Ayla was already halfway down the corridor, when she hesitated before the door to another dungeon. For one moment, she stood there, torn between going on and looking in on the people inside. Finally, she opened the door and stuck her head in.

Sir Gregor looked up from the group of children that had gathered around him.

"Ah, Milady. I am just telling them the story of St George the dragon killer. Do you want to join us?"

Stepping the rest of the way into the room, Ayla took in the wrapped expressions and wide eyes of the children. "They've heard that story a hundred times before. You must be a good storyteller."

Sir Gregor smiled. "Not really. I just tell the story from the point of view of the dragon. I've often thought that the poor creature was misunderstood. The children seem to appreciate my perspective on things."

"What the devil is this?" Sir Blasius demanded from the other side of the dungeon. Whereas Gregor was surrounded by a circle of eager listeners, not just children, but a few adults behind them, Blasius was surrounded by an equally large circle of empty space. Still, he seemed to think it was by no means big enough. "Why did you infest our quarters with these maggots?"

Ayla's eyes narrowed, focusing on the sour-faced knight. "If by 'maggots' you are referring to my people, Sir Blasius, they are in here because your lord and master is bombarding the castle."

"Finally!" Leaning back against the wall, Blasius gave an exaggerated sigh. "It was time that he did something about this mess. Now it won't be long until he'll put you in your proper place, girl. If you release me now, maybe I'll put in a word for you, and you won't be executed for how you've treated us."

Ayla wondered whether the man was actually aware that he was still a prisoner in her castle, and it was in her power to do with him whatever she wished. If he was, he had to be the dumbest knight ever to walk the earth.

"I'm afraid I'll have to pass on that generous offer," she told him. Then, turning to the children, she asked: "Do you feel comfortable being in here? The knights don't scare you or anything?"

A little girl sitting right beside Sir Gregor shook her head. "Sir Gregor is nice. He tells funny stories about dragons eating knights and marrying the princess and living happily ever after."

"Does he, now? I am impressed by your hidden talents, Sir Knight."

Gregor bowed his head. "Milady is too kind."

"That one, though," the girl continued, pointing dismissively over her shoulder towards Blasius, "He's a completely bawdy barnacle, and a bore to boot."

Blasius face turned red, and he jumped to his feet, marching towards the little girl. "You little witch! I'll teach you not to insult your betters! I'll..."

What exactly he was going to do they never found out, because at that very moment he reached the extent of his chain. Abruptly, he was yanked to a stop and fell on his butt, cursing.

"But it's funny when he does that," the little girl commented. "He never stops trying."

"Witch! Abomination! Peasant brat!"

Another thunderous impact from above drowned out the rest of Sir Blasius' insults. When the racket had died down, Sir Gregor looked up and found Ayla watching him. The knight looked down, to see what was suddenly so interesting about him—only then he seemed to realize that his arms had instinctively tightened around the little girl beside him, who was hiding her face in his shirt.

Hurriedly, he let go.

"So it's true," he said. "The Margrave really is bombarding the castle."

"Yes. And there's every chance it will be a success."

Why had she said that? Ayla really wasn't sure herself. This man was her enemy. Why was she standing here, explaining how likely it was that she would lose and his master would win?

Sir Gegor's gaze was direct, and somehow looked... sad. But why should he look sad?

"So what are you going to do now, Milady?"

"Me?" she straightened. "I'm going to go out there and see what I can do to help."

"Out... there? You mean into the open? Where the missiles are flying?"

"Yes."

"Good!" groaned Sir Blasius and pushed himself up into a sitting position. "I hope one hits you in the head!"

Ayla ignored him. Her gaze was still fixed on Sir Gregor. Was it her imagination, or did he move his head, as if in a small bow of respect?

"Good bye, Sir Knight," she told him. "I hope to see you again. But if I don't come back, at least you know you'll be free."

Turning, she stepped towards the door. Sir Gregor's voice held her back.

"Milady?"

She half-turned, meeting his earnest gaze. "Yes, Sir Gregor?"

"I shall pray to the Lord, Milady, and ask him to let your walls stand fast."

Ayla felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. "I thought you would be glad if our walls fall. Do you not wish the master you serve to win?"

Looking down, Sir Gregor stroked the head of the little girl next to him. "I owe the Margrave my loyalty, Milady. But my prayers still belong to me."

Ayla didn't say anything in reply. She didn't really know what to say. It wasn't the time for talk, in any case. She had work to do!

Closing door behind her, she started down the corridor, and reached the pile of rubble that half-blocked the entrance to the dungeons shortly after. Stone by treacherous stone she climbed the mountain of rubble. Only when she had reached the very top did she look up and out into the twisted nightmare that had formerly been her home.

The courtyard, only hours ago paved with smooth cobblestones, had been turned into a mass of intersecting craters. Stone shards and wicked splinters, mixed with heaps of dark earth, lay strewn across the ground. The keep still stood, defying the onslaught of stone with stones of its own, but one tower had already fallen. Shivering, Ayla realized that it was the tower right next to the one in which her father's chamber was situated.

The dust of crumbled stones drifted over the courtyard in thick clouds, so thick in fact, that Ayla could hardly make out the walls from here. But she could hear men screaming and cursing from somewhere downhill.

It is like Sodom and Gomorrah, she thought. Except here, there is no fire reining down from the sky. Only death.

Then, one voice from downhill rose above the others: "A healer! Someone get me a healer, right now!"

Ayla's legs started moving. Before she realized what she was doing, she had already plunged into the dark clouds of dust, down into death's domain.

*~*~**~*~*

The arm of the trebuchet creaking in the wind made a noise like no other. Half cry of a crow, half song, it was a noise of death and beauty rolled into one. Reuben didn't stop long to listen to it. He stepped forward, and when Theoderich didn't follow, grabbed him by the arm.

"Come on. We have to—"

He cut off. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw several men approaching, carrying a cask filled with a black, foul-smelling liquid.

"Wait," he muttered.

Theoderich followed his gaze, and his eyes widened. "By the apostles! Milord, is that what I think it is?"

"Yes."

"We must go! We must do something right now, before they fire!"

Reuben studied the cask intently for a moment—then shook his head. "No."

Reuben saw the youth's mouth drop open. Theoderich gaped up at him as if he had gone mad. Well, maybe he had. But if so, it was an ingenious kind of madness.

"I have just had an idea for improving our plan," he said cheerfully.

"Our plan, Milord? I didn't realize we had one."

"Forgive me. I should have said my plan."

"Oh."

"Before, it was merely brilliant. But now... Now, it is diabolical. Let's wait. We must be absolutely sure that this stuff in the cask will do what I think it'll do." He pointed towards the black fluid.

"Um... Milord, I don't think that waiting is such a good idea."

"And are you in command here?"

"Err... no, Milord."

"Then shut up and do as you're told!"

"Yes, Milord."

With narrowed eyes, Reuben watched from behind his visor as the treadmills on either side of the trebuchet were turned, and the throwing arm slowly descended to hover close above the ground. He watched as men rushed forward to lock the trigger mechanism. He watched as they heaved the cask into the sling. He watched as they slid the cask into the wooden channel that would direct its flight, all the while thinking: if this hits one of Ayla's beloved peasants, I'm a dead man.

But he didn't move.

He could feel his heart hammering in his chest in a way it hadn't for years. He reminded himself that it was the right thing to wait. Even if it cost a few lives, he had to make sure his new plan would work. After all, it was a brilliant plan, and wonderfully diabolical—if it went all right, they would win a stunning victory.

There was of course also the fact that if it went wrong, everyone in the castle would be fried to a crisp. He tried, however, not to concentrate on that possibility.

"Ready?" The voice that carried towards Reuben's ears was cultured, controlled and cold. His eyes snapped up to the dark figure standing on the palisade.

"Yes, your Excellency!" a voice called back from the innermost recesses of the trebuchet. Reuben's heart beat even faster. There it was! His aim. His prey.

"Ignite the missile!"

Reuben watched as a man stepped forward, torch in hand. Beside him, Theoderich made a strangled noise, but the squire didn't move. Reuben didn't either. He watched as the man with the torch bent forward and lit whatever hellish substance was contained in the cask. Flames shot up towards the sky.

"Loose!"

At the Margrave's command, two men pulled at a rope and sprang back. The steel pin that had secured the trigger mechanism fell to the ground. With a low groan, the trebuchet's arm began to move—slowly, at first, almost ponderously, then gathering speed, until it was an unstoppable force. Flames arced through the air behind it, until, at the very highest point, the fireball sprang from the end of the arm and flew through the night, towards its aim.

Reuben's eyes zeroed in on the distant castle, nothing more than a black silhouette from where he stood.

Beside him, he heard Theoderich whisper: "May God have mercy on our souls!"

Behind his visor, Reuben smirked. How highly unlikely.

*~*~**~*~*

Ayla found Captain Linhart near the inner castle wall. A loosened stone had fallen from the crenels and nearly crushed his leg. When the captain caught sight of her, his eyes almost popped out of his head.

"What are you doing here?" he growled. "Go back!"

"I'm very happy to see you too, Captain."

"To the dungeon with you! Now!"

"Is that any way to speak to one's liege lady?"

The captain took a deep breath. His jaw muscles twitched, in an effort to suppress both his pain, and more importantly, his temper.

"I am sorry, Milady. I was discourteous. But you should not be out here! It is too dangerous. Why are you here?"

"You called," Ayla reminded him, and pushed her way through the soldiers who were standing around their captain, unsure what to do.

"I did no such thing!"

"You did. You called for a healer. Well, here I am."

"Milady, you can't be serious! This is a warzone. Any minute now, another missile might—"

Somewhere not too far behind them, a thunderous crash ripped the air apart. The ground shook under their feet.

"I think I know, Captain." Without hesitation, Ayla knelt down next to him. "Now stop complaining and hold still. I need to take a look at that leg of yours. You there, and you!" She pointed to two of the soldiers, who immediately hurried to her side. "Grab the stone and lift it from the Captain's leg! Carefully, mind you! I don't know how damaged it is, underneath. And don't you dare drop the rock, or I'll assign you punishment duty with the castle's washerwomen for a week."

"I think," Captain Linhart croaked, "that right now they can imagine worse fates than washing clothes, Milady."

"Really? You try washing other people's stinking rags for a week. Let's see if you're still of the same opinion afterwards."

Captain Linhart croaked. Or maybe it was a chuckle. As rough as his voice sounded right now, it was hard to tell. The stone started to lift, and his chuckle was interrupted by a painful groan.

"You're in pain, Captain?"

"Y-yes, Milady."

"Thank the Lord!"

"E-excuse me, Milady?"

"That means your leg can still be saved. You're lucky." Extending her hand, she poked his lower calf. "Can you feel this?"

"Argh! Yes! I feel so lucky."

"Good. Now lie still. And while I work, you can give me a report."

"A r-report, Milady?"

"You heard me, Captain. Did you think that just because you've managed to get a little blood on your leg, I'd go easy on you? What's the situation?"

The Captain swallowed, and schooled his face into a professional mask which he always wore when talking tactics or making war. As Ayla had hoped, the twitching of injured leg decreased immediately as he was distracted.

"The castle walls are slowly being destroyed, Milady."

"I sort of noticed that on the way down here. Where is the enemy concentrating their fire?"

"On the center of the castle, Milady. There have been some hits on the inner and outer wall, but they seem to be aiming for the keep, and the quarters of the villagers."

Ayla frowned, and reached into her belt pouch, where she always kept a small supply of fresh bandages these days. "But why? If he wants to conquer the castle, shouldn't he be concentrating his fire on the outer walls? Bombarding the keep doesn't make any sense."

Captain Linhart pulled a grimace, and Ayla suspected that this time, it didn't have anything to do with his pain. "Not if you look at it from the analytical standpoint of a conqueror, Milady, no."

"What do you mean, Captain?"

"My guess is that the Margrave is not trying to bring down the outer walls to get inside—at least not yet. Not until he has struck terror into our hearts and killed as many of us as possible. He's not just looking for victory, Milady. Remember what the herald said, before the attack began? He is looking for revenge."

"I guess that makes sense," Ayla mumbled, wrapping the linen bandages around the captain's leg and starting to knot it together. "So, I guess that means the enemy hasn't tried to cross the river and attack the castle yet?"

"No, Milady. We conduct regular patrols on all walkways—where there still are walkways, anyway—and we haven't seen hide nor hair of them."

"Well, that's one piece of good news, at least. Now stop talking and close your mouth."

"Why..."

Ayla tugged on the linen with all her might, pulling the knot tight and secure.

"Argh!"

"So you don't bite your tongue off, Captain. Is it still attached?"

"Y-yes, Milady."

"Excellent. Men? Help your Captain to his feet. We have to get out of here. It's too dangerous to—"

The sudden noise from overhead seemed almost gentle, a whistling in the wind as from a willow's branches dancing in the breeze. Yet there were no willows in the demolished castle yard. And they certainly didn't grow above Ayla's head.

Ayla looked up, and saw something sailing across the night sky. It was no rock, it was far too bright for that, glowing in brilliant, deadly colors of golden and red. At first, Ayla thought it was a star. But stars didn't move. Then, she thought it was a comet. But comets burn blue and white, not an evil red. When she realized what she saw falling from the sky, it was already too late.

"Run!" she screamed, throwing herself over Captain Linhart.

The fire from heaven had come after all.

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Sorry for the delay, my lords and ladies! My studies are a fiery hell just now ;)

Farewell

Sir Rob