Sir Gregor wasn't very satisfied with the way things were going. They were going smoothly. Too smoothly.

The army had moved up the bare side of the hill behind which lay the boundary of Luntberg and into the forest without any problems. No encounters with the enemy, no sightings of scouts, not even suspicious sounds from the surrounding landscape. Just silence.

And that was what bothered Sir Gregor—because there should have been sounds. Not necessarily suspicious ones, but ordinary ones at least: birds singing in the trees, weasels weasling through the underbrush, anything. But there was nothing. Not even the birds which had accompanied Gregor so far on his lonely journey, eager to snatch up the seeds he liberally distributed, showed so much as the tips of their beaks.

Then, from up above, he heard the single, harsh warning cry of a jay. He looked up to see if he could catch a glimpse of a hawk or eagle, predators whose arrival the cry of the jay usually heralded. But he didn't see a thing.

"That's strange," he muttered.

"What is strange?" Sir Arnegis, another one of the Margrave's vassals who happened to be riding beside Gregor just then, asked. "It is perfectly quiet."

"That's just it. It's... unnatural."

"I find it extremely relaxing," Sir Arnegis said. "The incessant trilling of those infernal birds was getting on my nerves. Finally, I can relax a bit."

He leaned backwards and sighed, contentedly. Then, he slumped a little to the side. And a little more.

Only when he toppled off his horse and crashed to the ground did Gregor notice the arrow sprouting from his back. It was then that he remembered one important thing about jays: their cry didn't just warn against predators of the animal kingdom, but also against other, more dangerous ones.

"Attack!" he roared, raising his shield. "We're under attack from archers! Someone get Arnegis out of the way! The rest, raise your shields. All soldiers to the ground! Minimize the target!"

They took up a defensive formation as best they could on the narrow path, back to back, their shields facing outward towards the line of trees behind which their unseen attackers had to be hiding. With bated breath, Gregor waited for the storm of arrows to rain down upon them.

Nothing came. Not a single arrow.

They waited for a few minutes in utter silence, only disturbed by the distant flutter of birds' wings.

"What?" Sir Blasius was the first to lower his shield. "Was that all?"

"I wouldn't complain so loudly, if I were you," Sir Hartung growled. "They might just hear you and decide to oblige."

Quickly, Sir Blasius raised his shield again. "Yes, but... one arrow?" He shook his head, disgustedly. "What kind of attack is that?"

"A short one, which apparently is already over. Come on." Hartung shouldered his shield and motioned for them to move. Slowly and hesitantly, the men-at-arms got up off the ground and lowered their shields as well. "We can't stand around here all day. We've still got miles of ground to cover before dark."

"You're right. Still... I wonder what the purpose of this was," Sir Gregor muttered, looking around sharply at the shadowy, silent forest.

His question was answered a few minutes later, when an arrow slammed into Sir Thrutilo's chest, taking him backwards off his horse. Not a second later, a cry could be heard from farther behind, and turning, Gregor saw Sir Wracwulf collapse in the saddle, his hands clasped around a shaft jutting out of his belly.

"They're targeting the knights and commanders," Blasius screamed, extraordinarily quick on the uptake for a change, now that his own life was on the line. "After them, men! Fifty silver Thalers for the man who catches the dastardly assassin!"

What happened next was a prime example of the workings of human nature, Gregor later thought. The soldiers should have stayed in line. They should have been totally impervious to a monetary incentives. They had sworn an oath of fealty to the Margrave, after all, not to Sir Blasius. They should have retained perfect discipline.

They didn't.

"Are you out of your mind?" Sir Hartung roared, when the screaming of the soldiers and the thundering of dozens of heavy feet on the forest floor had subsided. He cantered over to Sir Blasius and roughly grabbed the younger knight by the collar. "What in God's name do you think you're doing?"

"Making sure that the vile assailant is caught and dealt with," Blasius proclaimed, defiantly.

"Indeed? And did it ever occur to you that whoever shot those arrows has been at home in this forest for all his life, is probably a professional hunter and knows these lands ten times better than we do? We'll be lucky to see a single one of these men alive again!"

In the end, it wasn't quite as bad as Sir Hartung had feared. In fact, of the two dozen men who had raced off into the forest, they actually saw two alive again, though one had an arrow through the left leg. He hobbled back onto the path with the support of his comrade, who had slung one arm around his waist.

"The others?" Sir Hartung inquired, his harsh eyes filled with disdain.

The wounded soldier shook his head.

Hartung's eyes wandered to the man's injured leg. "I see you have paid the price for your foolishness." His gaze moved on towards the other soldier, who was perfectly fine. "You, on the other hand, have not."

He motioned to one of those soldiers who hadn't chosen to rush off into the forest after the archer.

"Yes, Sir?" the soldier stepped forward. A bow was slung over his back.

"Shoot him, will you? Not in the leg, I don't want him to hold us up. Maybe the arm, or the shoulder?"

"Yes, Sir!"

The uninjured soldier's eyes widened. He started to move, but before he had gotten two inches from where he stood, the arrow slammed into his shoulder. He screamed and crumpled to the ground, taking his companion with him.

"I hope that will be a lesson to you," Hartung told him, hard voice devoid of emotion. "You are not of Sir Blasius' lance. You do not accept commands from him, only your own knight commander, the Margrave, or his Field Marshall, meaning me. Do we understand each other?"

"Y-yes," the soldier whimpered, pressing a hand to his bleeding shoulder.

"Good. Now I suggest you get out of the way. We will resume our march and the army will not move out of the way for a bleeding piece of garbage in its path. Get yourself stitched up, and next time we meet, I shall expect better discipline."

"Y-yes, Sir Hartung."

"Sir Gregor? Sir Blasius? Get over here, now! We have to resolve this."

Gregor's horse whinnied, and only then did he notice that his hands had curled into fists, accidentally grabbing his horse's mane. Quickly, he let go. Sir Hartung's behavior might not be in accordance with what Gregor had been taught by his knight master about the code of chivalry, but Hartung was an army commander, not just a knight. Commanders had to be hard men if they wanted to keep their army together.

Well, I'm no commander, he thought to himself. So that doesn't apply to me. In passing, he bent down and whispered to the soldier: "Go to Cort, the army surgeon in the third lance behind us. Tell him Sir Gregor sent you, and he'll take good care of you."

Before the man had a chance to reply, he rode on to where Hartung was waiting—behind a clump of bushes so dense not even an archer could see or shoot through it.

Whatever maybe his faults, Hartung is definitely no fool.

"What surgeon did you send that fellow to?" Hartung greeted Gregor, pointing at the wounded man who was just now hobbling off.

Not just no fool—he's smart! Damn!

"Cort, Sir Hartung."

"Ah, him. Good one. Knows his craft, isn't over-fond of leaches." He looked after the wounded men. "I hope he survives. I dislike killing my own men. The enemy does enough in that area. Which brings us to the matter at hand."

He raised his hand, and in it he held half a blood-spattered arrow. It was broken off in the middle, and only had its narrow tip left, with no sight of the fletching. Sir Gregor had to suppress a shiver as he looked at it.

"This was pulled out of Sir Arnegis not fifteen minutes ago. Good craftsmanship. Very fine point. Hit him right in the heart—he was dead instantly."

Sir Blasius unconsciously raised his hand to his own heart and looked from right to left. Gregor couldn't pull his eyes from the arrow.

"You realize what they're doing, of course," Hartung grunted. "They're targeting the commanders."

"I can hardly believe that they are trying to do that," Gregor said, shaking his head. "What's happening here goes against all the laws of chivalry!"

"It doesn't just go against them, Gregor—it breaks them into tiny splinters."

"But this Lady Ayla we're riding against, she's a girl of seventeen, Hartung. Seventeen! And by all accounts, she's as sweet and innocent as the morning dew! I find it hardly credible that a young maiden such as her would be capable of such a fiendishly evil deed as assassination."

"You'd be surprised," Hartung growled. "I'll take you home with me to meet my daughters one day. After that, you'll get a better grasp of what young maidens are capable of when they put their mind to it." He ground his teeth together. "We have to do something! If we go on like this, by the time we leave the forest we won't have any commanders left to lead the army. We will stop here for now, and take up defensive positions. I've already dispatched a rider to the rear of the army. This issue is too important for me to decide it on my own. Be ready to act as soon as the Margrave's orders arrive."

They didn't have long to wait. Five minutes later, a messenger on an exhausted horse came galloping back up the path. Without getting out of the saddle, he bowed to Sir Hartung.

"The Margrave sends his orders. Apparently, the fiendish assassin has only attacked the vanguard and not dared to shoot at or approach the main body of the army. Therefore, all knight commanders of the lances of the vanguard shall retreat to the main body of the army and there mingle with the common soldiers immediately, to prevent the archer from seeing his aim. You, Sir Hartung, along with Sir Gregor and Sir Blasius shall be the only ones to remain and oversee the march of the vanguard. The Margrave trusts you with this task and hopes you will not disappoint him."

"By my life and honor, I shall not." Hartung gave a sharp nod of his head. "Go gather the knight commanders, herald. Accompany them back to the main army and see to it that all is done as the Margrave wishes."

"As you command, Field Marshal!"

Blasius cleared his throat.

"Um... Shouldn't I go to keep our fellow knights company? They'll have to march among commoners, and that's sure to be a distasteful experience. Someone should definitely keep them company."

"Your compassion does you credit, Sir Blasius," Sir Hartung commented drily. "However, they will have to survive without you. And you without them, for the matter. You will not go back to the main body of the army. You will do as you are told and take responsibility for those three lances over there. Sir Gregor, you will take those four over there. I will take the rest. We will ride rounds around them to make sure they're always marching at a steady pace. Ride hard, gentlemen. Moving targets are more difficult to hit. Keep your shields raised, and keep an eye out for deserters. The men know there's somebody out there, and they may just decide it's not worth their skin to go marching on. Instruct the captains of the lances in what to do, should you fall."

Blasius paled visibly. "F-fall?"

"Yes, Blasius. And by that I don't mean fall off your horse. Now get moving!"

Gregor didn't wait to see what Blasius would do. He spurred on his horse and galloped over to his assigned group of soldiers. Among them were the men-at-arms of the late Sir Arnegis. Gregor spoke to them first, doing his best to give them confidence in his leadership, and repeatedly pointing out that it was only the knights the archer in the forest was after. Soldiers invariably had more confidence in someone's leadership if they knew only the leader was going to get shot at.

They hurried on along the forest path, their shields up, their heads down. Gregor definitely had no time for feeding birds now, not even if there had been some around. He was busy keeping four times as many men in line as usual, and doing his best not to get shot in the process. Occasionally he would catch a glimpse of the other two knights. Hartung was riding around even faster than him—he had assigned himself the duty of watching over six lances in total, and was bellowing commands like a maniac. Blasius was riding in the middle of his largest group of men, curled into a protective ball, his shield over his head. He looked like a large hedgehog with metal plates instead of quills.

"You there!" Gregor gestured to the commander of his foremost lance. "Slow down a bit. You're getting too far ahead of the others."

"Yes, Sir. I..."

The man's speech cut off with a gurgle. Gregor stared in horror at the shaft buried in his neck. What in Heaven's name... the archer was supposed to be only targeting knights! What was going on?

His question was answered just a moment later, when the hailstorm of arrows began, and the enemy soldiers jumped out from between the trees, roaring battlecries.

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Greetings, my fellow warrior Lords and Ladies!

I hope you enjoyed Sir Reuben's devious tactics so far? ;-) I shall have to use some devious tactics of my own soon, for a great battle is approaching: the battle for the wattys 2015! I'm afraid this story does not have a chance to win, but with my other story, 'Storm and Silence', I am going for the People's Choice Award! So, if you would gather under Sir Rob's banner for this mighty battle, I would ask you to follow me to twitter (or rather follow me on twitter, username RobThier_EN). There, the great battle shall be fought in late August! Be prepared ;-)

Your medieval knight (arming for the wattys)

Sir Rob

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GLOSSARY:

Lance: This doesn't refer to the actual lance carried around by a knight. The word "lance" was also used for the military unit under a knight's command (usually a contingent of his vassals).