Reuben reined in his horse. In front of him stretched the slopes of gentle hills, slowly flattening into a meadow which, just a short time ago, had been covered with clover, daisies and marguerites. Now it was covered with Reuben's favorite kind of flowers: broken spears and spatters of blood. Beyond the meadow, the rush of the river surged up out of the darkness, demarcating the thin line between Luntberg lands and enemy territory. The entire scene was cast into shades of black by the uncertain light of stars that hid their faces behind the clouds half of the time.

If Reuben had had anyone to pray to, he would have prayed the clouds stayed where they were. Since he didn't give a rat's ass for any deity, he simply raised his face to the heavens, sending up a threatening glare.

"Stay!" he hissed. "Or I'll climb up there and nail you to the firmament!"

Maybe it was just his imagination, but the clouds seemed to move a little slower after that. He smiled.

"Sir? Sir, where are you?" he heard a voice from behind him, accompanied by the soft thud of hooves.

"Here, men!"

His troop of guards, which he had left considerably behind on his ride down from the castle, appeared out of the darkness and gathered round.

"Shouldn't we have lit torches, Sir?" one of them muttered, looking around, anxiously. "We might lose each other in the dark."

Reuben gave the man a scathing look. He was one of the new peasant recruits, but really, even peasants should be able to string two thoughts together.

"And announce our presence to every single enemy scout on the opposite bank?" he asked, coldly. "Yes, that's a brilliant idea. Why didn't I think of that?"

The peasant changed color. It was too dark to really see whether he reddened or paled, but Reuben didn't care about some villain's coloring.

Turning, he looked back up at the castle, which from here was visible as nothing more than a mass of black, blocking out the faint stars.

Somewhere up there she's waiting, relying on you to save her all by yourself.

Admittedly, she had not shown a great willingness to let him save her, but what did he care for other people's opinions? He was going to damn well save her, whether she wanted to or not!

"Come on," he growled, turning his horse and motioning to his soldiers to follow him. "Let's get down to the river."

He had to get out of sight of the castle. The sight of those walls alone was enough to make him think of nothing but Ayla, and now that he had a job to do, he had to get her out of his head as quickly as possible.

But how could he? How could anyone stop thinking about someone so incomprehensible, someone that maddening, with eyes that beautiful? Although at the moment, the former two attributes of his lady were taking up a greater part of Reuben's attention than her sapphire eyes.

He only wished he understood what was the matter with her! Things had happened over the last few days that were beyond his comprehension, and he wasn't even talking about her not letting him torture her enemies to death. No, he was talking about that look on her face. That look. The wistful one, when her eyes turned so big and soulful that it made his heart ache the way it had never done before. She only ever turned that look on him.

It was clear that she wanted something from him. Of course she did—she wanted him, and he wanted her. But whenever he tried to seduce her, she got that look in her eyes, gazing up at him hopefully, as if she were expecting...what?

He didn't know. He had no clue why she was holding back. After all, they were both human beings, with all the necessary limbs for fabulous fornication still attached, to the brim full of lust, and there were plenty of rooms in the castle with bolts on the door. There was even a hayloft in the stables, if she preferred that. Why waste time waiting?

Yet every time he wanted to get down to business in the horizontal position Ayla looked up at him with those big, blue eyes of hers, seeming to plead for him to ask her something...

What?

He had asked her whether she wanted to do it behind the rosebushes in the orchard. However, that suggestion did not seem to have the desired effect. No, she was waiting for something else from him, but the devil curse him if he knew what it was.

Reuben's mouth twitched in a humorless smile.

The devil curse him? That would be rather redundant, now, would it, seeing as the Lord of the pit already laid a curse upon him. A curse that had proven rather useful to him in his violent and varied career.

Pushing thoughts of Ayla as far aside as he possibly could, Reuben's eyes focused on the black form of the enemy camp that was now slowly becoming visible beyond the river. Yes, his curse had proven useful, and probably would again ere the night had passed.

They reached the river bank shortly afterwards and Reuben's companions looked to him for orders.

"Ride along the bank," he murmured in a low voice. It wasn't likely that there were many enemy scouts along the river, but there was always the possibility of a soldier coming to fetch water or to piss in Ayla's river. "I will tell you when to stop."

They started out again, throwing each other confused and scared glances. They had no more idea what he was planning than Ayla. Reuben preferred it that way. It was his habit to share his battle tactics only on a need-to-know basis. That way, you stayed alive longer. And in this case, he was the only one going to battle, so he was the only one who needed to know.

Feeling a ferocious and delicious tension build in his muscles, his hand settled on the pommel of his sword.

Me against the world—my very favorite kind of battle!

The only kind he could fight on his own, without anyone getting in the way. He supposed other people who wanted to fight alongside him meant well, but they always ended up interfering with his butchering everybody in sight, which could be very annoying.

While they rode, Reuben ceaselessly searched the opposite bank for a sign of what he was looking for. They rode long and hard, and got farther and farther away from the enemy camp, passing several tree stumps and the ruins of the bridge on their way. The farther they got, the more worried his men became. Reuben knew that under any other commander they would have long protested and asked what they were doing, riding away from the enemy camp they were supposed to be infiltrating. It gave him a deep sense of satisfaction that none of them dared to say a word to him.

Finally, his eyes caught a shapeless gray form on the opposite bank and he reined in his horse, holding up his hand.

"Stop!"

The others, flinching at his hissed command, halted their mounts too, and looked around.

"What is it, Sir?" one of the men-at-arms asked.

"We've reached our goal," Reuben told them in a low voice, and nodded to the eastern bank. "Look."

They turned their heads to where he was looking—but when they turned back to him, their expressions were just as puzzled as before.

"You have been chosen because you are the best archers of Luntberg," he told them, coldly. "That means you have the eyes of hunters. Look again, and this time, see."

They did as he commanded. At first, none of them betrayed any sign of having seen his goal, but as they continued to search the bank, one after the other frowned, then squinted and drew in a breath.

"A... tree?" one of them asked, confused. "You brought us here to look at a tree, Sir?"

"Not just look," Reuben corrected the man, giving him a derisive look. "Do you really think, man, I would have destroyed the bridge without leaving us a way to cross the river in an emergency? I brought you here to shoot at the tree!"

If anything, that caused more confusion to appear on the faces of the sturdy peasants and men-at-arms. Only a scrawny little fellow at the back of the group reached over his shoulder and drew one of the arrows the smith had specially prepared from his quiver—arrows which had hook-shaped heads, and strings attached to their shafts at the end. The scrawny fellow looked pensive for a moment—then his eyes lit up.

He looked from the arrow to the tree, then back to the arrow. It was then that he felt the force of eyes upon him and glanced up to catch Reuben looking at him. But instead of muttering an apology, or paling—the usual responses of his soldiers to Reuben—the corners of the man's mouth twitched.

"You understand?" Reuben asked.

"Yes, Sir. I think I do, Sir."

Reuben's eyes sparkled.

"Very well. You hereby receive a probationary promotion to sergeant. Give the necessary orders while I change."

Now the man did pale.

"M-me? Give orders?"

"Yes." Reuben didn't spare him a glance as he slid from Satan's back and began to unfasten the buckles that held the pieces of his plate armor in place. "You."

"But Sir, why me? I'm just a peasant recruit. Someone with more experience should do it, like Berthold or Gottfried—"

"I have plenty of people who have experience in doing things," Reuben told him, lifting his pretplate away and depositing it on the ground. "I need someone who can think. Now give the orders, Sergeant, or must I do it myself?"

"No, Sir! As you command, Sir!"

Jumping down from his horse, the newly appointed sergeant took up a position by the waterside and raised a hand.

"Men," he said in a low voice. "Ready your bows."

They reacted without a second of hesitation, sliding from their mounts and taking up positions in a straight line, their bows held out in front of them.

"First one in line—nock, mark, draw!"

Reuben listened with satisfaction while one piece after another fell to the ground. These men were fast approaching the perfect force—soldiers who didn't even have to hear the commands of their lord anymore to do what needed to be done.

"First in line, aim for the tree—and loose!"

The low whizz of an arrow cut through the quiet of the night. It was followed by a distant thud, as the arrow slammed into the tree.

The last piece of Reuben's armor fell to the ground. He straightened, now only clad in chain mail and surcoat and turned towards his men to see the sergeant holding the end of the string attached to the arrow in his fist.

Reuben's eyes met the sergeant's. The red knight nodded.

Well done.

"Second man in line," the sergeant ordered, his voice hoarse with relief, "nock, mark, draw." He bent to pick up the end of the second string and held it just as firmly as the first. "Ready?"

The archer nodded.

"The tree. Understood?"

Another nod.

"Very well. Loose!"

The second arrow disappeared into the night, spanning a bridge of twine over the rushing river. The sergeant waited until he heard the thud from the other bank signaling that the arrowhead had embedded itself securely in the tree, before he approached the third of his archers.

"Third in line—nock, mark, draw!"

So it went on until all nine of the soldiers had shot their arrows across the river. Finally, the new sergeant handed his fistful of twine to another soldier and picked up his own bow.

"Someone pick up the string, will you?" he asked, his eyes narrowing as he raised the bow.

Reuben himself stepped forward and bent down to retrieve the end of the last string, and the sergeant met his eyes with a new-found confidence. He didn't even seem surprised that Reuben had rid himself of his crimson surcoat by now, instead wearing one in midnight-black, sporting the sinister design of a silver falcon: the crest of House Falkenstein.

"Do you think it suits me, sergeant?" Reuben asked, raising n eyebrow.

"To be honest, Sir, I prefer you in red.

"Trust me, sergeant—it will be stained with red soon enough."

A smile twitched around the corners of the sergeant's mouth. "Good."

He turned his gaze away from Reuben, focusing once more on the distant tree. With his right hand, he slid the shaft of the arrow down his bow until it rested at the point marked by a miniscule notch in the wood. His eyes narrowing to slits, he drew the bowstring back as far as it would go. He took a deep breath and held it, as all the best archers did, ensuring that no vibrations from his chest could possibly throw off the arrow one fraction of an inch. He stood like that for a moment, measuring his aim along the shaft of the arrow—and then let go.

With a noise that cut through the night like a knife, the arrow disappeared into the darkness. Only a second later Reuben heard the satisfying thud as it embedded itself deeply in the tree on the other side of the river. He tugged on the string he was holding. It went taut, then wouldn't give another inch.

"What now, sergeant?" he asked the former peasant, who was still standing, his arm outstretched, his eyes almost shut. Time to see how much brains this man had.

Slowly, the sergeant let the arm with his bow sink.

"If you would be so good as to give me the string, Sir?"

"Certainly. Here it is."

Reuben handed the string to the man and watched him collect the other nine strings from the other soldiers, who still looked puzzled. Only when the sergeant tied the end of the strings tho his bow and began twirling it around did one of the man's eyes light up in understanding.

"Ah." Reuben nodded to the man. "I see there's one more among you loggerheaded louts who can actually think."

"Not precisely, Sir." The man grinned, abashed. "I'm just a ropemaker by trade. I've seen this plenty of times before."

"Rope?" another soldier asked, still clueless.

"Yes," the sergeant grunted, twisting the bow in his hands one last time. "Or what does that look like to you?"

He nodded to the strings hanging from the arrows on the other side of the river, which by now had formed into a tightly wound rope.

"We are going to cross the river on that?" the soldier gasped.

"No," Reuben told him, stepping forward. "You're not. I am."

All eyes flew to him

"W-what? We won't be going with you, Sir?"

He met their gazes with deadly steel in his eyes. "I never pretended to want to bring anyone with me. I always said this was my mission, and mine alone."

"Yes, but we just assumed..."

"You assumed wrong."

"But then..." The sergeant hesitated, then began again, "But then what are we here for, Sir?"

"To hold the rope of course." Reuben flexed his armored hands, then glared at the man. "And I advise you to hold tight, sergeant. If you do not, if I am smashed on the rocks below because your hands slipped, I will come back from the realms of the dead and haunt you to your grave. Do we understand each other?"

The sergeant swallowed.

"Y-yes, Sir."

"Then what are your men waiting for." He waved at the rope. "Grab hold!"

They moved so quickly you could have mistaken them for deer running from a wolf. In a way they were—only they were about to assist the wolf in a neck-breaking act of acrobatics.

"But... only one rope?" the ropemaker-soldier said, eyeing the entwined cords in his hand doubtfully. "And only held by ten slim wooden shafts? Pardon me for saying so, Sir, but that sounds rather dangerous."

"The strings are attached directly to the metal arrowheads, not the shafts," Reuben pointed out, striding forward to the bank of the river. "And the heads are barbed. You'd need a giant's strength to wrench them out of the tree."

"That was clever. Still, Sir, it is only one rope, and you're a rather formidable man. How do we know it's safe?"

"That's simple."

"Really, Sir?"

"Yes. When you don't hear the rope tear and me hit the water below, then you'll know it's safe."

That didn't seem to make the soldiers feel a lot better. Reuben didn't really care. He had a job to do, and nothing and no one was going to prevent him from doing it. He gripped the rope tightly in both hands. Behind him, he could feel the grips of the ten men tighten, too. His knees bent, preparing to propel him off the bank and into the black abyss.

"Stop!"

Reuben's head whipped around, and so did every other head on the riverbank. It was fortunate that he hadn't leapt off into space yet—at that moment, the men's slackened grip would not have held him up. Behind them, in the shadows of the hills above the river, stood a slender figure with shoulder-length blonde hair and a youthful face: Theoderich the squire.

"You again?" Reuben growled, stepping towards the annoying little toad. "Didn't I scare you off yet?"

"No, Sir. It is my honor to serve and protect you, Sir."

"Satan, what did I do to deserve this?" Reuben mumbled, then, louder: "Go away!"

The youth looked serious.

"I'm afraid I cannot do that, Sir. Under normal circumstances, I would be only too happy to follow any order you gave me, but in this case, I will respectfully have to decline. It is not only my honor to serve and protect you, it is also my duty."

"Then go back to the castle and pray for me. I'm sure that'll do much good for my protection. Maybe the apostles will even avert the enemy's arrows from me or something. Now scoot!"

Theoderich hesitated. "I'm afraid I can't do that, Sir, not even to pray. Your faith is commendable. But my old knight master taught me that a squire always has to stay at his master's side."

"And annoy the hell out of him?"

"That was not part of my revered knight master's instructions, no. A squire has to serve and protect..."

"Yes, yes, I know. You mentioned that before." Glaring, Reuben gestured at the slim blond figure of the youth. "And can you tell me how exactly you intend to protect me? Because if you're trying to tell me you'll try to protect me in battle with your incredible strength and prowess, forget it!"

"Certainly not, Sir," Theoderich exclaimed, shocked. "No one surpasses your mastery of the blade. I would never be so presumptuous as to try and step between you and your enemies. No, I'm simply going to cross the river before you."

"What?" Reuben blinked, his anger dissolving. He hadn't expected this. "What are you talking about?"

"The rope," the squire said, gesturing to the cord the soldiers were clutching as if their lives depended on it. "You don't know whether it will hold your weight. I am lighter than you, so I will cross first, and attach it more securely to the tree at the other end. When I have made it over and secured the rope, you can follow."

There were a few seconds of silence.

"It... is not actually a bad idea, Sir," the sergeant pointed out.

"I know that," Reuben gowled. "I'm just thinking about whether to give this young fellow here a good beating for disobeying my orders and following us out here, before I let him do it."

"Oh. Sorry to disturb you, Sir."

Reuben weighed the situation for a few more moments. Finally, he gave a reluctant grunt. "Considering how we are near enemy territory, and on rather a tight schedule, I'll spare your bottom for now, squire. But when I get back to the castle, I will give you a hiding like you've never had in your life."

"It shall be an honor, Sir."

"Let's see if you still feel the same about it tomorrow. Now get going, or I will give it to you here and now!"

"Yes, Sir! Immediately, Sir!"

Sprinting past Reuben, the squire took hold of the rope, and, without even testing to see whether it would hold his weight, began to move hand over hand along the precarious bridge. Reuben watched him like a hawk. The youth was inexpert, but agile. He moved along the rope like a monkey, and though it swayed heavily from side to side, and the men's faces tightened with the strain of maintaining their grip, the rope held. Soon, Theoderich had vanished into the darkness over the river.

"The weight on the rope has disappeared," muttered the sergeant after a while. Reuben could see it for himself: the rope, bowed under the youth's a moment ago, was straight and taut again.

"Do you think he's across?" a soldier asked.

"Easy to find out," Reuben told him and marched towards the rope. "Let the rope slacken a little. Just a little." The men did as he said. Taking hold of it in front of them, Reuben gave three short jerks. He was answered by three similar jerks from the other side.

"He's across," Reuben growled. "Now it's my turn. Hold tight."

He strode towards where the bank of the river sloped down into the darkness of the rushing waters. Behind him, the men once more tightened their grip on the rope, even more fiercely than before.

Reuben griped the rope and took a deep breath, gazing into the chasm below.

"All right, Satan," he murmured so low that only he could hear. "Either you make this thing hold—or I'll die and have come down there to pay you a friendly visit. It's up to you."

Without waiting another moment to think, he sprang.

Unlike Theoderich, Reuben had crossed over rivers in a dozen lands and over alleys in a hundred cities on far more precarious bridges than this sturdy rope. He knew his business. Swinging himself up on top of the rope, he slung one leg around it to stabilize himself. For one moment, the rope buckled and the men behind him grunted under the strain of holding up his weight. Reuben waited just long enough for the rope to stop quivering, then he lunged his hand forward, and began pulling himself along as fast as he could. Not hanging from the rope, but lying on top it, he didn't have to hold his entire weight with his arms and moved about twice as fast as his young squire had.

He'd just reached the middle of the river when the rope suddenly gave out beneath him and he plummeted a few inches—only to smash painfully into the rope as it was pulled straight again. In his mind, he laid a thousand curses on the fool who had let the rope slip from his fingers, and promised himself he would work the fellow over with a hunting crop the minute he returned.

If he returned.

Clenching his teeth, he doubled his pace, the tree on the other bank of the river racing towards him. Three more yards to go. Two. One.

Yes!

Swinging down from the rope, Reuben's feet slammed onto the ground. He gave himself just one moment to fill his lungs with air, then he straightened and took in the surrounding landscape.

A flat meadow. No bushes or other foliage for enemies to hide behind. Darkness. No sign of fire or life. Well, well, it looked like he wouldn't have to kill anyone yet. What a pity.

His eyes fell on a slender blonde figure beside the tree. Hm... maybe there was someone to kill, after all.

"You," he told the squire, his voice rumbling like a volcano about to explode, "are in deep horse-dung. Great, fat, stinking piles of horse-dung."

The squire bowed. "As Milord pleases."

"Oh yes, Milord pleases all right! Now get your ass on that rope and back to Luntberg! If I still see you standing here in five seconds, it'll be much worse for you when we get back, I guarantee."

Reuben waited for Theoderich to start forward—but the squire didn't move an inch.

"I'm waiting," the knight growled. "Move. Now!"

"I am truly sorry, Milord, but..."

"But what?"

"I'm afraid I will, regretfully, have to decline to abide by your instructions."

"What?"

The squire raised his chin. "As I mentioned before, my revered knight master taught me that a squire always has to stay at his master's side, to serve and protect him."

"I have half a mind to serve you my fist in your face, you miserable squirt."

Theoderich nodded somberly. "It is of course your prerogative to discipline me for my disobedience as you see fit. However, that will not deter me from carrying out my duty."

"You said you were just going to test the rope and then get back!"

"Yes, I did. And I have to thank you, Milord."

"Whatever for?"

Reuben wasn't sure—it was quite dark after all—but he had always been able to see well in the dark. And for one moment, it seemed to him as though the corners of his squire's mouth twitched.

"For teaching me that in order to do his duty properly, a true knight sometimes has to resort to a little subterfuge."

"In other words—you lied."

"I would not put it quite that extremely, Milord, but... yes."

Reuben eyed the brat for a moment, sizing him up anew.

"And what happened to not stepping between me and my enemies?"

"I will accompany you into the midst of the enemy camp, Milord. Taking that into consideration, I'm sure I will find plenty of my own enemies to fight."

Hmm... What did you know? Maybe he hadn't been quite correct in his first assessment. Maybe Theoderich wasn't a totally cowardly whimpering toad.

"All right," he growled. "You can come along, you unwashed little haggard. But don't complain to me if you get stabbed in the stomach."

"If I am, Milord, I give you my word, I shall be as silent as a grave."

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**Insert Author's note here**

Sorry ;) Too busy finishing my dissertation!

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GLOSSARY:

Villain: This is not supposed to mean that the peasant is evil. "Villain" was originally a word that referred to a person of low birth, and used as an insult in that sense. Because of medieval noble's wonderful views of social equality, they presumed that every peasant was essentially lazy, greedy and nasty, and thus the meaning of the word slowly transformed. So, if you call someone a "villain", you are essentially calling him a medieval peasant. Which means that from an etymological viewpoint, every book and film has at least one medieval peasant in it.