by Robert Thier
Maybe she was, inside.
That was the moment when Reuben finally knew what to do. He stepped up beside Ayla, drawing her into his arms. She went willingly, collapsing against his chest, silent tears running down her cheeks. Reuben just stood there and held her, not trying to speak idle words, not trying to stop her from crying. He knew she had cause to cry.
Only now did he realize how mighty a warrior he had thrown onto a dung heap a few days ago. He might have been old, and he might have been neither as strong nor as fast as Reuben, but he had been there and discovered danger when he, Reuben, had not.
He had been the directing force behind the entire castle defense, the only one standing between Ayla and annihilation.
Now someone else had to take up the standard. Taking one hand from Ayla's shoulders, Reuben flexed his fingers and observed the way the red metal glistened in the sunlight with a grim smile. He knew just the man for the job.
By Satan’s hairy ass, he swore to himself. I will wreak vengeance on our enemies for this! It may take weeks, it may take months, but this is one vow I will not break!
Secret in the Dark
Reuben stepped out of the keep door into the sunlight and came face to face with Captain Linhart. The soldier was standing at the bottom of the steps, staring up at him with a searching gaze in his eyes.
“Ah, Captain.” Reuben nodded.
“Where is Lady Ayla?” the Captain asked somewhat belligerently.
“She’s taking a moment to be alone with Sir Isenbard, Captain.”
“Is she, now?”
“Yes. I had to leave her. There is something important I have to check. But before I go—tell me what the patrols on the wall say.”
Reuben's tone of voice left no doubt that this was a command. He studied Linhart carefully—the man who commanded Ayla's troops now. The man who still did not and could never know who he, Reuben, really was. Would this man bow to his authority, or would he have to make him?
The Captain hesitated for a long moment. Then he said, “All reports are negative. There were no further attempts to storm the castle last night. No breaches of the wall anywhere.”
Reuben's muscles relaxed. Slowly, his hand, which had been drifting toward the hilt of his sword, started to move the other way again.
Listening, he turned his head from side to side.
“And the clanking and moaning has stopped, too.”
“Apparently.” Linhart hesitated once again. “Do you know why they stopped?” he inquired. “If they tried this again, they could probably wear us down completely and storm the castle.”
Again, with a grim smile on his face, Reuben nodded. “Yes. But you see, the point is not whether they could, the point is whether their commander can convince his men of that fact. He tried his plan, and it failed, and men died in the attempt. It takes a very good soldier to attempt a second time a plan which has failed once already. And these are not good soldiers. These are hired cutthroats. They will look for something else to try. But make no mistake—whatever it is, they will find a way.”
The Captain nodded. “I see. It seems you know what you are talking about.”
Reuben knew it was as much a question as a statement.
“No,” he said. “I do not only know what I'm talking about. I know what I'm doing.”
“And what will you do next?”
Reuben considered for a moment whether to punch the man for his nosy, interfering questions or simply stab him in the gut. But then…he did seem a capable Captain. Such men were not to be wasted.
“Now,” he said, the threat unmistakable in his voice, “I'm going somewhere to check on something I've been wondering about for a couple of days. That's all you need to know.”
In a second he was down the stairs and past Linhart.
“That wouldn't have anything to do with a certain change in the patrol duties of the guards, would it?” Linhart called after him. “A change that said, from now on, three guards have to always patrol together. For some strange reason, nobody was willing to tell me who had given that particular order.”
Reuben stopped in his tracks.
“Go to the wall, Captain of the Guard, and guard it,” he said. “Asking too many questions can be hazardous to your health.”
Then he strode away.
His path took him around the keep, to the back of the stone fortress. There, a separate entrance led to the castle dungeons. Reuben nodded in appreciation of the cleverness behind the layout of the castle. This way, if the prisoners escaped, they could not seize control of the keep and its inhabitants immediately. They would be stuck in the open, between the keep and the outer wall, with no defenses against attacks from both sides.
However, it didn't look like this clever layout had been of any use in recent years. Reuben unwillingly smiled as he entered through the rusty gate, which stood wide open. Was Luntberg normally such a peaceful place that its dungeons were used for storing old, broken cartwheels and moth-eaten rugs? Or had Lady Ayla just had as much luck with catching other robbers as she'd had with him?
He supposed the former was more likely. Luntberg looked like a peaceful place. Well, before the Margrave's army had come, anyway. That black thought reminded him of why he was here.
Taking a torch from the wall, he lit it with a flint and proceeded down the stairs, past cobwebs and broken odds and ends down, down into the depth below Luntberg Castle, even further down than the cellars.
Why had they stored the object down here? he asked himself. Maybe they had instinctively sensed its dangerous nature.
The deeper he ventured into the bowels of the Luntberg, the darker it became. The darkness seemed to eat up the light of his torch and got ever hungrier the further he progressed. The steps of the stone staircase became more and more uneven. Why not? This was a dungeon, after all. The kind of people that were brought down here were probably meant to break their necks at the earliest opportunity.
This is where I might have ended up, shot a thought through his head. If everything had not worked out just the way it did, and Ayla had known who I was from the very beginning, I would have been brought down here and locked in some dark cell, only to leave it again to die, dangling from a rope.
He banished the thought from his mind. Things had worked out just fine. He was not and would never be Ayla's prisoner—at least, not the kind she would need iron bars to keep in her castle. He was bound to her by other ties. Far stronger ones.
The last few steps, and he stood at the very bottom of Luntberg Castle, deep inside the mountain. He crossed the tiny room and finally came to a halt in front of a large door made of bars of iron. This was the place. This was where the guards had told him they had stored the object he was looking for. Now he was going to have to check his suspicion. What if he was wrong? Well, that would be bad, very bad indeed. But then…what if he was right? That would be even worse. For him, for everybody else in this castle, and especially for Ayla.
Pain shot through his heart as he remembered the few whispered words he had exchanged with her in the chapel—the only kind of pain he ever felt. Ayla's pain.
“Ayla…I'm so sorry.”
He felt her soft body quivering in his arms.
“Wasn't your fault, Reuben… I…”
“Shh. Don't say anything. I know. I know.”
“Oh, Reuben!”
“Ayla.”
“Hold me.”
“I am.”
“Tighter.”
And he had. For a long time. Then he had plucked up his courage, which wasn't easy because there was quite a lot of it, and had said the five words he wanted to say least of all in the world.
“Ayla…I have to go.”
“Reuben…no, please!”
“I don't want to. It's just…there's something I have to check. A suspicion I've had for some time now, and I have to find out whether or not I'm right. I have to make you safe.”
“I'm safe while you hold me!”
He had swa
llowed then and admitted the truth, for once in his life. “I wish that were true, Ayla. But it isn't.”
“Where do you…” Her words broke off in a sob, but he knew what she meant.
“The castle dungeon. I won't be long, I promise.”
She nodded against his chest. She felt so vulnerable, so small in his grasp. His arms around her felt so much like the safest place for her to be. He just wanted to stand here and never let her go. That, however, he knew to be slightly impractical. Even if he did not have to go to ensure the safety of everyone in the castle, he would have to go to the lavatory sooner or later.
Slowly, he helped her down to the floor, where she knelt before the body of Isenbard. At least like this, she was closer to her lost friend and in less danger of falling. Then he tortuously released his grip and stood up.
“I'll be back soon.”
He had left. And now he stood before the dungeon door to see what he had come to see. Slowly, his hand extended and pushed open the iron door in front of him. The creak it gave as it swung inwards was all too familiar to Reuben. He had seen enough of places like these to last him a lifetime. But, nevertheless, he entered. Holding the torch high above his head, he let his eyes wander around the windowless stone chamber, searching. They did not have to look for long.
On a battered old table in the corner lay the huge iron grappling hook, the same grappling hook that had hung from the castle wall only a short while ago, making it possible for the fat mercenary and his companions to get over the wall and nearly kidnap Ayla. His guts clenched at the memory.
Slowly walking over there, Reuben stuck his torch into a bracket on the wall and bent over to examine the hook more closely. It hadn't begun to rust yet. Obviously, it was made out of good steel. Gripping it with both hands, he carefully weighed it. Quite heavy. Very heavy, in fact. Just as he had suspected. Now there only remained one thing that could confirm his suspicion or prove him wrong.
His hands wandered to the very back of the long shaft that was part of the metal hook. There, he felt the end, searching for some indentation, something, anything.
But there was nothing.
His fingers clenched into a fist.
“So I was right!” he hissed. “Satan’s hairy ass, I was right!”
The Last Honor
For an entire day, Sir Isenbard lay in front of the altar in the small chapel of Luntberg castle, while Ayla held vigil at his side. Even so, she felt that it was not enough. If things had been different, she would have staged a great event in the old knight's honor, invited nobles from across the land, and had monks hold vigil at his deathbed for days on end, saying prayers for his noble soul. If things had been different, she would never have put him to rest here, but conveyed him back to his own estate where he could be interred beside his beloved wife, Irene, who had died before Ayla had even been born.
If things had been different…
But the army of the Margrave was still outside the gates, still threatening everybody's lives, now more than ever. So, one day was all the time she had allowed the men to dig a grave, all the time she had allowed herself to grieve. She sat beside Sir Isenbard while his face grew pale and his lips turned blue. She sat beside him as the sun rose and sank again, slowly moving towards the horizon.
Nobody disturbed her. Not one of the villagers Isenbard had died to protect came into the chapel. Not one of the guards he had fought with showed their face. Even Reuben was gone to God only knew where. She was alone—totally alone.
“Tell me,” Ayla whispered, clutching her hands together. “What should I do now?”
Sir Isenbard's cold lips did not give an answer.
There came a soft knock from the door.
“Y-yes?”
Looking over her shoulder, Ayla saw one of the castle servants showing his pale face in a crack between the door and the wall.
“Um…Milady? Everything is ready, as you commanded.”
“Already? But it is…” Only then did Ayla notice that the light of the sun was almost gone. Stars now glittered through the stained glass of the chapel window, and Sir Isenbard's face appeared even more lifeless in the harsh light of the moon.
Her day with him was gone.
“It is time, isn't it?” she asked, her voice wavering.
“Yes, Milady.”
With strength she didn't know she possessed, Ayla rose to her feet. “Then there's no sense in delaying any longer. Let us proceed.”
The words felt as hollow as she herself did. Two guards entered, their eyes downcast, not daring to look at her. One stopped beside her for a moment.
“Milady? Are you all right?”
She blinked her tears away. “Hans, isn't it?”
“Yes, Milady.” The guard nodded, an unreadable emotion on his face.
“Well, Hans…if I'd say I'm all right, I would be lying.”
He swallowed. “I'm sorry, Milady.”
“Why? It's not your fault.”
He seemed to want to say something more but then hurriedly turned and went to where his comrade was waiting.
They picked up Sir Isenbard's litter—no, his bier, for that's what it was now—and moved towards the door. The servant hurried to the front, opening doors, while Ayla wandered behind, caught in an endless nightmare. Still, she was not thinking Isenbard is dead. That thought was too horrible to contemplate. No, instead, a thought almost as painful wouldn’t leave her mind: Nobody came to say good-bye. Nobody.
They reached the door of the keep. As before, the servant hurried out first, holding the doors open. There was a strange sound from outside, like the rustling of leaves, but Ayla didn't bother. What did it matter? She was alone.
The two guards bearing the bier stepped outside. She followed them—and stopped in her tracks.
There they were.
Everyone.
Everywhere.
They stood in the courtyard. They stood at the windows of the castle. They stood on the walls. They stood even on the roof of the stable. The entire inner courtyard was packed with people. All three hundred villagers were there. It would not even have been fair to say “to a man,” because they were not only men. The women were all there, as were boys and girls and even babies. None of them were crying. They didn't have to. The expressions on their faces said enough.
“Guards!” Linhart's voice rang out over the courtyard. Looking up, Ayla saw that he was standing high up on top of the wall, facing her. He raised his spear and shield in greeting—but not for her.
“Sir Isenbard!” he shouted.
His spear came down and then connected with his shield, as did every other soldier's spear in the castle. The thunderous crash seemed to shake the very earth.
“Sir Isenbard!”
A second time the spear came down. Ayla could feel the reverberation of the crash travel up her spine, not into her head, but into her heart.
“Sir Isenbard!”
A third and final time the soldier's spears were raised.
“Sir Isenbard!”
Then there was silence.
Ayla could feel the tears welling up in her eyes. Through the veil of moisture, she could dimly make out the figure of Captain Linhart entering the tower to descend from the wall. It seemed like an eternity, but finally he emerged from the door at the bottom and strode across the courtyard towards her. People parted before him like the sea had done before Moses.
He halted at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the keep door. Ayla looked down at him, and he returned her gaze earnestly. His eyes were a mirror of her tortured soul, as were those of every other man, woman, and child in the castle.
“Milady.” He bowed once deeply.
“Captain.” She nodded. At the moment, she wasn't capable of more. She was still busy processing what she saw in front of her: the solemn faces, the flickering torches, the fact that they had come. They had all come.
“Shall the two of us carry the bier?” Linhart asked.
The shadow of a frown
stole onto Ayla's face. Surely he wasn't expecting her to try and lift the bier? Sir Isenbard was still in full armor. She couldn't possibly carry that kind of weight.
“Do you mean…you and me?”
“No,” came a voice from behind her and slightly to the side. “He means him and me.”
A gigantic figure in red stepped out from behind the keep's door. Ayla's knees almost buckled beneath her when as she recognized him. He had been there the whole time! Waiting, not disturbing her, keeping watch.
Briefly, their hands touched.
“Would you?” she asked.
“If you want me to, Milady.”
“Yes,” she said, her voice slightly throaty. “Thank you.”
“It is an honor, Milady.”
Reuben stepped forward and took one side of the bier from the guards. Linhart came up the stairs and took the other end. Ayla wished she could express to the both of them what it meant to her, seeing them like this, bearing him, honoring him, but she couldn't. Her voice had failed her, and even if it hadn't, she wouldn't have been able to think of the words to say.
So she just asked, “You know where to go?”
They both nodded and, without further instructions, started forward. The crowd parted to let them and Ayla through. As they passed, people reached out to touch Isenbard's armor, his hands, his face. None of them were shrinking from the blood-encrusted wound that disfigured his throat. They just wanted to be close to the man who had been their friend and their shield one last time.
It didn't pass Ayla's notice that quite a few of the villagers touched her hands as she passed in exactly the same manner. She didn't mind. Anything that could give them comfort was fine. She only wished she had someone to hold on to.
Unconsciously, her eyes fixed on Reuben. She couldn't hold him. At least not right now. But she could look at him, follow him, and so she did. Their steps led not to a cemetery, for there wasn’t one within the confines of the castle, but to the little orchard at the back of the keep. There, Ayla had chosen a small patch of earth, next to the largest and most beautiful of apple trees.
