Ayla knocked softly against the oak door. She never knew when he was asleep these days. He was getting old, after all, and the last thing she wanted to do was to disturb him.

"Enter, daughter," Count Thomas von Luntberg called.

Ayla pushed the door open and stuck her head through the crack.

"How did you know it was me?" she demanded. The old count, surrounded by mountains of cushions on his bedstead, gave a little snort. "You're the only one who knocks as softly as the steps of a sneaking squirrel, Ayla. You don't nead to sneak around me. I'm not a corpse just yet. Can you help me get rid of a few of these?" He tugged at one of the pillows. "I think that woman you saddled me with is trying to suffocate me."

"She's just taking good care of you," Ayla said, reprovingly. Quickly, she came the rest of the way into the room and hurried over to her father to grab his hand and prevent him from shoving the cushions away. "It was very kind of her to agree to look after you, and she is doing excellent work. You need to rest, and why not be comfortable?"

"Maybe because we're at war?"

"Sir Reuben is taking care of that."

"I know. So, how did the battle go?"

Ayla jumped, guiltily. "Battle? What battle?"

The Count smiled up at her, sadly. "What, did you think because you had the servant close the window shutters I wouldn't realize there was a battle going on outside? You could hear the clatter and screaming from miles away, Ayla. I even heard some strange rumbling sound, as if a whole castle was collapsing. They haven't attacked the walls yet, have th—?"

He broke off as a coughing fit wrecked his frame.

"Father! Father, are you all right? Father?" Ayla leaned forward, picking him up and pressing him against her chest, trying to pat stroke his back and sooth the cough. "Shh. Everything is going to be alright. You're going to be alright. Just relax. Please, Father."

Slowly, the cough subsided, and Ayla let the Count sink back onto the cushions. Only then did she realize with what ease she had picked him up—a man once so powerful and muscled she couldn't even have lifted one of his arms.

Ayla shook her head. She could feel moisture brimming in her eyes. It was torture to see him like this—a far more potent torture than any Reuben had suggested inflicting upon the two captured knights.

"W-why did you try to keep the battle from me, daughter? Did you think you had to do it to spare me the anxiety?" The count tried to chuckle, but it almost ended in a second coughing fit, and he stopped quickly. "I've lived through many a battle, Ayla, and during most of them I wasn't save behind thick stone walls in a comfortable bed. My old heart won't give up that easily, as least not as long as you're safe. You were, weren't you?"

"I was." Ayla felt her mouth tighten. "Reuben made me stay behind."

"I believe I'm starting to like that boy more and more with every passing day," the Count commented, merrily. "How did he manage to convince you to stay? It's more than I could ever do."

"He... he threatened to tie me up and lock me in my room."

"Hmm." The Count stroked his long white beard in contemplation. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't he supposed to be your vassal? I my day, that meant you are supposed to give him orders, not the other way around."

"It still does. Reuben has just a slightly... unconventional view of authority."

"Hmm. I see. And how did our unconventional commander do in battle?" The Count raised one withered hand and gestured to the window. "Due to the thick wooden boards blocking my view, I didn't exactly catch much of what was going on."

Grudgingly, Ayla's mouth transformed into a small smile. "He won."

The Count raised a white eyebrow. "He won? You mean he managed to keep them from getting over the castle walls?"

"No, no, they didn't get nearly as far as that." Ayla tried to deny it to herself, but it was no use: there was definitely a tinge of pride in her voice. "Reuben fought them off at the river. They never crossed to the western bank."

Now both the Count's eyebrows shot up, so high they almost disappeared into his long, white hair. "Fought them off at the river, you say?"

"Yes."

"Ayla... last time I checked this castle had a garrison of about fifty to sixty men, all the men-at-arms of my various vassals included."

"Correct."

"And the Margrave's army numbers around... nine-hundred men?"

"More about a thousand."

"A thousand. Well, daughter, can you tell me how fifty men managed to defend the river against an army of a thousand?"

"Didn't you once tell me that story of a Roman soldier, father, who held a narrow bridge all alone against an entire army?"

"Until the enemy came with boats and stabbed him in the behind with a long spear, yes."

Colour rushed into Ayla's cheeks. "Well, Falkenstein didn't have any boats."

"Ayla." The count gave her a reproving look, which Ayla avoided as best as she could. She didn't really know why she didn't want to tell her father exactly what had happened. She just didn't feel very good about admitting that she had practically wrecked his bridge, enlisted the people she was supposed to protect as soldiers, and layed a cowardly trap for her enemy that was against all chivalric rules of warfare. Even though it had all been Reuben's idea, and even though it had saved their lives in the end, that wasn't the sort of thing you wanted to admit to your father. Especially when he was giving you that look.

"Ayla? What is the matter? What happened out there?"

"You... you'll have to ask Reuben," she muttered. "I'm not really an expert on these... military matters, you know."

The look on the Count's face melted away, to be replaced by such a tender expression that it nearly broke Ayla's heart.

"I know." Reaching out, he cupped her face with his hand. His skin felt like old parchment, warmed by the light of a candle. It was such a comforting thing to feel. "I know, my dear. I'm so sorry you have to go through this." He sighed. "You're right. I shouldn't burden you with this. I'm sure you have enough on your mind already. I'll talk to Sir Reuben later. He really fought them off at the river?"

"Yes, Father."

"Remarkable. He is a truly extraordinary young man. To be honest, I don't really care how he did it—I'm just really glad Sir Reuben managed to defend the bridge." The Count smiled at his daughter. "The pride of my noble house, that bridge is. The jewel of my lands. Did you know that trade down the road through Luntberg has doubled ever since I built it? The merchants aren't coming through right now, of course, because of the feud, but as soon as it's over they'll start coming again, I promise you. Four years it took me to have that bridge built, and it cost two years of income. But trust me, it was money well spent: it's still as sturdy as on the day the last stone was placed."

The Count sighed again, lost in happy memories.

"So, tell me, daughter, did the bridge suffer any damage in the battle? Has Sir Reuben erected his barricade there, or on the opposite bank?"

Ayla cleared her throat. She could feel her cheeks heating up. "Well, um, father... there's probably something I should tell you... About that bridge of yours, it's... it's not exactly..."

"Lady Ayla! Lady Ayla."

Normally, Ayla would have turned like a dragon on anyone who dared to disturb her father. Just at that moment, however, she was ready to thank God on her kneews for the interruption. A man-at-arms stood in the doorway to the tower chamber, red-faced and panting, leaning against the doorframe. He had apparently run all the way up here, yet still didn't wait a minute to catch his breath.

"Milady... I ... I think I have to ask you something. It's important. I'm so sorry to disturb you, Milord, really but..."

"No matter, my good man," the Count said, pushing himself into a slightly more erect position against his cushions. "If you think it's that important, your mistress should hear what you have to say, and I want to hear it too. Go ahead. I can speak to my daughter later."

"Thank you, Milord." Bowing his head, the man-at-arms turned back to Ayla.

"What is it, soldier? Is the castle under attack?"

"No, Milady. I... there's a slight problem."

"You ran all the way up here because of a slight problem?"

"Well, it's not exactly slight. Well, maybe it is, depending on how you look at it. Or it isn't."

Ayla fowned. "You're not making sense, soldier."

"Sorry, Milady. The thing is... I have to ask you something. If Sir Reuben gives me an order, should I obey it?"

"Of course you should! He's your commanding officer."

"Yes, Milady, I know, Milady. It's just... if there's something important, which I think you ought to know, should I tell you about it?"

"Of course! I'm your liege lady."

The soldier squirmed under her intense gaze. "Yes, Milady, I know. The problem is, what if Sir Reuben ordered me to do something, something which I think you ought to know, and ordered me not to tell you about it?"

Slowly, Ayla rose to her feet. She could feel a tingle at the back of her neck. This didn't sound good.

"Then I would say to heck with Sir Reuben's orders, and you had better tell me what he's up to immediately!"

"Thank you, Milady!" The soldier bowed deeply, an expression of ecstatic relief on his face. "You see, Sir Reuben ordered me to bring a number of things into the old dungeon, and in there, I found—"

Ayla gasped, her eyes going wide. She didn't need the solider to finish.

"You're not telling me he... He didn't!"

The soldier gave an apologetic shrug. "I'm afraid he did, Milady."

"Where is he? I'm going to murder him!"

"H-he should be down in the dungeons by now, Milady. And do you need any kind of weapons?" The soldier sounded almost hopeful. "An axe? A broadsword, maybe?"

"No, thanks! I'll do it with my bare hands! Show me the way!"

"Ayla?" the Count asked. "What's this about? What is happening in the dungeon?"

But for once, she didn't answer her father. She was already out the door and on her way down the stairs.

"Ayla! Ayla, tell me what is going on? And tell me what has happened to my bridge!"

*~*~**~*~*

Gregor had observed the red glowing coals for quite a while now. They weren't glowing quite as brightly as they had been. He was just starting to hope that maybe whoever had ordered them brought in might have forgotten about his plans for a little chivalric barbecue when he heard heavy footsteps from outside.

The door opened. Yet this time, it wasn't the man-at-arms who entered. Oh no. It was someone quite different.

Gregor watched with bated breath as a gigantic crimson figure strode into the room and closed the door behind him. The knight was wearing full armor, and had his visor down. A sword that seemed large enough to provide metal for three good blades hung at his belt.

He paused for a moment, then turned sideways and looked up at Gregor, hanging loosely in his chains. Slowly, the red knight started towards him, the metal tips of his boots making a low clicking noise every time they hit the stone floor. Gregor had heard that sound many times before—he himself often had worn metal-tipped boots—but still, it had never sounded so ominous to him before. He swallowed, hard.

"Thank God!" Blasius exclaimed. "Finally, a nobleman! Please, Sir Knight, I do not know who you are, but you must help us! The lady of this castle—God, why call her lady, she doesn't even deserve that title!—has lost her mind completely! She through us into this dungeon and then sent a soldier down to bring all this down here!"

He tried to gesture at the instruments of torture all around them, but it is rather difficult to gesture at anything while your wrists are chained together over your head. Blasius muttered a curse.

"God only knows what infamy she's going to inflict on us! Please, Sir Knight, you have to help us! In the name of honor and chivalry, you have to—"

He didn't get any farther than that. Taking a dirty rag out of his belt pouch, the red knight stepped up to Blasius and stuffed the cloth into his mouth.

Gregor gave a sigh of relief.

A moment later he wished he hadn't, because the red knight turned and fixed the eyeless gaze of his iron visor on him. Between the thin slits of the helmet, Gregor could just make out the hints of a face. What little he could see didn't look very friendly.

"Please, Sir Knight," he croaked. "We may be enemies, but you do not have to do this. It is against the laws of God and men. Think of your honor! Your soul!"

The red knight's response to this was to march over the bowl of glowing coals and grab the iron tongs. They glowed menacingly as they came out of the coals, their red just as brilliant as that of the knight's armor. But...

Sir Gregor blinked. For a moment it had looked as if the knight had taken the iron tongs out of the coals at the end that was glowing red hot with heat. But no! That couldn't be, could it? His eyes must be playing tricks on him. Leather Gautnlets or no, heat like that would be too painful to bare!

With a flick of his wrist, the red knight hurled the tongs into the air. They spun upwards, leaving a trail of red sparks in their wake, and when they came down again, he caught them effortlessly. Gregor looked again. Yes, now he was definitely holding them at the cold end. It must have been a trick of the light. But then... why was there smoke rising from knight's gauntleted fist? It swirled around the figure of the red knight, making him look like Satan ascended from hell.

The diabolical knight took a step forward, and Gregor realized that he had more important things to worry about than tricks of the light. His eyes flew to the red, glowing end of the tongs, his breathing speeding up.

He is going to do it! he thought, panic rising up inside him. Lord, help me! Please, oh Lord, help me to stay strong!

The red knight took another step forward. The hand that was holding the tongs moved upwards, and Gregor saw the hellish glow approach his face. He could already feel the heat on his skin, coming closer and closer.

"Please, Sir Knight, don't do this!" His voice was hardly more than a whisper. The red knight showed no reaction, moving the red iron forward inexorably towards Gregor's seating face, scorching his skin.

God! Help me!

Then, suddenly, as if his prayers had been answered, Gregor heard another pair of feet hurrying down the corridor outside—not heavy feet this time, but as light as an angel's. The red-hot tongs stopped dead, and a moment later, the door to the dungeon burst open.

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Greetings!

I apologize that my chapter is slightly late, today, Milords and Ladies. My Computer was rebelling against me, but I have managed to quell its rebellion by force of arms! ;-)

Farewell for now

Sir Rob