hard pressed to defend ourselves."

Reuben narrowed his eyes at her. "You keep saying 'we.' Did you actually grab a sword and try to help out?"

Ayla's jaw dropped. "Of course not! What do you think of me? I'm a lady!"

"Yes, and you look very ladylike at the moment."

Was he trying to be funny? Ayla flushed and looked at her torn and muddy nightgown. "I was bandaging people," she said, haughtily. "That is all, you may rest assured."

"Good. Now go on. What happened next?"

"Well, we fought on for some time. The enemy attacked again and again. I was pretty busy with caring for the wounded soldiers, so I didn't see exactly why and how, but we beat the enemy and they retreated."

There was a pause. Ayla was smiling, waiting for applause. Yet Reuben was equally silent. He seemed to be waiting for more.

Finally, he apparently realized that her story was finished. "Just like that?" he asked. "They retreated, just like that?"

"Yes."

*~*~**~*~*

Reuben nodded slowly. Captain Linhart must be a good commander. He had heard of similar feats before—a small army at a pass or some other narrow point overwhelming and turning back an infinitely larger force through pure persistence. No doubt Sir Luca, the fiend, would attack again. But this time, it seemed, he had lost.

But no. Something was not quite right with this picture.

"They attacked the bridge?" Reuben asked, trying to find a clue to what was bothering him. "They attacked just like the first time?"

"Yes."

He frowned, deep in thought. "That's odd."

Ayla stared at him, incredulity written all over her pretty, mud-streaked face. "Odd? What do you mean, odd? They're here to attack us, aren't they? I would have said terrible, atrocious, villainous, but not odd."

"No, I don't mean it's odd that they attacked you. I mean it's odd that they attacked the bridge. They already tried that strategy once, and it failed. It is odd that they should try the same strategy again. From what you have told me of this Sir Luca, I would have judged him to be a better commander."

"Perhaps he's not as clever as he thinks he is."

"Perhaps..." Reuben's voice didn't sound convinced, even to himself. Frustrated, he stared at the opposite wall. Something, there was something wrong...

Then, suddenly, Reuben saw it. His eyes widened and his breathing hitched. Oh no. Could it be? No, no, no...!

*~*~**~*~*

In a heartbeat, the whole atmosphere in the room changed. Ayla felt it: where before there had been the triumph of victory, which, though marred by loss, was sweet and joyous, there now was an undefinable dread.

She returned Reuben's wide-eyed gaze and saw fear and anger boiling there.

"Tell me what you said again," he demanded.

"What I said? That Luca isn't as clever as he thinks he is?"

"Not that! What you said when you saw your twenty men weren't enough to defend the bridge!"

"I..." Ayla floundered for a moment. "You mean... you mean that I called for everybody to come help defend the bridge?"

Reuben paled and a low growl escaped his throat.

"I don't understand. What's so bad about everybody coming to help?"

His gray eyes were intense—full of anger, fear, and... pity as they looked at her.

"Don't you see, Ayla?" he said. "Everybody. _Everybody_ —including the river patrols."

It took a moment for the meaning of his words to sink in. When it did, a cold hand gripped Ayla and froze her in place. She was speechless. Paralyzed. Not able to move or think. God, what had she done?

"Luca must have planned this all along," she heard Reuben's voice as if from very far away. "The surprise attack at night, bringing nearly all his forces to bear down on you at once—it was just a distraction. As we speak, dozens of his men are probably just climbing out of the boats they have crossed the unprotected river in."

"Yes." Was that her talking? No, she couldn't be talking. She was speechless, after all. It had to be someone else, using her mouth. This felt so unreal...

"Ayla!"

"W-what?"

"Ayla, pull yourself together!"

Ayla's head swam. The mere idea that while she was calmly sitting in this room talking to Reuben, the Margrave's men might be advancing towards the village, bent on destroying anything in their path... no, not might be. _Were_. They _were_ across, they _were_ coming, because of her foolishness. This couldn't be happening.

"Go! Ayla, go!"

Somebody grabbed her by the arm and pushed. Blinking, she stared down at the man before her. Oh yes. Reuben. He was here. What did he want from her?

"Go!" he snarled again. "Go now!"

Somehow, she managed to find her voice. "W-what do you mean, go?"

"Go, ride out there! There might still be time! If the Margrave's men landed far enough from the bridge and the village so as not to attract attention, they might need some time to march there. Ride out and warn your people! Bring everybody back with you to the castle. You've had them prepare for an emergency retreat, haven't you?"

"Yes... I ... but..."

"No buts! You have to go, now!"

Ayla could see that he was right about everything. She had to leave and bring everyone to safety. Well, almost everything. There was something that had to be done before she went.

The realization pierced her more painfully than any pain in her life ever had. This was it. The end.

She swallowed, hard.

"Yes," she said. "I must ride. But there's one thing that must happen first."

"What?"

"You must leave."

" _What_?" Reuben looked completely taken aback. It was such a funny expression, his wild, black hair sticking out in all directions, his gray eyes wide open, that Ayla would have laughed—if she hadn't felt so terribly heartbroken.

"Don't you see," she choked out, moisture beginning to brim her eyes. "It's your last chance! If the enemy has really crossed the river, we will soon be surrounded—then the true siege will begin! No one will get in and... and no one will get out. This is your last chance to escape."

Reuben's face was impassive. "I thought I was too ill to travel, that it would kill me, even more surely than staying here would."

"You were, Reuben. You were too ill. But you've made an amazing recovery over the last couple of days. You can manage a short horse ride, I'm sure. I'll help you down to the stables, you can pick any horse you want. Just ride fast, and make sure these filthy villains don't catch you. I couldn't bear it if something happened to you."

Slowly, his face still not showing any emotion, Reuben reached up and cupped her face with his right hand. She felt as though she might splinter into a thousand painful pieces.

"They won't catch me, Ayla."

Oh. So he was a good rider. That was good, wasn't it? She wanted him to ride away quickly, didn't she? She wanted him to be safe. Yes, she definitely wanted that.

"Because," Reuben added, not taking his eyes or his hand off her face, "I am not leaving."

What?

"But you must! You must leave!"

"Telling me what to do now, Milady?" He cocked an eyebrow. "You forget, I'm not one of your vassals, you can't order me about as you please."

"I... I don't mean that you have to go because I said so," Ayla said, trying without much success to suppress the swell of joy in her heart. "I mean you have to go for your own safety."

"Well, I give a devil's pisspot about my safety," Reuben said, with a grin that very nearly made her laugh. What was the matter with her? Enemy soldiers were marching up towards her castle and she was happy because a man had decided to stay here?

Then again, the man in question was Reuben.

"Why, for heaven's sake?" she demanded, half desperate, half ecstatic. "Why would you want to stay?"

He shrugged, but then fixed her with a very determined, very intimate gaze. "I just think there are things here worth staying for. Unfinished business."

Ayla's heart jumped with hope and anticipation. "Like what?" she whispered.

Reuben's grin turned mischievous. "Like my compensation, for instance. I still haven't received a penny for all my lost wares. I can't go without my compensation, now, can I?" Cocking his head, he threw her an innocent look.

Ayla didn't know whether she wanted to kiss or kill him in that moment.

Finally, she leaned closer, grasped his collar and with his face barely two inches away from hers, breathed:

"I have to go save my people now. When I get back, we'll see about your compensation."

God! What had possessed her to say that? She was not even sure what his words had meant—and even less sure what he would make of her response. Oh dear Lord...

"Ayla?"

She blinked, interrupted in the middle of her thought—and thankful for it. She had to go! She had to ride, or her people would be lost. But she was so close to his beautiful face, and it was so easy to get lost in his gray eyes...

"Y-yes, Reuben?"

"I love you."

For a moment, Ayla thought that time stood still—or maybe just her heart did. Had she really just heard that? Three little words that turned her world on its head? No, she couldn't think, couldn't indulge. Not now. She had to ride!

Impulsively, she threw her arms around Reuben and hugged him close. "Thanks!"

Then she was on her feet and out the door in a flash. She had to ride! A horse! A kingdom for a horse!

# High Road Up

Reuben stared at the door Ayla had left open, listening to her receding footsteps, completely dumbfounded.

Thanks?

What the hell was _that_ supposed to mean? Reuben had extensive experience in romance, garnered in his time at the Imperial Court where his charming smile had been the talk of all the ladies. He knew his business. When you told somebody you loved them, you expected an answer like "I love you too" or "Well, too bad" or maybe "Go fornicate with yourself!"

But " _Thanks_ "? What was he supposed to make of that? It was no way to answer a man who had just opened his heart to you!

All right, maybe he hadn't chosen quite the best time for his confession. She had been in a bit of a hurry to save her people from sudden and violent death. But she could have stayed for a quick "I love you too." It would only have meant two dead peasants, at most.

Or, an unwelcome thought intruded, maybe she would not have said that, even if she'd had all the time in the world...?

Reuben shook his head.

No. She had said thanks. That had to mean she wanted this, wanted him—didn't it? No woman had ever been able to resist his charms before, and neither would Ayla.

Probably.

His gaze returned to the open door. Her footsteps were almost inaudible now. So faint, then even fainter, then... gone.

His hands clenched into fists.

Oh, how he burned with the wish to go with her. And yet, he had held his tongue, had stayed where he was, knowing all too well why.

He was only one man—out there were hundreds. He was still sick—they were fit and strong. As much as Reuben hated to admit it, he couldn't protect Ayla from the Margrave's men all by himself. Not yet.

Worse than not being able to protect her, he would have hindered her. He might be recovering, but he still was not fit to ride at full gallop. The damned weakness was still in his bones, by Satan's warty prick and all the pricks of his little demons! If he had ridden with her, and then had fallen off his horse, she would have stopped and he would have been her doom. She needed to be fast now, faster than she had ever been.

No, he could not save her from the enemy tonight. Only the hoofs of a fast horse could.

Turning away from the door and over to the window, he stared into the darkness of the night outside. Far, far below, down on the path into the valley, he thought he saw for a moment a flash of white and gold.

But maybe it was simply his imagination.

In his head, he saw again Ayla's face as she clasped her arms around his neck and whispered into his ear: _Thanks!_

With an angry growl, he punched the wall, so hard his knuckles started to bleed. Curse the girl! She damned well ought to have stayed a minute longer. What were two dead peasants, or maybe three, compared to his agony?

*~*~**~*~*

Ayla brought the horse to a halt at the point where the path into the valley forked. One way led directly to the village, the other to the bridge, where the soldiers were. If she hadn't been as well-bred as she was, she would have cursed. She should have thought of this before! Where to go first? Whom to warn first—the soldiers or the villagers? Whose life to put at risk?

Strategically, it made more sense to ride to the bridge. The soldiers there would be an invaluable part of the castle's defense in the coming days. Any coolly calculating general would put the safe return of the soldiers over the lives of villagers who would just be a nuisance in any real battle.

Ayla's horse nickered beneath her and pranced, as if sensing her indecision.

Villagers... who had children...

Yes, any real general would go for the soldiers. But she was no general.

Suddenly decided, she pulled on the reins and turned the horse towards the village, driving it to the fastest possible gallop. In front of the first house on the edge of the village, she jumped off the animal's back. Rushing to the homestead's door, she started hammering on the rough wood until the door was opened by a sleepy-looking peasant, whose nose she nearly bashed in with her fist, still raised to knock.

It took one or two seconds for the sleepy man to recognize her—then his eyes suddenly went wide. "L-lady Ayla, what..."

"There's no time," she cut him off. "Get your family together, wake everybody in the village up, and head for the castle! Now!"

"Head for the castle? In the middle of the night? Milady, I..."

"There's no time!" She was almost shouting now. "You've been preparing, haven't you?"

"Yes, but..."

"No buts," she repeated Reuben's words. "They're coming."

If possible, the eyes of the peasant widened even more at this revelation. Behind him, the anxious faces of his wife and children appeared.

"The soldiers?" he whispered, and his wife crossed herself.

"Yes! Now get moving and get everyone out of here!"

Turning, she strode back to her horse, her cloak and nightgown flowing behind her.

"What about you, Milady?"

"I have to go to the bridge," she called, swinging herself into the saddle. "Do as I've told you! And woe betide you if a single man, woman, or child is left behind! I'll see to it that you spend the rest of the week in the stocks!"

Paling, the man nodded.

Ayla didn't waste any time to see if he did as she had commanded. She had no time to waste. Not a second. Wishing for once that she wasn't as well-bred and could urge her horse on with a few good, solid curses, she drove it into the night as fast as it would go. She definitely knew enough curses by now. Her acquaintance with Reuben had been very educational.

Reuben.

Oh no, she couldn't think about Reuben right now. She had to concentrate. She had a job to do. She couldn't indulge and...

He said he loves me.

...think about three certain words he had spoken. No, she definitely couldn't. Not now. Not here.

I—love—you. He said it. To me. It really happened.

Besides, those little words were hardly that important, compared to the hundreds of lives that were at stake at the moment. They had only been three in number, and very little.

Yes. But he said them to me. Reuben. To me.

Suddenly, her horse snorted, just in time for Ayla to veer left and avoid hitting a tree. Tree? Wait, she was supposed to be riding on the path to the bridge! There were no trees on that path, were there? Come to think of it, there weren't any trees on any path. That was what paths were all about, being treeless!

Accursed distraction! She had been so lost in thought that she had veered off the path. She knew she shouldn't have started thinking about those... three... words...

He loves me.

Ayla did her best to steer her horse back out of the bramble and onto the path. It wasn't very easy, though. She was hardly able to contain the tumult of emotions inside her. Somewhere, some mad part of her felt insanely happy while at the same time she was terribly worried for everybody who was in mortal danger right now, which in turn made her feel guilty for feeling happy, which however didn't make her feel any less happy, just miserable at the same time. This was all so confusing!

Was this really love? Love was always easier for the ladies in the courtly ballads. But then, these ladies always had a knight to save them. Whom did she have? An arrogant, opinionated, loud-mouthed merchant.

_Her_ arrogant, opinionated, loud-mouthed merchant.

And he had stayed. In spite of the danger, he had stayed. For his... compensation. Ayla didn't quite know why, but she didn't feel about that like she used to feel about it. She used to get angry when he said it. Now she felt a delicious and unfamiliar shiver run through her whenever he did. Why? He meant money, surely, didn't he?

Didn't he?

What if...

"Milady!"

The shout ripped her from her thoughts, which was probably a good thing, seeing as she was just about to run into another obstacle, much larger than a tree: she had nearly reached the barricade. In front of her appeared a startled Captain Linhart, holding a torch aloft. The flickering, orange light painted strange, nightmarish shadows across his face.

"Milady, to what do we owe the...?"

"Sound the retreat," she yelled at him, without bothering to get off her horse. "Withdraw to the castle!"

Captain Linhart stared at her as if she was speaking a foreign tongue. "But Milady, if we retreat the enemy will..."

"Do as I say, Captain!"

For a moment, he measured her with his eyes. Then he abruptly turned to his men and began shouting orders. A signal horn sounded and the men gathered, clambering off the barricade in a frenzy. Soon, they were gathered on the dark meadow in a more or less orderly formation. Ayla had been riding around them in a protective circle all the while. She was perfectly well aware that, at the moment, she was the only one on a horse around here, and thus could see farther and move faster than any of the soldiers sworn to protect her. She had to protect them now, look out for them in the literal sense. The enemy was coming, and she would be the first to see them.

"One of you," she called. "Get onto the horse you have here for couriers to the castle and help me scout the area!"

A march to the castle was even more dangerous now than it had been before, when the barricade had still been manned. Now, their back, as well as their sides, was totally exposed. They had to move quickly if they wished to survive this night.

"You, Wecelo!" Linhart ordered. "You're a good rider, aren't you?"

"Yessir!"

"Then get your behind on that horse, man!"

"Yessir!"

Ayla watched the man jump into the saddle and was glad to see that yes, indeed, he was a good rider. Now at least there were two pairs of eyes watching.

"You scout on the left, I on the right!" she called.

"As you command, Milady."

Pressing her heels into her horse's sides, Ayla urged the animal forward. She rode a wide circle around her troops as they began to march up the slope, but nothing happened. No arrows came flying out of the darkness, no soldiers attacked her and tried to grab her. Anxiously, she threw a look up towards the flickering lights of the castle, towering high above them on the mountaintop. Could the enemy already be there? Could they have bypassed her troops and taken her home?

No, she reassured herself. There still were guards at the gates up there, guards whom she had warned of the coming danger. They would have sounded the alarm if anything had happened.

Completing her circle, she slowed her horse down beside Captain Linhart, who radiated tension and kept throwing glances over his shoulder.

"There you are!" he hissed as she appeared out of the darkness. "Would you mind telling me what is going on here?"

Ayla was slightly taken aback. Linhart was usually such a calm man. But she had, after all, ordered him to abandon his position without any explanation whatsoever. That had to be a strain on a soldier. If she was being honest with herself, she was surprised that he had followed her orders without demanding an explanation.

"The attack on the bridge tonight was a ruse," she said simply. "It was meant to draw off the river patrols. While we fought, the enemy crossed the river somewhere else, under cover of darkness. Soon they will be everywhere."

Linhart said a word the meaning of which Ayla didn't know, though she thought she recognized it from one of Reuben's outbursts. His face reddened slightly. "Forgive me, Milady."

She waved a hand. "I've heard worse."

"So what do we do now, Milady? Must we retreat?"

"They have ten times as many men as we do. You're a professional soldier, Captain. What do you think?"

He nodded grimly. "What are your orders, Milady? March directly to the castle?"

"Not quite. I've warned the villagers and they should be making their way up to the castle somewhere ahead of us. We must remain between them and the enemy to protect them as best we can."

Linhart's eyes widened. "But you just said it yourself, Milady, we're outnumbered ten to one! What are we supposed to do if the enemy catches up with us?"

"If it's the main force, there's only one thing we can do."

"And what is that?"

She gave him a weak smile. "We can die bravely."

There were a few seconds of silence, but for the sound of marching feet.

Finally, the captain nodded. "As you command, Milady."

Ayla breathed a sigh of relief. "Anything else, Captain? If not, I have to get back to scouting."

"Nothing. Just... be careful, Milady. Those bastards want you more than they want any of us."

"I'll bear that in mind."

Ayla pressed her horse onwards again, and it shot into the dark. She continued making rounds around her soldiers, sometimes meeting with the other rider, but never catching a glimpse of the enemy. It was beginning to make her uneasy again when, suddenly, she saw them.

Dozens of red spots appearing out of the darkness, down at the river's bank. The light of the torches grew, and Ayla could make out the black forms of men, in stark contrast with the glittering background of the river. One raised an arm and pointed up towards them.

An unmistakable gesture.

Ayla turned to look ahead. Against the faint glow of the castle, she could make out the crowd of villagers making their way up the mountain path. There was no way of telling whether everybody was there, but the crowd seemed large enough. She looked back at the enemy once more, judging the distance. They had come ashore quite a long way away from the bridge, and even farther away from the path Ayla and her people were traveling on, thank the Lord!

"Do you see them, Milady?" Wecelo the scout called, pointing down into the valley.

"Yes. But they're too far away to catch up with us!"

"Seems they aren't even trying."

Wecelo was right. Ayla couldn't see much, because all the surrounding landscape was black and she had to look to the front often to prevent her horse from stumbling—but from what she could make out of the enemy, the mercenaries seemed to be heading towards the bridge, not towards them.

Coming up beside Captain Linhart again, Ayla asked: "What do they want at the bridge?"

The captain shrugged and kept marching. With the tempo he and his soldiers were managing, the distance between them and the villagers grew shorter and shorter. "Who knows? Maybe they see that it's pointless to chase us and want to gather there to put up camp."

"No, I don't think that's it," Ayla mumbled. "I don't like it. I have a funny feeling about this." The bridge... What could they get across the bridge that they couldn't get over the river in small boats?

With growing apprehension, she watched the barricade being torn down. It was as if somebody were tearing her heart along with it. This had been the defense of her people for so long. Now it was gone. Yet her apprehension was about more than just that.

What could come over a bridge?

A second later, shadowy figures started moving across the cleared bridge. Not the same kind of black figures that she had seen by the waterside. These were larger, and moving considerably faster.

Ayla understood just as Wecelo cried: "Riders! Riders approaching!"

"But we killed all their riders in the first attack," Ayla cried in panic.

"They must have had reinforcements! Ride, Milady, ride! They mustn't get you!"

"I can't just leave you!"

"He's right, Milady," Linhart said, grimly. "Halt!" he called to his men, who obeyed immediately. The captain's grip on his spear tightened. "Turn!"

They all as one turned to face the approaching enemy.

"Cancel that order!" Ayla shouted. "Continue up the path!"

"Milady—"

"Listen, Captain! If you stop here to provide my escape, you will all be slaughtered!" With a sweeping gesture Ayla indicated the broad slope they stood on. "The area is much too open. The riders will set upon you from all sides and ride you down. We will march up to there." She pointed to a point where the path became winding and narrow, with both its sides falling steep. "There you can make a stand, not before."

"We might not make it in time."

"You most certainly won't if you continue to stand here arguing about it with the liege lady you are sworn to obey!"

The soldiers looked back and forth between Linhart and her. The captain was glaring at Ayla, but she was glaring back just as fiercely. She would not let that stubborn, loyal man put her life before everybody else's.

Finally, after three endless seconds, he bowed his head. "As you command, Milady." He looked up again. "Men, continue to the narrows."

They started moving again, marching even faster than before.

Would it be enough?

Ayla, no longer venturing ahead but staying close at Captain Linhart's side, threw a look over her shoulder. The dark riders were rapidly approaching.

# Hard Fall Down

The march up the mountain was one of the most terrifying journeys in Ayla's life. The riders behind them could hardly be made out as the night grew ever darker. She felt as if invisible devils were hunting all around and could strike out of the blackness at her at any moment. What if her soldiers didn't reach the narrows in time? What if the riders caught up with them?

Or worse yet—what if the riders caught up with the villagers?

The crowd of tired and frightened people, laden with possessions and including the young and old, didn't move half as fast as the two lances of disciplined soldiers under Linhart's command. Soon, Ayla and her escort had caught up with them—and then could do nothing but slow down their own tempo and march behind them. They were not here to save their own lives, but to save these people.

Ayla was terrified to see how slow the soldiers, hampered by the villagers, were now advancing up the mountain. It seemed that a snail could have moved faster than them. And the riders were coming ever closer.

"Faster! You have to move faster" she yelled, trying to encourage the villagers. Then she realized that from a woman riding on a horse, such words were hardly encouraging.

"Here!" Jumping down from her steed next to an old man with a gray beard who barely managed to keep up, she pointed at the saddle. "Get up there."

"Milady, I'll be fine! I..."

"Someone help me to get him up there!" Ayla shouted, and the old man found himself being hoisted into the air by the strong arms of two woodcutters and deposited on the horse's back, protesting all the while.

Ayla went through the crowd, searching, and only when she had put two little children on the horse's back behind the old man and the animal couldn't take any more did she stop and look over her shoulder again.

The shadowy riders were almost upon them!

"Faster!" she yelled. "In the name of the Virgin Mary, move! You'll all be slaughtered!"

Hearing her words, the villagers fell into a run. The narrows wasn't far ahead. If they could just make it, just make it there...

All around her, Ayla could hear the labored breathing of people running uphill, running with her. She prayed to God no one would stumble. They couldn't stop to help; they just couldn't afford it. And yet she knew, if it happened, she would. She couldn't bear to see someone, anyone, in the hands of the villains who were chasing them. She would rather that it was herself.

Behind her, Ayla could hear the panting of horses, the pounding of hoofs.

"There they are," a rough voice called out. "After them!" And then: "It's her! Lady Ayla! Get her!"

They knew her! They were after her, specifically!

_Then why not stop?_ a small, weary voice said in the back of her mind. _Why not give them what they want? It's not like we have any hope of winning, anyway. We might as well give up now._

No! Only a few more yards. The narrows was near, only a few more yards.

And then, suddenly, they were no longer on smooth ground. Rocky cliffs fell off to their left and right, forming a narrow path.

"Stand and turn!" she shouted. "Stand and turn, men!"

The soldiers immediately did as she commanded, forming a tight line all across the path. Spears appeared in their hands, and swiveled down to point directly at the enemy. Hurriedly, Ayla slipped between two of the soldiers, and the gap closed behind her. Safe! She was safe. The villagers were safe. She was behind the soldiers and they—

All thought ceased as out of the darkness, the riders appeared. In full gallop they bore down on their prey—only to discover that it was no longer running, but facing them with sharpened steel. The sound of the impact was bone-jarring. It threw Ayla, who had only advanced a few more paces up the path, violently to the ground and made her clamp her hands over her ears in a useless attempt to deaden the noise.

The tumult of screams and screech of steel on steel didn't cease. It went on and on as the wounded cried out in pain, soldiers tumbled off their horses, got trampled underfoot, or got hacked to pieces by an enemy's blade. Ayla turned over, staring at the chaos just a few feet away from her. She was hardly able to make sense of what she beheld. Yes, she had seen men fighting before, but never this close, never this horrible.

_Or... maybe it's not as horrible as it appears_ , she thought, as she watched mercenary horses and riders in the dozens tumble down the mountainside. The wall of steel between Ayla and the enemy stood firm. Only one man had gone down so far, and another had taken his place. Their faces tense, the butts of their spears set firmly against the ground, they waited for the next attack—but none came. The falling enemies of the first charge tore the riders that came behind with them down the mountain. They tumbled down the slopes in a bloody, screaming mess and disappeared into the darkness. That did not stop the noise, however. It was quite some time until their cries could not be heard anymore.

Captain Linhart stepped out from among his soldiers. His spear fell to the ground; his arm was hanging limply at his side.

"That was it, men. Let's get out of here while we still can."

He went to Ayla and offered her his good hand. She took it with gratitude, let him help her up, and put a bit of her weight on him. She wasn't quite sure whether her own legs would support her at the moment.

"Everything all right, Milady?" Linhart asked as they started to advance up the path, the soldiers following closely behind them.

"Not all right, Captain. As right as it can be. And you?"

He smiled a weak smile. "As right as it can be, Milady."

Ayla's eyes searched the path ahead. "Where are the villagers?"

"I, err, think they went ahead. They were probably not too keen on what was happening immediately behind them."

"Neither was I."

"I can readily believe that, Milady."

"What's wrong with your arm, Captain? Is it broken?"

He winced. "Not broken, Milady. Just a bit stiff from the impact, that's all. Wecelo," he called, turning his head for a moment. "Pick up my spear, will you? We can't waste any weapons!"

"Yes, Sir!"

It took a few more minutes, but finally they reached the safety of the castle gates. The guards there started cheering. Ayla had no idea why—this wasn't a victory. They had suffered a setback and just managed to escape with their lives!

Then a strange idea came to her: _Maybe it's because I'm still alive._

But no. That couldn't be, could it? She couldn't be that important to all those men... Men who were grinning at her broadly, cheering, chanting her name, and bowing their heads in respect as she passed...

She shook her head. No.

"Let's get you to a place where you can lie down, Captain," she said, straightening and letting go of his supporting shoulder. "I need to have a look at that arm of yours."

Behind them, the castle gates slammed shut.

*~*~**~*~*

Two hours later, Ayla emerged from the keep again, leaning against the wall to support herself. She had taken care of all the wounded as best she could, and had had a talk with the hurriedly awakened Burchard. He had been wearing a large, pale blue nightshirt, and his mustache had bristled more than ever—it had been quite an intimidating sight. He had accused her of being irresponsible and rash, and a lot of other things she couldn't remember at the moment. She had listened to everything patiently. Finally, when he had run out of breath, she had pointed out that they were all safe and sound within the walls of the castle.

This had set off a whole new round of admonishments, which she had listened to with equal patience. Finally, she had got away by telling him she was tired and hungry and needed to change. He had let her go, promising her that she hadn't heard the last of this, and Ayla had left.

But not to sleep, or to eat.

She had allowed herself to change out of her ruined nightgown and cloak, and to wash briefly. It was wonderful to be rid of the mud and blood on her skin. But then, her steps didn't lead her towards the kitchens or the dining hall, but outside. Not that she wasn't really tired and hungry. She was, incredibly. Still, eating or sleeping were the last things on her mind right now.

There was something she needed to do. _And_ there was something else, something she wanted to do. What she _wanted_ was to go to Reuben and let his strong arms envelop her, just to forget about all her troubles for a few precious minutes and revel in the fact that, for now, they were safe, and that, impossible as it seemed, he loved her.

He had said it, so it had to be true, right?

He really, truly loved her. She wanted to go to him and hear it again and again, and, oh, she thought with a smile pulling at the corners of her lips, there was probably also something he would like to hear from her in return. But now was not the time, not yet. The gates were closed, the enemy shut out, but still, she had to do this one last thing for her people and for herself.

It was the duty of a lord or lady to know and to see.

Slowly taking a breath, she detached herself from the wall of the keep and climbed down the stairs into the courtyard. Only now did she notice that people were watching her: guards on the way to their posts, villagers looking for family, all had stopped to watch as she had stepped out of the keep. Now, as she passed, they bowed silently. Ayla returned the greeting with a nod of her head in equal silence. She didn't have the energy to speak at the moment.

Passing through the gate of the inner wall, she strode towards the outer wall of the castle. There were no people here, thank the Lord. What she had to do, what she had to see, should be seen by no other.

The guard on duty at the gate bowed respectfully to her, and couldn't keep a look of astonishment from flickering across his face.

"Lady Ayla. What are you doing here?" He went red in the face. "Forgive me, Milady, I did not mean to pry. I was just surprised to see you here, after all you went through. I thought you might want a good night's rest."

"That I do want," she said with a weak smile. "But first there's something I have to do. I have to go up on the wall."

"On the wall? But Milady... is that wise? It could be dangerous."

"I know. But I have to. To... see. To remember."

The soldier looked confused, but he nodded. "Yes, Milady."

"And if any of the villagers should want to go up there, say it is impossible, that it would interfere with your duties as soldiers and endanger the castle."

"Yes, Milady." The guard hesitated. "Beg your pardon, Milady, but..."

"You are wondering why I want you to tell that to the villagers when it isn't true?"

"Yes, Milady."

"Think, soldier." Ayla's voice was soft. "What can you see from the wall?"

"The valley, Milady."

"And what is in the valley?"

"Well, the river, the bridge, the village..." The soldier fell silent and his face paled.

"Exactly." Ayla nodded. "The village. If you would excuse me now, soldier..."

"Of course, Milady."

The words were a hoarse whisper. Ayla turned and stepped into one of the guard towers that flanked the gatehouse. Inside, the air smelled of the smoke of the single torch that hung on the wall, giving off flickering light and throwing the shadows of the spiral stairs onto the wall in a menacing manner, like the jagged teeth of some giant beast about to swallow her up. Ayla had never been up one of the towers at night before, never stood on the wall in the dark before. Well, she told herself, at least up on the wall there would be some more light. Oh yes, there certainly would be.

Slowly, she ascended the spiral staircase. Halfway up, though the smell of the smoke should have decreased, it gained in intensity and her stomach twisted. It was just as she had feared.

Having reached the top of the tower, she stepped out onto the wall, turning towards the valley from where the smell of smoke came, along with a fierce red glow. Long she stood there, gazing over the parapet out onto the nocturnal landscape, at the origin of the red glow. Long she stood there and watched her village burn.

The flames were all she could see. They were so blindingly bright that they plunged all the surrounding land into utter darkness. Now and again, she could make out black figures passing in front of the flames, hurrying about, carrying, hacking, laying fire.

_Carrion crows_ , she thought.

But then, one black shape began to distinguish himself from the others. He was getting larger. Ayla realized that whoever it was, he was moving up to the castle. Alone.

The man spurred his horse to a lazy trot and advanced up the slope. The flames behind him threw his shadow all over the mountainside and against the castle wall, making him appear like a black giant. Yet as he came closer, Ayla could see that he was in fact not wearing black—it had only appeared thus, in contrast with the brightly burning flames.

In fact, he was wearing red.

Red as fire.

Red as blood.

Ayla watched with fear and revulsion as the red robber knight, the same robber knight who had taken Eleanor from her, the same robber knight who now had burnt her village to the ground, brought his horse to a halt only a few dozen yards away from the castle wall and looked at her.

It had come down to this.

Him and her.

He raised his hand.

"Greetings, Milady. So nice to see you again."

# Friend and Foe

"I can't say I feel the same," Ayla replied. She wondered how she managed to keep her voice as calm as it was. Inside, she felt like boiling. Or exploding. Or...

"Before you get any ideas," Sir Luca said, "you should know that I come under a flag of truce." He held up a white linen handkerchief. "Here, you see?"

"You call that a flag of truce?"

"Well, it's not very big, I admit, but it's white enough. I think it works."

Ayla gritted her teeth. "I wasn't referring to the size of your flag, but rather to the fact that while we speak, your soldiers are setting my village ablaze!"

"Ah, but it is your village no longer, Milady. By right of conquest it belongs to the Margrave now. So my men can do whatever they damn well please."

Ayla sucked in a breath. She was sorely tempted to call one of her archers and have him shoot this man. But she knew she wouldn't do it. She didn't have it in her to be dishonorable. And anyway, the Margrave would just send someone worse to replace him—though he would probably have to search for quite a while to find such an individual, if indeed one existed.

"Since you come here under a _flag of truce_ ," she said, speaking the words with all the disgust she could muster, "what is it that you wish to discuss?"

"You have to ask? I thought it would be obvious."

"Just pretend I'm very dumb."

The red knight nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I think I could do that."

She heard his suppressed laughter and again had to fight an urge to call for her soldiers. No, she wouldn't call them. She had to fight this battle on her own. It might not do for the men to hear what he had to say, or what she had to say to him in return.

"State your business, Sir Knight, or begone. What is it you want?"

"What I want? Why, to dictate the terms of your surrender, of course."

" _What_?" Ayla stared at the metal-clad man in utter amazement. He, through the slits of his visor, stared just as fixedly back at her. "We have fought four battles so far," she pointed out. "What makes you think that I would suddenly give up now?"

"Well, let me think..." He scratched the side of his helmet in mock preoccupation. "There's the fact that you've lost a major battle, that you are surrounded and cut off from any supply chains, that we still outnumber you ten to one, and that generally speaking, your situation has become completely hopeless. How about that?"

"You can take that and stuff it up the devil's derriere!" Ayla growled, her hands balled into fists. He was right. And the fact burned her from the inside. She would rather have died than admitted it.

" _Dio mio_ , Milady is getting feisty. Well, perhaps this will persuade you: in his heavenly mercy, the Margrave Markus von Falkenstein has decreed that, in spite of your resistance, if you are willing to surrender, he will spare the miserable peasants who infest your castle at this very moment. If, however, you do not surrender and we are victorious, as we surely shall be, he will decimate them, as the ancient Romans used to do to their rebels."

"Decimate?" Ayla's voice was hardly more than a whisper. But somehow the red robber knight heard it.

"Kill one in ten men." Sir Luca shrugged. "A harsh but just punishment, don't you think?"

"And what guarantee do I have," asked Ayla, her voice not as steady as it had been before, "that the Margrave will not inflict this 'just punishment' in any case?"

"Why, his word of honor, of course!"

"I see. Like the word of honor he gave when swearing friendship to the three other nobles whose lands he has since conquered?"

"Yes, Milady. Exactly like that."

"Why are you even here?" Now her voice was firm again, cold and demanding. She could have sworn that, behind his visor, she saw teeth glitter in a grin.

"To let you see that you have no way of escape, Milady. Your fate doesn't belong to you anymore. It is in the Margrave's hands now. He may choose to have mercy, he may not. Personally, I think the latter more likely. But you can always hope. If you persist in this folly, however, trying to resist your future husband, you will only bring more harm down on yourself and your people. That I swear by every bone I've broken and deadly blow I've struck."

Putting her hands on top of the parapet, Ayla leaned over the wall.

"I shall never give in!" Her voice was as hard as the rock beneath her feet. "Never! Not to a villain like you! Not to someone who kills others for money! Not to someone who burns the homes of innocent people. Not to a knight who disgraces his station by robbing defenseless women in the forest! Never!"

There were a few seconds of silence.

" _Robbing defenseless women in the forest_?" he asked, actually having the gall to sound surprised. "Maybe Milady is better informed than I about my many misdeeds, but as far as I know, I have never robbed anyone. I've always paid other people to do that for me. Much simpler."

"Don't lie to me!" Ayla hissed. "What's the point? I'd recognize that armor of yours anywhere! There isn't another like it in the Empire!"

"This armor?" He looked down at himself. "You recognize it? Interesting. When was it that you were robbed, if I may ask?"

"As if you didn't know!"

"Just pretend for the moment that I'm very forgetful."

"Very well, if you want to play games with me... It was the very same day that your master's herald came, making the same insolent demands as you just did." She was about to say more on the subject of his insolence, when he interrupted her.

"Was it? Well, Milady, then this is a rare occurrence. It seems I am accused of a crime of which I am actually innocent."

" _What_?"

"I," said Sir Luca slowly and clearly, as if speaking to a child, "did not rob you that day in the forest. I didn't have this armor until a day later. My men pulled it off some fellow whom they shot down and left for dead in the forest—after he had slaughtered several lances of good men, I might add."

His words, so obviously spoken with the conviction of utter truthfulness, left Ayla reeling. For a few moments, she didn't know what to think. And then, comprehension washed over her like ice-cold water.

A man without armor.

Alone in the forest.

A man who was muscled like an expert fighter.

A man strangely knowledgeable about all things military.

No, please, no, God, let me be wrong. Let me be wrong in this!

"This man," she asked, her voice having lost all strength and now sounding strangely toneless, ringing in her ears like an echo from far away, "how many arrows did he have in his back?"

"How many arrows?" The red robber knight's surprise was evident. But no, not robber. Just red knight. He was not the robber knight. But someone else was. "You want to know how many arrows we shoot our enemies with?"

"Yes, please," she replied, her voice still sounding strange in her own ears. She was somewhere else, only listening to the things this young woman on the wall was saying. She was in a place of terror and uncertainty, a place as thin as a razor's edge. She would fall off one side or the other, depending on the answer of this man she hated.

"Three, I think. Though I would have to ask my men to check. Why? Would you prefer we used a different number of missiles?"

He was probably trying to mock her, some rudimentary part of her brain noted. But her mind, her heart, her self, did not care. She had fallen off the edge—and not in the right direction, the one she had desperately hoped for.

It was so abominably obvious now.

Three.

Three arrows.

Three arrows in the back.

A man with three arrows in the back.

A man in red armor, threatening her, robbing her of her friend, her Eleanor.

The red robber knight.

Reuben.

Without deigning to glance at Sir Luca one more time, she turned and began the descent down the wall.

"Milady! Lady Ayla!" Behind her, she heard the red knight shouting, but she didn't care. He was a pretender. He was not her foremost enemy. That title belonged to another.

*~*~**~*~*

Seething with rage, hurt, and humiliation, Ayla stormed up the steps to Reuben's room. Questions whirled in her mind like a maelstrom: _Why did he hurt me like this? What is his game? Does he have any real feelings for me at all?_

She wanted to laugh at herself for the last question. Or maybe punch herself. Or cry.

Feelings? For me?

He probably had been using her this whole time, trying to get what he wanted by smooth-talking her.

_But then_ , said a very small and sad, but also hopeful voice in the back of her mind, _why did he help? Why didn't he leave when he could have?_

The voice was soon silenced. Too heavy were the hurt, the anger, the feeling of betrayal.

Ayla marched down the oh-so-familiar corridor and stopped in front of Reuben's door. All the questions in her mind had vanished now, had coalesced into a single, overriding, all-encompassing question: Was she going to do as she had vowed and hang Reuben from the highest tower of the castle?

Ayla stretched out her arm. Then, with all the force her slender body could muster, she threw open the door and entered the room.

THE END

of

THE ROBBER KNIGHT

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

My Lords, Ladies and other dear readers,

Thank you for reading this medieval tale of mine. I hope that you enjoyed it and that the dramatic ending did not give you undue alarm. It may please you to know that I am already working hard on the sequel to this book, and if my university studies don't get in the way of my writing too much, it will not take too long to finish.

I realize that many booklovers (myself included) do not have the money to buy all the books they would like to devour, and that is why both this book and its sequel will be available as free eBooks. Still, it is my dream to become a professional writer, and in order to achieve that I unfortunately have to actually sell some books.

That's why I have published a 'Special Edition' of _The Robber Knight_ (available both as eBook and paperback) which, for a few dollars, contains not just the story you have just read but also several additional chapters exploring Reuben's mysterious past. If you would like to support me in my dream of becoming a professional full-time writer, you can purchase this Special Edition and/or leave a review for _The Robber Knight_ on Goodreads or your favorite online bookseller. Constructive criticism or suggestions for improvement are just as welcome as praise.

Thank you for your support!

Farewell until we meet again (hopefully in the next book)

Your part-time medieval knight and storyteller,

Sir Rob

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# About the Author

Robert Thier is a German historian and writer of historical fiction. His particular mix of history, romance, and adventure, always with a good deal of humor thrown in, has gained him a diverse readership ranging from teenagers to retired grandmothers. For the way he manages to make history come alive, as if he himself lived as a medieval knight, his fans all over the world have given him the nickname "Sir Rob."

For Robert, becoming a writer followed naturally from his interest in history. "In Germany," he says, "we use the same word for story and history. And I've always loved the one as much as the other. Becoming a storyteller, a writer, is what I've always wanted."

Besides writing and researching in dusty old archives, on the lookout for a mystery to put into his next story, Robert enjoys classical music and long walks in the country. The helmet you see in the picture he does not wear because he is a cycling enthusiast, but to protect his literary skull in which a bone has been missing from birth. Robert lives in the south of Germany in a small village between the three Emperor Mountains.

# Other Books by Robert Thier

At present (2014) _The Robber Knight_ is Robert Thiers's only book published in English. However, book two of the Robber Knight Saga, _The Robber Knight's Love_ , is already in the making, and besides that, there is a Special Edition of _The Robber Knight_ available both as eBook and paperback, which contains additional chapters. Keep updated about Robert's books on the internet:

Website: www.robthier.com/

Facebook profile: www.facebook.com/robert.thier.161

Facebook page: <https://de-de.facebook.com/RobThierHelmHead>

Twitter: <https://twitter.com/RobThier_EN>

Tumblr blog: http://robthier.tumblr.com/

Goodreads: www.goodreads.com/author/show/6123144.Robert_Thier

# Acknowledgements

I thank all my dear fans and readers. Without you this adventure would never have been possible.

The cover of this book was created by the author using various licensed images and an image available under the Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic License. This image, "Albion_Chieftain_Medieval_Sword_10" was provided by Søren Niedziella of Albion Europe ApS, manufacturers of medieval weaponry, and the author thanks them for sharing their work in this way. The image is available on the internet at www.flickr.com/photos/albioneurope/6092444206/

### Endnotes

[1] A Latin expression meaning "in the year of our Lord" (Jesus Christ). It was commonly used in medieval Europe. Where we would say "in the year 2014," a medieval person would have said "Anno Domini 2014."

[2] A special kind of glove. When nobles threw down the gauntlet, it meant declaring a feud. In such a case, all people who were not heavily armed were likely to run for their lives as fast as possible.

[3] Someone who delivered important messages for nobles.

[4] This is not a name but a title. It is derived from the German "Markgraf" (earl of the mark). A mark was a border region of the Holy Roman Empire. Because control over the border regions was particularly important for successful rule, margraves, compared to normal earls and counts, held great power and were direct subordinates of the Holy Roman Emperor.

[5] A private war between nobles within one country. For the nobles of the Holy Roman Empire, fighting feuds was a favorite pastime.

[6] A singer who toured the country performing at inns and castles. Bards sang love ballads and tales about knights' adventures.

[7] The robber knights were quite a widespread phenomenon of the later Middle Ages in the Holy Roman Empire. With the rise of wealthy cities and the ongoing inflation, knights at the lower end of the feudal system, who only held small estates, struggled increasingly to make a living. Having been brought up to think themselves superior compared to city-dwellers, they were quick to start collecting more and more duties from people who passed through their lands or from people they met on the road, a practice that often degenerated into robbery.

[8] A medieval instrument of torture, consisting of two metal plates connected by screws. The thumb was placed between the metal plates and the screws were turned, bringing the plates together, which resulted in an unpleasant squeezing sensation in the thumb, and finally in thumb-purée.

[9] The man in charge of managing a noble's lands.

[10] A large iron grate. It was placed before the gates of the castle for extra protection and could be pulled up using ropes and a tackle. In an emergency, the ropes could be cut in a moment and the portcullis would slam down, protecting the castle even while the gates still stood open—very handy if the enemy was chasing after you.

[11] In a historical context, this can mean two things—?either a woman who has a romantic relationship with a man without being married to him, or as in Ayla's case, it can be the female equivalent of the word "master," used to refer to a woman of superior social rank, such as the lady of a castle. Strange double meaning, but true.

[12] A coat of arms or a crest—?a symbol which identifies a particular nobleman/noblewoman and, during the Middle Ages, was displayed at tournaments or in warfare to make sure fighters only killed their enemies and didn't accidentally hack their friends to bloody bits.

[13] A diagonal line separating the two halves of a coat of arms.

[14] Sorry to disappoint the ladies, but this doesn't refer to high heels. It is a medieval term for a very nasty person.

[15] Medieval German currency.

[16] Medieval expression for a man who is a bit too forward with women.

[17] The Holy Roman Empire was an empire in the center of medieval Europe. It was comprised of modern Germany, Austria, Switzerland, Poland, Denmark, and parts of Italy.

[18] "Arms" does not refer to those things your hands are attached to, in this case. "Arms" also happens to be an old-fashioned word for weapons.

[19] In the Middle Ages, most people believed in witches and were afraid of them. Radical elements in the Church played on that fear to eradicate the remaining pagan practices by denouncing those practices as witchcraft. Witches were supposed to ride on broomsticks, worship the devil, and work many kinds of dark magic to harm people. Horseshoes and dolls were supposed to feature prominently in their evil rituals, something to keep in mind when next you go for a ride or buy your child a doll for Christmas.

[20] A medieval pole weapon, an early form of the halberd. The guisarme had a pointed end, like a spear, but was slightly shorter, and also had some kind of curved blade, like an ax—excellent for both skewering and hacking at your enemies.

[21] People in the Middle Ages believed very strongly in the reality of evil and the devil. Whenever somebody did something strange or inexplicable, their neighbors were quick to attribute it to possession by the devil, not to madness or indigestion, as we would today.

[22] A curved sword with only one edge (unlike the double-edged European sword) which was used by Arabs or Turks.

[23] The same as a stretcher, only a slightly old-fashioned term.

[24] A kind of armor used in the Middle Ages. It was made by linking metal rings, the result being a sort of metal cloth made out of chains. Various sorts of armor were made from this: shirts, trousers, and gloves, yet no underpants. Chain mail was not as good a protection as armor made out of solid metal plates, but it required less material and was also more light and flexible.

[25] Special Viking warriors who could work themselves into a battle rage in which they did not feel any pain or fear of death. The word means "those who wear the bear pelt."

[26] On the edge of medieval villages, there usually lived solitary women who were knowledgeable in healing and herbs. They were often the first to be suspected of witchcraft. Which goes to show that even back then, nobody liked clever people.

[27] As explained in the text above, barbs were little hooks on the heads of arrows which were intended to prevent the arrow from being removed. Barbed arrows were widely used throughout the Middle Ages, not because they were more effective during battle, but because they were more difficult to remove afterwards. If the surgeons of an army knew how to remove them, it cost them time. If they didn't, or if it wasn't possible, thousands of warriors died from the terrible wounds. Often, more soldiers died from their wounds after a battle than during a battle.

[28] A fancy expression for "hairy."

[29] The name of the wife of the ancient Greek philosopher Socrates. She was such an energetic, outspoken lady that her name became a synonym for "shrew."

[30] A typical medieval curse. Back then, the foulest thing to say was to swear a false oath on the name of, or some part of, God (e.g. "I swear on the teeth of God that..."). In time, this wearing of a false oath got shortened to just referring to some part of God. But that's the reason why, even today, a curse is also referred to as an "oath."

[31] A slightly old-fashioned word for a military fortification.

[32] A medieval mystic, healer, and abbess. She was famous for coming up with her entire own branch of medicine, which, she claimed, she had derived not from experience but from direct divine inspiration. Nobody knows whether this is true. Yet if she didn't receive her medical knowledge through divine inspiration, we do not know where she received it from, since historical studies have not been able to prove that she ever received any medical training. Her methods have been used with success by modern practitioners of medicine.

[33] A vassal was a subordinate in the medieval feudal structure of military power, and answerable to his overlord / master / mistress. The highest overlord was the king / emperor. He would have dukes, margraves, and counts as his vassals, who in turn would have lesser nobles and knights as vassals, who in turn would have peasants and simple men-at-arms as their vassals. In a modern analogy, you could say that if you're an assistant at a big company, you're a vassal of your manager, who in turn is a vassal of your company CEO. Fortunately though, in modern times you don't have to go to war for them.

[34] One of the seven princes of hell in Christian demonology. According to the classification of demons by the medieval theologian Peter Binsfeld, Amon is responsible for starting all feuds and wars in the world. There is no proof that Binsfeld visited hell personally to do research for his classification, but if he is correct, you know who is to blame next time you hear of bullets starting to fly somewhere on the globe.

[35] Another one of the lovely princes of hell from Binsfeld's classification. In Christian demonology, Mammon is, as the name already indicates, responsible for all greed in the world.

[36] In spite of its name, this is actually a kind of sausage made from a mixture of meat and thickened blood. Enjoy your meal!

[37] In the Middle Ages, cut-off horns were used both for drinking out of and for signaling, like a trumpet. Horns of deer were used by nobles, while oxen horns were used by less wealthy people.

[38] A medieval piece of clothing. It looked like a nightshirt with long short sleeves and was traditionally worn by knights in the thirteenth century as the outermost garment, over their chain mail.

[39] Medieval story-singers who travelled from village to village and castle to castle, telling tales and singing songs. They specialized in courtly ballads of romance appropriate for all ages.

[40] A slightly archaic term used to refer to an army or a detachment of soldiers.

[41] These are the actual, historically correct commands used on the battlefields of medieval Europe. "Fire," our modern-day military command, only appeared along with firearms, because you had to set fire to the gunpowder to "fire" the gun. Just a little info in case you ever need to know how to command an army of medieval archers.

[42] Mixing honey into wine was very popular in the Middle Ages. Back then, most of the wine available was cheap and sour. So people mixed it with honey and / or herbs to make it taste a little less like vinegar.

[43] By this, as you surely will have guessed, is meant the middle finger. This particular gesture is no modern invention: on the contrary, it has been around since antiquity and was very popular in the Middle Ages. So popular, in fact, that knights had their own variation. Since they could not raise their middle finger wearing armored gloves, they raised their lances instead. The height of courtly manners, wouldn't you say?

[44] A nasty castle defense mechanism. My advice: don't stand underneath one.

[45] In contrast to chain mail, which is little metal rings woven into a sort of metal cloth, plate armor consists of solid metal plates, sometimes overlapping, sometimes connected by joints. As time passed during the Middle Ages, more and more parts of the body were covered with plate armor, over traditional chain mail. This resulted in very heavy armor. Towards the end of the Middle Ages, knights could hardly move while in their armor and had to be heaved onto their horses by friendly passersby.

[46] An insulting medieval adjective. In spite of diligent research, I have been unable to discover what it actually means, but I am sure it is nothing very nice. The investigation is ongoing.

[47] Not just a sharp piece of wood with which knights stabbed each other, but also the name of a medieval military unit. It could be of varying sizes and consist of all kinds of troops mixed wildly together.

[48] Incidentally, I have it on good authority that flaming arrows with lard do indeed burn fiercely. One of my dear readers actually tried setting one on fire and shooting it, and it worked. Not an experiment I would recommend repeating at home.

[49] A giant feast with loads of wine and food available, and sometimes also amorous activities...
