The Robber Knight's Love

  “But why haven't you told us this before?” Ayla asked. “Why haven't we made use of this tactic before?”

  “It would have been of no use to us, Ayla. The enemy was sitting in front of our gates like the fox in front of a rabbit warren, waiting for us to come out, and we could not. On the open plain, we would have no chance against them, and we had no chance of setting a trap for them, of luring them in on our terms.” Slowly, Reuben raised an armor-clad hand and balled it into a fist. “Not until now, that is!”

  Not until now. With fear, hope, and horror twisting in her heart into a bloody, knotted cord, Ayla watched the margrave's army being skewered and cut down by the dozens. Sir Luca turned his head from right to left, watching paralyzed as soldier after soldier fell around him, dead, wounded, bleeding, wishing for death.

  “È tre volte sabbiate diavolo!” The Italian’s face reddened, from anger as much as from the blood of his own men that sprayed all around him. Mad with rage, he raised his fist and shook it at Reuben. “Strappero di lim lim e rifatti interni, demone da inferi regioni…!”

  An arrow grazed his face and made him howl in pain. Stumbling back, he caught himself against the wall, shaking his head. When he focused his eyes on Reuben again, Ayla could see it in his eyes: the lust to kill.

  “Attack! Attack, you bastardi! Kill them!” he shouted, pointing to the archers on the inner wall and Reuben in their midst. “Charge! Kill them all!”

  “What?” one of his captains, who was right beside him, yelled back. “We can't…”

  Sir Luca decapitated the man with a single swipe of his sword. He snatched the grappling hook from the belt of the toppling corpse and started towards the inner wall, howling terrible battle cries. The rest of the army hesitated for only a moment—then battle cries went up from all over the courtyard, and the entire armed might of the Margrave von Falkenstein bore down on the castle of Luntberg.

  And what a might it was! Ayla could see, as the soldiers approached at full run, that still there were over two hundred, still there were over four times as many attackers as there were defenders. And although showers of arrows went down on the enemy from the front and behind, although the ground was wet with blood and slippery, the enemy army moved like an unstoppable force.

  Ayla watched in fascinated horror as the Margrave's men spread across the courtyard like a swarm of locusts. Dozens pulled glinting objects from their belts without stopping to run. At first, Ayla thought they were swords, but then she realized her mistake: those were grappling hooks!

  Still without stopping to run, the mercenaries started to swing the hooks over their heads. Thunder rumbled again, right overhead.

  “Take them down!” Reuben's roar could be heard even over the thunder. “Take down the ones with the grappling hooks. Don't shoot at the others, they can't come up here! Shoot the ones with the grappling hooks, you puny little maltworms! Do you want me to throw you down there? No? Then aim better! Shoot faster! Do what I say, by Satan’s hairy ass!”

  And they did. Oh, how they did. Ayla had never seen her archers shoot so fast. Whether it was because they knew their life depended on it, because Reuben was such a great commander, or because they simply were more afraid of him than of the approaching enemy, Ayla didn't know. But they fired off arrow after arrow at lightning speed.

  One man with a grappling hook went down, blood spurting from an arrow in his throat. Another fell as a missile pierced his leg. But the grappling hooks were instantly seized by other soldiers, and the enemy army continued as if nothing had happened. Now that they were at a dead run, the enemy soldiers were much harder to hit than before, and only one in three arrows found their mark. The enemy came closer and closer, and Ayla slowly retreated from the crenels. This was looking bad.

  “There!”

  Sir Luca was pointing up at the wall. To her shock, Ayla realized that he was pointing directly at her.

  “There! Throw the grappling hooks there! Get her! Half my share of the booty for the one who brings me the harlot!”

  In spite of the fact that the ongoing battle should have been her greatest concern, Ayla felt indignation rise inside her.

  “Who is he talking about?” she demanded, looking around. “I have no women of questionable morals in my castle!”

  “He means you!” Burchard growled.

  “What?” Ayla's eyes sparked. “That is just…just..impolite!”

  Burchard pointed to the soldiers beneath, many of whom had now changed direction and, grappling hooks in hand, were now directly heading for Ayla.

  “If you don't get out of here, those fellows are going to do stuff to you that's even less polite.”

  “I won't leave! I have to stand with my people in this fight.”

  “How noble of you, Milady,” the steward growled into her ear. “There’s just one little problem with that: you can't fight yourself!”

  “That's immaterial!”

  Ayla knew that her heart didn't agree with her on that. It was nearly jumping out of her chest. Everything in her was screaming to run. The blood, the thunder, the flying arrows, and the bestial faces of the men rushing towards her made her want to run and hide in some dark corner until all was over. But she wouldn’t. She couldn't. Not with the men that were fighting for her and would soon be dying for her in her line of sight.

  “Get her!” Sir Luca was only a dozen paces away from the wall now. His grappling hook swung in menacing circles, making a sharp whipping noise that could be heard even over the rumbles of thunder. “Get her!”

  Something zipped past Ayla's face, tugging painfully at her hair. With horror, she realized what it had been: the soldiers down in the courtyard had produced bows and were returning fire.

  “Behind me, Milady! Now!”

  Ayla wanted to protest, but Burchard grabbed her and pushed her behind his bulk no matter how much she tried to struggle. She might as well have tried to wrestle with a walrus.

  “For the last time, Milady,” he growled, “won't you go down?”

  “No. Will you?”

  “Well…no.”

  “But you don't know how to fight any more than I do.”

  Turning his head, he scowled at her. However, she had long since gotten used to the threatening twitch of his impressive eyebrows.

  “I might be of some use anyway,” he grumbled.

  The corner of her mouth twitched. “Exactly what I was thinking myself.”

  “Milady, you… Get down!”

  He didn't have to tell her twice. A swarm of arrows flew over their heads, and they threw themselves onto the walkway to evade the lower-flying missiles. Then came a metallic clang—the sound of a grappling hook bouncing off the castle wall. The next one might not miss.

  I could die today.

  The thought appeared in Ayla's head with chilling certainty. Still, she could not make herself move, could not bring herself to flee. At least Reuben had good chances at survival. He was a good fighter and in the midst of her best soldiers. If anyone survived this maelstrom of steel, he would.

  The arrows stopped.

  “What's happening?” Burchard asked. “Why have they stopped attacking?”

  “They haven't.” Somehow, Ayla knew the answer. Maybe because she was the object of the attack. She could feel the dark energy of the enemy's hate pulsating towards her. “They've stopped shooting, because now men have started climbing the wall. They don't want to shoot their own men.”

  “So this means…”

  “They're coming.”

  Ayla slowly rose from behind the crenels and stepped around Burchard.

  “What are you doing?” He made a grab for her, but she evaded his hand and threw him a look that made him retreat several steps.

  “I am Lady Ayla von Luntberg! I will not sit in a corner and wait for the wolves to find me like some frightened rabbit. I will face my enemy!”

  Another metallic clang came from somewhere out of the night. And another, and another. And then it came. A silver-blac
k shadow, darting over the wall with an eye-startling speed. The hooked shape flew directly towards her, and, with terror, she saw its sharp points, like metal claws, reaching out to slash her throat.

  Red Beast

  Something hard smashed into Ayla from the side and hurled her to the ground, landing heavily on top of her. Her head thudded onto the walkway, and multi-colored lights sprang up in front of her eyes.

  “Ow!”

  “When I dreamed of getting on top of you,” a voice growled into her ear, “this isn't how I imagined it!”

  “Reuben?”

  “Who else, you silly goose? What, by Satan's hairy ass, are you still doing up here? We agreed that you’d go down as soon as the attack began.”

  “No. You agreed with yourself and didn't listen to me.”

  “Where's the difference?”

  Rolling off her, he sprang up and drew his sword. Smoothly, he took a defensive stance and placed himself in front of the grappling hook that had wedged itself between the crenels.

  “Stay back!” With mad energy, he began to hack at the reinforced rope that hung taut from the hook. From below, Ayla could hear the grunts and curses of the men climbing getting louder.

  “What does 'puny codpiece' mean?” Ayla demanded.

  Startled, Reuben looked around but didn't stop slashing at the rope, which had already been hacked through about a third of the way.

  “What? What did you say?”

  “Is it really an endearment among soldiers?”

  “Ayla, do you really want to discuss this now?”

  “Because it sounded rather insulting to me.”

  “Ayla! I'm trying to work here!”

  “Why are you here, anyway?”

  “I'm protecting you!”

  “You should be with the archers!”

  “They're managing fine without my help!”

  “So am I.”

  “Oh, really?”

  An enemy soldier stuck his head over the crenels. That was the last time he would be doing anything with his head. Reuben separated it from his body with a swipe of his blade, and it tumbled down into the courtyard, spraying blood in all directions, followed shortly by the rest of the corpse. There was a strangled yelp from further down the rope.

  The next soldier was somewhat more careful. He slashed with his sword above his head to clear the way before grasping the crenels with his hand.

  But the way had not been cleared. Reuben sprang forward, bringing his sword down on the hand clutching the crenel. It dropped away into the darkness.

  “Aaaarr! No!”

  Desperately, the mercenary tried to hold on to the slippery rope with one hand while blood gushed from the stump of his left arm. To no avail—he lost his grip and fell backwards into the darkness.

  Clank! Clank!

  Ayla's head whipped to the left. She had been so transfixed by the fight unfolding before her that she hadn't noticed two more grappling hooks which had lodged themselves firmly between the crenels a bit farther down the walkway. Burchard had noticed them, though. He had picked up the sword of the dead mercenary, the bloody, severed hand still clutching the hilt in an unbreakable death-grip, and was hacking away at the rope with all his considerable strength.

  Clank!

  Each time the sword hit the stone beside the rope, it made a dull, metallic sound. The rope was about to give way when, from beneath the crenels, a guisarme shot up.

  Burchard didn't move with Reuben's speed. He jumped back, but too late. The blade of the guisarme hit him in the shoulder, and he was thrown against the wall, limp and unconscious.

  “Burchard!” Ayla screamed and wanted to dash forward, but a rough hand grabbed her from behind and held her.

  “I told you,” Reuben snarled between gritted teeth, “to stay back!”

  One last time, he turned towards the first grappling hook.

  “Yaaaa!”

  With a bestial cry, he brought down his sword on its rope, and it split with a ripping sound. Ayla just glimpsed the terrified face of a mercenary stretching his hand, too late, out towards the wall—then he and the rope were gone. Again, thunder rumbled across the dark sky.

  With a gigantic leap, Reuben crossed the distance and was suddenly beside the limp figure of Burchard.

  “Reuben, is he…is he…”

  The knight eyed the prone steward for a moment. Then he drew back his hand and gave him a resounding slap across the face. Burchard twitched and groaned a curse.

  “He's not dead. He’s going to be fine,” Reuben gave his expert medical opinion.

  Ayla opened her mouth and closed it again. She really didn't know what to say to that.

  “You should probably get his shoulder fixed up, though,” Reuben conceded. “Aren't you a healer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then get to it!”

  “Yes, of course. I…Reuben! Look out!”

  Without turning to look, Reuben kicked backwards, caught the mercenary who had been about to jump over the wall in the chest, and catapulted him to his death. Then, gripping Burchard by the uninjured arm, he hauled the steward to his feet and more or less thrust him into Ayla's arms.

  “Here! Catch!”

  Ayla almost collapsed under the weight, but somehow she managed to steer the bleeding steward a few steps away. Then she half-fell, half-sank onto the walkway.

  “Leave me,” Burchard grunted. “Go save yourself!”

  “Shut that thing you hide under your mustache and lie still!” Ayla hissed at him. “I've got to get your bleeding stopped!”

  Behind her, she heard Reuben shout at his enemies. All of those things were so infamous and sacrilegious they made her ears burn. Ordinarily, she would have tried to dunk his head in a bucket of water for uttering things like that in her presence. But, at the moment, she couldn't care less.

  “Milady, I…”

  “Be silent and hold still, I said!”

  Pulling back her cloak, she ripped a piece of linen off the neckline of her dress and started winding it around Burchard's shoulder. Soon enough, it was soaked with blood, and she fumbled for her neckline again.

  Despite the blood loss, Burchard still managed to make his ears turn red.

  “Milady! If you must find bandages for me, couldn't you rip them off from somewhere else?”

  “No!” Ayla snapped. “My hem and sleeves are soaked from the rain, and the bandages need to be dry!”

  “But Milady, your…your…”

  “Close your eyes if it makes you feel better!”

  The steward promptly followed her suggestion.

  “What's happening?” he asked after a few seconds.

  “Would you like me to get your wound bandaged, or would you like battle commentary?”

  “Both would be ideal.”

  “Well, we're not dead yet!”

  “Thank you, Milady.”

  “You're welcome.”

  Ayla wound the piece of linen around the steward's shoulder for a final time, tied a knot, and tugged.

  “Ouch!”

  “Don't be such a wimp.” Quickly, Ayla rose, and pointed her finger at the man on the floor imperiously, as you would at an old bulldog. “Stay!”

  “I have no intention of going anywhere,” he growled.

  “Good.”

  Ayla sent a quick prayer to the heavens, and then turned towards the fight again. Her stomach plummeted.

  Apparently, her prayer had not been heard. Enemy soldiers were crawling up the wall like ants up an anthill. They swung bloody blades of all forms and sizes, and from their throats rose terrible battlecries. Most of her archers had stopped shooting now; they had to defend themselves with their own axes, spears, and guisarmes. But they were only few, and the enemy were many. Three grappling hooks were firmly lodged between the crenels twenty yards down the wall, and it was all the defenders could do to hold the attacking army at bay. Get near enough to the ropes to cut them, or defeat their foe? Impossible!

  Nearer to A
yla, however, where another two grappling hooks had sunk their teeth into the stonework, the situation looked quite different. Not that the enemy didn't have superiority in numbers there, too, no. In fact, there were about a dozen of them fighting against a single opponent. It just so happened that this opponent was wearing a red armor.

  Reuben tore through his enemies like a rabid lion. A whirlwind of gore surrounded him, and men fell before him like so many leaves in an autumn storm. Very much so, in fact, for their color was that of late autumn leaves: a deep, dark crimson.

  “Die! Die, you fawning, dread-bolted death-tokens! You puny, lily-livered wagtails!”

  Nobody dared step in Reuben's path to strike a direct blow at him. And whenever one of his enemies did venture to strike at him from the side, he found the blow returned with double force. Reuben didn't seem to care whether he used his sword, his fists or his head to ram his opponents from the wall and into death and darkness. He wasn't just carrying a weapon, he was a weapon. A weapon that killed everything in sight.

  “Die! Die, you horde of tottering, shard-borne hedgepigs! By Satan, you will die! By Belzebub, Astaroth, and Belphegor, die! Die, and may your souls die with you, and burn! Burn! Ha! ”

  And his voice…if Ayla had thought before the soldiers had been yelling terrible battlecries, she thought again, now. Nothing came close to Reuben's bestial roar, his curses on the head of every demon and pagan idol under the sun, and most of all…

  Most of all, his laughter.

  It could hardly be thought possible, but his laughter seemed to frighten the enemy almost more than his blade did. He laughed as he cut them to pieces. He laughed as he threw them to their deaths. He laughed when he was hit by a blade and blood ran from his arm. The man who had dared to wound him did not live more than three seconds.

  In front of her inner eye, Ayla saw once more a hand clutching the burning end of a torch, steadily, tightly, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Apparently, several of the enemy soldiers were plagued by similar recollections. When they came over the wall and saw the piles of their dead comrades lying there and Reuben standing on top of them, laughing his head off with the mad joy of battle, they paled and balked. Some tried to flee down the rope again and were pierced by the arrows of Linhart's men, and some tried to veer off into the direction of the other Luntberg soldiers, to join what seemed to be a saner fight.