Reuben galloped into the outer castle courtyard as if it belonged to him. It didn't, of course—it belonged to Ayla's father. But when he was acting as the commander, it at least felt as if it belonged to him. When he was the commander, it felt as if the whole belonged to him and was just waiting to be taken.

The villagers were waiting for him, huddled against the courtyard wall, muttering anxiously among themselves. Reuben let his eyes wander over them derisively. Compared with his six foot seven of solid muscle, these were lice waiting to be squashed. He would be taller than any of them without any effort on his part, but still he took the time to ride a leisurely circle around the gathered crowd until Satan stood high up on the slope above them, between them and the inner walls of the castle. Now there was no escape. Now he towered over them.

From atop his quite literal high horse, he could see their eager, grimy little faces: the faces of sheep, not of wolves. There was a certain kind of dumb hope in those faces. The sheep had heard of him, of course, the ravenous wolf who had torn apart an entire battalion of soldiers on his own. Now they stared up at him with a mixture of apprehension and reverence. The sheep thought the wolf was their messiah. They thought he had come to save them single-handedly.

They were about to find out how very wrong they were.

"My name," he called out, his deep voice carrying effortlessly over the distance and silencing the mutters of the crowd, "is Sir Reuben Rachwild. I am the new Commander of all the armed forces of Luntberg." Slowly, almost absentmindedly, he drew his sword from its scabbard, and twisted it from left to right, gazing at it. "I have been given this post for a very good reason. The task of a commander is to kill. To kill as many of the enemy as quickly as possible."

He levelled a gaze at the villagers that made them try and retreat a few steps, until they remembered the wall right behind them.

"I," Reuben told them, "am very good at killing."

With a fluid movement, his sword left his right hand, flew over his head, into his left hand, around his back into the right again and vanished back into its sheath before anybody had had time to blink. The villagers watched him, awe-struck. Reuben nodded to himself.

I'd say they believe me.

"There is nobody better at killing than me," he continued. "I tell you this because it means you need me. If I die, so will you. Remember that."

His mouth twitched.

"Remember that well—because in just a few minutes you will burn with the desire to kill me yourself. You will ache to choke the life out of me with your bare hands. I wouldn't advise it. You will die. If not today by my hand, then tomorrow, at the hands of your enemies."

Out of the corner of his eye, Reuben could see Ayla staring at him, her mouth hanging open. He assumed what he had said so far didn't exactly fit her idea of an inspirational speech. Well, she had heard nothing yet. He was just warming up.

"I have news for all of you," Reuben declared. "What we had only suspected before has just been confirmed: an army of the Margrave is approaching. Did I say an army? I meant the army. This isn't just some paltry force of Italian mercenaries, like last time. If I am right in my suspicions, then the Margrave has called a levy. This means seasoned men-at-arms, archers, heavily armored knights, merciless killers and machines of war that would make a nightmare-spirit scream in terror. At the head of the army will ride not a mercenary commander, but the Margrave von Falkenstein himself. And he isn't coming to conquer, this time. He isn't coming to acquire this land. No, he is coming for revenge. He is coming to plunder, burn and murder everything that stands in his way."

So far, Reuben observed, his inspirational speech seemed to be working well. It had already inspired quite a lot of fear. Even from where he stood, quite some distance away, he could see the trembling hands of the peasants, the sweat on their foreheads, the nervous movement of their eyes from side to side. They were searching for an escape. But there was none. Not from the Margave, and most certainly not from him.

"I am responsible for the defense of Luntberg," he told them, his voice calm and cold, "so let me tell you how it is going to go: the Margrave and his army are going to arrive in a few weeks—two at the least, four at the most. The enemy army will be at least a thousand men strong."

There were gasps of horror from the audience. Young couples clutched at each other. Mothers looked around for their children instinctively—but they weren't there. Oh no, they were not there. Reuben had seen to that.

He shrugged, as if not at all fazed by the gigantic army approaching.

"I cannot be totally certain of the numbers. My scout only got a rough count."

The villagers relaxed a little bit.

"There may be a lot more than just a thousand," Reuben added, and the villagers went rigid with fear again. It cost him a lot of effort not to laugh. Satan's hairy ass! It was such fun to torture people, even if you didn't have rusty metal implements with sharp spikes.

"Here is what is going to happen," he continued. "They are going to encircle the castle. We are going to stay inside the castle, of course, because confronting such a huge army would be plain suicide with only fifty trained men-at-arms at my disposal. All of you villagers are going to come into the castle as well, of course, because Lady Ayla is too soft-hearted for her own good and for some reason doesn't want you and your children massacred, and your women raped. With all of you in the castle there will be a great many mouths to feed. You have experienced this before. Soon, our provisions will run out. There is no hope of freeing ourselves by the same trick as last time, the tale will have been spread up and down the country by now, and the Margrave will be forwarned. We will be trapped in the castle, and we will grow weak, and eventually, fall ill or just die of hunger. Either that, or the Margrave will have siege engines built to attack the castle. If he should decide to do that, the walls will fall quickly. A garrison of fifty men is not enough to defend all of the walls, and it is only a matter of time before the Margrave's soldiers swarm into the castle like ants. Then, you and your children will be massacred, and your women will be... but I think I already mentioned that, didn't I?"

By now, several of the villagers had turned slightly green. Those who stood at the back of the crowd seemed to be very grateful for the solid stone wall immediately behind them. To Reuben, they didn't look as if they could stand on their own anymore.

"B-but you're supposed to protect us," one of the men cried out, fear and anger so tightly intertwined in his voice that they couldn't be separated. "Just kill them!"

Reuben looked at the one who had spoken. He had one of the most sheepish faces of all the sheep here. The way he stood there, gazing up at Reuben, half-angry, half-desperate, begging to be saved... It made Reuben want to kick him in the ass, just to see if that would put some backbone into the sniveling excuse for a man.

"Yes, I am supposed to protect you," he admitted, not taking his eyes from the man. Eye contact was important. For the first time, he let a little bit of the anger he felt seep into his voice. "I am supposed to protect you with an army of fifty men from an army of a thousand men. Tell me, friend, if a wolf came out of the forest, would you protect your family and friends?"

The sudden change of subject startled the peasant. He looked from left to right, finding himself the object of everybody's attention. He swallowed.

"Y-yes, of course I would."

"And if there were fifty of you, fifty peasants, and you were attacked by a giant pack of a thousand wolves, how would you protect your families then?"

Silence descended over the courtyard. The villagers clutched at each other even more tightly.

"Yes." Reuben nodded, his grey eyes burning with the heat of his anger. "You finally understand. There's a pack of wolves coming, my friend—and this pack has teeth and claws of steel, and comes not for food, but to kill at will. You understand now, don't you? It is as certain as night is night and day is day: We are all going to die."

He waited.

One second...

Two...

Three. Now!

"Unless..."

The word hung in the air—a white dove, carrying a branch in its beak, the promise of a shore that would save everybody from drowning in misery and death. Yet Reuben didn't say anything more. He just waited while the silence stretched longer and longer. He watched the color return to the villagers' faces, watched their hands stop trembling, watched the glimmer of a thing enter into their eyes that had lead fools into death and helped great men build empires out of nothing:

Hope.

"Unless what?" demanded one of the villagers. It wasn't the same one as before, the sheepish one. This time it was a woman. Reuben nodded to himself. Of course. Probably a mother, to judge by the look in her eyes when he mentioned the possibility of survival. Perfect. Just perfect.

"Unless," he told them, choosing every word with care, "we find reinforcements. That is the only thing that is going to save us now: more fighting men. At least a hundred and fifty if we want to stand a chance."

"But where are you going to find those men?" another villager wanted to know.

Reuben regarded the crowd of people in front of him: about three hundred villagers, half of whom were men. He shook his head. Even sheep should be able to count.

Instead of answering the man, he slid out of the saddle and bent down. When he straightened again, he held two gleaming swords in his hand. Without sheathing or lowering the weapons, he strode towards the villagers. He felt hot blood pounding in his ears—the rage of battle. There was no enemy in sight, but this was a battle nonetheless. A battle for their hearts and minds.

He chose the sheepish fellow for his victim. The one who had looked more afraid, more desperately in need of help than anybody else. If he could be won, all others would follow easily. If he couldn't, they were all going to die.

"Here!"

Reuben gave the man barely an instant to register his shout before he flung one of the swords at him, hilt first. The man was so taken aback that he actually caught it—then let it drop with a yelp as if the hilt were coated with acid.

"W-what is this?" he stammered. "What do you mean by handing me a weapon, Sir? I am only a simple farmer."

"Not anymore." Reuben made his voice hard and implacable. He didn't have to work very hard for that. It was more or less his natural tone. "From now on, you're a soldier in the militia of Luntberg. Soldier number one of one-hundred and fifty, to be exact. Your training starts today. Attack me, and we'll see what stuff you're made of."

Out of the corner his eye, Reuben saw Ayla's mouth open a few inches wider than it already had been. She wasn't the only one to show such signs of surprise. Every single villager was staring at him, mouth wide open. The sheepish fellow right in front of him looked ready to swallow a warthog whole.

"B-but I am only a simple farmer," the sheepish fellow stuttered.

"You already said that, soldier. And I told you it isn't true anymore. You are what I say you are, if you want to survive. When the enemy comes, they won't care whether you are a farmer, a miller or a bumblebee: they will try to kill you. But if you are a soldier, maybe you can kill them before they succeed. Now, attack me!"

The farmer didn't move. He just stood there, sweating, everybody's eyes upon him. Reuben could have attacked him, of course, and tried to make him defend himself, but that wasn't how this worked. It wasn't about making the man fight, it was about making the man want to fight. To awaken the bloodlust that slumbered somewhere deep inside every living creature on this earth.

Reuben took a step closer towards the sheep man—the sheep man he had to turn into a wolf.

"You have to learn how to fight," he said, his voice oddly gentle, yet all the more menacing for it. "It is the only way. Fight or die. Kill or be killed. Now, for the last time, soldier: attack me! This is an order!"

Another man stepped forward, between Reuben and the sheep man with the sword. From the little wooden cross hanging around his neck and the self-rightous expression on his face Reuben deduced him to be one of those damn devout believers. "Begging your pardon, Sir, but Volrad here is right. We're simple people. We can't fight. Only noble men know how to fight. And even if we could, we're not supposed to. We're the peasants, the third estate, and cannot fight in war. As the Good Lord says: Tu supplex ora, tu protege, tuque labora."

"And what exactly does that mean?" Reuben inquired, softly.

"Um..." For a moment, the devout churchgoer seemed less sure of himself. "I'm not sure, exactly. The priest mentioned it the other day. I don't speak Latin either. But I'm fairly sure it's something to the effect that it's the priests' job to pray, our job to work, and it's the task of the knights and lords and other nobles to defend us."

"I have travelled a hundred lands and seen a thousand different cities," Reuben told them. "I have seen ordinary men form ranks and grab their bows and spears to cut down a charge of knights as noble as they come. A blade is a blade, whether wielded by a nobleman or a commoner. Death is death. It comes for us all, and can be dealt by all."

The two men cringed back under Reuben's angry glare, but neither of them seemed to want to pick up the sword from the ground.

"That's as may be," Volrad the sheep man whispered. "Folk in foreign parts do strange things. But we... we're good, Christian folk. We can't fight. Nobles fight. That's why we're the peasants and they are the nobles. They protect us, and we plant and grow corn. We can't fight."

Incredible, Reuben thought as he watched their fearful little eyes. They haven't heard a word I said. When faced by the choice to fight or to die, they would choose the latter. Sheep. Sheep to the very bones, the lot of them!

Well, maybe it was time to raise the stakes.

"So that's your last word?" he asked, softly. "You won't fight? No matter what happens?"

"It's not that we don't want to, Sir," the sheep man protested. "It's just... we can't. We just haven't got it in us to fight."

"Of course." Reuben nodded. "I understand. Well, then all that remains for me to do is to simplify matters."

He stepped back a few steps, leaving the sword lying on the ground in front of the peasant.

"Your name is Volrad, right?" he asked.

"Y-yes, Sir?" The sheep man sounded hesitant.

"Volrad, son of Peter and father of Peyr?"

"H-how do you know my family?"

Reuben brutally ignored the question.

"You heard what I said earlier, Volrad, didn't you? That the Margrave's soldiers were going to kill everybody they will find? That they will kill your family?"

"S-sir, we can't fight. You have to understand, we can't—"

"Oh, I do understand. I really do. You're peaceful people, not used to waging war, so you can't fight. And, since you are such peaceful people, I'm sure, Volrad, you'd like to spare your family any unnecessary pain, wouldn't you?"

The peasant threw an uneasy look over his shoulder, towards a woman that stood a two paces further back. Ah, the wife was here. Excellent. Inside, Reuben smiled.

"Y-yes, Sir?" Volrad said, making it sound more like a question.

"Very good." Reuben turned towards the inner castle wall, a few dozen yards behind him. "Men!" he shouted. "Bring out the boy!"

A few tense seconds elapsed—then two men stepped out of the castle gate, carrying a boy between them. The boy was evidently trying to struggle and howl at the top of his lungs, but a gag had been stuffed into his mouth and his hands had been tied behind his back.

Volrad's eyes widened, and not just in fear this time. Reuben saw the spark of something else there. The spark of the very thing he sought. Not hope, no. Not even courage.

Rage. That's what it was. Pure, unadulterated rage.

"What's this?" the peasant demanded, forgetting to tag a "Sir" on at the end of his question.

"This is sparing your family pain," Reuben told him, his voice hard as iron, hot as a furnace. "The Margrave's soldiers will be here in a few weeks, and then they will kill us all, because you are too stupid to see that you are needed. I could just wait for them to murder your son. But I won't. Instead, I'll kill him myself. At least, that way it will be quick. Be grateful that I'm such a merciful man." With that, Reuben turned and strode off, uphill, towards the helpless boy. "Afterwards, I might kill a few more children," he called over his shoulder. "Who knows? I feel rather merciful today."

He raised his sword a little, so the sunlight reflected of the blade. He could feel everybody's eyes on his back, could hear their thoughts as clearly as if they were spoken aloud:

Wait... did I hear right? No, that can't be right, can it? He's here to defend us.

Reuben raised his sword a little higher and hastened his steps.

He's not really going to do it, is he?

God's teeth, he is!

Reuben smiled. It was the smile of a devil.

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Greetings, Milords and Ladies!

Well, did this chapter shake you up a little? The red robber knight is back with a vengeance! :)

If any of you are wondering what "Tu supplex ora, tu protege, tuque labora" really means, it is a medieval saying explaining the order of medieval society, meaning something along the lines of "You pray in humility, you protect, you work." The well-known Latin proverb expressed the essence of the three estates of the realm, i.e. the clergy (You pray in humility), the nobility (you protect), and the commoners (you work). Needless to say that the commoners weren't always happy about how the tasks were divided up ;-)

I've included a picture of a woodcut depicting Christianity being divided up into the three estates by Jesus Christ, created by Jacob Meydenbach.

And if this chapter shook you up, you'd better prepare yourself for the next one. Let's just say that Reuben's training tactics aren't exactly conventional... ;-)

Farewell for now

Sir Rob