by Robert Thier
In other words, the perfect men for this task.
“Start to unload,” commanded Conrad in a voice that didn't quite sound like his own. The men jumped onto the wagon and began unloading the projectiles. Yes, projectiles, thought Conrad. Or, better yet, “objects.” Think of them as objects, and nothing is wrong. Otherwise you might start to call them other names…
Soon there was a pile of the objects beside the catapult. It had already been positioned correctly by men who knew how to handle such machinery. All that was required now was to shoot, to shoot, and to shoot. And maybe, someday, gain forgiveness for what they had done.
“Load the catapult,” Conrad heard himself say. One of the men grinned as he picked up one of the objects, threw it into the air, and caught it with his other hand. Conrad would have liked to punch him in the face, but Sir Luca was still standing beside the siege engine, waiting and watching. So Conrad just stood there while the grinning mercenary put the object into the sling, ready to be thrown at their enemies.
“To the ropes,” Conrad heard himself command. It didn't sound like himself at all.
Several of the men hurried to the ropes at the other end of the throwing arm. They gripped them tightly and waited.
Conrad was just about to open his mouth when Sir Luca held up a hand. It was a clear sign. The hand hovered in the air for an immeasurable second, then it came down like an executioner's ax.
“Pull!”
*~*~**~*~*
Reaching the top of the stairs, Ayla pushed the tower door open and stepped out onto the allure. It was dark now. The sun had long disappeared behind the horizon, and night had fallen.
Sir Isenbard was still standing where she had left him hours ago, on the wall, staring eastward, although there wasn't anything one could see out there now. He would probably remain standing there for the rest of his days if she didn't force him to go to bed. Ever since that incident with the intruders, he seemed to think it a better policy to stand watch on the wall all night rather than catch a good night's sleep.
“Has anything happened yet?” she asked, coming to a standstill right beside him.
“Milady!” He started and turned towards her, standing straighter than he had before. His eyelids, which had been drooping, suddenly came up. “No, nothing has happened yet. I wonder why. There hasn't been any hammering or sawing for hours. They must long be finished with their work. And still they are not attacking.”
“You shouldn't be up here staring into the night, then,” she admonished. “You should be resting for when they do attack. We will need you then.”
“I can handle it. Don't worry yourself.”
“Why wouldn't I worry? You…”
Ayla was interrupted by a whooshing noise and a wet smack from behind her. She looked into the direction from which it had come, but before she could completely turn around Isenbard had pushed her back against the wall.
“Keep down!” he shouted. “They’re shooting something, girl, so keep your head down! We have no idea what devilry they have cooked up! Guards! Guards, protect your mistress!”
The thunder of heavy boots on stone sounded through the night as a detachment of the castle guard came hurrying towards them. More smacks and thuds came from all around. They didn't sound very dangerous, Ayla thought. There was no fire, no breaking stone, nothing that could indicate danger.
“Stay here,” Isenbard hissed, pushing her even more tightly against the breastwork. “Don't move an inch, understood?”
He didn't even wait for a reply but sidled forward until he had reached the place on the wall where one of the projectiles had landed. Taking a torch from one of the brackets set in the stone, he held it so he could see what the missile was. Since he stood between Ayla and the object, she couldn't see anything. But then he turned around—and she saw the expression on his face.
“Get her out of here!” he shouted to the approaching guards. “Get her into the keep! Now!”
Headless Flight
“What in God's name is the matter, Isenbard?” Ayla demanded and stepped forward. “What did they throw at us? It doesn't seem to be dangerous, so far as I…can…tell…”
Her voice drained away as she caught the odor.
“Please, Milady, I beg of you,” Sir Isenbard said, his voice hollow. “Go inside. You don't need to see this. You shouldn't…”
Hardly listening, Ayla stepped around him and looked down at what lay there on the cold stone of the walkway.
At first, she did not quite comprehend what she saw. Maybe it was the way the thing had been split open from the impact. Or maybe it was the way the flesh had already rotted and half fallen off, revealing the bones underneath. Or maybe it was simply that her own mind was trying to protect her from the ghastly image of a rotting head, grinning up at her with dirty, jagged teeth.
Slowly, she knelt before the head. She couldn't take her eyes off it.
Was it somebody she had known?
She couldn't tell.
All she could tell was that the sight of it made her sick. Not sick to the stomach. Oh no. Sick to the heart. For she knew where the head had come from. The white flower on blue background that was sewn onto the dirty cap still sitting on the half-decomposed skull told her all. It was the crest of the house of Luntberg.
Isenbard's words, spoken right beside her, drifted to her as though from far away, through a layer of thick fog.
“Sacrilege! Must be…they will burn in hell for this…devils, the lot of them…not capable of…should have known…”
She didn't hear more than one word in ten. Her men. These were her men. Men who had fought and died for her, whom she had cried over and laid to rest in holy ground outside the walls. And now they had been dug up like a dog’s bone! Their eternal rest disturbed for…for what?
She began to shake all over.
“Milady! I think…Captain, come and…somewhere safe, where she can rest and…”
Isenbard's words still came to her in small, disjointed chunks. They didn't make any sense. Safe? How could anyone be safe while there was such evil in the world? How could anyone think of rest? There was no rest anymore when even the grave was not safe.
Hands tried to grab her from behind. Shrieking, she tried to fight them off.
“It is only me, Milady! Captain Linhart!”
She knew it was only him. It didn't matter. She didn't want him near her right now. She didn't want anyone near her. She wanted to be alone and cry and cry and cry until maybe she would fall asleep and forget that there was more wickedness in the world than any single heart could bear.
When the Captain tried to grab her again, she wrenched herself free of his arms and rushed away, down the walkway, towards the tower. She hardly knew where she was going and knew she was in danger of falling down into the courtyard. Part of her might even have hoped for that. Then, there would be an end to all this.
“Milady!” She heard Isenbard shout behind her. But she didn't stop. His words meant nothing. Her mind was filled with the image of the head, grinning up at her, seeming to prophesy doom and damnation.
She sprinted into the tower and down the stairs. Her vision was so obscured by tears, it was a miracle she didn't break her neck. From outside, she heard several muffled thuds. She didn't realize what they meant until she staggered out into the courtyard and saw the gore spattered and the heads scattered everywhere.
Whimpering, she ran on, up the hill.
Thud!
Around her, more dark objects plummeted from the night sky.
Thud!
Thud!
Right and left and behind her; they were everywhere. Nightmarish piles of bone and flesh, some still recognizable, others completely smashed.
In the silver light of the moon she could not see the color of the small rivers running from the deformed things downhill. They might have been blue, or gray, or even green. But, in her heart, she knew they were blood-red. And the moonlight was more than enough to see the faces: mangled, half wo
rm-eaten faces of former friends and protectors turned into grizzly masks that leered at her accusingly, following her with their empty stares wherever she ran.
Thud!
There! Up ahead, the inner gate appeared out of the shadows. Beyond it lay the inner courtyard, and safety from this night of horrors. She redoubled her efforts and ran faster, her dress fluttering behind her like the wings of a moth, desperate to escape the spider's web.
That was when she fell.
The ground hit her hard, slamming the air out of her lungs and making her gasp in pain. Rolling around onto her back, writhing in agony, she thanked the Lord that, when her father had built the castle, he only had the inner courtyard paved. She might have broken something otherwise. Slowly, she lifted up her head and turned to see what had made her stumble.
Her scream probably woke those inmates of the castle who hadn’t woken yet from the bombardment. She writhed like a madwoman to get away from the…the thing staring at her with lifeless, menacing eyes, and struggled out of her shoes. They were covered with…no! She didn't even want to think about what they were covered in.
Barefoot, she continued up the hill, limping now, not only from the stabbing pain in her side where she had fallen, but also from the pain in her feet where the sharp edges of little stones on the ground were cutting into her soft skin.
When she stumbled like that out of the darkness and into the field of vision of the gate guards, their mouths dropped open and they raised their spears, at first not recognizing their mistress.
“Milady!” Dropping his spear, one of them jumped forward. “Lady Ayla! Are you all right? What has happened? Is the castle under attack?”
“Yes…no…yes,” she wailed. “I don't know what… It's just…it's just…” She stopped the garbled words coming out of her mouth, forcing herself to breathe slowly. “The…the castle is in no immediate danger. Open the inner gates, please.”
The guard examined her ragged appearance more closely, then exchanged a hesitant look with his comrades.
“Milady, I don't think that…”
“Open the gates!” Ayla didn't know how long she could keep this up. She could already hear her voice cracking again. Soon she would collapse and nothing would stop the tears. But she couldn't cry. Not here. Not in front of the men she had to lead through this darkness. ”Open—the—gates—now!” She said, very slowly, very clearly.
The guards exchanged another look—then proceeded to follow her orders. As soon as the gates were opened wide enough, Ayla slipped through and ran farther up the hill. It was easier here, on the smooth cobblestones of the inner yard. They didn't cut into her feet.
And, oh yes, what else? There weren't any rotting heads lying around here. That probably helped.
However, that didn't mean that she couldn't still hear them. Behind her, beyond the wall, she again and again heard the soft, revolting thud of another piece of rotting flesh hitting the ground. In her mind’s eye, there were rivers of blood now running down the mountainside, staining the ground again with blood that had once already been spilled for her sake.
A Nice Fork in the Ass
Ayla ran as fast as she could, and still it seemed an eternity until she reached the doors of the keep. Just as she was hastening up the stairs, Dilli stepped out, dressed in a beige nightgown and an adorable little bedcap. Part of Ayla's mind wondered how she could notice such a thing at a time like this.
“Milady!” Dilli breathed as she saw the tearstained face of her mistress. “What is the matter? Can I…”
Ayla rushed past her startled maid without even attempting a reply. Her voice was still lost somewhere in a distant scream.
She ran into the keep, up the stairs, and into the first empty room she passed. Darkness and the tears in her eyes concealed everything so well, she didn't even know where she was. She just flung herself into a corner and rolled herself up into a ball there, weeping into her gore-spattered gown.
A thousand questions whirled around in her head, a thousand images. She didn't have the strength to face any of them.
She just wanted to sit there forever and despair of a world that was capable of such atrocities. She had always known that there was war and wickedness in the world. But she had believed that, at least in death, all people would be allowed to rest and find their peace. Now, she didn't know what to believe. She only wanted to be alone.
Just then, the door opened with a squeak.
No! Isenbard had come to find her!
She couldn't face him now. She couldn't bear it! Please let him go again, she prayed. Please!
But then a voice spoke softly, gently—and it wasn't Isenbard's.
“I thought I might find you here.”
Ayla knew that voice, knew it very well. She had memorized its every tone and cadence almost as well as she had memorized the gray of his eyes or the devilish allure of his smile. Slowly, with strength she didn't know she possessed, she raised her head a few inches and saw him standing in the doorway.
He was only a dark shadow, but she'd recognize that shape anywhere. The only man to whom she could open her heart at this moment. The only man who could ease her pain. The only man she loved.
“Find me here?” she croaked. Only then did she properly look around and noticed that she was not in her chambers, nor in any random room, but in Reuben's sickroom, where she had nursed him back to health and afterwards held him captive. Was it just coincidence? Or had some instinct led her here?
It was only a moment of blessed distraction, then the questions disappeared and the images from the courtyard returned in full force. The gore, the staring eye sockets…
Ayla shivered, staring up at the immovable, dark figure of Reuben above her.
“Why did they do that?” she wailed. “Why would they do that to people who were already dead?”
She hadn't actually expected an answer to her words. They were not really a question. They were a cry to the sky, to the wicked world.
So, when an answer came, it quite surprised her.
“To vent their rage, since they could not reach living people,” Reuben said, his voice still gentle, but with an edge of steel in it. “And, most of all, to strike fear into the hearts of their enemies.”
So that was it? Well, the latter part had certainly worked.
“H-how do you know this?” she sniffled. “Have you seen this kind of thing before?”
“Yes. From quite up close, in fact.”
And from the way he said it, she knew. He hadn't just seen it. He had done it himself. Or rather, ordered it to be done. For a moment, her heart shrank away from its own feelings. How could she ever let herself feel like this for such a man?
Yet when she opened her mouth, no rebukes, no plea for him to leave her alone passed her lips. Instead, she stretched out her arms.
“Hold me?” she whispered.
The dark shadow from the door moved closer. Wordlessly, she let herself fall forward, and then she was in Reuben's arms and the world, which just a minute ago had seemed to have descended into the madness of eternal night, was making a little bit of sense again.
“Oh Reuben,” she whimpered, pressing herself so hard against him that she felt sure she would give him a bruise or two. Well, he probably wouldn't even notice if she did.
Reuben returned her embrace and pressed his lips against her cheek—a gesture any passing observer might see as nothing more than simple comfort. But Ayla knew better. And she was proved right just a moment later when his lips wandered down from her cheek, over her jawline, down to her exposed throat.
“Ayla…”
His voice was like molten steel—hot and deadly.
Ayla felt a shiver run through her. Grief? Pleasure? Both, so tightly entwined as to be indistinguishable?
“Do you know what I want to do right now, Milady?” Reuben murmured against her skin.
She managed a shake of the head.
“I want to take advantage of your grief and vulnerability to seduc
e you.”
A small “Oh!” escaped her. That was all she said. All she could say.
“But I can’t!” he growled, not sounding very pleased at the fact. “Because I lo— care about you, and I can’t just use you like that. Damn!”
By the Apostles! Was he going to say that he loved me?
But then…why hadn’t he? She had been waiting to hear those words again ever since she had found out his secret, had been waiting for him to tell her that it hadn’t been all just lies to ensnare her, that his feelings were real. Why couldn’t he come right out and say it?
She almost asked him. But instead, she pressed her face into his oh-so-soft, messy black hair and pulled him closer, the hint of a smile playing on her face.
“I care about you, too, Reuben.”
“Now you’ve just made it worse! God’s teeth! You little vixen!” He pressed another lingering kiss on her throat. “Feelings are about as convenient as a fork in the ass, sometimes!”
She gave a half-sob, half-chuckle. “Feels nice, though, doesn’t it? Having someone to hold you?”
His grip around her tightened. “Yes, damn you! It does.”
Those words were like a brightly blazing torch to her, driving the cold out of her heart. Yet even though she didn’t feel empty and cold anymore, even though Reuben was holding her, she suddenly started to cry again.
It was too much, simply too much for her not to cry. Too many brave men had died, too many souls had been violated.
“Shh, Ayla, shh, don’t cry!” Quickly, he came up from the level of her jaw and pressed her face into his shoulder, sheltering her. His hand started to lightly stroke her hair. “Everything is going to be all right. Just wait. Everything is going to be all right.”
“It is, is it?” she asked, with a tearful little chuckle. “So you have found a plan to get rid of the army in front of my gates, have you, Sir Knight?”
