by Robert Thier
Captain Linhart and his men tried to continue to shoot at their target, but the enemy soldiers were hidden under the small overhang of the wall. It was impossible to hit them at this angle.
“Treason!” Sir Luca shouted, looking wildly from right to left. Thunder rolled over the castle as if to emphasize his outcry. “We've been betrayed! Where is that rat of a castle guard that has sprung this trap on us?”
His men would have been only too eager to oblige their commander, but Hans was nowhere to be found. In his rage, Sir Luca turned to Reuben, who was still calmly standing on the walkway of the inner wall, watching the proceedings in the courtyard. Ayla couldn't see his face—he was still wearing his helmet—but she didn't really need to. The aura of grim satisfaction that radiated out from him was almost tangible. She knew the diabolical grin that would be on his face.
“Where is the rat?” Sir Luca screamed up at Reuben. “Where is he?”
Reuben waved a hand deprecatingly. “He is long gone. And in any case, it was not he who brought you into your current predicament. It was I. This is my trap.”
“Shoot him!” As his rage rose, the Italian's voice became higher, more and more like the screech of a wild bird. “Shoot the bastardo! Now!” He took a few steps towards Reuben, shaking his fist at him, but jumped back with a curse as one of Linhart's archers took the opportunity and shot an arrow at him. It buried itself into the dirt right next to where, a moment ago, Luca's foot had been.
“Shoot him,” he repeated, back in the relative safety of the wall. “Now!”
Several mercenaries pulled out bows and arrows from their backs and started aiming at Reuben. He laughed and just stood there.
“What is he doing?” Ayla whispered frantically. “Why isn't he moving out of the way?”
“Maybe he's decided to make my day?” Burchard suggested, then quickly ducked out of the way as Ayla aimed a slap at him.
“Burchard! You shouldn't even…shouldn't even…” Ayla's throat became too tight for speaking. The idea of losing Reuben…
No! No, don’t think about it! He’s going to survive this! You’re both going to survive this!
Burchard may have said something—maybe an apology. She didn't hear. All her attention was focused on the man she loved, the man who was still standing clearly in the line of fire.
Mary, Mother of God, why doesn’t he move?
“Reuben! Duck!” she shouted at him in desperation. Oh, if only he weren't so far away from her… “Duck! Now!”
He waved at her. He actually waved at her.
The mercenaries drew back their bows. They took aim.
At the very last moment, Reuben threw himself to the ground. The arrows zipped harmlessly far over his head. Ayla slumped against the crenels, relief washing over her, and made a mental note that, if she and Reuben both survived this, she was going to kill him.
Sir Luca obviously felt a similar, though more immediate, urge.
“Kill him! Kill the bastardo!” He screeched, waving his sword at the place where Reuben had just now stood.
One of his captains whispered something into his ear, and it seemed to cool the commander down somewhat. He looked up at the inner wall, then turned, and gazed up the outer wall. Ayla could see comprehension dawn on his face, and he paled.
“Retreat!” he shouted, his voice now slightly hoarse. “Retreat, everybody! To the gates!”
That was the moment they had been waiting for. Ayla watched as Linhart gave the Signal. Adelbart, the castle's best archer, put an arrow to the string, pulled it back, aimed…and let it fly!
The arrow hit the rope holding up the portcullis, just as the first of the enemy tried to pass under it, out of the castle. It came down with a crunch, smashing bones and tearing flesh in its way. Screams of frustration went up to the sky: The entire army of Falkenstein was trapped inside of Luntberg Castle.
Ayla punched the air again. “Yes! We have them!”
Beside her, Burchard didn't seem quite so enthusiastic. Between two of the crenels, he stared down into the courtyard, at the mass of ravenously angry soldiers milling about.
“Yes,” he murmured. “We’ve locked ourselves in with an army eight times the size of ours. That makes me so terribly happy.”
“Come on! We have a plan, haven't we?”
Down in the courtyard, Sir Luca turned, his eyes blazing. He ripped his helmet from where it had hung at his belt and placed it on his head. With a swing of his sword, he ordered his troops to silence and to form ranks under the protection of the outer wall. They did as he commanded and soon stood in a disciplined line, waiting for the order to attack.
“Yes, we have a plan.” Burchard nodded grudgingly. “The only question is…will it work?”
“Men!” Sir Luca raised his sword. “On my command…!”
One Army, Deep-fried, please
The six of them—Ayla, Burchard, Captain Linhart, Sir Waldar, Sir Rudolphus, and Reuben—stood on the allure, looking out over the outer courtyard of Luntberg castle.
“Look out there,” Reuben said, pointing down from the walls. “What do you see?”
Ayla looked at the others. They shook their heads, seemingly just as confused as she was.
“The outer courtyard,” Burchard stated in a you'd-better-stop-messing-with-me voice.
An evil smile spread over Reuben’s face. “That's what it may be called by you—but it has another name.”
“No, it hasn't,” Burchard snapped.
“Yes, it does, steward.”
“Reuben,” Ayla said in a soft voice, not wanting to disappoint him. She wasn't sure what this supposed idea was that he had come up with, but it didn't sound very promising so far, and she was loathed to have to smash his—and, moreover, her own—hopes, small as they were. “I'm sorry, but I have to agree with Burchard. I've lived at this castle my entire life, and the outer courtyard has no other name. It's just the outer courtyard.”
“No.” Reuben shook his head, as if her words didn't mean anything. “You don't understand. I didn't mean that somebody came along and named this particular courtyard. I mean that this kind of courtyard has a special technical name or term in poliorcetics.”
Ayla checked, and yes, all the four others were looking at Reuben with just as much confusion as she was. Only Sir Rudolphus seemed to be thinking, moving his lips as if tasting the word on his tongue. This wasn't going the way she had expected.
“In polio…what?” she asked.
“Poliorcetics, Milady. It is a term derived from Ancient Greek, meaning ‘the art of siege warfare’.”
“Ancient Greek.” Ayla couldn't keep her lips from twitching as she imagined Reuben in a scholar’s robe, studying some dusty old Greek scroll in a library. “I had no idea you were so knowledgeable.”
“Knowledgeable, I? Only about…certain things,” Reuben returned with a lascivious smile that gave the words special meaning. “I certainly know how to wear down defenses and storm a stronghold.”
Ayla blushed, though she didn't really know why. Her hand tingled at the spot where Reuben had kissed it earlier that day.
“Aaaall right,” Burchard growled. “If we could return to the subject, please…?”
“Did we ever leave it?” Reuben raised an eyebrow. “I thought we were talking of poliorcetics the entire time.”
“I certainly hope so,” grumbled Burchard.
“You were just saying that this courtyard had another name?” Ayla said hastily, trying to avoid Burchard's suspicious eyes.
“Yes.” Reuben nodded, and a smile filled with blood-lust spread over his face. “Oh yes. A name very much to my liking.”
*~*~**~*~*
Sir Luca pointed his sword at the door of the outer gatehouse tower, then raised it towards Linhart and his men, high above.
“Smash the door in! Smash the accursed door in, and we'll rout these bastardi figli di puttana!”
Enemy soldiers streamed in from all directions. They didn't have a ram with them,
but they took the largest spears and heaviest swords and began hacking and beating at the door. It shuddered under the blows that rained down upon it.
Anxiously, Ayla tore her gaze away from the enemy to search for her own people. Thank God! Atop the wall, Captain Linhart had not been idle.
“Bring the oil forward!” he yelled. “Faster, men! Move!”
Men appeared, carrying gigantic, steaming pots forward. Sir Luca down in the courtyard looked up, frowning, and realized what was happening a second too late. The Luntberg soldiers on the wall poured the content of the pots down the wall, and it splashed and sizzled in all directions. Men who had been standing too far away from the wall, believing themselves still safe from the arrows, were suddenly falling to the ground in agony, covered in hot oil, angry red boils springing up everywhere on their arms and faces. Once they were on the ground, it was worse. They rolled about in a sea of burning pain, quickly spreading across the courtyard, and their howls echoed from the walls like the screams of the tortured souls of hell.
“Back! Back, farther against the wall!” Sir Luca shouted as a few of his men tried to dash under and away from the boiling rain of pain. “If you run, their arrows will get you! Against the wall, I say! Now!”
Growling and cursing, his men did as he commanded.
“Bash the door in! Bash the door in, and we'll go up there and deep-fry them in their own oil!”
This suggestion met with considerably more enthusiasm, and the battering on the door resumed with renewed vigor. The mercenaries didn't turn from the wall again. They didn't even throw a glance into the courtyard, for fear that a splash of boiling oil might hit their eyes and blind them.
Slowly, Ayla rose from behind the crenels. Farther down the wall, she could see Reuben doing the same. He had taken his helmet off to see better. His long black hair, slick and shiny from the rain, flew behind him in the wind. The scar on his forehead gleamed menacingly in the light of every thunderbolt that flashed across the sky. And his eyes, oh, his eyes…
They were more demonic than she had ever seen them before, a gray exactly like that of a merciless blade. And they were moving fast, scanning the courtyard. Ayla wasn't surprised by this. She knew exactly what he was doing, because she was doing the same.
“Not enough,” she murmured, tears coming to her eyes. “Not enough!”
“What?” Burchard grunted and appeared from behind one of the crenels. His mustache drooped in a way that would have been rather funny had they not been in the midst of a bloody battle for survival. “What are you talking about?”
“Look!” Ayla pointed down into the courtyard, to the heaps of dead bodies scattered over the ground. “There's a dozen, there another two, there about twenty…” She continued to count, using her fingers to remember battalions. “About two hundred dead. There are still three-hundred left. More than enough to kill Linhart and all his men on the outer wall if they get through the door. They’re going to be killed!”
Burchard spat on the stone and said a very bad word that, normally, he wouldn't have dared to utter in the presence of his mistress. “At least you're safe in here. They can't get over the walls.”
Ayla turned her tear-streaked face towards him. She couldn't believe she was hearing this. “And you think that matters to me?”
“It bloody well should! You're the heart of this castle! The last surviving heir in the line of Luntberg. Without you, everything falls apart.” The steward's face was grim and unusually cold as he added, “Linhart and his men might die. But their arrows killed hundreds of enemy soldiers. At least their sacrifice would not be in vain.”
“Oh, you think so do you?”
In quick succession, Ayla pointed at three enemy soldiers down in the writhing mass of bloody bodies who had grappling hooks tied to their belts. Her words came in short, fearful gasps.
“The inner wall isn't as high as the outer one. They can kill off Linhart and his men, and then come back at their leisure to dispose of us! Even if they can't get to us right away, it's no use! With half our garrison dead, we can't possibly defend the castle! We must act now!”
“Milady, we can't. Not yet. There are still too many of them. It's too risky, especially with you here.”
“I won't watch my own people die if I can prevent it!”
“Then look away,” he growled. “In war, sacrifices have to be made!”
“No!”
“Don't you remember what the red knight said? The enemy has to be down to one hundred men before we act! Otherwise, some of them might get through! As soon as we start, they'll turn and rage like a trapped lion! You might get hurt!”
“Then so be it!”
The cracks of thunder were not the only cracks to be heard anymore. Down in the courtyard, Ayla heard wood splinter and groan as the door slowly weakened under the mercenaries' merciless assault. The soldiers atop the wall still brought boiling oil, but the mercenaries were now so tightly packed together, pressed against the wall with their faces turned towards the door, that hardly a drop hit them. Ayla could see desperation in the eyes of the archers on the wall. They were only twenty. Down there waited a ravenous pack of wolves of more than three hundred.
“Faster,” cried Sir Luca, seeing victory at hand. “Faster, men! We'll have them! We'll have them soon!”
Ayla began to stride down the walkway. Burchard tried to grab her, but she dodged out of the way. Desperately, she waved at Reuben.
“It's time!” she screamed.
Abruptly, he looked up from the courtyard. Their eyes met.
“It's time! Do it, Reuben! Give the command! It's now or never!”
He nodded. Gravely, he put his helmet back on. Then he bent and grabbed the torch which had fallen onto the walkway again. With a single swift motion, he plunged it into the air, a fiery signal!
*~*~**~*~*
They stood on the wall, silent, waiting for Reuben's explanation.
“Well?” Ayla demanded when Reuben said no more. “And the name is?”
Reuben's smile widened, and he turned to her, a fire burning in his eyes that made her shiver with fear and hope.
“The name,” he whispered with dark relish, “is the Killing Fields.”
The Killing Fields
Crack!
Howls of triumph erupted among the enemy soldiers as the door to the tower gave way. They rushed towards the doorway and started to pull the splinters and pieces of wood aside, thirsty for blood.
Ayla didn't watch the enemy soldiers. She watched Reuben and the thirty or so archers who had risen from behind the crenels to stand on either side of him, bows at the ready. The thirty archers that, together with Linhart's men on the other side of the courtyard, made up all of her loyal liegemen. The enemy soldiers down in the courtyard were so intent on celebrating their triumph, so intent on the door, so intent on the outer wall, that they neglected to watch the inner. That was a mistake.
In her mind, Ayla heard once more Reuben's chilling and fiery words, as he had stood on this very wall only a few hours ago, telling them of bloody secrets.
“The name is…the Killing Fields,” he said.
A shudder went down Ayla's back at the name. “Killing…Fields? Why is it called that?” She could have slapped herself at the question. Obviously not because daisies and roses were planted there.
Reuben waved the torch once. The silent sign for “nock.” As one, the archers put the arrows to the strings. Inside, Ayla heard his voice again.
“It's called that,” Reuben said, “because, when a castle is stormed, that is where the attacking soldiers died. Caught in the middle.”
“I…don't understand.”
Reuben moved his torch again. The sign for “mark.” The archers took aim. Ayla threw a quick glimpse down into the courtyard. The enemy was still busy removing the splintered bits and pieces of the door, ravenous to get at their prey up on the wall and to get out of the way of the streams of boiling oil. Still, they hadn't noticed anything of what was going o
n behind them.
“When an army attacks, a castle has multiple layers of defense,” Reuben explained, looking glowingly at the killing fields, as if he could see the action before him. “The second layer, the second wall, is the most dangerous to take. At the first layer, the attacking army has a safe rear, it has room to maneuver, safe routes for fresh soldiers to be brought in and wounded to be brought away. It can use heavy war machinery, such as catapults, siege towers, ballisti, and the devil knows what else.”
“God. God knows what else.”
Reuben gave a grunt. “All right, I suppose he knows, too. The point is that, at the outer wall, the attacking army has many advantages that make up for its inferior positioning. At the inner wall, on the other hand…”
Reuben waved the torch a third time. The men knew what that meant and drew their arrows back. Ayla, just as everybody else on the wall, held her breath. Now was the time to put Reuben's plan to the test.
In her memory, she saw Reuben smile, and it was a gruesome smile.
“…at the inner wall, the situation is quite different.”
Reuben looked at Ayla. Even though he wore his visor, she knew their eyes met for a moment. She nodded. Like the sword of justice, his burning torch came down.
“Loose!”
Ayla had seen arrows fly before: on the meadow beyond the bridge, and at the riverbanks of the Lunt River. In the latter case, she had even commanded the archers. Yet never before had she seen arrows fly and hit home with such deadly devastation as now, under the flickering lights of the thunderstorm. Every arrow of the fifty found its mark. With unearthly howls of pain, one sixth of the enemy army went down in one go. As they turned, the second volley was already flying, and another forty soldiers went down with arrows in their legs, chests, and stomachs.
Sir Luca's eyes went wild with fury, wild with insanity, as he finally understood the full extent of the trap that had been laid for him. Ayla swallowed, remembering the last words she had exchanged with Reuben before the battle.
