by Robert Thier
Over the earsplitting racket around them, Ayla could hardly hear Reuben's raw snarl. She leaned closer, and so did Burchard on the Red Knight’s other side.
“They're coming in, in full force. More than three hundred have already passed the gate and are spreading out in the courtyard. Sir Luca rides in front. Beside him rides a standard bearer, holding the banner of the Margrave aloft.”
“Where are they heading? Are they going directly towards the inner gate?” Ayla demanded to know. They had left the inner gate slightly ajar, so as not to alert the enemy to what was really going on. If they decided to make for the gate before the entire force was assembled in the courtyard…
A shiver ran through Ayla at the thought.
“No!” Reuben shook his head. “They seem secure. They think nobody knows they're here. I can tell from the way they move.”
“I want to look.”
“Ayla, it's too…”
“Don't tell me it's too risky! You are looking, and so can I! This is my castle they are marching into, and I will make sure everything goes as planned!”
Reuben turned his head to look at her. Because of the red metal visor, Ayla couldn't really see his face. But she was pretty sure his expression wasn't a very pleased one. Then Reuben looked at Burchard, who shrugged.
“Don't look at me. I gave up arguing with her years ago.”
“All right,” Reuben growled. “Take a look, if you absolutely must! But be careful!”
Slowly, so slowly, in fact, that she hardly felt as if she were moving, Ayla slid her head up between two of the imposing crenels of the castle wall. Just as her eyes peeked over the stone, another lightning bolt shot across the sky, followed immediately by a clap of thunder louder than any before. The storm was here.
Oh yes, it was.
Ayla's eyes widened at the sight of at least four-hundred mercenaries, standing arrayed in neat lines in the outer courtyard of the castle. A few cavalrymen were guarding their sides, and more men were still streaming into the gate from outside.
“Dear Lord,” she gasped. “How many are there?”
“Exactly as many as before,” was Reuben’s grim reply. “They only appear more now, because they are past your gates and inside your home.”
“Shouldn't we do something?” Ayla could hear her own voice quavering. Her heart was beating frantically against her ribs, trying to escape. “Isn't it time now? Before it is too late?”
“No! They must all be inside. We cannot leave a force outside the walls that would still be strong enough to prevent us from breaking the siege!”
“Yes, yes, of course.” She bit her lip, trying to get her fear under control. But the grim faces of the butchers down there, looking like devilish undead in the harsh white glare of the lightning, were frightening the wits out of her.
Taking a deep breath to steel herself, she again peeked over the wall into the courtyard. Almost all the soldiers had passed under the portcullis into the courtyard now.
“It's almost time.” She could hear Reuben's voice from her left, but she didn't turn to look. Her gaze wouldn't move from the men in the courtyard. About fifty had still to pass under the arch into the castle.
Then only forty were still outside.
Then only thirty.
Then twenty. Eighteen. Fifteen. Thirteen. Eleven.
Slowly, the three of them began to rise from the behind the stone crenels. Ayla nodded to Reuben. Of all her enemies, only ten remained outside her walls. And they were hurrying inside as they watched.
“Very well, Reuben,” she said. “Now we shall see if your plan is any good.”
“May God have Mercy on us,” Burchard muttered.
Reuben scowled. “Thank you for the vote of confidence.” Turning to Ayla, he whispered, “I have not forgotten the promise I made you the last time we parted.” Through the visor slit in his helmet, she could see his fiery gray eyes burning into her. “I'll be back for my compensation.”
She reached up, aching to hold him but not daring to in front of Burchard. So she just swiftly caressed his gauntleted hand, one single time. The last time she might ever touch him.
“God be with you, Reuben,” she whispered.
It didn’t matter that she couldn’t see his face. She could feel his devilish grin even through a thick plate of metal. “Thanks, but I think, in battle, I prefer Satan’s company.”
Before she could say anything, he had risen to his full height and marched over to a section of the wall that was clearly visible from the courtyard below. Or at least it would be, were there any lights. But just now, no lightning was illuminating the castle. There was a break in the thunder, and thus, nothing could steal Reuben's thunder. He bent down to where a burning torch lay, concealed behind the crenels, and straightened again, holding it up, up into the air, visible for everyone.
“Men of Luntberg!” he roared. “To your arms! To victory!”
Down in the Dungeon
The dungeon door slowly opened. Ayla saw Hans look up from where he sat, chained to the wall. His face turned grim as she, Burchard, and Reuben entered the gloomy stone cell. Yet this expression was replaced by one of utter astonishment when his wife, Madalena, followed them into the room.
“God's teeth!” he exclaimed. “Madalena, what are you doing here?”
The woman had been staring at the floor, hiding her tear-streaked face. At the sound of his voice, she looked up, and Ayla had to look away from the multitude of emotions that collided on her face as she saw her husband in chains.
She rushed to him and threw her arms around him.
“What am I doing here? I should be asking you that!” She whimpered into his neck. “What in God's name were you thinking? Hans, what were you thinking?”
“I was trying to protect you. I was trying to protect you and the girls.”
Reuben snorted. “Really great protecting you did there, you pock-marked maggot-pie.”
Ayla closed her eyes. “Would you please try and control your foul tongue,” she hissed into his ear. “It is important that everything goes smoothly!”
“I know. It is my plan, remember?”
“Yes, I remember. I also remember that we need his cooperation to make it work.”
“It doesn't have to be willing cooperation, though. And, by the way, my tongue isn't foul. You can check what it tastes like whenever you want. I wouldn't mind.”
“Are you two quite finished?” Burchard interrupted them, and Ayla felt a blush steal onto her face.
“Well, um…yes.” Turning to Hans, she tried to assume a grave expression. “Hans, we have something to tell you.”
The traitorous guard swallowed. Beads of sweat were running down his face, although the air in the dungeon was ice-cold.
“It's my execution, isn't it?” His voice was hoarse, but steady. “Well…I thank you, Milady, that you have brought my wife to me so I can say farewell.”
“No.” Ayla shook her head. “I'm not talking about your execution. Actually, I'm talking about a way for you to win your life and your freedom.”
Hans’s head, which had sunken down onto his chest, jerked up, and he stared into Ayla's eyes, disbelief written on his face in bold, capital letters. When in Ayla's face he discovered nothing but absolute earnestness, he turned to Burchard, who nodded and scowled.
“No need to look so disbelieving. Personally, I would be content to let you rot in here for the rest of eternity or, better yet, have your head chopped off at sunset. But this one—” he shot Reuben an angry glare, “has come up with a 'plan' that requires your cooperation.”
“But…but I don't understand,” Hans stuttered. “What good would that do me, or my family? It may save my life for a couple of days, or weeks, if I do whatever it is you want me to do, but in the end, it won't matter. The castle will fall, and I will be killed, along with the other common soldiers.”
He looked sideways at his wife, and Ayla could see how startled he was when he saw that she didn't look very distraught at his word
s. But he didn't know yet what Madalena knew. The wife and Ayla shared a look.
“Tell him, Milady, please.”
Ayla nodded reassuringly at the woman. She had been through enough already.
“You're wrong, Hans,” she said, turning back to the guard. “There is a way to save the castle. This man,” she pointed at Reuben and couldn't help but let a hint of pride creep into her voice, “this valiant knight, who has fought on more battlefields than you can count, has devised a way for us to escape doom and defeat.”
Hans’s eyes were big and round, and they glinted. At first, Ayla thought it was with hope that his eyes shone, but then she realized they were full of tears.
“Forgive me,” he whispered. “Forgive me, Milady, for ever doubting you. I should have remembered that you are your father's daughter. I should have known you would find a way.”
“Hey!” Reuben growled. “It was me who came up with the plan, remember?”
Everybody ignored him.
“Please, Milady.” Hans crouched at Ayla's feet, his eyes downcast. “Please, forgive me, Milady? Can you forgive me?”
“The means to forgiveness is in your own hands, soldier,” Ayla replied gently. “The plan we have requires your help.”
“What? How?” He gripped her hands. “How can I redeem myself, Milady? Tell me!”
“Well…” Ayla hesitated. “This may sound a tiny bit strange…”
“Tell me! I'll do it! Even if I have to fight the commander of the enemy army myself!”
“Well…no, that's not it. We would like you to signal the enemy and let them into the castle at night, just as you originally planned to.”
Hans’s hands let go of Ayla's and fell down limply into his lap.
“W-what? Milady?”
If the situation hadn't been so serious, the expression on the guard's face would have made Ayla laugh. He looked like a student who had just been praised by a teacher for setting fire to the library.
“I…I don't understand,” he finally said.
“Trust me, I don't either, entirely, and that's in spite of having the whole plan explained to me more than once.” She nodded to Reuben. “It's a completely mad plan. So mad that it might actually work.”
There was a pause. Hans’s eyes went from Ayla, to Reuben, and then to Burchard.
“And you are not just playing with me? I mean, you're not just sending me out to the enemy, and I will find the gates closed when I return? With my help, we really have a chance to get out of this alive? My family has a chance to live and not to be dishonored?”
“Yes.”
“Your word on it!”
“You have it,” Reuben said solemnly.
“I don't want your word, Sir Mad Butcher! That's not worth a groat.”
Reuben raised an eyebrow and nodded. “Impressive. He knows me well.”
Ayla tried not to let that distract her.
“How about my word?” she asked. “Is that worth a groat?”
Hans bowed his head, and so did his wife beside him. There were tears in her eyes, but they weren't tears of distress any more. They were tears of happiness and gratitude.
“It is worth more than a thousand golden Thalers, Milady.”
“Very well, then. I give you my word that we have a plan. A plan which will not only let us escape the Margrave, but crush his army once and for all. If you help us, Hans, you will be reinstated among the castle guards, and nobody will ever know of your fall into this darkness.” She gestured at the dungeon. “And if you should die in the attempt to save us, and we still survive, your name shall be remembered and your wife and children will be under my personal protection. I swear it on Sir Isenbard's grave.”
She paused, looking deep into his eyes.
“So…will you help us?”
Hans looked at his wife. She bit her lip, then nodded. He looked back at Ayla.
“Yes. I'll do it. I just want to know one thing.”
“Which is?”
“All the enemy has wanted to do for weeks and weeks is to get into the castle to destroy us,” Hans said, his face set in grim lines. “How is getting them into the castle now possibly going to help us to defeat such a vast army? I can't see it. And I'm not risking everything until I do.”
Ayla looked at the other two. Should they tell him this? She wasn't sure it was a good idea. Reuben shook his head.
“No. We can’t tell you what the plan is. If you don't play your role of traitor convincingly enough and the enemy starts to torture you to be sure, you might give away everything.”
Or you might just give away everything in any case, just to save your miserable hide. He didn't say it, but Ayla could read it on his forehead as clearly as if the emperor's best scribe had written it there.
Hans met Reuben’s gaze without flinching. Which, considering the burning gray do-what-I-want-now-or-I'll-hamstring-you-and-gut-you-like-a-pig gaze Reuben was directing at him, was an astonishing feat, in Ayla's opinion.
“No,” he said, firmly. “If you want my help, you'll have to tell me.”
Again, she and the other two exchanged a look.
“All right,” she sighed. “But before that, I want your oath that you will not betray us to the enemy.”
“I swear. On Sir Isenbard's grave.”
Ayla was about to open her mouth when a red-clad hand shot past her and gripped Hans by the throat.
“This is one oath,” Reuben growled, “you had better not break. Understand?”
This time, Hans did flinch. Quite a lot, in fact. He also did some gagging, until Ayla gripped Reuben's arm.
“Let go of him. We need him!”
Reuben scowled. To his great disappointment, he apparently knew she was right.
He let go, and Hans collapsed on the stone floor beside his wife. She stared up at Reuben. Ayla believed that she would have been outraged if she hadn't been so busy being terrified.
Ayla waited until Hans had stopped coughing and gasping for breath. Finally, she asked, “Are you ready?”
He nodded. Not ready to speak, apparently. But ready to listen.
“Then listen to me closely,” she said. “This is what's going to happen…”
The Cage Closes
“Men of Luntberg!” Reuben roared. “To your arms! To victory!”
As one, the enemy soldiers down in the courtyard whirled around to stare up at his blood-red, metallic figure gleaming in the torchlight as he stood high above them on the inner castle wall. Thus it was that, when the first arrows from the outer wall started flying, they hit their targets squarely in the back.
“Ha!” Reuben uttered a roar of triumph.
Even Ayla couldn’t suppress a surge of fierce joy. Unlike the dying men down in the courtyard, she had seen where the arrows were coming from. Unlike the men in the courtyard, she wasn't looking at Reuben. She was looking at the outer wall, where Captain Linhart and about twenty of his men had appeared on the walkway. They were streaming from the towers left and right, out of concealment, into the open.
“Loose, men! Loose!” shouted the Captain.
And the men obeyed his order. Their faces were grim, their hands determined, and the bows in their hands more than ready. As quick and efficient as though the spirit of Isenbard guided their hands, they took up their positions on the wall in a long line, firing volley after volley of arrows into the confused enemy down below. Forty or fifty men were down before the mercenaries had even turned and realized they were under attack. Then another volley hit and took another dozen down.
“Yes!” Ayla sprang up and punched the air in celebration, and several of the enemy soldiers turned again at the sound of her shout. They paid their price for that reaction as arrows embedded themselves in their backs. “Yes! Yes!”
Burchard grabbed Ayla around the midriff and dragged her down again. “Have you gone mad, girl?” he hissed. “Stay down and be quiet.”
Suddenly, Ayla felt guilt wash over her. What was she thinking? “Of course!
You're right. I shouldn't be celebrating the death of anybody, even if they're our enemies.”
“Codswallop! Celebrate away, but not anywhere in their line of fire. Some of them have bows themselves, if you remember!”
“Oh.”
Carefully, Ayla raised her head just above the crenels and peered down into the courtyard. Sir Luca had jumped down from his horse and was using the poor animal as a living shield against the arrows. The sight made Ayla sick to the stomach, and she was heartily glad that Reuben had rescued Eleanor from the clutches of that brute.
“Bring out the shields!” Sir Luca yelled. “Form a defensive line!”
The captains of his battalions threw each other desperate looks. It was clear nobody had thought to bring the large metal shields that provided most protection against arrows. This was supposed to have been a surprise stealth attack—not the kind of attack where you burden yourself with heavy, noisy, military equipment.
“A defensive line, I said, bastardi!”
It took Sir Luca a moment to realize why no one was following his orders—long enough for the next volley of arrows to cut down another ten or twenty men. Captain Linhart stood on the wall among his men, not giving commands, but shooting, just as the rest of them. They needed no commands. They knew they had to shoot as fast as they could.
Ayla heard Sir Luca curse in Italian.
“Against the wall,” he bellowed, pointing towards the outer wall of the castle. “Against the wall with you, you larva sporca, or do you all want to be skewered? Run! Sbrigatevi, forza muovetevi!”
They started running, and Ayla couldn't help it—she felt joy at the sight. She felt the fierce joy of her soldiers, as their arrows chased the very men that had threatened their lives and families for weeks and weeks over the courtyard like so many headless chickens. The joy of battle!
Volley after volley of arrows flew down from the outer wall. Cries of agony rose towards the night sky, mixing with the thunder into an eerie symphony. In the reoccurring flashes of lightning, Ayla saw the grim relish in the eyes of the liegemen of Luntberg as they shot soldier after soldier of the enemy army.
And then, suddenly, it was over. The enemy army stood huddled against the outer wall for protection. Most of them had made it. Still, they left the courtyard scattered with corpses. What was left of the Margrave's army cowered down, trying to find its spirit and find out how much of its body was still left alive.
