"Rise, Sir Hartung."

Cautiously, Hartung came to his feet. He didn't quite have the courage to look at the man in the chair, though. Not yet. Not before he knew what fate awaited him for his failure.

"Report."

"The archer's attacks have ceased, Milord."

"Did you catch the person responsible?"

"No, Milord. The archer was merely a ploy, Milord."

The figure in the shadows was silent for a moment. Then a low sigh emanated from the gloom.

"They wanted to get the commanders away from the vanguard."

"Yes, Milord."

"They ambushed you."

"Indeed, Milord."

"Why did you lose the battle?"

Hartung blanched. "Milord, h-how did you know that we...?"

"You are here alone, without a single captured enemy officer. The men outside have not uttered a single cheer at your return. It is not difficult to deduce what happened." Slowly, the Margrave rose and stepped forward, out of the shadows. "Now tell me: why did you lose?"

At the demanding question, Sir Hartung instinctively raised his head to look his overlord in the eye, and immediately regretted it. The Margrave was a tall, quite handsome man with a neatly trimmed black beard, going grey at the edges. At first sight you would call him slim. Only a second glance would you perhaps notice the hard muscles under the loosely fitted black surcoat. His features would have been very smooth and elegant, were it not for his broken, slanted nose, the result of a lost joust in his early years. This broken nose gave his whole face a slightly lopsided appearance, making it look as if he were permanently raising one eyebrow in derision.

Hartung could never stand that look for long. The Margrave looked at you with those steady blue-grey eyes of his, seeming to always ask a question, and you desperately wanted to be able to give him the answer. If you don't tell me everything, his face seemed to say, if you dare to resist...

Why did he lose? Hartung had asked himself that very question many times on the way back, and had come up with only one answer: because of that man.

He cleared his throat. "There was a man..." he began. "He... well, I assume it was he who was behind this. As I said, we were ambushed in the forest. Or to be more precise, Gregor and Blasius were. I was with several lances of soldiers further back up the path."

"The enemy waited to untack until you were gone?"

"Yes, Milord."

"I see. Continue."

"As I say, they attacked, but soon turned tail, and Sir Gregor and Sir Blasius gave chase. They pursued the enemy over the bridge at the river to the west. But... the bridge gave way beneath them."

That perpetually raised eyebrow moved, almost imperceptively. "How inconvenient."

"It was more than inconvenient, Milord. The supports of the bridge had been tampered with. The bridge was destroyed just as half the men were across the bridge, and most of the rest were still on top of it. Dozens of soldiers were smashed or drowned, our vanguard cut in half."

"Gregor and Blasius?"

Hartung hesitated. Then he shook his head. "I don't know what happened to them, Milord. Those bastards drove us away with bow and arrow. I couldn't stay to check if there were any survivors. The two of them may very well be dead."

*~*~**~*~*

As soon as Sir Gregor awoke he knew that they had lost the battle. The reason he knew this was because he was hanging suspended from a vaulted stone ceiling, his wrists tightly bound in iron chains, and there was rat nibbling at his left boot. Not the surroundings for your average victory celebration.

"Shoo!" he hissed, or at least that was what he intended to hiss. Instead, all that came out was a dry groan. The rat continued nibbling, unimpressed. Gregor would never have imagined his boot could taste that good. He would have to remember to tell his page not to polish them so often—if he ever got out of here alive.

He wondered if he should kick the rat to make it go away, but decided against it. Even if he himself was chained up and hanging from the ceiling by his wrists, that was no reason to make life more difficult for others, now, was it?

"And how long have you been here, little fellow?" he enquired of the rat. The little furry beast cocked its head and looked at him with small, beady black eyes. Then it started nibbling on his boot again.

"Not much one for conversation, are you?"

Apparently finished with course one, the rat scurried over to his other boot, and started on course two.

"Didn't think so. Well, enjoy your meal."

Suddenly, Gregor heard a groan from his left. Turning his head with difficulty, he saw another figure hanging from the ceiling, just as he was. The colors on the man's surcoat seemed familiar, and so did the petulant tone of his groans.

"Sir Blasius? Is that you?"

The other knight raised his head just enough to blink at Gregor with blood-shot eyes. "Sir Gregor?"

"Thank the Lord you're all right, Blasius! I thought you were dead!"

"I'll thank the Lord when he gets me out of this hellhole," Blasius moaned. "Where in the Virgin's name are we?"

"Considering the windowless stone walls and the chains and rats and thick oak door with no handle on the inside, my guess would be Lady Ayla's dungeon."

"Dungeon?" sputtered Blasius. "That shrew dared to put two knights of the Empire in the dungeon?"

"Well, we did invade her lands, Blasius."

"Yes, but that's no reason to be uncivil! Let alone a reason to show such an abominable lack of hospitality. When I meet her, I will have a few things to say to this Lady Ayla. Have you even the faintest idea what my arms feel like? And my poor back? It's unbearable, I tell you! My shoulders feel—"

Over the course of the next few hours, Sir Blasius informed Gregor in great detail about the dreadful pains in his arms, his back, his shoulders, his legs, his head, his stomach, and, for some reason, his left big toenail. When finally footsteps approached outside in the corridor and interrupted the knight's tirade, Gregor sent a quick prayer of thanks up through the stone ceiling.

On the other side of the thick oak door, keys jingled. A moment later, the door swung open with a gruesome squeak and a man-at-arms entered, carrying several metal objects.

"Ah, finally!" Blasius exclaimed. "You there, soldier! There has been a misunderstanding. Inform your mistress that she has no common brigand under her roof, who deserves to be put in chains, but a knight of the empire. My name is Sir Blasius von Balderingen, son of Sir Michael von Balderingen, the Brave. Tell your mistress that in accordance with the custom regarding noble prisoners, I demand immediate transfer to my own suite of rooms, with fresh clothes, food, and servants awaiting me. I also demand a ransom to be fixed and to be released on payment. You can let me out of these chains right now, I'd rather not wait for your mistress. Go ahead."

The soldier placed his load on the floor, turned, and left the room, closing the door behind him without saying a word.

"Well, that's... that's..." Blasius stammered. "Do you think that he might not have heard, Gregor? That he's deaf?"

"Somehow I doubt that," Gregor replied, absent-mindedly. He was busy examining the metal objects on the floor that the guard had brought in. They were a curious assortment—some looking like hand mills, with cranks and screws attached, other more like surgical instruments, with plenty of sharp blades and wicked-looking spikes.

"...unimaginably impudent!" Blasius was saying. "These nobles in the south are all the same, and the women are the worst! Not the least regard for common courtesy! When I'm next at the Emperor's Court, I shall lodge a formal complaint with..."

The door opened again. The man-at-arms returned, bearing another armful of metal implements. Blasius tried to get the man to free him again, shouting this time, in hopes the soldier really was deaf. It didn't work.

Gregor hadn't really expected anything else. He didn't say anything, just kept watching the soldier. Three more times the man returned with various metal objects, and Gregor still couldn't tell what in God's name they were for. It was only when the man brought in the iron tongs, resting in a bowl full of red hot coals that he understood the purpose of the instruments arrayed before him.

"...I tell you, my man, I am a personal friend of the Emperor's Chaimberlin's second cousin, and when I next visit Court, I shall tell him everything of how I was treated here! Now will you go and tell your mistress my demands, or will I have to..."

"Blasius?"

"Yes?" Blasius snapped, turning his head to Gregor. "What is it? I am grying to—" He caught sight of the bowl of glowing coals, and his voice died.

Gregor sighed. "I'm afraid they won't be giving us our own comfortable suite of rooms any time soon."

*~*~**~*~*

Hartung took a deep breath. It was time to face the inevitable. The dark figure of the Margrave stood before him, like a spirit of vengeance sent to exact the price for his failure.

"What now, Milord?" he asked, standing straight, waiting for the blow to fall.

The Margrave took a step closer towards him. Those questioning eyes studied him for a moment, boring into his very soul.

"Now? Now you will return to your men out there and order them to take possession of the east valley."

"W-what?"

"I assume the bridge that was destroyed was the only way across the river? If so, it should not be dangerous to build a camp down there. Make sure in any case that the camp is well-guarded and the river watched. I do not wish for any more surprises."

"B-but, Milord... I..."

The Margrave cocked his head, giving his already slanted face an even more dangerously unnatural tilt.

"You have something to complain about, Sir Hartung?"

"No, not that Milord. It's just... I expected to be punished. I failed you."

"Did you, now? And how is that?"

Hartung felt his face redden. Was he expected to punish himself for his defeat? To publicly explain his own failure? Did the Margrave want to humiliate him that much?

"I lost a battle." He managed to keep his voice steady, and not to clench his teeth at the bitter taste in his mouth. "I lost dozens of men."

"Ah, yes, you did. But in war, Sir Hartung, men are only the means. What is the end? What are we fighting for?"

"Um..." Sir Hartung hesitated. He had never over much concerned himself with that. He fought when he was ordered to fight. He didn't think about the reasons. "To... beat Lady Ayla?"

"Almost right, but not quite." The Margrave allowed himself a quiet smile. "We fight to conquer. We fight to acquire farm land, and woods, and roads along which armies can march to yet another border. We fight for expansion. And now tell me, Sir Hartung: seen from this perspective, from a Lord's perspective, not that of a knight in field, what has happened today?"

Hartung thought for a moment. Then, suddenly, his eyes widened.

"We... we have conquered. We have conquered half the land we came here to conquer."

The Margrave's smile grew for just an instant—then vanished. All that was left on his face was cold determination.

"Exactly. Lady Ayla's commander has won her a military victory, yes—but in doing so, he has given up half of Lady Ayla's domain. All the lands east of the Lunt River are now ours. From Lady Ayla's perspective, I would call that a pyrrhic victory. That is one of the two reasons why you will not be punished: because even though we lost, in the long run we will turn out to be the victors of the day. A victory that came at a high cost to us, but still a victory."

There was a pause, and Hartung used it to pull in a deep breath.

"And the other reason?" he asked.

"Ah yes, the other reason..." With one slim arm, the Margrave pointed to the exit of the tent, out into the clearing. "That is slightly more reason for concern. Did you know they found a battalion of my mercenaries in this clearing?" His voice was soft as silk. "All slain by one hand, apparently."

Hartung swallowed, hard, and turned to follow the Margrave's outstretched hand with his gaze. "I knew about the mercenaries, Milord, but... one hand? One man? Are you sure?"

"That is how it appears." The Margrave turned away from Sir Hartung, to look out through the tent's opening and out into the forest. There was nothing to see but a thick line of trees, but the Margrave Markus von Falkenstein stared out there as if he could see all the way to the battlements of Luntberg. "Deadly miracles like this slaughter and the ambush on you today are not performed by any passing cutthroat. It is not since the days of the Arthurian heroes that we have heard of them at all. You know what that means. The same hand that struck down my battalion in this forest struck down your men into their wet grave."

"The hand is red," Hartung said, quietly.

"With blood? I should think so."

"No, Milord, with red armor. Have you heard the rumors of a red knight being responsible for Sir Luca's defeat?"

It was a rhetorical question. Nothing happened in his domain which the Margrave didn't know about.

"I may have heard something of the sort, yes."

"They are no mere rumors."

You had to pay a lot of attention to notice, but Hartung knew his overlord well. He saw the tall, black figure tense, just slightly.

"You saw him?"

"I saw him wreaking havoc. I saw him at the head of an army five times as large as the one we came to fight. I saw him unhorse Sir Gregor with one strike of the lance. Oh yes, I saw him."

The Margrave nodded, as if something had been confirmed.

"You see, Hartung? We have been expecting to go to war against a seventeen year-old girl. Instead we're facing something completely different. That is the other reason you will not be punished. None of us knew this was what we were riding towards. This won't be a simple feud, my old friend. It will be a war."

An ominous sense of doom settled over Hartung. He could feel it in his bones: the Margrave was right. This would not turn out to be the easy fight they had expected. Sudden fury rolled over him, driving out the melancholy. To hell with easy! He would squash that red knight like a bug, if he had to fight him all the way to purgatory to do it!

"What is our next step, Milord?" he asked, taking a deep breath.

"The bridge will have to be replaced. A rough, wooden structure will do, just enough to allow a line of men to cross. It doesn't need to be able to carry heavier weights."

"It doesn't? But..." Hartung's heavy brow creased. "Milord, what about siege weapons? Won't we need to bring catapults with in the range of the walls?"

For just a moment, Hartung could see a small smile flickering at the corner of the Margrave's mouth. It sent chills down Hartung's back. Suddenly, he wasn't quite as determined to squash the red knight as he had been. Both he and Lady Ayla would have enough to contend with, if that smile was anything to go by.

"Don't you worry about that," the Margrave told him. "I have my plans."

"Milord?"

"Let's just say that I have brought a little present for Lady Ayla. Just wait a little, Hartung, and soon enough, she will be begging to surrender."

He waved his hand. "Now go. Prepare the men to march. We'll not camp here tonight, we're just resting. We'll sneak in under the cover of darkness, and before they know it, we'll be encamped on the river bank. Then we'll start building bridges."

"Yes, Milord!"

"Protect the wagons which contain my little surprise at all costs. It must reach the bank in safety."

"As you command, Milord." Hartung turned to go.

"And... Hartung?"

The tone in the Margrave's voice made the knight stop in his tracks. He turned back his head.

"Yes, Milord?"

"Before, we did not know the real danger our enemy poses. You were not prepared. Now we do know, and you had better be prepared. If you let something like today happen ever again, I will have you whipped within an inch of your life, do you understand?"

Hartung swallowed.

"Yes, Milord."

"Now go! Crush them!"

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Greetings, Milords and Ladies! 

I hope you enjoyed the introduction of the Margrave and the rat in the dungeon? Which did you like better? ;-)

Now I will be working on terrible torture methods and devious battle tactics! **descending into my dusty archive**

Farewell for now

Sir Rob