by Robert Thier
Reuben opened his visor again to have a better view of the surroundings. Quickly, his practiced eye scanned the soldiers. Forty, perhaps fifty men. Mercenaries probably. Well-armed and, to judge from the scars, battle-hardened. Their weapons were not new, but kept sharp for immediate use. They were professionals.
This was beginning to look like fun. The day was just getting better and better.
“And tell me,” Reuben demanded, slowing down his horse but not stopping it, “why should I pay heed to any Margrave von Falkenstein?”
The commander drew his sword. “As you well know,” he growled, “Margrave von Falkenstein has declared a feud on your mistress, Lady Ayla. So if you do not want me to cut you open like a freshly-caught fish, dismount and surrender!”
“I don't know any Lady Ayla.” Reuben's voice was deadly calm, his face impassive. He did not stop his horse. “I am just passing through.”
Surprise flitted across the commander's face. “You do not serve Lady Ayla, the mistress of these lands?”
“No.”
“That may be so,” the commander granted, “but since I have only your word for it, I must treat you as I would any of Lady Ayla's men.”
“Meaning?” Reuben demanded, and there was a note of steel in his voice now.
“Meaning I must ask you to surrender your horses, money, armor, and weapons to me, and you will have to come along with me to the Margrave's camp.”
Reuben's answer came clearly and calmly.
“No.”
“You do not have any choice here,” the commander persisted. “I must insist.”
With one hand, Reuben reached for his sword, with the other for his shield. “Then I will resist. I will not surrender to lowly mercenaries such as you. Not while I still have a sword-arm attached to my body!”
“Don't be a fool,” the commander growled. “I've got four dozen men! It will be your death.”
“Maybe.” Reuben shrugged and slammed down his visor. “But you see, the thing is: I do not fear death!”
*~*~**~*~*
Eleanor was gone.
The thought would have moved Ayla to tears. Would have—if she hadn't been fuming with anger. She had been robbed! Robbed on her own lands!
Eleanor, her dear friend. Her childhood companion. The sweet thing she had watched growing up from a filly to a beautiful mare.
And the impudence of the man! He had dared to lay his filthy hands on her! And now she was alone in the forest, on foot, with no help anywhere in sight, and Falkenstein's men could be lurking behind the next bend in the path, for all she knew. She forced herself not to let her thoughts drift in that direction. It would take her to the feeling that lay behind her anger, a feeling that would make her feet unsteady and fill her head with horrible images.
It took Ayla less time to reach help than she had expected. After only ten minutes or so, she heard the sound of pine-needles being crushed under heavy boots approaching. Peeking around a tree, she saw Burchard, followed by a few castle guards, marching up the forest path towards her.
Relief flooded through her at seeing the wrinkled face of the old steward. He was marching hurriedly, his face set like that of a grumpy old bulldog determined not to give up the scent. They had come after her!
She jumped out from between the trees and ran toward them. “Burchard! God, am I happy to see you!”
She threw her arms around him and hugged him fiercely. She didn't want to admit it to herself, but wandering through the forest alone had been scary—scarier than being robbed, in fact. While she was facing an enemy, she knew what to do. She knew that she could not back down. But alone, fearing that Falkenstein's soldiers might appear at any moment, and without a horse or other means to escape them, she had felt terribly vulnerable. It was comforting to have her arms around the solid bulk of her father's old friend.
Burchard gripped her shoulders and pushed her away. “Just a minute! What is this? Why are you walking? Where is your horse? And why did you hug me?”
“I'm walking because I don't have my horse. And I don't have it because it was stolen by some crimson-clad fiend who calls himself a knight,” she said, choosing to ignore the last question.
“Stolen? By a robber knight?” The usual scowl on his face deepened. “Did he threaten you? Did he hurt you, Milady? I...”
“No,” she hurriedly assured him. “I'm perfectly fine. He just took my money and my horse, that's all.”
Not that that hadn't been enough. Just the thought of having lost Eleanor made her want to strangle the villain!
“Are you sure?” Burchard asked, disbelieving. “And the knight was wearing red?”
“Red like the devil,” she confirmed. “Why do you ask? Do you know something I don't?”
He shook his head, but his eyes remained troubled.
“You know who this red knight might be, don't you?” Ayla asked with an eagerness that surprised herself.
Burchard scrutinized her closely, then said: “I have an idea. But if I'm right, it's all the more important to get out of the forest and back over the river as quickly as possible.”
Ayla didn't much like the sound of that. Now that she had reinforcements, her first instinct was to go after the villainous knight and retrieve what was rightfully hers.
But to do so would have been foolish: he had horses, they didn't. And even if they managed to catch up to him, they were on a narrow forest path, wide enough for one man to defend alone, and he was standing on higher ground. Yes, he probably was no great fighter, cowardly thief that he was, but was she willing to risk her men's lives on that chance?
Taking a deep breath, she said: “Yes, Burchard, you're right. Let's h—”
The ring of metal on metal interrupted her. Cocking her head, she turned to face up the path that led out of the valley again.
“What was that?” she asked.
“I didn't hear anything, Milady.”
“That's because you've got hair growing in your ears, Burchard. Psst! Be quiet!”
Everybody went still, and in the ensuing silence, they could hear the clash of metal upon metal in the distance, intensifying—yet not because it drew nearer, but because the blows became ever mightier and faster.
“Come on!” Ayla gestured up the path and had already started on her way back when Burchard grabbed her by the arm.
“Have you gone insane?” he exclaimed. “That's too dangerous!”
“I know it's too dangerous! That's why we're going to help whoever is fighting there.”
“I meant too dangerous for you!”
“Well, I didn't.”
Burchard rolled his eyes. “Why doesn't that surprise me? Milady, how do you even know that one side of the fight deserves help?”
“Because,” she said with simple logic, “the other side is sure to be Falkenstein's men. Don't you hear it? That's more than two weapons up there. Who but him would dare to bring a battalion of soldiers onto my land?”
Burchard's grip only hardened. “And the prospect of walking up to a battalion of Falkenstein's soldiers doesn't worry you?” he demanded.
“Not really, no,” she said, grinning grimly. “I will have my brave guards with me.”
“And what makes you think,” the steward growled, “that your brave guards won't just drag you back to the castle before allowing this foolishness?”
“Well,” she said, and nimbly slipped out of his grasp, “they'd have to catch me first.” Then she turned and ran back up the forest path. She had to help the poor souls that were fighting for their lives.
“After her!” Burchard yelled.
Listening In
The sounds of battle slowly subsided as Ayla hurried towards their origin. One blade after another went silent and spoke no more. She knew why: its wielder had met with an untimely end, had met with a faster blade. One side seemed to be winning the combat. She hoped against hope that it was not Falkenstein.
With ruffled skirts, Ayla ran from tree to tree, always keeping be
hind cover and watching the path before her closely. Despite what Burchard might think, she was not an irresponsible girl taking every opportunity to stick her nose into trouble. She was a responsible woman taking every opportunity to stick her nose into trouble—if by so doing she could help others. Whoever was fighting up there was fighting against the Margrave Markus von Falkenstein, fighting valiantly by the sound of it. That was more than enough reason for her to risk her neck.
As she neared the place of the fight, she slipped from the path into the trees. Ayla knew this forest well; as a little girl she had gone riding out here often. She recognized the place in front of her. Not twenty yards away was a clearing where pilgrims and other travelers often stopped on their way to the castle. Now, it seemed, the clearing was much less peaceful.
The sound of the furious blows intensified as Ayla crept nearer. And then, suddenly, there were the cries of men:
“That's the devil! Run! He's not human!”
And another voice, trying to be commanding, but quivering with fear: “Stand and fight, you cowards! Fight or the Margrave will have your heads!”
Ayla tried to catch a glimpse of what was going on, but the foliage was too dense; it blocked her view.
And then, a second later, she was almost glad for it. From the center of the clearing came a truly frightening sound, an animalistic growl that seemed to reverberate around the entire forest and make even the trees shudder with fear. A hailstorm of blows followed, and a cacophony of cries of human pain.
“Stand and fight, or the Margrave...”
“Dammit, I don't care about the Margrave! Run!”
“Run for your lives!”
“Stand and fight, I say! You have sworn an oaaaarrr...!”
The cry ceased abruptly.
“Captain! Captain!”
But the captain did not answer.
Instead, another sound reverberated around the clearing, a sound even more frightening than the growl: a devilish laughter, seeming to glory in the violence and gore.
“Damn you! I'll kill you for that, I'll kill y—”
But apparently, this man was not any more successful than his commander and dozens of other men had been. The unknown force that had growled and laughed like the devil cut him short in mid-sentence.
“He's not human, I tell you! Run!”
“Run!”
The cry was picked up by many a fearful man. Then, suddenly, another terrified voice shouted:
“Conrad! Get him from behind! The others, get out of the way, now!”
There was a zitt-noise, a thump, and then, suddenly, there was silence.
Utter silence.
Ayla was just about to peek around a tree and risk a glance into the clearing, when a man's hand grabbed her from behind. A scream raced up her throat, but before it could escape her mouth, a gloved hand clamped down over her lips.
“Are you totally insane?” Burchard hissed into her ear and dragged her back. “-Milady?” he added as a polite afterthought.
She shook her head.
“Well, you give a pretty damn good impression! Look!”
Slowly, he removed the hand from her mouth and pointed to a gap up between the branches of two tall trees, where the black and silver banner of the Margrave was visible.
“I had to come and see whether we could help,” she hissed back.
“Of course you had! I almost wish I let you go out there just so I could have watched what you would have tried!”
“Really?”
“No, of course not,” the steward growled. “Now let's get back before they notice us.”
“No. We're not leaving until we have made sure that we can't help any of these unfortunate souls that have fallen prey to the Margrave.”
“We are already too late. Whoever they were, they have lost the fight. May God have mercy on them.”
“And what if there are wounded?” she asked in a whisper. “We can't leave yet.”
“Milady...”
“Don't argue with me, Burchard. It'll be safer to leave once they've gone anyway. While they're here, they could hear us moving through the underbrush.”
“Or they could hear us arguing!”
“Exactly. So you'd better give in,” Ayla said with a sweet smile.
Burchard scowled at her. “I hate it when you're right.”
Together, they cowered in the dense foliage of the forest and listened to Falkenstein's men shout and argue.
“We have to bring the others back to camp!”
“Are you mad?” a haughty voice sneered in response. “What if there are others like him lurking around? Do you truly want to chance another such encounter?”
“We can't just leave them here!”
“Look around you, man! They are dead! All dead! Not one of the blows that devil struck missed its mark! Let's leave them and get back to the camp. But before we go, you'll get me his things. Everything.”
“What? I'm not going within twenty feet of that monster!”
“He's dead.”
“He's possessed![21] Didn't you see what we did to him? And he didn't cry out once! Not once, Conrad!”
Ayla smiled grimly. Whoever had been fighting Falkenstein's men, they seemed to have held their own.
“Yes, he might rise from the dead and kill you,” the man called Conrad said in his deadly sweet voice. “But, on the other hand, if you don't do as you are told, I will put an arrow through that empty head of yours! What do you think the Margrave will have to say when we tell him we lost an entire battalion of men to... that! And without any proof? Now go!”
“Yessir! As you say, Sir!”
Behind the trees and bushes that hid them from sight, Ayla leaned closer to Burchard and whispered: “Did you understand the meaning of any of that?”
He shook his head, frowning—even more than usual.
“Get on with it!” Ayla heard Conrad's voice. “Cut the arrows off, if you need to, but hurry!”
“No, it's all right. I can get it off easily enough; the arrows went in between two armor plates. Excellent shooting, Sir.”
“I want results, not flattery. Get on with it, I say!”
“Yessir!”
There was movement in the clearing. To judge from the sound, someone was dragging around something heavy. Then they heard the clinking of metal.
“Can you make out a coat of arms?” the man called Conrad asked.
“No, Sir. Everything is matted with blood.”
“Give it to me.” A short pause. “Hm... something red, definitely.” Conrad laughed. His laugh was as unpleasant as his voice. “Not that that's saying much. Everything is red with blood here. All right, let's get out here before another one of these maniacs comes along.”
“Yessir.”
The sound of heavy boots retreated from the clearing. As best as Ayla could tell, they were moving eastwards. While their trampling and the clinking of armor could still be heard, she and Burchard said nothing, didn't move a muscle. Still and silent, they sat among the trees and waited for their enemies to disappear.
A squirrel came running out of the direction of the clearing. It looked at Ayla with large, intelligent eyes and then ran off into the foliage. On the forest floor, it left behind small, muddy paw prints.
No, she realized—those weren't muddy paw prints. She squinted. The color was wrong. It was too bright, glossy... red. Slowly, very slowly she reached out and touched the bloody spot where the squirrel's foot had touched the ground.
A shudder ran down her back.
“Come,” she said to Burchard and got up.
“Milady,” he protested, “shouldn't we just return to the castle? It's dangerous for you out here.”
“Come with me,” she repeated.
Pushing aside the branches of a yew tree, she stepped into the clearing, followed by her loyal though reluctant steward.
A Stranger among the Carrion
A terrible and strange sight met their eyes. Dozens of dead bodies litter
ed the ground: bloody, mangled, their faces contorted into masks of terror frozen in death. What was strange, however, was not the enormity of the carnage, but the fact that of all the men lying in the clearing, only one did not bear the crest of the Falkensteins: a black-haired man in bloody linen clothes, lying on his face, with three arrows jutting out of his back. He lay at the center of a circle of enemy soldiers surrounding him.
Ayla tried to swallow but could not. Her eyes wandered over the dozens of Falkenstein's soldiers that lay slain. A grizzly sight, yes, but also one that gave her a strange, fierce kind of hope.
It can be done! The thought shot through her head. He is not invincible!
“Where... where are all the men who did this?” she asked out loud. She tried to keep her voice steady, yet didn't quite manage it. Somehow, she felt queasy. What was wrong with her? Had she eaten something bad this morning? It couldn't be because of this, could it? These were her enemies!
She tried to avert her eyes from the slaughter but could not. “It had to have been a considerable force. Where could they have gone?”
“They probably fled,” Burchard grunted.
Ayla threw him a sideways glance and was surprised to see that his face had turned pale. Did she, too, look like that?
“Except for this poor fellow.” The steward pointed towards the fallen man with the arrows in his back.
The fallen man whose fingers twitched just at that moment.
Ayla gasped and started to run forward, jumping over dead bodies and bloody blades.
“Milady!” she heard Burchard shout behind her. Ignoring him, she rushed to the man on the ground and knelt by his side.
“Milady, what is it?” demanded the old steward, appearing beside her.
“He moved, Burchard! I swear! I think he isn't dead. Help me turn him over.”
“Milady, I don't think...”
“Help me turn him over!”
Sighing, Burchard did as she asked. Together, they gripped the man's shoulder and pulled. Ayla could feel his hard muscles under her slender fingers. However, her attention was more focused on another thing her fingers felt: copious amounts of half-dried blood. How could the man still be alive? It was unbelievable. Aided by Burchard, she pulled and pulled. The man was heavier than he looked.
