"Attack! We're under attack!"

Gregor's warning shout could hardly be heard over the thundering feet of his enemies. But a warning wasn't really necessary anyway. The cries of his enemies—"Luntberg! Luntberg!" and "For Lady Ayla!"—told everyone within ten miles what was happening.

"Spread out!" Gregor yelled at the captainless soldiers of the foremost lance. "Form lines! Up with your shields! Now!"

Some did as commanded, some stood stock-still, staring at the body of their fallen Captain. Enemies armed with spears, axes and guisarmes rushed into the breaches, hacking and stabbing right and left.

"Hüa!"

Lowering his lance, Gregor spurred his horse forward and rode directly at the men attacking his soldiers. They jumped out of the way, uttering the vilest curses Gregor had ever heard. Some tried to land a blow at him in passing, but he managed to shove them back into the bushes with his shield.

"Form lines, I said!" He called to his men. "Stand back to back, now, or we'll all be slaughtered! We just have to hold out until reinforcements come. Hurry!"

This time, everyone did as he had commanded. Gregor whirled his horse around and urged it back up the path, trying to return to the comparative safety of his men while the enemy was still taken aback by his sudden charge. Only a few of the Luntberg soldiers tried to take a stab at him, and those he sent back with a swipe of his sword.

He made it just in time. Hardly had he retreated behind the protective wall of his men, before the next shower of arrows rained down upon them. Dark shafts buried themselves in the earth to his left and right, and he heard a drum roll of dull thuds, as arrows imbedded themselves in the soldier's shields. Had he been alone and out in the open, without the row of protective shields between him and the enemy archers, he would have ended up a dead porcupine.

Turning, he saw the line of enemy soldiers advance. The blue and white banner of the lily above their heads seemed to glow in the sunlight, and the same glow of determined ferocity shone in the Luntberg soldiers' eyes. There seemed to be at least forty, maybe fifty men! But how could that be? As far as Gregor knew, the entire garrison of Luntberg just numbered fifty men. Had this foolish young girl emptied her entire garrison to attack an army twenty times as big as her own?

The eyes of the Luntberg soldiers said something else. They didn't look like men being led into battle by a fool. Slowly but surely they encircled Gregor and his three lances of men, who together numbered no more than twenty-four. Men fell to his right and left, and Gregor had to watch helplessly. There wasn't enough room on the narrow forest path for a charge, not with all the men blocking his way. All he could do was hack at the occasional man-at-arms when he got into reach, but even that was as likely to disrupt the defense of his footsoldiers as to help them.

Desperately, he looked back for help, but Hartung was at the very back of the vanguard, far down the narrow forest path, completely out of sight. The Luntberg soldiers had timed their attack perfectly.

Then, suddenly, he heard a horn blow not far behind. Finally! Help had arrived! He turned around—and saw Sir Blasius.

"Onward!" he cried, swinging his sword in a matter that was as likely to behead himself as his enemies. "Onward, my men! I shall vanquish these villains with my widely vaunted bravery!"

His men seemed perfectly content to stay behind and watch his vanquishing. They advanced behind him at a sluggish pace, but Blasius hadn't taken the trouble to look back, so he didn't notice.

"Die! Die, you maggot-eating curs! Feel the wrath of Sir Blasius!"

And then, something happened which Gregor would have never thought possible: the soldiers of Luntberg cried out in fear, turned, and ran.

He gaped after them.

"Ha!" Sir Blasius brought his horse to a halt right beside Gregor. "There, you see? Cowards, the whole lot of them! They flee before my noble sword."

"Yes, they do," Gregor agreed, still staring. "The question is: why?"

Blasius did not seem to hear this.

"Onward!" He shouted again, and this time not just Blasius' own men, but also Gregor's soldiers, seemed a lot more inclined to listen to him. "Onward, my brave companions! Let us grind them into the dust!"

He charged forwards once more, and the soldiers, loosing a raw battlecry, ran after him, their weapons raised. It was then that Gregor saw and understood—a second too late.

"No! Don't! You shouldn't..."

But his voice was lost in the roar of his soldiers. They all ran after Blasius, racing down the forest path far ahead, hearing not a single word he uttered.

"By the apostles!" Gregor growled, urging his horse forward to follow. "If I catch Blasius I will stuff his noble sword down his throat!"

At a full gallop, he raced after them. In spite of his horse's speed, though, on the narrow path he hardly managed to gain on the soldiers. They apparently were just as eager as Sir Blasius to attack an enemy who would rather run than stand and fight. Gregor was not quite so eager. There was tactic, some devious mind at work here that neither he, nor Blasius, nor their men-at-arms were able to grasp. He didn't know what it was yet, but he had a feeling he would find out all too soon.

Before him, the forest lightened. He thought at first that he was nearing the edge—but then the path widened and he galloped into a clearing. The smell hit him like a sledgehammer, and suddenly, a cold fist seemed to close around his heart.

What in the name of God and all the saints...!

The clearing was littered with corpses. Not new corpses, but ones that had been dead for a good long time. About forty of them lay in a circular pattern around the center of the clearing, and Gregor could think of only one possible explanation: they all had fought the same enemy. Yet in the center of the clearing, no corpse lay on the ground.

Clamping his hand over his face to shield his nose from the stench of rotten flesh, Gregor gazed at that empty spot where a dead man was supposed to lie. What mortal man could fight this many soldiers and live? Who—

His thoughts were abruptly cut off when he saw a glitter of silver out of the corner of his eye.

"Hüa!"

Quickly, he guided his horse over to the place where he had seen it. Bending down from the saddle, he gripped the edge of a cloth, half-buried under rotten bodies, and pulled. It came free reluctantly. He held it up and felt the cold fist tighten its grip around his heart.

Hanging from his hand, the torn and bloodied banner of the Margrave von Falkenstein waved in the wind. The banner was attached to a pole. And the pole was clasped in the hand of one of the slain, half-rotted soldiers.

Only a moment or two did Gregor stare at the banner and its long-dead bearer. Then he let it fall and gave his horse the spurs like never before. As it raced past the old corpses, Gregor sent a prayer to the heavens that he wouldn't find newer ones up ahead.

But... what could Lady Ayla's men really do? The entire army of the Margrave von Falkenstein was right behind them—over a thousand men! What could fifty do against a thousand?

He glanced back over his shoulder.

For that matter—what could one do against forty?

"Faster!" he called to his horse. "Go on! Hüa! Faster!"

*~*~**~*~*

By the time Sir Hartung had reached the scene of the fight, all the fighters were already gone, including the enemy. He was not very pleased. His captains gazed at him, apprehensively.

"What shall we do, Sir?" one of them finally found the courage to ask.

"Go after them," Hartung growled. "And when we catch them, we will grind whoever has waylaid us into dust!"

"Yessir!"

Hartung spurred on his horse, and his lances followed in orderly lines, their arms held ready for battle.

*~*~**~*~*

"Blasius! Stop!"

Gregor's shout didn't seem to have the least effect on the other knight. He didn't even appear to have heard it.

"Onward!" he shouted. "Onward my brave companions!" His horse didn't slow one bit, and neither did the men-at-arms rushing after him.

Gregor muttered a curse. He couldn't see what was so very brave about chasing people who ran away—maybe you needed Blasius' special mental powers to understand that. But as he swept his gaze over the scene in front of him, he saw that it wasn't just not brave, but also a very, very bad idea.

To anyone who took a moment to look, the flight of the Luntberg soldiers was no real flight at all. It was an orderly retreat. Every now and again, one of the soldiers at the end of the line would stop, turn, and shoot an arrow at the pursuing men. At that, Blasius would always quickly cease his shouting and retreat behind his shield. The arrows were just enough to keep the pursuers at a goodly distance. At the front of the lance of Luntberg soldiers, their banner still fluttered in the wind, as if they were marching into battle, not away from it.

Gregor's gut twisted.

"Stop!" he shouted. "Stop I said! You shouldn't..."

But the rest of his words were lost in the roar of Falkenstein's soldiers. They were out for blood, and determined to get it from those men further up the path.

And then, for a second time, Gregor saw light up ahead, and knew that it was no clearing this time. They had reached the end of the forest. Suddenly, the trees were gone and light spilled all over them, blinding Gregor for a moment. When he could see again, he beheld a wide meadow, at the other end of which a stone bridge spanned a fast-flowing river in several arches. The Luntberg soldiers were racing towards the bridge with ever greater urgency.

That's it! Gregor thought to himself. They mean to defend the bridge against us, hoping we can't defeat them in such a strong position.

He smiled grimly. If the Lady of Luntberg thought Falkenstein's men would be so easily defeated, she didn't know his soldiers very well.

Freed from the constraints of the narrow forest path, Blasius gave his horse the spurs. It shot over the meadow and was catching up to the fleeing Luntberg Soldiers at a prodigious rate. "Onward!" Sir Blasius yelled again. "Onward, my brave companions!"

One of the Luntberg men-at-arms turned around and raised his bow in one fluid movement. The arrow had left its string before Gregor could blink and just half a second later, Blasius cried out, clutching a bloody scratch on his face where the arrow had grazed his skin. He wheeled his horse around and galloped back. It wasn't until he was safely behind his soldiers that he shouted "Onward!" again.

He wasn't the only one who slowed down. Gregor brought his horse from a gallop to a trot.

Why, though? There's no way they could pose a danger to us. Even if they turn around and defend the bridge, the rest of the army will be here and set on them in no time. We will crush them.

So if that was true, then why was he feeling a cold tingle race up his spine?

Don't be foolish! There's no danger here! And whether danger or no danger, your duty is to fight!

Battling his impulse to turn, he drove his mount forward to catch up with Blasius and the other men. By the time he had reached them, the Luntberg soldiers were at the bridge. They ran across, not showing even a sign of wanting to stop.

"Ha! The cowards flee!" roared Blasius. "After them, men! Let's cut them down!"

The great gray stone arches of the bridge loomed ahead like the gateway to purgatory. Gregor clenched his teeth, suppressing the sudden urge to hit Blasius in the face, to turn around, to do anything but ride ahead.

Don't be foolish! he shouted at himself again. What can they do? They're just fifty, and you have an army behind you! What in God's name can they do?

His horse's hooves hit the first stones of the bridge with a resounding clatter. The soldiers directly ahead of him were already hurrying up the slightly curved stone arch. Most were even further, already on the other side.

It was a second later that his question was answered, and he learned exactly what the Luntberg soldiers could do. On the opposite bank, the enemy soldiers turned as one man, and one at the head raised his arm.

"Pull!"

The arm fell, giving a signal.

Underneath his horse's hooves, Sir Gregor could feel the bridge shudder. A groan rose up from the stone like the roar of tortured souls from beneath the earth.

Suddenly, he knew what the enemy's plan had been all along, and a cold fist of fear closed tightly around his heart.

No! Oh please, no, not that!

*~*~**~*~*

Sir Hartung burst from the forest, at the head of two-hundred men, and let out a cry of triumph. There they were: the bastards that had dared to waylay him! Not more than fifty men, and just a few hundred feet away, the blue banner of Luntberg fluttering above them! He would gut them, grind their bones to dust and tred that banner into the dirt!

"Spread out!" He bellowed. "Archers, keep in cover, behind the first line. Everyone without a bow get your ass to the front! Spearmen in the middle, others at the flanks!"

They obeyed his commands immediately, taking up their assigned positions. Then, they raised their weapons and gave a battle cry that shook the earth. Hartung smiled. They were just as eager for blood as he was.

"Forward! Let's get these worm-eaten bulls' pizzles! Forw-"

From one moment to the next, his voie was drowned out. A noise rose up, a grating, goaning thunder in comparison to which his men's battle cry had been a feeble whisper. What in the name of St Martin was happening?

His eyes flew to the stone bridge full of Gregor's and Blasius' men, just in time to see it give a mighty shudder. From one of the stone archways, a stone dropped into the water and vanished with a loud splash. Another followed, and another. Behind the stone, Hartung saw wooden supports which had been pulled away, or simply hacked to pieces. Realization flooded through the battle-hardened knight, and the color drained from his face.

"Get off!" He bellowed, hoping his voice would reach the men in time. "Get off that bridge!"

But it was of no use. The scream of stone on stone was so loud he couldn't even hear his own voice.

Still, the soldiers on top of the bridge seemed to have realized without help what was going on by now. A moment ago they had been marching forward eagerly. Now, they ran, rushed, scrambled, used their legs, arms and weapons to get ahead as fast as possible. Whoever didn't get out of the way quickly enough they tried to shove or cut down. Terror had turned comrades into enemies within a few moments.

"March!" Hartung shouted, desperately hoping some could hear him, knowing that they couldn't. "March, don't run, don't get in each other's way, damn you! It's your only chance! It's—"

Too late. With a last, hellish scream of tortured stone, the bridge gave way.

First came the railing: braking off like a giant's last old, foul tooth it fell away to the side, sending up fountain of water as it hit the river that drenched the soldiers on the bridge, mixing the blood of their desperate fight with cold water.

For just a moment, it seemed as if that was all which was going to happen. But then, slowly, ever so slowly, one of the arches began to shift. Like a monster awakening from the deep slumber of winter it reared and then pounced down upon the water, tearing down six screaming soldiers in its wake. More stones, spattered with blood, came loose from the faltering bridge and crashed into the water.

Then finally, what remained of the bridge's arches gave way. They didn't simply fall, but crumbled into something that didn't seem like rubble, debris or dust but like liquid, morphing stone yearning to merge with the deep waters beneath. The dark mass swallowed up the soldiers and then in turn was swallowed by the currents of the hungry Lunt River.

No plume of dust rose to signify where, just a moment ago, three dozen good men had been devoured by the water, no sound rose up over the quickly quieting rumble and the rush of the river to signify their death. The Lunt turned as silent as the grave it now was.

Several soldiers who had just reached the end of the bridge as it collapsed, still sailed through the air while the stones they had jumped from where long gone. Some slammed onto the bank, covered in dirt. Hartung even thought he saw the giant form of a horse crash onto the ground. But most slid off the wet, muddy ground, back into the river, where death awaited them.

Beyond the river, from behind bushes that grew on the bank, men with ropes and pickaxes emerged—ropes and pickaxes they had doubtless just used to destroy the supports of the bridge and plunge Hartung's men into their doom. Discarding their tools in favor of weapons, they joined the Luntberg soldiers who had turned to face the enemy. They didn't look afraid. They weren't running anymore. No, even from where he sat on his horse, Hartung could see the hard glint in their eyes that mirrored the glint of steel on their blades.

The man at the front gave a sign, and his soldiers spread out, forming a half-circle around the few confused and exhausted Falkenstein soldiers who had managed to reach the other side, most of whom simpy lay on the bank, dazed and exhausted. Hartung watched in horror as his men were quickly and efficiently surrounded.

"May they burn in all seven circles of hell!" he snarled. "They planned this! They planned this in advance! Who could think up a plan as devilish as this?"

The Luntberg man at the front who seemed to be the captain raised an arm. "Ready your bows," he shouted.

A chill went down Hartung's back. He was a hardened warrior, and had slain hundreds of men in battle, but this... They were simply going to shoot his men down while they lay there, dazed and defenseless. This was beyond what even he would contemplate.

But apparently it wasn't beyond the man who had cooked up this diabolical plan.

Thwack!

Thud!

Thud!

With a hailstorm of sick, wet noises, arrows rained down on the exhausted soldiers lying prone on the riverbank. A few tried to get out of the way, but most didn't even twitch when they were hit.

"Get up, damn you! Raise your shileds!"

Giving his horse the spurs again, he forced the already exhausted animal to gallop forward. But the river was still far away, and even if he could reach it in time, what of it? The water would stil be an uncrossable barrier between him from his soldiers. Why would they take commands from somebody who had allowed them to be caught in a trap like this, someone who couldn't even fight beside them now? The enemy had planned this well.

Still, that doesn't mean I won't try every God's-cursed thing I can!

"Faster!" He bellowed at his stallion. "Hüa! Faster!" His footsoldiers were running somewhere behind him, but at the moment he didn't care. He had to reach these men before this turned from a disaster into Armageddon.

"Forward!"

At their captain's command, the Luntberg soldiers lowered their bows. Instead, now they drew guisarmes and spears, advancing on Hartung's men. Even with the bridge saboteurs having joined them, the Luntberg soldiers were still just about 60 in number, and what was left of Hartung's advance guard numbered around seventy-five—but they were so stunned and disorientated that a dozen were cut down before they even noticed the attack.

"No! Goddamnit, no!"

Hartung had reached the river's edge by now. Pulling on his horse's reins, he jumped down and hurried to the remains of the bridge. Quickly, he reached out for one of the stumps of stone that had formerly held the bridge in place. If there was enough left to attach a few ropes, maybe he and his men could-

The stone crumbled under his touch. A few pieces of debris fell into the fast-flowing water.

"God Curse you!" He aimed a kick at the stones but achieved nothing except scratch the metal cap of his boot. "God curse you who did this, whoever you are!"

"Sir! Sir!" On the other side of the river, a soldier had fled to the edge of the water, just near enough for his cries to be heard by Hartung. "Sir, what are we supposed to do? What—"

An enemy's ax hit the man in the back and he fell down, convulsing violently.

Growling nameless profanities, Hartung pulled his belt-knife from its sheath and hurled it at the attacker who had struck down his man. But the knife lost its momentum half-way across the river and plunged down into the water. Hartung had to watch helplessly as his men tried to struggle to their feet, their shields half-raised, if they still had them at all, their weapons next to useless in hands heavy from exhaustion. Death raised his bloody sword and let it come down on the Falkenstein's soldiers with all his might. The men of Luntberg pressed in from all around, slowly forcing their foe to retreat to the water's edge.

"Form lines, damn you! Defend yourselves! Don't let them..."

Hartung could yell and bellow as much as he wanted, they were too busy trying not to be hacked to pieces to turn around and listen—if they could even hear him over the clamor of battle. It was growing louder and louder now, the screams of the dying mixing with the clang of blade on blade and the sickening slam of blade into living flesh. It was so loud that Hartung didn't even hear his reinforcements until they were already right behind him.

He whirled around. Of course! How could he not have thought of it before?

"Archers!" he yelled. "Are there any archers? To the front with you, men if you don't want to be skinned alive tonight! Now!"

Nobody moved. The soldier's wide eyes flitted between their commander and the massacre of their comrades on the other bank.

"Archers." Hartung's tone was deceptively calm now. "I said I want Archers."

"T-they aren't here, Milord," came a quavering voice from the very back of the ranks. "D-don't you remember?"

God's teeth! The man was right! He himself had ordered all archers, lightly armored and vulnerable as they were, to stay with the main body of the army, where they would be well protected. Too late to regret that mistake now.

But what else could he do? Nothing but arrows could reach over the river! If only he weren't here, but on the other bank! Those men needed nothing so much as a leader right now, a man who could keep them from being slaughtered. And there was no one. No one at all.

As if in answer to his desperate thought, at that very moment the head of a horse rose from the retreating mass of Falkenstein soldiers. Hartung held his breath. So he hadn't been mistaken! A horse had made the jump from the crumbling bridge to the other bank. Now the one question that could decide everything was: what about the rider?

A few seconds passed, and they seemed to Hartung like Millenia. Then, a knight in an armor so spattered with mud and blackened with dirt that it was impossible to identify the remnants of his crest sprang up from the midst of the soldiers like an eagle rising into the sky and swung himself onto the horses back.

The knight's lance was nowhere to be seen, but he had his sword, and now raised it up high, high into the air.

"Rally!" Sir Gregor's raspy voice came from behind the visor—sounding exhausted, but just as firm as the grip on the sword in his hand. "Rally to me, men! For Falkenstein!"

He urged his horse forward. For a moment, Hartung thought he would charge head-on at the enemy—but no! He galloped towards the mass of soldiers pressing in on his men and then, at the last moment, pulled on his horse's reins. The animal reared, flailing its hooves in all directions. The enemy soldiers sprang back, screaming and cursing. One was hit in the head by an iron-shod hoof, and fell, vanishing into the roiling mass of metal-clad bodies.

Letting go of the reigns, Sir Gregor let his horse come down on two more men who had in just that moment sprung forward to stab at the animal's belly. They were struck down and crushed on the ground, just as the other one. Sir Gregor's sword came right behind his horse's hooves, slicing enemies to bits right and left. Behind him, his men, who had been granted a short reprieve from the enemy attack, bent to pick up the weapons and shields of those who had already fallen and then stormed forward, joining the fight with fierce battle cries.

"Form lines, men! Now!" Sir Gregor's voice was faint to Hartung, here on this side of the river, but his men must have heard him plainly enough. They obeyed without question. "Spears forward! Swordsmen to the flanks. Do you want to get out of here alive? Then do as I say!"

They did. Soon, the lines of Falkenstein men-at-arms which had retreated farther and farther before, were standing their ground. Quickly, their disorderly rabble morphed into a tightly packed unit, bristling with steel and ready to defend itself.

"Yes!" Bellowing in fierce triumph, Hartung punched the air with his iron-clad fist. God bless Sir Gregor! He would never have believed that the good old soul had such steel in him. But there he was, fighting like Sir Lancelot himself at the Battle against Emperor Lucius Tiberius. Hartung felt his hard old heart swell in his chest. They could still win the day! Under Gregor's leadership, the soldiers of Falkenstein were slowly gaining ground. They still were of about roughly the same number as the enemy. If Gregor managed to keep this up, they could...

The sound of a horn from far above cut short Hartung's thoughts abruptly. It came again, and again. Three times it sounded, long and hard.

He looked up, and he wasn't the only one who did so. For a moment, the battle on the other side of the river ceased: war cries died on soldiers' lips, weapons froze in mid-air, and all eyes turned to look at the crest of the hill above the meadow.

Up there, silhouetted against the blue-gray sky, a rider had appeared. And not just any rider: a giant of a knight on a massive black charger. At his side hung a sword large enough for three men, and with his right hand he held up a steel-tipped lance as if it were a piece of straw. Behind him came men: dozens of them, no, hundreds. Warriors armed with spears, axes and guisarmes. Five times as many warriors as Hartung would have thought lived in the entire Lunt Valley.

Yet it was not the knight's size, nor his sword and lance, nor even the men at his back that sent a chill through Sir Hartung von Ehrsfeld. No, it was the fact that the knight's armor was painted in a malignant shade of red. Blood-red.

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Greetings, Milords and Ladies!

What do you think Sir Reuben will do? Decapitation? Stabs to the heart? Disembowelment?  Please list your favorite methods of slaughter ;-)

Yours Truly

(A bloodthirsty) Sir Rob

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Hüa: A German cry to encourage a horse to go faster. Don't forget the two dots over the "u"—without them it won't work ;-)

Emperor Lucius Tiberius: No Roman emperor of that name ever actually existed, abut people in the middle ages believed that he did. He was one of the main enemies of the legendary King Arthur in Geoffrey of Monmouth's 11th century history of Britain. Historians back then weren't above inventing a few Roman Emperors to make history more interesting. Sadly, this practice has fallen out of use.