by Robert Thier
Commanding Confusion
Fritz the Soldier was sitting at a campfire in the middle of the Margrave's camp, keeping watch, and at the same time trying to keep warm. To the latter purpose, he employed not only the campfire but also a bottle of honey wine he had brought with him from his tent. He had already emptied half of it and was just beginning to feel slightly woozy when he heard the voice.
“Help!”
He cocked his head. Had that been what it had sounded like? A cry for help from inside the camp? But who would cry for help in the middle of a well-armed force such as theirs? If anyone had cause to cry out for help, it would be the people in the beleaguered castle.
“Help! Help! Help me!”
This time there could be no mistake. Someone was yelling for help. Sighing, Fritz abandoned his post and followed the sound of the voice. His steps were a little unsteady because of the wine, but following the continued cries for help, he found his way through the tents well enough. To his utter surprise, his steps led him to the commander's tent. Apprehension flooding through him and mixing with the alcohol that was already there, Fritz stopped in his tracks. This couldn't be right, could it? Why would the commander cry out for help in the middle of the night? Fritz hesitated. Sir Luca wasn't someone to disturb in the middle of the night out of pure fancy. The soldier was suddenly unsure what to do.
So Fritz was relieved when he saw his commander in his brilliantly red armor step out of the tent—praise the Lord, there was no need to wake him!
Fritz studied the impressive form of his commander in the devilish red suit of armor. He really cut an impressive figure. Why, Fritz could have sworn that he was a foot taller than when he had last seen him. But it was probably just the light from the campfires that made everything seem taller by throwing long, dark shadows on the grass and tents. Or maybe it was the wine.
“Help! Damn you all, doesn't anybody in this godforsaken camp listen to me?” came sir Luca's enraged voice out of the tent. “Help me! Now!”
Fritz frowned, his befuddled brain trying to grasp the situation. If Sir Luca was inside the tent and needed help and Sir Luca was standing in front of the tent in his red armor…that made two Sir Lucas, which was one too many…
Good Lord! Did that mean that, in future, he would have to take orders from two commanders at once? Fritz didn't relish the thought at all. One commander was difficult enough, but two? What if they disagreed about a battle strategy? Or what if they wanted to use the commander's bathtub at the same time? Fritz could already see multitudes of problems arising.
“Help me, someone!” the Sir Luca inside the tent bellowed. The Sir Luca outside the tent motioned with a thumb for Fritz to enter the tent. Fritz thought that was an excellent idea. Maybe the Sir Luca inside the tent would be able to explain what the other one was doing outside. Or maybe, by the time Fritz left the tent again, the effects of the wine would have worn off and there would just be one commander again.
With that cheerful thought in mind, he stepped past the armored Sir Luca into the tent, not forgetting to bow respectfully, of course. The figure in red armor answered his greeting with a curt nod and strode off towards where the horses were tethered.
*~*~**~*~*
At the back of the tent, Reuben found both his black stallion, Satan, and the mare, Eleanor, tied to a rope between two tent poles. With a swipe of his sword, he cut their bonds and then whistled once.
“Satan! Come here!”
Only when the black stallion didn't move away from Eleanor did Reuben look more closely and saw what the horses were doing. The black horse was standing closer to Ayla's mare than Reuben had originally thought. In fact, a lot closer. And they both appeared very busy.
“Satan! Now isn't the time for that!”
He smacked the horse’s rear end. The stallion whinnied in protest but left off his activities and trotted to his master. Eleanor followed quite willingly.
The knight took his time saddling his horse. Having checked the straps a final time, Sir Reuben Rachwild swung himself into the saddle and rode at a leisurely pace between the tents of the soldier's encampment. Behind him, he could hear the shouts of Sir Luca DeLombardi escalate, and soon after, the clamor of weapons joined the shouting. Reuben didn’t ride one iota faster.
In front of him appeared the camp's main gates: impressive constructions, considering they had only been put up yesterday. As he had anticipated, the guard by the gates were reduced by several men already. As was probably the case with other guard posts in the camp, several soldiers had gone off to inquire after the source of the shouting from the commander's tent.
Only about a dozen men were left now. Under his helmet, Reuben smiled. A dozen. What a pitiful challenge.
They all sprang to their feet and stood at attention as he approached. See how eagerly they greet death, Reuben thought to himself.
“Sir,” one of the men said, stepping forward and bowing. “What do you wish of us at this late hour?”
“I wish to leave the camp,” answered Reuben in a low, gravelly voice that nobody in the world could have mistaken for the affected tones of Sir Luca DeLombardi.
The soldier tensed. “What is wrong with your voice, Sir?”
“Nothing,” replied Reuben. “It sounds just as it always has.”
Slowly, the hand of the soldier crept towards his guisarme.[5]
“I wouldn't recommend that.” Reuben's tone was leisurely. His hand still rested on the neck of his stallion, nowhere near his sword hilt.
“Are you…” The soldier swallowed, and his comrades behind him slowly rose to their feet. “Are you Sir Luca DeLombardi?”
“Do you really want to have the answer to that question?” Reuben wanted to know, his deep voice like a black, bottomless pit. “You could say you believed I was him and let me out.”
The soldier’s hand crept a little closer to his weapon.
“But why would I do that?” he asked, hoarsely.
“Maybe because you'd like to stay alive.”
There was a moment of silence—and then the soldier grabbed his guisarme and stormed towards Reuben.
Like a flash, Reuben's sword was suddenly in his hand. He didn't even appear to have drawn it. It just suddenly was there. His arm delivered a quick, simple cut.
The soldier was about to raise his guisarme in triumph when his expression changed abruptly. His face contorted, then slackened—and then, slowly, his head toppled off his shoulders. Reuben jumped down from his horse. It hadn't rained last night, but, as he landed, he heard a wet splash beneath his feet.
Ah, well, he grinned to himself, my armor is red anyway.
With determined steps, he advanced towards the remaining men. All of them were ordinary men-at-arms—nothing but simpletons armed with clubs and pig-stickers. He snorted in disgust. Nevertheless, half of them had the good sense to turn and run. The other half grabbed their pole weapons and came at him, swinging their stupid makeshift arms as if he were a tree they wanted to fell.
He amused himself for about a minute with chopping all their weapons in two, then started chopping off heads for variation. It was great fun! He hadn't chopped off heads in weeks. It felt really good to pick up an old hobby again.
Plus, these villains were Ayla’s enemies. That only doubled the fun of the exercise. After only two minutes, though, all heads were cleanly separated from their bodies. Reuben looked around with regret. He shouldn't rush things so! Patience was an important virtue for a knight! If you always rushed everything good, it was over far too quickly. He should have chopped off a few arms and legs instead of going for the heads right away. Oh well, maybe next time…
Thoughtfully, he turned back to the camp. A few hundred feet away, he could see a line of soldiers rapidly advancing, among them Sir Luca, wearing an Italian armor and screaming at the top of his lungs. Reuben's mood brightened immediately. There were plenty of people for him to kill still, after all! But if he were to take care of all of them single-handedly, he would
be busy until Christmas.
No, his primary mission was accomplished. He grinned again as he threw a look over his shoulder at the mare, Eleanor. One horse acquired, check. One lady's heart conquered, check. It was time to get back to her.
He unbolted the doors of the siege fortifications, threw them open—and found himself facing a cavalry force of about thirty lancers.
“Sir Luca!” the captain at the front bowed deeply. His hand was raised as if he had just been about to knock at the camp gates. “You came to greet us in person, Sir? What a great honor. I have come back to report that all is quiet in the vicinity of the camp. No intruders or spies anywhere.”
Reuben gripped the hilt of his sword tighter and swung himself into the saddle. Behind him, he heard the voice of Sir Luca shriek, “Seize him! Seize him!”
“Hüa, Satan!” Sir Reuben bellowed, gave his stallion the spurs as never before, and drew his bloody sword.
Quickly, just before he collided with the surprised cavalry detachment, he threw another glance over his shoulder. Two hundred men, perhaps? Plus these thirty here. Hmm. This might actually be challenging.
Well, maybe not. He didn't have to kill them all, just hack a path through them.
*~*~**~*~*
“Milady! Milady!”
The frantic cries of the guard tore Ayla from the pictures painted by her horrified imagination. She wrenched her gaze away from the chessboard and whirled around, just in time to see a soldier skidding to a halt in the doorframe.
“What is it?” she demanded.
“Milady, Sir Luca DeLombardi is riding up to the castle as if the hounds of hell were chasing him!”
“What?” Ayla's mouth fell open. This didn't make any sense. “Are you sure it is Sir Luca?”
The soldier nodded. “Aye, Milady. I'd know that red armor anywhere.”
Ayla's eyes went wide. Red armor? Could it be that Reuben…?
“There is a terrible host right behind him, shouting and yelling battle cries.”
Ayla's eyes went a bit wider still.
“But don't you worry, Milady,” the soldier added with concern, as he saw the panic on the face of his mistress. “They can't get over the walls, and Captain Linhart told me to tell you that he has everything well in hand. As soon as they are in range, our archers will shoot Luca down like the dog he is. Soon, that red-armored villain will be filled with more arrows than my quiver, and we will mount the head of his corpse on a spike to celebrate the death of our enemy!”
To Shoot or not to Shoot
Ayla had never been a great runner. Riding? Yes, she had enjoyed riding since her childhood. But running had never been her thing.
Now, however, not even the famed runner Thersippus, who, according to Plutarch, ran an entire day without stopping to deliver the news of Athens's victory over the Persians and collapsed dead after delivering his message, could compare to her speed. Fortunately, though, she didn't drop dead on reaching her destination.
Gasping, she stumbled up the last few steps of the tower stairs and out into the cold night air, just as Captain Linhart raised his arm.
“Ready your bows!” he shouted to the archers arrayed on the wall. “Nock your arrows!”
Then he noticed Ayla stumbling towards him and clutching the battlements for support, wheezing like an old pair of bellows.
“Ah, Milady. You're just in time to see us dispatch that rump-fed moldwarp.” He pointed over the battlements to a massive figure in red armor, driving a black stallion uphill so fiercely you might have believed the devil was behind him. The knight’s fist tightly gripped a rope leading another horse—a horse that Ayla recognized immediately. Behind the two animals followed not the devil, but a gaggle of soldiers, yelling terrible insults and curses. “He must have lost his mind, trying to attack a castle on horseback, without a single siege weapon,” Linhart snorted derisively. “But all the better for us. A mad enemy is killed quickly. He will soon be no more.”
He turned to his men.
“Mark! Draw!”
Twenty bowstrings were pulled back.
“Hold! Hold until he is in range.”
Behind him, knees wobbling from exhaustion and hardly able to get out a syllable, Ayla waved frantically in the attempt to get Linhart’s attention.
“Ssst…nnnn dnn,” she gasped but was too breathless to pronounce any real words.
“What was that, Milady?” Linhart half turned back to her. “I'll attend to you in a moment, just as soon as we have sent this demon to join his master down below. A few seconds more and he will be in range. Hold…Hold…”
“Stop!”
The word that burst from Ayla’s lips was quiet and breathless, but nevertheless perfectly understandable to everyone in the vicinity. Still, Captain Linhart and all the twenty bowmen with bows still drawn gaped at her as though she had suddenly started spouting speeches in some heathen tongue.
“Excuse me, Milady?” said Linhart after a few seconds.
“Stop…I said…stop. I don't…” Ayla gasped for breath again, still leaning heavily on the battlements. “I don't want you to shoot.”
The eyes of the captain and his men wandered from the red knight to Ayla and back. “You don't want us to shoot him?”
“No.”
“Just to be absolutely sure, Milady, you do not want us to shoot that rider in the red armor advancing towards the castle right now?”
“No.” Ayla shook her head, let go of the battlements, and stood erect. “I want you to open the gates for him.”
“What?”
“Don't worry, Captain,” she said as forcefully as she could. “I know the man who is riding up that hill.”
“Err…forgive me for saying so, Milady,” the captain dared to object, “but I know him, too. He has beleaguered us for the last few weeks, remember?”
“Captain?”
“Yes, Milady?”
“Open the gates!”
The captain hesitated. He might have obeyed. He might have refused. It could have gone either way had not, at that moment, the sound of an arrow whizzing through the air distracted him. He whirled around—but all of his men were still standing there with their bows drawn and arrows nocked.
His gaze strayed down over the battlements, and he suddenly froze as he saw several arrows flying past the red knight galloping towards the castle. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and looked again. He saw more arrows flying past the red knight.
“Err…why is the enemy shooting at their own commander?”
Captain Linhart's sane world of soldiering was slowly collapsing around his ears.
“That's what I've been trying to tell you,” Ayla growled. “He's not who you think he is! Now, go open the gates, or do I have to do it myself?”
“No, Milady! As you command, Milady!” Captain Linhart turned towards the gatehouse, made his hands funnel-shaped around his mouth, and shouted, “Open the gates!”
The guard at the gates, half-asleep until that moment, abruptly woke up and stared up at Linhart, eyes wide.
“Open the gates, man!”
The soldier made a very impolite gesture at his commanding officer, indicating that said commanding officer had a bird's nest for brains, but did as he was commanded. Three other guards rushed to his aid to help lift the giant iron portcullis, which had not been pulled up since the enemy had surrounded the castle.
Ayla watched and wavered. Should she stay here? Should she wait and see if another of the arrows, which were flying after the red knight in dozens now, would hit its mark? Or should she get down there, hoping against hope that all would go well? In the end, she couldn't bear it. She rushed to the tower door, and when Linhart wanted to stop and question her, she waved him off.
“Not now, Captain! Later!”
Not waiting for his reply, Ayla pulled open the door and sprinted down the staircase, her feet echoing loudly on the cold stone.
Please, God, she prayed, please don’t let me fall and break my neck in this gloomy to
wer. Let me get down all right. Let me get to him.
Twice she stumbled and only kept from falling by grabbing the rough stone wall. When she reached the bottom, her slender white hands were scratched and bloodied.
Please, oh Lord. Please let him be all right!
She staggered out into the courtyard—and stopped dead at the sight that met her eyes.
Dozens of soldiers stood all around, their weapons drawn. Apparently, the confidence of the gate guards in their commanders didn't go far enough for them not to think backup necessary. A lot of backup. Two of the soldiers held not only guisarmes, but also torches. In their flickering light, Ayla could see another two guards, these two unarmed, who were gripping the iron rings set into the oak gates and, with mighty grunts of effort, slowly pulling them back to reveal an archway of darkness.
The noises of the night outside flooded into the courtyard. Cries, curses, and the clatter of hooves. But no rider appeared out of the shadows.
Please, Ayla prayed with fierce intensity. Please…!
*~*~**~*~*
Sir Reuben had to admit, some of those cavalrymen had been pretty good. They had actually managed to get their swords out of their scabbards before he had stabbed them. That had been some achievement.
He threw a glance over his shoulder. At the beginning, he had been slightly worried that the mare—what was her name again? Eleanor?—wouldn't be able to keep up with them. But she had proven herself to be a magnificent and swift animal and seemed only too eager to keep up with Satan.
No, the mare was keeping pace all right. The riders catching up to him might be the bigger problem.
An arrow whizzed past his head, and he glanced back again in annoyance. Bah! Problem? They couldn't even shoot straight while in the saddle! If he had been pursued by Saracens, Magyars or Tartars, he might have been in trouble, but could these bastards who hadn't shot a bow on a horse once in their lives ever pose a threat to him? Never!
He looked up towards the castle again, and every thought of the pursuing army vanished from his mind. Far, far above, he saw a slim, white figure up on the battlements, strongly contrasting with the dark night sky. His heart thudded.
