by Robert Thier
“For Luntberg! Die, you cowards! Die!”
Ayla heard the shout. A moment later, she had spotted him. Like a silver-gray whirlwind, he moved through the enemy, striking soldiers down left and right. He was certainly having a lot more luck progressing towards the ladders than the soldiers were.
“For Count Thomas!”
No, Ayla corrected herself as he felled an enemy with a swift, back-handed blow. Luck probably didn't have anything to do with it. His sword impaled foe after foe, and soon he had reached one of the ropes that bound a ladder to one of the crenels. But as soon as he started hacking at it, several soldiers attacked him from all sides, and he had to stop to defend himself. More soldiers came, not just from the front, right and left, but also from behind as more and more climbed up the long ladder onto the allure.
Isenbard's movements were getting slower, his strokes less certain, his movement less agile. He was being overwhelmed. Where were the soldiers? Why wasn't anyone coming to help?
She spotted the two gate-guards at the foot of the tower, fumbling around at the door.
“What are you waiting for?” she shouted. “Open it, get up there, and help them.”
“We can't, Milady!” One of them yelled back, the desperation obvious in his voice. “They must have jammed the door from the inside! They want to assemble a large force on the wall before they confront us!”
On top of the wall, Isenbard was being surrounded by dozens of enemies. He fought valiantly, but even Ayla, inexperienced in sword fighting as she was, could tell he was hard beset. Then, a moment later, the mass of enemies had swallowed him, and he was out of her sight.
“Isenbard!” she called in desperation.
There was no answer.
Instead, footsteps came up from behind her. The guards, finally? She whirled around. No, it wasn't the guards. It was something far better. Never in her life had Ayla been so glad to see an angry face.
“Ayla, what the hell were you thinking! You could have been—”
“Reuben!”
She clutched his hand, cutting him off, and then pointing up to the wall.
“Isenbard is up there.”
He didn't waste any time with unnecessary questions. He just asked the one that was essential.
“Then why is the door to that damn tower still locked?”
“It's jammed,” she cried in desperation, and the guards nodded to confirm her words. He shook off her arm and took a deep breath.
“Not for much longer. Stand back.”
“What do you intend to d—”
“Stand back, I say!”
For once, she did as he asked without protest. The guards were already twenty yards away. Reuben threw her a last look, a look full of determination, fervor, and…love?
Then he began to run.
Hurtling down the courtyard, he gathered speed and momentum with every leap. Ayla stared at him in surprise. Did he just want to get to the door quickly? If so, he was overdoing it. The way he was running, like a mountain ram gathering speed for a duel with an opponent, he wasn't just going to get to the tower door, he was going to crash right into—
And then she realized what he wanted to do.
“No!” she cried. “Reuben, don't! You'll smash every bone in your—”
With an almighty crash, Reuben collided with the oak door. It was ripped from its hinges, and he disappeared into the darkness. There was another crash and the sound of something splintering. Ayla fervently hoped that it was a piece of wood, not Reuben’s bones.
The two guards cautiously approached the open doorway. Ayla was not far behind.
“Well?” she shouted at them as they peered into the dark interior of the tower.
One of them turned and shook his head.
“He's not there anymore, Milady. He’s gone.”
That meant he must be on his way up already. Ayla could hardly imagine the force it must have taken to rip that door out of its hinges, the pain that must have caused. Well, pain it might have caused to anyone but Reuben.
Reuben was something…special.
A new, sudden bout of fear shot through her.
What am I doing? How could I have sent him up there? He’s completely alone! There is no aid in sight, nobody else who could help defend the wall! I’m a fool! An infernal fool!
Hesitatingly, she looked up at the threatening edifice of stone above her. Should she go herself? But deep in her heart, Ayla knew she would not be able to help.
Well, not by brute force, maybe. But perhaps she could stop panicking and start using her brain!
“You!” She nodded to the two guards. “Go to the tower west,” she pointed towards the west, “and east of here. Go up there on the wall and check that nobody else is trying to climb up there. If you find something, a rope, a ladder, anything—cut it or smash it to bits. Keep patrolling the wall all around until I say otherwise!”
The two guards bowed.
“Yes, Milady!”
They were off without another word. Ayla retreated a few steps and anxiously stared up at the wall. From inside the tower, she could hear thundering footsteps that were even audible over the wild clamor of the fight.
Ayla waited with bated breath. Did that mean what she hoped it meant?
Her agony of waiting lasted a few seconds longer. Then the upper door of the tower burst into splinters, and Reuben broke out onto the walkway.
He was no whirlwind, like Isenbard. He was a thunderstorm. He did not weave through the enemy. He cut them to pieces.
When his great sword connected with an enemy, whether with the edge or the flat of the blade, it meant death. Those who were not cut in half were thrown off the wall right and left, like so many autumn leaves blown away by an approaching tempest.
With a thunderous crash, the first enemy slammed into the ground beside her. Ayla twitched and staggered back, fearing that the man might rise again—but he just lay there, twisted into an unnatural tangle of limbs.
From above her, she heard an inhuman growl and quickly looked up again to see Reuben, his face contorted into the most fearsome mask of devilry she had ever seen, rapidly plowing his way through his enemies towards the ladders.
The mercenaries tried to encircle him, to grab him, to trip him. Nothing worked. He was an unstoppable force of nature.
Two more steps, and he was at the first ladder. His sword cut through the ropes holding it to the wall and the man who was busy attaching them in a single blow. With his left arm, almost casually, the red knight thrust the ladder away from the wall. There was a moment of terrible, silent movement. Ayla could feel rather than see the ladder fall beyond the wall, and then a crunch announced the death of a dozen men crushed beneath hard wood and the weight of their own bodies.
Reuben moved in quick succession from one ladder to another, not seeming to care much whether he cut through rope or wood or human flesh. There was something strangely fascinating about the way he moved, and Ayla could not look away, though she sometimes wished she could. For a moment, she thought that this was what it must have been like for the masses in the arenas of the old heathen Romans to watch wild animals tear prisoners apart. The fascination of inevitable death.
But when she saw Reuben throw three men from the wall with a single blow, she corrected that view. The prisoners in the arena had probably had a better chance.
“Lady Ayla!”
Startled, she looked over her shoulder.
Guards were running from the barracks, coming towards her, Captain Linhart in the lead. Without a word, Ayla pointed up to the wall where Reuben was fighting. The Captain's eyes widened for a moment.
“God’s breath! He—“
Then he brought himself back under control, and drew his sword. “Your orders, Milady?”
“Go.”
She didn't need to say anything else. He motioned to his men, and they disappeared into the tower and up the stairs.
Reuben didn't even seem to notice their arrival. He seemed int
ent on personally slicing every mercenary on the wall into tiny little pieces and, from what Ayla could see, was making a good job of it.
The enemies didn't seem to notice Linhart and his men either. They were fully busy trying not to get killed by Reuben. When that didn’t work out, they were busy being killed by him anyway. And then they were busy being dead.
Finally, what remained of the force on the wall turned and fled, running toward the only remaining ladder leaning against the castle wall. Reuben came after them—not like an avenging angel, no, he was far too terrible for that—rather like an avenging demon who had the full fury of hell at his command.
He reached the ladder just as the last man had swung himself over the wall and started to climb down. Reuben beheaded him without hesitation. There were screams and curses from his comrades below as the head of the mercenary bumped down the ladder. Reuben didn't pay any attention. He made short work of the ropes attaching the ladder to the castle wall and then thrust it back with a mighty shove.
The ladder sailed into the darkness of the night. There was a last chorus of screams, a thud—and then silence.
Ayla stood there, gazing up at the wall for a few moments, still caught in a paralysis of fear. She couldn't believe it was over. That had been it?
The enemy had been repelled, and even comparatively easily. All of Linhart's soldiers seemed still to be standing. But then why did this scene feel so wrong? Why, at the sight of the group standing up there on the wall, did dread flood her heart?
And suddenly she knew why.
Reuben was standing.
Linhart was, too.
And so were his men.
But Isenbard was not.
Then, Reuben lowered his head, and as he looked down at the walkway, looking at something Ayla couldn’t see, a grim expression spread over his face, replacing the manic grin that had burned there during battle.
No. No, no, no. This could not be.
Ayla's feet started moving without her consciously realizing it. She was into the tower and halfway up the stairs before she even thought, He'll be all right. Even if he is hurt, he'll be all right. I'm a healer, right? I can heal him. He'll be all right.
Her footsteps quickened. And quickened some more. By the time she had reached the top of the stairs, she had broken into a run. The figures of Linhart’s soldiers stood around her, hazy and indistinct. Something was obscuring her vision. Something wet. Tears?
But why would she cry? Isenbard would be all right. He had to be. He would step out from behind one of the soldiers where he had been hiding and smile at her.
Ayla looked from one of the soldiers to the next. None of them looked like they were hiding Isenbard behind their backs. But, for some reason, they all looked solemn.
Then, two of them stepped aside, and she saw him.
Silent Oath
Isenbard was lying on the stone walkway, his bevor[17] ripped from his throat, a long and bloody gash reaching from his chest to his carotid artery, where the blood was streaming out in a red river. His helmet was also gone, torn off and smashed to pieces by some enemy's sword.
“Captain Linhart?”
Someone was speaking. It sounded like Reuben, but the words didn't make any sense to Ayla. Nothing made sense anymore. Isenbard couldn't be wounded…and he most certainly couldn't look as if he were going to die.
“Captain Linhart! Are you listening to me? Go and check along the wall to the west. There might be more enemies trying to get over the wall. I'll check to the east.”
“Who do you think you are, trying to give me orders?”
There was the metallic ring of a sword.
“Err…all right. West wall. I'm on my way.”
“A very wise decision, Captain. You three—stay here and guard Lady Ayla. If she is harmed in any way when I return, you will have to answer to me.”
Quick footsteps hurried off.
Ayla didn't look up to see whom they belonged to. She could only stare at Isenbard's pale, wrinkled face. Strangely enough, a smile lay on his lips.
Quickly, Ayla bent down. She ripped off a piece of her sleeve and started winding it around Isenbard's bloody neck.
“Don't ruin your dress, girl,” he muttered. “It's not worth it.”
“What do you mean?” she hissed between clenched teeth, suppressing the urge to cry. “You are not worth it? Because if that’s what you mean, you can shut up right now, you stubborn old fool!”
He tried to shake his head—but winced and decided that it wasn’t a good idea.
“No. If I could be saved, I would happily let you tear a hundred dresses to pieces. But I cannot, and you know that.”
“No! No, you're going to be fine! I'm going to save you. I am! I…I…”
By now, Ayla had wrapped three layers of cloth around Isenbard's neck. Still, it only took half a minute for the impromptu bandage to be soaked with blood.
The wound was too big, too dangerous. The bleeding couldn't be stopped. Tears fell from Ayla's face and mingled with the blood on the cloth, running down the side of Isenbard's neck in a salty, red rivulet.
It was too much. Simply too much. Ayla collapsed onto his blood-soaked chest, crying her heart out. Arms came up to hug her tightly. Maybe it was only her imagination, but in this brief moment, they seemed to have all the strength that they had lost along with youth, so long ago.
“Shhh,” Isenbard murmured. “Don't cry, Ayla, don't cry. It's not so bad, you know. All of us have to die some time. I…” He coughed, and the flow of blood increased for a moment. When he continued, his voice was weaker but still audible. “I could have died of the pox or some other terrible disease. Instead, God has shown me his favor. I died protecting my mistress from harm.”
“You did,” Ayla choked out. “You did protect me.”
“Did I fulfill my oath of fealty? Is the castle safe?”
“Yes,” she sobbed, though in truth, she had no idea whether it was true. Was the castle safe? She had no idea what would be found on other sections of the wall. There might have been more attacks, the castle might already be breached, soon to be overrun.
But how could she tell him that? She couldn’t. Not now. Not now that he was d—
No! She couldn't even think the word! This was Isenbard! Always there, always reliable, always the perfect knight, her father's oldest friend and foremost protector. He couldn't just…go.
“Don't cry,” Isenbard repeated, his voice beginning to sound drowsy. “I am old, Ayla. My time has come. I'll see my wife again. My dear, sweet Irene… Don't cry, my child.”
“Please,” Ayla whispered. “Please don't. Don't die. If you die, what will I do? I will have no one! No one I can trust!”
The strangest of sounds originated from Isenbard's throat then. It was weak and unsteady and sounded a bit wet. Ayla needed a moment to understand that he was chuckling.
“No one? I doubt very much that this is true. You will have someone. Go to Sir Reuben. Trust him.”
Ayla's breath caught in her throat. Sir Reuben. So he knew.
She pushed herself up a bit, so she could look into Isenbard's face. All she could see there was warmth and peace. Peace such as she hadn't seen since the beginning of the siege. Peace that meant, for some reason, he was no longer really worried for her safety. Not because there wouldn’t be danger—but because he knew she’d be well protected.
“But…but he's not trustworthy,” she muttered.
“I know,” answered Isenbard. “But he loves you.”
Ayla was about to reply when Isenbard's arms slackened and fell to the ground. His eyes, fixed on her with such fatherly affection a moment ago, went blank, and his head fell to the side.
“Isenbard?” In panic, Ayla gripped his shoulders. “Isenbard? Isenbard!”
*~*~**~*~*
Sir Isenbard's body was carried into the castle’s small chapel as the new day dawned. The rays of the rising sun fell into the room through the little stained glass window and created a halo
of red, gold, and blue on the stone floor just before the altar.
“There.” Reuben pointed at the glowing spot, and the four members of the castle guard who bore the litter made straight towards it. “Lay him down there.”
They did as he said. Slowly, Sir Isenbard descended. His face looked almost peaceful. His armor, dented and scratched as it was, shone in the sunlight, surrounded by an aura of glorious colors, heralding the hero, victorious in death.
Reuben looked from the old man's corpse to Ayla, who was standing a few feet away, pressed against the wall, her face pale and expressionless. For the first time in his life, he did not have the faintest clue what to do.
If the one you loved was in need, you could find some way to help her. If the one you loved was in danger, you could protect her. But if the one you loved was mourning, you could not raise the dead and make everything right again.
What could he do? Isenbard was gone forever.
The guards rose. One of them stepped towards Lady Ayla, uncomfortably twisting his leather cap in his hands.
“Um…Milady? The scouts from the wall are back with their reports. Do you want to receive them?”
A small whimper escaped Ayla's throat.
“Get out,” Reuben said in a rough whisper, “before I throw you out.”
The guard paled and stumbled backwards towards the door.
“Captain Linhart will hear the reports,” continued Reuben. “I will attend to him later. And maybe to you, too.”
“Yes, Sir! I mean no, Sir! Please, I…” Finally deciding that shutting up was the wisest policy, the guard turned and ran. The three others followed at his heels.
Reuben breathed a deep sigh. Now, only the two of them remained in the silent chapel. Or the three of them, if you counted the corpse.
Again, a small whimper came from Ayla’s direction. Reuben's eyes had never left her while talking to the guard. She had begun to shake slightly. For a moment, Reuben wondered if she was going to collapse. But then she took a small, shaky step away from the wall. And another one. And another one.
She continued like this, crossing the small room as though it was a kingdom the size of France, England, and Scotland put together until she finally stood before the litter, staring down at the form of her fallen protector. Still, a curious tremor was going through her body, as if she were crumbling to pieces.
