by Robert Thier
A gust of wind chose this moment to blow across the courtyard. Reuben's cloak was tugged open, revealing a few glittering links of his chain mail underneath.
“Strange attire for a merchant, I would say,” remarked Sir Isenbard.
Reuben shrugged. “What can I say? Weapons come in handy. These are dangerous times.”
“They are indeed. Too dangerous for me to tolerate liars.”
Quick as a flash, Isenbard tossed one of the swords he was holding at Reuben. With a sharp woosh-woosh, the blade spun towards him, crossing the space between the two men in a deadly whirl of no more than half a second. Without thinking, Reuben caught it at the hilt with ease—then cursed himself.
He glared at Isenbard, fire in his gray eyes. The old knight looked back at him unperturbed. His quiet, penetrating gaze made Reuben feel uncomfortable.
“For a merchant, you also seem to have extraordinarily quick reflexes,” he remarked.
Reuben looked about. On the walls, he could see guards watching. He couldn't see the expressions on their faces—but he could imagine. He had seen the same expressions repeated endlessly on people's faces for the last five years. It was over. The charade was at an end.
With a casual movement, he shrugged out of his cloak and let the black gown fall to the ground. When they saw his red armor shimmer in the morning sunlight, he felt the guard's eyes widen and their faces pale.
“Ah.” Isenbard's eyes sparkled. “Sir Reuben Rachwild, I presume?”
Reuben raised an eyebrow, though he wasn't really surprised. It was only natural that his fame should have reached even this obscure corner of the Empire.
“You know me?”
“By reputation.” Raising the sword he still held, Isenbard slid into a fighting stance. “Let us see whether it is justified.”
“Very well. But not with this toothpick.” Reuben moved. The hand which had caught the sword swept up, throwing it back towards Isenbard. Before the old knight had even had time to move his hand, the sword had whistled past his face and buried itself six or seven inches deep in the oak door of the keep behind him. Reuben drew his own enormous blade. He moved into a standard front guard—but then thought better of it and, with a slight smile on his face, took the position known as 'the woman's guard.'
Isenbard’s eyes widened slightly as he saw Reuben's choice of stance. Understanding flashed between him and his opponent.
“You have chosen your position wisely, Sir Reuben.”
“I think so, too, Sir Isenbard.” Reuben began to circle the older knight. Only his feet moved. His sword remained where it was, held with both hands over his shoulder, ready to deliver a mighty blow. “It's one I think I could hold for the rest of my life.”
Isenbard’s eyes flared.
“Is that so? Well, we shall see.” He turned slightly to follow Reuben's movement. “Let the duel begin. Have at you, Sir!”
And he charged.
Reuben let his blade fly forward, striking his enemy's sword not head-on but sideways and ducking out of the way. Normally, he would have reigned down a hailstorm of steel on his opponent—but normally, he was fighting for his life. He did not know whether this was the case right now, did not know how far Isenbard intended to go. Yet he was not ready to kill Ayla's closest friend and advisor.
Well, not just yet, anyway. Better to have a bit of fun first, wasn’t it?
Jumping back and whirling around to face his enemy again, he found the old knight not on his next attack, but in a defensive pose, waiting. He didn't seem to be in the mood for attacking again. The two knights began to circle each other. As they did, Reuben saw the other's eyes follow every one of his movements closely, examining and judging.
This was what gave him the clue he needed.
He truly means to test me, he thought gleefully. He means to hold back and find out how good I am with a sword. He wished he had his helmet on and visor down: it was quite hard to keep the smirk off his face. The old fool had no idea. We will see how he likes the tables being turned on him.
Reuben lunged.
It was a very fast movement, yet still the old knight evaded it with ease. He stepped aside and whirled towards Reuben’s flank, where he had left himself open in the attack. The old knight's blade came up towards his opponent’s undefended side, and he had a smile on his face.
This was the moment Reuben had been waiting for.
His left hand shot out over to his right side, grasping Isenbard's swordarm at the wrist and, tugging hard, propelled it over Reuben's right arm, far past its target. Then, Reuben yanked it down, simultaneously lifting his right shoulder.
Isenbard was jerked off his feet and, armor and all, sent flying over Reuben's arm, over the rest of him and ten feet through the air. With a muffled yelp, he smashed into a wooden stable wall. The old wood gave way beneath him. There was a crash, then a thump and a whinny as the old knight rather forcefully interrupted some horse's morning defecation.
All around, the guards exchanged looks of outrage and bewilderment. None of them had ever imagined anything but Sir Isenbard winning a glorious victory.
They’ve probably never witnessed a knight being tossed into a pile of horse shit, either, Reuben thought with a smirk.
He waited, casually leaning against the stable wall, whistling a merry tune. This might actually be fun.
One minute elapsed.
Then another one.
Finally, Sir Isenbard emerged from the stable door. He was helmetless now. His white beard and hair were a bit less orderly than before, and there were a few brown stains on his armor.
His eyes glittered like ice.
“You, Sir,” he observed curtly, “are a rogue and a scoundrel!”
Reuben raised an eyebrow. “Yes. And?”
“And nothing.” Isenbard made a face, as if forced to swallow something unpleasant. Reuben's eyebrow went up a little farther, and now he couldn't keep the smirk off his face.
“You wish a more chivalrous defender for your liege lady, Sir Isenbard?”
Isenbard's scowl deepened, making an answer unnecessary. Reuben's smirk widened.
“You can always try to beat some manners into me.”
The scowl disappeared and was replaced by a fierce smile. “That sounds like a very good suggestion to me.”
Again, Isenbard assumed a ready stance. “But I warn you, Sir Reuben—from now on, I will not hold back!”
“Good.” Reuben pushed himself away from the stable wall, and his sword came up into a front guard. “That will make it more fun.”
Isenbard snorted. “Don't be so overconfident. You have never seen me fight.”
And you, Reuben thought, have not seen me fight, or you perhaps might not be standing here.
The old knight sprang forward, swinging his sword, and this time, Reuben did not evade him. He met him frontally, delighted at Isenbard's speed. This was going to be even more interesting than he had thought!
Isenbard's mighty blow landed full on Reuben's sword—and was stopped right there. Reuben didn't waver, didn't even move back an inch to accommodate and catch the force of his opponent's blow. He just stopped Isenbard's sword right where he wanted to.
Grunting in surprise, the old knight exerted more of his still considerable strength, pushing against Reuben's weapon until his jaw was clenched and a vein was throbbing on his temple. Reuben judged the time right to let go. So he slid sideways, making the old knight, who found himself suddenly pushing at nothing but air, stumble forward.
“Careful, graybeard! Don’t stumble!”
Reuben couldn’t strike. His sword was too far away, and Isenbard was too quick, he was already turning. So instead, before Isenbard could turn around and face him, Reuben took aim, lifted his foot and delivered a solid kick to his hindquarters.
Whirling around, Sir Isenbard exclaimed, “What the…have you not a shred of honor, Sir?”
Reuben chewed on his lip for a moment, as if pondering the question. “No, not really,”
“But to kick a knight in the…in the…”
“The word is ‘ass,’” Reuben helped him out graciously, then mused, “This must be a local thing, these holes in your vocabulary. Only the other day, I was having a talk with Lady Ayla. She didn't seem to be able to pronounce a few of the words I used, either.”
“You…!”
His face reddening, Isenbard ripped his sword into the air and charged like an angry bull. Reuben grinned to himself. Fighting honorable people was such fun! They were so easy to rile.
“For God and Glory!”
This time, the old knight did not come at Reuben head-on. Instead, he tried to come in from the side and evade Reuben whenever possible. Apparently he was a quick learner and had seen that his strength was no match for Reuben's. He must have decided that his superior knowledge of movement and sword-handling was his best chance at victory.
Reuben wondered how long it would take him to learn how very wrong he was? Probably half a minute.
The two knights commenced a deadly dance of steel. Reuben did not, for an instant, underestimate the severity of what they were doing. This was a test, not a duel to the death—but it was a test of life and death. They were fighting with sharpened swords. One blow that went amiss would mean the end for one of them. Reuben knew that if he hadn't come up to scratch, hadn't shown himself to be a true warrior right from the start, the old knight would probably have had very little inhibitions about teaching him a serious lesson.
But now, teacher was turned into student, student into teacher. As the duel progressed, Reuben slowly but steadily drove his opponent back over the courtyard, blocking every one of his blows. The old knight was a master of his craft, Reuben had to admit. But even a master had to give way before the raw, animal force and dexterity that none but he possessed.
“What are you waiting for?” Reuben taunted the older knight, knocking his sword out of the way with ease. “When will you stop dancing and start fighting?”
Isenbard just gritted his teeth and threw himself into another attack.
Out of the corner of his eye, Reuben saw people gathering. They stared at him with wide eyes, wondering who this strange knight in a red armor might be who was driving Sir Isenbard back over the courtyard as if the veteran warrior were a novice swordsman. Some of them whispered tales of the red knight’s arrival at the castle, tales of the dark deeds they had heard of being performed atop the castle wall, tales of demons and burning men.
Reuben smiled to himself, not without a hint of bitterness.
And so my legend is reborn in another place, he thought. Fear is rekindled.
He intensified his blows and changed his direction slightly with each time he struck. Now, he was not simply driving Isenbard back, he was driving him in circles around the courtyard. The longer the battle went on, the fiercer his blows became, and the smaller the circles got. Isenbard was panting by now, and sweat was running down his forehead, while Reuben was still perfectly composed.
“Getting tired, are we, graybeard?” he grinned. “Is your rheumatism acting up?”
Isenbard’s only reply to this was to try and take his head off with a swipe of the sword.
Reuben played with the older knight for a while. After all, why not? He was in no hurry, and he loved having an audience. He waited until the crowd around them had swelled to at least two-hundred people. To feel their stares on him was a thrilling feeling. This was the only thing he really missed about the old days: the admiration of the crowd! He could well remember the crowds cheering and throwing flowers at him on the tournament grounds at Senlis, Compiègne and Schweinfurt.
Nobody was throwing flowers now. But the quiet awe with which everybody followed his movements was even more gratifying.
While regarding the crowd out of the corner of his eye, Reuben never took his real focus off where it belonged: Sir Isenbard. The old knight’s panting had gotten louder, but his movements were still swift, his arms still strong.
Well, the crowd is big enough now, you've had your fun, he thought. It’s time to end this. It’s time to show them who the master is.
Without warning, he doubled the speed of his moves and tripled the force of his blows. Isenbard's sword, not made of the same impregnable damask steel as Reuben's monster of a blade, was hacked into a saw-like something as blow after blow ate away at the metal. Reuben drove his opponent backwards, around and around with ever increasing speed, until it looked as though Sir Isenbard was continually falling backwards, only just managing to hold himself upright.
The time was ripe.
Bringing up his knee, Reuben caught Isenbard's arm in a trap and brought down his sword. Connecting with the blade of his opponent's weapon, it ripped the thing out of his hand. With a clatter, it landed on the cobblestones. Before Isenbard could retreat, Reuben's foot lashed out, sweeping the knight's legs out from under him. He fell over onto the ground with an almighty crash. In the blink of an eye, Reuben knelt on his chest, the point of his sword at Isenbard's throat.
For a moment, all was silent.
And then, Isenbard started to laugh. A big, booming laugh that, unlike his swordarm, seemed just as strong as it must have been in the knight's best days. Along the blade of his sword, Reuben stared down at the old man in puzzlement. “What, by Satan's hairy ass…I beat you! Why are you laughing?”
Isenbard's laughter slowly subsided. He chuckled once more, then smiled.
“Because,” he said in so low a voice that only Reuben could hear him, “you will be fighting for her.”
Reuben, with a lump in his throat, felt the weight of responsibility descending on his shoulders. It was damned heavy!
“Yes,” he vowed. “I will.”
*~*~**~*~*
Once her stomach had recovered from Burchard's merciless stuffing, Ayla went to the stables. She longed for a few moments away from everything—the siege, the blood, the knowledge that, soon, Reuben would put his life on the line—and the only place where she could find peace right now was with her beloved childhood friend.
Eleanor wasn't in her box when Ayla entered the stable. Frowning, she looked around. Her mare was nowhere to be seen.
“Eleanor?” She called. “Where are you, old girl?”
No answer. Then Ayla suddenly had an idea. She went around the corner to the rear of the stable, where a few of the larger and wilder animals were kept tethered. And there Eleanor stood, right next to a certain black stallion.
Ayla scowled. “You're really shameless, you know that?”
Eleanor whinnied plaintively.
“Has he behaved himself, at least?”
Another whinny.
“No, of course he hasn't,” Ayla mumbled. “Why did I even ask?” She went over to her mare and stroked her neck gently.
“Soon you'll run after him all the time and will forget all about me, won't you?” she sighed.
The only answer to that was an affectionate and firmly negating nibble on her sleeve.
“Oh, Eleanor.” Ayla sighed again and pressed her face against her friend’s side. The mare's coat felt so soft, so warm and relaxing. “Sometimes I wish that I were a horse, too, and we could run out of here, far, far away, where there are no powerful nobles to hound us.”
Eleanor nibbled some more. What better moral support could you wish for?
“But I suppose we would have to take him with us, wouldn't we?” She stabbed her finger at the black stallion, Satan, who eyed her more like he wanted to devour her alive than nibble at her dress.
Eleanor just looked at her mistress with those big, black horse-eyes that seemed to say, “You wouldn't mind if a certain red knight came with us, would you?”
Ayla sighed. “No, probably not. You know me so well.”
She snuggled closer to Eleanor.
It was just so pleasant, sitting here, her head leaned against her old friend. Outside, a bird perched somewhere on the roof was singing, totally ignorant of the army of murderous men camped outside the gate
s. If she hugged Eleanor very tightly and didn't think about anything else, Ayla could pretend it was just another day in her peaceful life at Luntberg, before mercenary armies and evil Margraves. It looked like just such a peaceful day. The sunlight streaming in through the jagged, man-sized hole in the wall was so beautiful…
Wait just a minute.
Hole in the wall? What hole in the wall?
Visions of the Past
Ayla strode determinedly along the walkway. The guards down in the courtyard had told her that was where Isenbard was to be found, and she wanted a word with him. Turning around a corner, she saw him standing not far off, looking down into the valley, surrounded by a few guards. When he noticed her, he turned towards her and bowed.
“Ah, Milady. You’ve come just at the right time. I have something of importance to discuss with you.”
“So have I,” said Ayla. “Why is there a hole in the wall of my stable? And,” she added, sniffing and wrinkling her nose, “why do you smell of horse manure?”
“Because I haven't had time to wash it off yet, Milady,” Isenbard answered with another bow.
“Wait a minute! That's no answ—”
“Milady?” Isenbard interrupted her. “I shall be more than glad to discuss horse defecation with you at some later time. Now, however, there is something that urgently requires your attention.”
He pointed down into the valley. Distracted from her line of inquiry, Ayla looked to where he was pointing. It was a spot at the edge of the forest. There, men bearing the crest of Falkenstein were hacking away at trees. A fair number were already felled and lay on the ground. Other men were working on them, stripping off the bark and carving.
“What's this?” Ayla asked, frowning. “They're building more boats? That can't be. They're already across the river and have taken the bridge.”
“Boats aren't the only things you can build out of wood, Milady.”
She rolled her eyes. “I'm aware of that, uncle. But what, then?”
“I'm not entirely sure,” he admitted. “It looks like…” He paused, then shook his head. “No, but that wouldn't make any sense. I'm really not sure. I'm an old soldier, Milady. I am not very up to date regarding the latest war machinery.”
