The Robber Knight

  “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 ch
ecking, 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 qui
ckened. 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.