They got about five feet before hell broke loose behind them. Reuben felt a fist of air slamming into him from behind, pressing him forward, heralding more to come, and he threw himself forward just in time, grabbing Theoderich by the collar and dragging him along.

"Down!"

The arm of the trebuchet sailed over their heads, missing them by mere inches. Reuben felt the force of the mighty weapon in every bone of his body. Yet he knew this was nothing compared to the forces that would be unleashed in a few more seconds.

"Run!" Dragging Theoderich to his feet again, he pushed the brat forward, sprinting away way from the trebuchet as fast as his legs would carry him. Around him, men laughed and pointed, making bets on how soon the girl he loved would be burned alive. But he didn't care. They would be dead soon enough. The dead don't laugh.

He heard the sound he had been waiting for just as he reached the edge of the free area around the trebuchet: a snap, followed by an unearthly groan as the rope attached to the end of the arm went taught and stopped it in mid-throw. Reuben didn't need to look over his shoulder to know what would happen. The young fool Theoderich, though, tried to stop and look back.

Grabbing him by the neck, Reuben shoved him forward.

"Run!" he roared. "When I give an order, I expect you to obey! Now run, if you want to live!"

Theoderich hesitated for just a second. Then, the thunder of breaking wood and a cacophony of screams behind them made him change his mind. He followed Reuben into the sea of tents. They hadn't gotten far before a red glow appeared behind them, growing brighter and brighter the farther they ran. Heat boiled in the center of the camp, and over the crashing and splintering of wood they heard a rush like from a fallen angel plummeting towards the earth.

Now, even Reuben couldn't withstand the temptation of looking back for just a moment. He turned just in time to see the cask of liquid fire hit the trebuchet at full force, spraying its contents into all four corners of the earth. One corner of the earth unfortunately happened to be right in Reuben's visor slits.

"Satan's hairy ass!" Jerking back, Reuben clutched his helmet, trying to rip it off.

"What's the matter, Milord? What has happened?"

"I got the stuff on my face! That's what has happened!"

"But..." Theoderich hesitated. He had heard the rumors about his knight master. "C-can you feel it?"

"I can smell it! You try living with half a pint of burning pitch up your nose!"

"Oh."

"Yes! Now help me get this damned thing off!"

"Yes, Milord. Of course, Milord."

A moment later, the helmet was off Reuben's head. Cursing, he wiped the burning stuff, and probably a good-sized patch of burned skin along with it, off his face. Then he looked up, and directly into the eyes of the Margrave von Falkenstein.

The Margrave stood dozens of yards away, still on the palisades around the inner camp. He had turned to stare in outrage at the destruction of his most deadly weapon. Through the fire, the smoke, the tangle of broken wood and screaming, wounded soldiers, his eyes found Reuben's, and took in his giant form, bearing the arms of one of his vassals.

"There!" he roared, and somehow his voice was audible over the mayhem—cold steel cutting through the fire. "There! Catch the intruders! Get them! I want them alive!"

"That means they want to slowly torture us to death," Reuben explained to his squire, cheerily. "I haven't had someone want to slowly torture me to death for weeks now. It's about time!"

Raising his hand to show the Margrave the indecent finger, he turned and started running. The few soldiers who stumbled out of the tents left and right and tried to get in his way lost their heads quicker than you could say "decapitation."

"Catch them! Catch them, I say! A sack of gold for whoever gets them!"

After that, a lot more soldiers came out of their tents and promptly got a close shave of the neckline. Behind him, Reuben could hear Theoderich yelling and screaming like a madman, as he stabbed at the few soldiers who were still alive in Reuben's wake. The red robber knight couldn't supresse a proud grin.

"You're getting the hang of it, goldilocks!" He shouted over his shoulder.

"Thank you, Milord!"

Half a minute and fourty-seven dead soldiers later, Reuben reached the inner gate.

"What the he—"

That was about all the guard at the gate managed to say before Reuben rammed his knee into his stomach and slammed his head against the palisade. There was a very satisfying cracking sound, and the guard went limp.

"Come on!"

Reuben stepped through the gap in the palisade the man had been guarding—and came face to face with a gaggle of soldiers. Their drowsy faces said it all: they had been sleeping, and now had come to find out what was making all the noise.

Reuben stabbed the first one of them in the stomach. That probably answered their question.

"Get them! Get them, you fools!"

Reuben laughed.

"They're trying," he shouted over his shoulder to the Margrave, stabbing one of the soldiers into the liver. "But no luck so far!"

He slashed and hacked and kicked until a path through the soldiers lay before him. A few of them still remained standing, but they held themselves back, their eyes fixed on Reuben's blood-soaked figure in utter horror. Apparently, not even a bag of gold was enough to tempt them to fight him.

How quickly people learned wisdom, sometimes.

"Come, goldilocks!" He started running again, his boots splashing in puddles of blood. Theoderich followed, clutching his sword so tightly his knuckles were white.

They made their way back towards the outer wall the same way they'd come. The soldiers inside the tents in the area where they had entered the camp luckily were too busy with their female companions to pay their liege lord's shouting any attention. Reuben felt a glow of triumph. They had almost made it! Ahead, he saw the rope, which he had pulled over to this side of the palisade before leaving, dangling in the wind.

Only twenty feet separated them from the cord that promised freedom.

Fifteen feet.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

Six.

"Jump!"

Bending his legs, Reuben catapulted himself skywards. For a moment, he felt as free and fiery as the trebuchet's missile. Then his hands clasped the rope and his feet crashed into the wooden palisade. With an ease belying his weight and size he scrambled up the barrier, and swung himself over the sharp points at the very top.

He fell. And it was as he fell, the wind rushing past him, that he heard the sound of the horn. He didn't pay any attention at first, for the sound came out of the midst of the camp.

Let them make as much racket there as they wished!

But then, the answering horn signal came from somewhere outside, far away in the darkness. And a moment later, he heard whinnies, and a pounding of hooves approaching.

Riders! By Satan's warty prick and all the little warty pricks of his dastardly demons, they have a mounted party of riders outside, scouting the area! Maybe some of them even are knights!

"Move your ass, goldilocks!" He growled, and a moment later, Theoderich dropped from the palisade, like an over-ripe plum from a tree. Only he wasn't violet and squishy.

"Run! Back to the tree, now!"

Reuben made no attempt to lower his voice. In the distance, he could already see the moonlight and the flickering fire from inside the camp reflecting off the steel-tipped lances of the riders. They had caught sight of him and his squire, and were approaching fast. For a moment, he considered staying and killing them. For a moment he considered staying and trying to kill everyone. Killing everyone was always his favorite option.

But Ayla had asked him not to. Ayla wanted him to be careful. Blast! Women always had to take all the fun out of life. Well, at least as long as they had clothes on...

He was running towards Luntberg before he was realizing it. Apparently, certain thoughts were even more appealing than killing hundreds of enemies in various bloody ways.

*~*~**~*~*

"Wait... Milord, please!"

The voice from behind was weak and pleading. Exactly the kind of voice Reuben would have ignored, or whose owner he would have relieved of his purse, under normal circumstances. But unfortunately, he knew that voice. With a growl he turned to see Theoderich, more than two dozen yards behind him, stumbling along.

"I said run!" he bellowed. "Not crawl!"

"Y-yes, Milord!"

The youth did his best to increase his pace. Still, they weren't nearly as fast as Reuben would have liked. They riders were closing in quickly, and now, Reuben could see that there were at least half a dozen knights among them. Not fat and stupid ones, either, like the one he had relieved of his armor earlier, but fighters in their prime. He cursed and grabbed Theoderich's arm, forcing him to move faster. After throwing a look over his shoulder, the squire didn't need that encouragement.

When the tree finally came into sight, the riders had almost caught up with them. The pounding of hooves was growing steadily louder.

"Ready yourselves!" Reuben roared, and the Luntberg men who had been lounging about on the opposite bank of the river sprang up, and grabbed the rope, pulling on it until it was as taught as a wire.

The pounding of hooves wasn't the only thing Reuben could hear now. There were the shouts of the riders, and the panting of the horses. He almost thought he could feel their warm breath on his neck.

Then a zitt-noise cut through the night overhead, and Reuben saw a slim shape flitting past above. Damnation! They had bows and arrows!

"There they are! They're trying to cross the river on that rope!"

"Get them! Shoot them down!"

That was it. If they had bows and arrows, there would only be time for one of them to cross. The other had to stay behind to fend off the pursuers, and would probably die in the process.

Well, that sure as hell wasn't going to be him! Reuben threw a glance at Theoderich's innocent face. Yes, he should make goldilocks stay behind. It would be the smart thing to do. Besides, it was the lad's duty, as Reuben's squire. Theoderich would probably thank him for the opportunity to give his life in a noble sacrifice—he was insane in that way. And as a plus, Reuben would once and for all be rid of the annoying little toad.

But then, Reuben imagined Ayla's face when he told her he had let a boy fight and die for him. He saw her big, blue eyes, shimmering on the verge of tears, filled with so much... disappointment. He gritted his teeth. Blast the girl! Why did she have to make him want to be a brave, self-sacrificing hero, now of all times?

They came to a halt in front the rope and Reuben pivoted to face the approaching enemies.

"Go on, goldilocks," he growled. "Get across!"

It took a moment for the meaning of his words to sink in. "A-across the river?" The young man's eyes widened. "And leave you here alone? Never! If anyone should be sacrificing his life, it's me. You're too important for the castle's defense to risk your life, Milord! Much more important than me."

"You're right." Reuben nodded, not taking his eyes of the riders. "I'm a thousand times as important as you are. Still, you are going across first anyway."

"Oh."

"Yes! Now get your ass moving, or do I have to tan your hide to make you understand?"

"I can't just abandon you, Milord."

"You also cannot defy me. You have sworn an oath to obey my commands. Now, obey!"

Theoderich hesitated for one more moment. When an arrow zipped past him and vanished into the dark waters of the river, he turned and jumped, catching hold of the rope and starting to move hand over hand towards the opposite bank.

Reuben drew his sword. He stood calmly, watching his enemies draw closer. The anxiety and indecision had been in whether to go or stay, whether to live or die. Now that that he knew his place, knew what he had to do, he felt nothing but calm.

Well, that wasn't exactly true.

There was one more thing he felt.

Battle-rage.

He crouched, half-hidden behind the tree, in order to present as small as possible a target for the archers. Three arrows berried itself in the trunk in quick succession. Whoever they were, out there, they were good archers, but bad tacticians. Unable to hit him directly, the mounted archers galloped around the tree. Whether they wanted a better shot at him, or to get close enough to fire at Theoderich, who was dangling half-way across the river, Reuben didn't know. He didn't care. He only cared they were getting a lot closer.

The moment the rider was in reach he erupted from behind the tree. From his lungs burst the first battle-cry that came into his mind.

"Satan!"

Was he calling to his horse? To the demon prince of wrath?

Oh hell, where's the difference!

He was at the rider's side in a second, slamming his sword into the man's gut and hurling him off his horse in the same fluid movement. Taking hold of the rains, Reuben swung himself up into the saddle and turned his new mount, rushing towards the other two archers among the riders.

"Satan! Satan! Die, you fools, you cowards, you common-kissing dogfish!"

His sword swung in a wide ark, lashing out first left, than right. And yes, the two archers did look a bit like stupid fish in that moment, gaping down at their bellies as their guts jumped out through the newly opened doors and went for a little walk outside their bodies. They slumped down to the ground without a sound.

"Ha!"

Ducking another soldier's blow, Reuben stabbed the man between the his armor plates, in his unprotected side. He heard a satisfying cry of anguish, and the slobbering halfwit joined his two dead friends on the ground.

Wheeling his horse around, Reuben found himself facing a group of a dozen riders, three of them knights, their lances held aloft warily, ready for the charge.

"Who art thou, that that thou darest engage in battle with the vassals of his Excellency, the Margrave von Falkenstein?" One of them called. He was a knight, apparent from the green coat of arms on his surcoat. He also was a pompous ass, though Reuben didn't need to look at his surcoat to tell that much. Just listening to him talk was enough.

"I am Sir Reuben von Rachwild, the Red Robber Knight!" he called back. "Challenge me at your peril!"

The knight didn't seem impressed by this news. His two companions on either side of him, however, shirked back as if slapped in their faces. Behind his visor, Reuben grinned savagely. They were apparently a bit more well-travelled than their comrade. They had heard of him.

"Red?" the knight in the center scoffed. "I perceive no red in thy crest!"

"Oh, but you do." Smearing his hand across the bloodstains on his torso, Reuben raised his bloodied gauntlet and clenched his fingers into a fist.

"Here is red. Plenty of it. Blood-red."

The knight made a gagging noise. When he next spoke, his voice sounded rather wabbly.

"Thou art no knight! Thou art not even a man of honor! I shall challenge thee, and with God's help, I shall smite thee down!"

"Um..." The knight to his left tapped him on the shoulder. "Ortwin? Maybe you should reconsider..."

Ortwin, though, didn't pay any attention to him. Lowering his lance, he gave his horse the spurs. "Onward, to victory! Kyrie Eleison!"

"Hüa!"

Reuben drove his horse forward. The other knight had a lance, and he only had a sword, but he'd be damned if he'd let that stop him! They raced towards each other, the hoofbeats of their horses thundering over the distant crackle of flames and cries of wounded men. When only two yards separated the tip of his enemy's lance from his chest, Reuben swung his sword.

The flat of the blade crashed against the lance, driving it down towards the ground. Caught of guard by the unexpected move, Sir Ortwinus didn't manage to hold his weapons steady. Its tip buried itself in the soft earth and the butt was rammed back against the knight's shoulder, catapulting him off his horse. With an ear-shattering clatter, he crash-landed somewhere in the dark.

"Yay! Hüa!"

Reuben didn't stop. Snatching up the abandoned lance, he whirled it around and levelled it at one of the remaining knights. The honourable thing would have to be to challenge the knight formally and politely ask his name before charing.

Satan's hairy ass, am I glad I don't have a scrap of honor!

Before Falkenstein's knight could even think of drawing a weapon, the lance hit him in the chest, piercing his armor and caving in his ribs with unstoppable force. He, too, was hurled off his horse, and with a garbled scream disappeared into the black waters of the river.

"Die! Die, you son of a mongrel bitch!"

Dropping his lance, Reuben stabbed his other arm forward, smashing the blade of his sword through the visor of the other knight. When he withdrew it, the blade was covered with red and gray staynes.

The other soldiers weren't as slow as their knights. They recognized a warrior who gave a pigeon's pizzle about honor and the chivalrous rules of war. Like a swarm of locusts they converged on Reuben.

Only there weren't nearly enough locusts.

Reuben killed three of them in two seconds. They were even easier than the knights: none of them wore any armor except leather, which was easily pierced by his sword. Cutting down two more, he wondered whether there would enough to still his bloodlust.

Then he looked up and saw, from the direction of the burning camp, seven lances of soot-blackened soldiers marching towards them, mounted knights at the head. There were at least two hundred men, and they were not thirty yards away. Hmm... yes, that might be enough.

Maybe more than enough.

"Hurry!" he roared at Theodrich, who was nearly across the river now. "Hurry, you blasted little toad! They're coming! They're—"

His voice was cut off by a battlecry from two-hundred throats, and Falkenstein's lances charged.

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My dear Lords and Ladies,

Wasn't that a bloody good Christmas chapter? (Double meaning **wink, wink**)

I hope you enjoyed it. Will Reuben be victorious? Will he fall into the hands of the Margrave?

Yours Truly

Sir Rob

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GLOSSARY:

Kyrie Eleison, a Greek expression, is he title of an important Christian prayer. In the middle ages, it was also used as a battle cry by pious, charging knights. Considering that it is Greek for "Lord, have Mercy", it is rather ironic that it was shouted before people started killing each other.