Once they had found the dead knight's armor, it took Reuben only minutes to put it on and arm himself. He had to admit, there were advantages to having a squire. The little squirt could tighten all the armor straps you couldn't reach without dislocating your shoulder, and he handed you your weapons and equipment with a bow and a "There you go, Milord, I hope everything is to your satisfaction, Milord?"

Yes, he could definitely get used to this. If the boy didn't get himself chopped to pieces tonight, he might be inclined to let him keep both his job and his head.

The final strap tightened with a squeak of leather on metal. Reuben picked up a mirror from the table and gazed at himself. The armor was a bit too roomy in the region of the belly, and a bit too tight everywhere else, but apart from that, it fit him well. Luckily, the previous owner had been a tall man.

Reuben raised an eyebrow at the lad.

"Well, squire, what do you think? Do I now look the part of one of Falkenstein's knights?"

Theoderich swallowed, and glanced down at the corpse on the floor. Blood was still leaking out of it onto the carpet.

"Y-yes, Milord. Absolutely. You look magnificent."

"'Excellent." Taking the knight's helmet from the table, Reuben placed it on his head. It was a standard model that lacked the hinged visor of Reuben's own helmet, but that was all the better. People wouldn't expect him to bare his face. The metal settled down over his head, effectively parting him from the rest of the world, except for a few narrow visor slits. Now he was once more what he had been born to be: a killing machine, clad in iron.

"That knight." Reuben drew his sword and, slipping it under the surcoat of the corpse on the floor, lifted the bloody cloth a few inches, showing off his coat of arms. "Do you know his name?"

"You mean to say you killed him and you didn't even know who he was?"

"You don't need an introduction to stick a knife into somebody. Now, do you know his name or don't you?"

"T-the swan and star is the crest of Sir Ernolf von Rothuf. According to my old master, he's one of the most powerful vassals of the Margrave von Falkenstein."

"How wonderful." Reuben clapped his gauntleted hands with a crash that made the squire jump. "It seems I've killed just the right man. Let's go."

He stepped outside without giving Theoderich time to think. In front of the tent, the laughter and joking among the men died the moment they caught sight of him. All of them jumped to their feet and bowed as deeply as they could. Reuben, true to his role as the arrogant liege lord, a role which came rather easily to him, didn't even acknowledge the greeting. He strode towards the center of the camp. Within minutes, he reached a second palisade that surrounded the heart of the encampment.

"No entry into this section unless you're part of the trebuchet crew," the guard beside the gate yawned, drawing his helmet a little further into his face, so whoever had come to disturb his nap wouldn't succeed. "Make yourself scarce!"

Reuben didn't say anything. He simply reached out and tipped the man on the shoulder. Groaning, the guard lifted his helmet a fraction, just enough to see, and blinked up at him. The next moment, he jerked violently and the helmet toppled off his head.

"Milord! I'm so sorry, Milord. I didn't mean any disrespect, I would never—"

Reuben decided he had gotten this far with non-verbal communication, so why not continue? He drew back his arm and slapped the guard full across the face. It was no real blow—it wouldn't kill or maim or someone—but it was just enough to slam the fellow back against the palisade and maybe loosen a tooth or two.

Cross-eyed, the guard bowed, gripping one of the palisade poles for support. "Th-thank you, Milord. You are most gracious in your mercy. I thank you from the bottom of my heart!"

Reuben considered for a moment giving him a second slap as his version of saying "you're welcome", but then decided against it. He had never been someone for excessive courtesy. So he just motioned to Theoderich, who had caught up with him by now, and stepped through the gate.

The moment he set foot beyond the wooden wall, a great shadow fell upon him. Looking up, he saw the massive machine rising above him, blocking out the stars. It was a sight he had seen many times before. But this felt different.

Well, for good reason. This time, you're not the one attacking. And there is that little matter of two-hundred pound stone missiles threatening to crush to death the girl you love.

Through the slits of his helmet, he looked at what he could see of his surroundings. People rushing about, carrying stones, pulling on ropes, rolling barrels. Everything was in motion, commands were shouted over the mayhem. Only one figure stood still: Beyond the trebuchet, on the walkway of the inner palisade surrounding the machine, Reuben could see a gaunt figure in black and silver. Could it be...?

It has to be!

Falkenstein.

Reuben's hand was on the pommel of his sword before he realized it.

Calm down! You can't kill him. Not yet. Take care of the machine first; that is what's important. Afterwards... who knows what might happen...

"Milord!" The hissed word ripped Reuben from his violent fantasies. Theoderich had appeared beside him. The young squire was looking around like a rabbit in a wolf's cave. Behind his visor, Reuben smirked. What did his own face look like right? He didn't have a mirror, but he was pretty sure it looked more like that of the wolf.

"W-what are we going to do now, Milord?"

"First of all, stop stuttering and whispering," Reuben told him in a quiet but firm voice. "We wouldn't want anyone to think we don't have any business being here, now, would we?"

"N-no, Milord."

"What's that?"

Theoderich straightened, and cleared his throat. "No, Milord!"

"Much better. Follow me."

Reuben led his squire through the mass of people behind a few barrels stacked near the palisade. No one dared to get in their way or even to speak to them. The swan and star on Reuben's surcoat acted like a sign to all around them who wished to avoid trouble.

Reuben leaned casually against the pile of barrels, which creaked under the added weight of muscle and steel.

"Now, goldilocks..." He pointed over his shoulder at the trebuchet, in a quick, casual gesture only his squire could see. "Lesson number two. How would you destroy our giant friend over there?"

Theoderich eyes widened. He had obviously not expected to be responsible for this part of the undertaking.

"Um... err...I..."

"Very interesting. Maybe you could elaborate a bit beyond the ums and errs."

"How... how about setting it on fire?"

Reuben made a gesture as if he were interested. Behind his visor, he grinned an evil grin the boy couldn't see. You almost had to pity the poor worm. "A fascinating suggestion. And how would you do that?"

"Um... hold a torch to it?"

"I see. And what makes you think that would make it burn?"

"Because... because it is wood, Milord.?"

"And wood burns, everyone knows that." Reuben sighed. "Tell me, goldilocks, have you ever made a campfire?"

"Of course, Milord. Many times."

"And when you did, did you put brushwood under the logs?"

"Yes."

"Why did you do that?"

"Because otherwise the bigger logs... won't... burn..."

Reuben let the squire's voice die down, then he reached out and patted him on the head, and did his best to make it as condescending as possible. Satan's hairy ass, he hadn't expected for teaching to be this much fun!

"Yes. They won't."

"I see, Milord."

"Do you think the Margrave will be so kind as to let us stack brushwood around his trebuchet before we set in on fire? After we ask him to stop firing for a while, because we need to go into the woods and collect about half a ton of brushwood?"

"N-no, Milord."

"I don't think he would, either. So, all in all, how well do you think this brilliant idea of yours of setting the trebuchet on fire would work?"

"Um... not at all?"

Reuben patted his squire's head again. "Very good. You've realized your own stupidity. That's the first step to actually having some brains. The second step is start thinking. Can you do that?"

"I... hope so, Milord."

A man with a few planks over his shoulder hurried past them Reuben waited until he was gone, then said:

"Good. So, I ask again: how would you destroy our target?"

Theoderich looked up at him, and Reuben saw in his eyes that he was close to cracking under the strain. "I... don't know, Milord."

"Well, what I coincidence." The self-satisfied grin behind Reuben's visor spread until he could practically feel hellish energy coursing through his veins. "I do. Follow me, and do exactly as I say, or you are dead."

They stepped out from behind the barrels—just in time to spring back again as the arm of the trebuchet lashed out. With unstoppable force, it shot towards the heavens, and the black stone flew from the sling, streaking towards the castle.

Through the visor, Reuben met his squire's eyes. "Very dead."

*~*~**~*~*

The first stone hit before they had even closed the door behind them. Ayla was just helping an old woman down the stairs, when suddenly, she felt as if the ground had punched her in back.

"Aaah!"

She fell forward, wildly grabbing for something, anything to support her. The old woman tumbled past her, and Ayla's hand shot forward, grabbing her by the back of her patched dress. Her other hand managed to close around something and clung on tenaciously, while around them, the world rocked and rumbled. Dust billowed down the stairs, making her cough.

"H-hang on," she gasped, trying to pull the old woman back up towards her. It was no use. The lady was heavier than her stature made her look. Maybe, Ayla thought, as her arm-muscles throbbed, screaming at her to let go, she should have been a bit less generous with the food rations in the castle. She bit her teeth and closed her fingers harder. "Hang on! I've got you!"

"Yes, Milady! Yes!"

The thing she had grabbed hold of to keep from falling was getting warmer—a lot warmer. Gathering all her strength, she turned her head and looked over her shoulder. She was almost sick at what she saw. The thing she was hanging on to was a torch, secured in an iron bracket. If she had gripped even a few inches higher, her fingers would have been incased by flames, and both she and the old woman could have fallen to their deaths.

But even worse: Behind the torch, stone dust obscured the entrance to the staircase completely, and rubble was strewn on the steps.

Dear Lord! Please, don't let the entrance be blocked, please, I beg you!

"Burchard!" Ayla yelled, her voice rising in panic, no matter how much she tried to keep it calm for the old lady's sake. "Burchard, are you there? Are you all right?"

"We're here," the gruff voice of the steward drifted through the stone dust, and Ayla almost sagged with relief before she remembered the old woman was still hanging on her arm. "We're all all right. A boulder hit the keep on the first floor, and some rubble came down, but we've just got a few scratches. And the passage is still free."

"Then get your derrière down here, before I come up and drag you down!"

"Yes, Milady! Immediately, Milady."

A few moments later, Burchard was at her side, and his wonderfully strong arms reached past her to grab the old woman.

"Here you go," he murmured, picking the old lady up as if she weighted nothing. "You're safe now."

Sighing with relief, Ayla pulled herself up again and, sliding her hand farther down the wooden shaft to be away from the heat of the flames, took the torch out of its bracket. Raising it over her head, she saw in its flickering light that Burchard had spoken the truth: only part of the corridor was blocked, and even though the dust hadn't completely cleared yet, people were already clambering over the rubble. They seemed a lot more eager to get down into the dungeon to the enemy prisoners than they had been a moment ago, before the first missile had struck.

"You know," Burchard growled, "I'm starting to think this insane idea of yours isn't so insane, after all."

"And when did you come to that conclusion?"

"When I saw the giant hole in the wall of the keep that bloody stone made!"

"How marvelous. You're getting wise in your old age." Ayla waved the dust out of the way, trying to see clearly. Deseperately, her eyes searched among the men and women streaming down the stairs, hoping against hope.

Let them have reached the tower in time! Please!

Just then, through the grayish mist of stone, a shape approached—a shape that was too large to be just one man.

Yes! Thank you, oh Lord!

Out of the clouds of dust stumbled two soldiers, bearing between them a thin, makeshift stretcher, and on the stretcher lay the figure Ayla had been hoping to see more than anyone else in that moment: her father, the old Count Thomas von Luntberg. His face and beard covered in stone-dust. He looked as gray and grouchy as an old mountain dwarf hewn from solid stone. This, in addition to the small pile of stone chips heaped on his stomach, made him look rather comical. Ayla nearly laughed out loud, she was that relieved.

The old count didn't seem to share her amusement, though.

"Ayla!" He demanded, raising a finger. "What is going on? Why is there a hole in the wall of my castle?"

"I'll explain everything later, father! Right now we have to go."

The count eyed the stairs incredulously, then looked back at her. "Down into the dungeon?"

"Yes, um... well, as I said, I'll explain things later. I can't right now, I'm a bit too busy." Bending forward, she gave the old man a quick kiss on his stubbly, stone-dusted cheek. "I love you, father."

She turned and hurried down the stairs.

"Ayla! Ayla, wait!"

Soon, her father's shouts died in the distance, and Ayla had reached the door of the dungeon room to which she had lead the first group of people a few minutes ago. Burchard appeared beside her, and pulled a grimace, pointing back over his shoulder, towards the protesting count.

"You'll have to pay for that later, Milady, you know that, don't you?"

"Yes. But at least he'll be alive and will have the chance to be angry at me."

"And besides, he can never stay angry at you for longer than it takes you to smile at him."

The corners of Ayla's moth twitched in the hint of a smile. "There's that, too."

"What now, Milady?"

Ayla unbolted the dungeon door. "Will you go back and see to it that the second group is settled in? I have to check if everything is all right in there." She motioned towards the oak door beside her.

"Of course, Milady. Good luck."

Ayla opened the door, and a blast of sound hit her: voices praying, whimpering and most of all, yelling at each other.

"Thanks." She gave him a weak smile. "I think I'm going to need it."

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Sorry for the delay! Super-busy with sending out perks for the S&S publication campaign ;-)

Farewell

Sir Rob