"Where is he? Where is he, Captain?"

The Captain turned, still a little stiff from his encounter with a fifty pounds of falling stone. "Milady! You're here!" The relief that spread over his felt was evident, and made a new surge of guilt well up in Ayla.

No time for that! Not now.

"Yes, I'm here," she told him, briskly. "Now tell me, where is he?"

"Look, there!"

Pointing down from the wall, Linhart indicated something below. At first, Ayla thought he was pointing to the river bank. But then she saw the black banners flapping in the cold autumn wind, and with a sick feeling realized that the enemy had already come much farther than that. A small host, around two-hundred men, were encamped atop a small hill right opposite to the Luntberg. The rest of the enemy army were still crossing the river, on a series of strange wooden bridges, suspended from wooden towers like a castle's drawbridge.

"How did they get across?" she demanded, trying to ignore the inner voice that told her it was all her fault. She had been negligent. She had wallowed in her guilt and forgotten her people! "Why didn't anyone shoot arrows at them while they were building those bridges? Why didn't anyone try to stop them?"

Linhart regarded her with sympathy. "There was nothing we could have done—or you, for that matter, Milady," he told her as if he had been able to read her thoughts. Maybe he had. They probably were plain enough on her face. "The enemy constructed wooden towers with drawbridges well away from the river, out of the range of our archers. Then they rolled them to the water. We sent out archers and tried to shoot at them with burning arrows, but the outside of the towers was covered with wet animal hides. They didn't catch fire. Soon, several battalions of Falkenstein's men were across, and we had to recall our archers into the castle."

Ayla's hands curled tightly around the cold stone of the breastwork. By the apostles! Linhart was right, she couldn't have done anything. That didn't make her feel any better though—only worse. This was exactly the kind of strategy she didn't know how to deal with. The kind of strategy Reuben would have—

Reuben!

Ayla's eyes flashed back to the enemy encampment on the hill, searching frantically for any hint of red. But no! Reuben wasn't wearing red. He had been in disguise when he had crossed the river. What was he wearing? Black? Brown? By all the angels in heaven, if that man got back to her alive, she would see to it that he only wore what she told him to in future! It was torturous, not being able to recognize him at a distance. Besides, she had much better dress-sense, anyway.

"Where is he?" she demanded, whirling towards Linhart. "Your messenger said he was out here, but I don't see hide nor hair of him! Where is he?"

"Do you see that tent?"

Ayla's eyes shot towards the spot where Linhart pointed. There, at the front of the enemy encampment, stood a large black tent, a silver falcon emblazon on the tent flaps. The symbol, so well-known to Ayla, sent a shiver down her back.

"He was carried in there not five minutes ago. So far, they haven't brought him out again."

Ayla was almost afraid to ask.

"H-how did he look?"

"Just the same as ever," Linhart said, darkly. "That's what worries me."

Ayla through him a startled glance. "What do you mean?"

"Haven't you noticed how they positioned their camp, and especially that tent? Well out of the range of our archers, but still in plain sight of the castle? It's as if they want us to see them. If an enemy wants you to see them, Milady, they usually want to show you something that is not very pleasant."

It was the tone of his voice rather than his words that made Ayla afraid—more afraid than she had ever been in her life. The first attack on Luntberg, being kidnapped, commanding her men in battle—nothing she had been forced to live through came cloe to this. Back then, it had been only she herself who was was in danger. Now it was Reuben.

If he was still alive.

Please let him be still alive, God! Please, I beg you! If you let him live, I will be the most virtuous, Christian lady that has ever lived. I will never, ever let Reuben touch me again unless we are married. Never, not once!

Well, maybe just once...

Please, God! Please, just save him!

Down on the hill, the wings of the silver falcon stirred, and the tent flap opened. If Ayla had had any doubt before about who that tent belonged to, it was erased when she saw the men that stepped out into the gloom of the stormy autumn day.

The wind tugged at his black hair and beard, touched by white at the edges. His eyes, sharp as those of the silver falcon he bore on his chest, roamed the land until they found her atop the wall of Luntberg Castle. He lowered his head in greeting, just an inch, holding her gaze with his.

Ayla's breath caught.

She knew without a doubt that she was looking upon the man who had made her life a misery of destruction and death for month after month after month. She was looking at his Excellency, the Margrave Markus von Falkenstein.

"Good Morrow, Milady," he called, and his powerful voice boomed all across the valley. How he managed to make the words sound so quietly controlled and menacing was a mystery to Ayla. Any other man would have sounded ridiculous, trying to bridge that kind of distance with his voice. Not he. "For it is the Lady Ayla von Lunterg to whom I am speaking, is it not?"

"It is, your Excellency," Ayla called down from the wall, and to her considerable surprise, her voice did not shake or tremble. "I have long looked forward to our meeting. It is a shame that you are not close enough for me to deliver the greeting I had in mind for you." With a flick of her hand, she indicated the row of archers on the wall beside her. "Come a little closer, and my men will give you the courteous welcome you deserve."

The Margrave didn't even blink. Neither did he smile. If he felt any emotion, be it anger, contempt or amusement, he did not show it. Ayla was inclined towards the opinion that he had none to show.

"How courteous of you, Milady." He executed a swift, painstakingly correct bow. "But I did not come to exchange pleasantries. I came here to demonstrate my Christian values to you."

Ayla stared. Had she heard right? Christian values?

Was he saying he was giving up? Sparing her, and her people? But no... that couldn't be it. His face, inscrutable as it was, looked all to regal and composed for that.

"Christian values?" she asked, warily.

"Of course." The Margrave gestured, and a man stepped forward, holding out a tray of what looked like... little bits of wood? Ayla wasn't too sure from this distance, but it certainly looked like it. What in God's name...

"I am here today," the Margrave continued, "to demonstrate what a kind and Christian man I am, and what a good Lord and husband I would make for you, Milady. To that end, I shall demonstrate my overwhelming support of the first and foremost of Christian values: reciprocity."

He gestured again, and another one of his soldiers stepped forward. This one was carriying a bubbling cauldron over a bowl of glowing coals. A sickening suspicioun crept into Ayla, slithering into her heart and biting into it with fangs of fear.

Another wink of the Margrave's brought forward a third man, who used a great hammer to drive a wooden stake into the ground. Ropes were attached to an iron ring set into the stake, and a whip lay ready beside it.

"These are your instruments of Christianity?" Ayla's voice wasn't quite as calm nor quite as steady as before. The Margrave noticed. A smile tugged at the corners of his thin mouth.

"Certainly, Milady. For does it not say in the good book: 'Do unto others as they do unto you'? This is the maxim I intend to follow. You destroyed my greatest weapon, Milady. And now I shall destroy yours." The Margrave's voice lowered, until it was no shout anymore, but at this distance, merely a whisper. Still, Ayla heard every word.

"You made me watch it burn, Milady. And now, I shall make you watch. Bring him out!"

The flap of the tent was flung backwards, and Ayla had to suppress a scream. Two men, one on either side of him, carried out the slumped figure of Reuben the Robber Knight. They dragged him towards the stake and dropped him backwards onto it. He didn't topple off, but lay there, stiff as a board. Only when the two soldiers moved away did Ayla see why: he lay atop a wooden saltire, his arms and legs fastened to the ends with thick ropes.

"Reuben..."

The name was only a whisper on Ayla's lips—but he heard it, and raised his head. For a brief second, their eyes met. Reuben took a deep breath, as if breathing in the sight of her. Then the corners of his mouth turned up in a smile.

Not a "I'm going to die, and I wish you all the best"-smile. Oh no. It was a very different kind of smile. The "I'm going to kill them all"-kind.

There wasn't a shred of fear in his eyes.

"Ah, you have recognized my guest?" The Margrave nodded, his thin smirk widening. "I thought you might. It was you who sent him, after all. He was rather reluctant to come out here for our little demonstration, but I and a few dozen of my men persuaded him, and made him see how important it is for you to understand what happens to those who oppose me."

Abruptly, the smile drained from his face, to be replaced by arctic stillness. He clapped his hand.

"Jürgen!"

Another man left the tent, moving not with the long strides of a soldier, but with short, measured steps. He was of smallish height, with brown, curly hair, an unremarkable, somewhat pudgy face—so average a figure that Ayla wouldn't have noticed him if he had passed her in the castle yard. That is, if the whip and metal implements hanging from his belt hadn't attracted her attention.

"Jürgen here," the Margrave said, gesturing the little man, his face still as hard and cold as ice, "is one of my most skilled torturers. He will demonstrate my point to you to the best of his ability. Over the course of this day, he will dismantle your Sir Reuben from top to bottom, until he is nothing but a blubbering mess that begs for a quick end. And then, maybe, we will allow him to recover, so we can start on him again the next day. And the next. And the next. We shall leave his tongue intact, so he can cry out for your mercy. For it is in your hands, Lady Ayla, that his fate now rests."

"What do you mean?" Ayla's voice was definitely trembling now. She knew it, and didn't really care. The sight of Reuben on the saltire had driven all other thoughts from her mind.

"I mean, Milady, that he will die, one way or the other. That cannot be changed. That is his punishment, and yours, for daring to oppose me. Yet it is within your power to grant him a quick and merciful death. Open the gates, accept me as your husband, and he shall receive the coup de grâce."

He paused for a moment, his eyes wandering between her and Reuben. Thoughtfully, he tapped his lower lip.

"Who knows," he added, his thin lips twitching again. "Maybe I will be even more mercifull, and spare his life. Maybe."

In that moment, Ayla began to hate the Margrave von Falkenstein.

Not that she hadn't hated him before—but it had been in a distant, impersonal way. She had haited the concept of a man who had come to burn and conquer the only world she had ever known. Yet now she had seen, heard, and learned to hate the man that was Falkenstein. For his coldness. For his lack of mercy. For his lies.

It was obvious he intended to tear Reuben to shreds. Yet he had seen the connection between them, and so he lied, and lied skillfully, to trick her into opening the gates and betraying her people. To have her love used against her in this way—it made Ayla hate him more than she had ever hated anybody in her entire life.

From all around her, Ayla felt eyes on her: the eyes of her soldiers. Ayla could feel the tension in the air, could hear the silent pleas and prayers they were too afraid to utter.

They think I'm going to say yes, she thought. Well... part of me thinks the same.

Taking a deep breath, she leaned forward, supporting herself with both hands on the breastwork.

"Never!"

The one word was like whip, cutting through the air. Out of the corner of her eye, Ayla saw Reuben smile again, with savage glee, and maybe even a little pride.

The Margrave's face remained composed, though a corner of his mouth twitched. This time, Ayla was fairly sure, it had nothing whatsoever to do with amusement.

"You will regret that decision, Milady," he told her. "And you will reconsider, once your Knight's blood stains the ground in patches of dark re—"

"Hey!" a rough voice cut the Margrave short, abruptly. Everyone looked around for interruption. It took a while for someone to realize the voice had been Reuben's. He lay on the saltire, rolling his eyes. "Enough theatrics! Can we get on with the torture? I'm getting bored here!"

If Ayla hadn't been so terrified, she would have laughed. But she was terrified. Unbelievably so.

"The poor, brave man," Captain Linhart beside her whispered, and other soldiers murmured their ascent.

One abruptly stepped forward, holding out his bow and arrow.

"M-Milady? Should I try to prevent his pain? I couldn't make the shot from here, but if I snuck out of the castle, and down the mountain, maybe I could—"

Ayla held up her hand, cutting him off.

"No. Wait." She was watching Reuben's face intently. He didn't look all that scared for a man about to be tortured to death. No, he looked more beautiful and terrible than he ever had. He looked like a man was about to go to battle. A battle he knows can be won.

"Jürgen!" the Margrave backed. "Begin your work!"

Reaching for his belt pouch, the little man Ayla had trouble thinking of as a torturer pulled out two thick, leather gloves. Slowly and meticulously, he pulled them over his hands, making sure that every inch of skin was covered. Then he stepped towards the man who held the tray with splinters of wood, and swept the sharp pieces up.

With two strides he was over at the bubbling cauldron, and opened his hands. The bits of wood dropped, vanishing into the roiling mass of fluid heat. Then he froze. Just froze. He didn't move a muscle, but just waited, while the wood cooked.

"What in God's name is he doing?" Ayla whispered. Her hands had started to tremble. Or was it the castle that was shaking under her, protesting against such injustice on God's green earth?

"I have no idea, Milady," was Linhart's grim reply.

Reuben, however, didn't seem quite so clueless. He was watching the torturer with mild interest. "Ah, I see," he said, his eyes gliding from the cauldron to Jürgen and back again. "Splinters boiled in oil. Where are you going to put them? Toenails or fingernails?"

He spoke the words so casually, it took Ayla a moment to realize what he had said. Then, her hands started to shake even more violently. Her fingernails dug into the hard stone of the crenels.

Jürgen turned towards Reuben, giving him a level look. Without saying a word, he turned back to his cauldron, crossing his arms.

"Oh, come on," Reuben taunted him. "Don't torturers usually show their victims their implements to frighten them into confession?"

"That is the usual practice, yes."

Ayla twitched back. The torturer's voice was deep and sonorous, not at all what you would expect from such a diminutive man. It was a voice of power. Other than the Margrave's, though, it wasn't cold: it was warm and seductive. It made you want to tell things. It promised comfort, and friendship.

"Well, then I must say I'm disappointed! I'm not going to get the full treatment? Come on, don't be shy! Show me yours and I'll show you mine!"

Jürgen glanced at him. "There is no need, my friend. Your case is different than most. There are no questions to be asked, nothing to be wrung out of you. You are simply to be tortured to death. So why should I waste my time on simple mind games, trying to frighten you?"

Reaching for his belt again, the torturer grasped a great iron scoop, and plunged it into the cauldron. With a snake's hiss, steam shot up into the air, and the scoop came up again, wooden splinters dancing atop its bubbling contents.

"Never underestimate the power of fear," Reuben told the torturer, his eyes glowing more fiercely than the coals underneath the cauldron. "It is the deadliest of all weapons."

The torturer didn't pay him attention. He was busy cautiously picking one of the splinters out of the boiling liquid. Setting the scoop aside, he he grabbed one of Reuben's bare feet so the toes were extended, the toenails vulnerable.

"This," he said, bending down to Reuben, "is the power of fear, my friend."

He pushed.

Everyone held their breath, expecting the scream of agony that would rip through the air. Ayla felt her entire body stiffen in terrible anticipation.

Nothing came.

Not a sound.

"Yes," Reuben said, his devilish grin widening. "It certainly is. Are you afraid yet?"

"What's the matter, man?" the margrave snapped at hist torturer. "What are you waiting for? Push it in!"

There were a few seconds of strained silence. Finally, Jürgen said, his voice not quite as sonorous and serene as before: "I have, your Excellency."

"What? Let me see!"

Pushing the torturer aside, the Margrave bent to examine Reuben's toes. There was no way Ayla could see anything that small from where she stood, up on the wall, but the Margrave didn't seem pleased by what he saw.

"Continue," he growled, stepping back.

Jürgen took his place again, his eyes slightly narrowed. He bent over Reuben, and in a gesture that made Ayla shudder, caressed his face.

"So..." he murmured. "We are being stubborn, are we? It will not do you any good my friend. Perhaps you do not understand. These..." he waved towards the scorching hot splitners, "These are the sharpest splinters I could find, doused in boiling oil. You think one feels bad? Wait until I have a dozen of them underneath your nail, and start prying it loose. So be a coward, scream as much as you want. You will die anyway."

"No," Reuben told him. "It is you who will scream. And then you will die."

"Brave words for a chained man."

Without another second's hesitation, the torturer grabbed the next steaming splinter of wood, and with a quick jerk shoved it underneath Reuben's toenail.

Reuben didn't even twitch.

"Chained? Maybe," he said, fixing the torturer with a look that could have made a lord of hell shrink in fear. "But man? Oh no, you're wrong there. Quite wrong."

The torturer's mouth dropped open. He wasn't the only one who felt the impact of Reuben's words. Several of the guards had taken a step back, and the Margrave's hand was twisted around the hilt of his sword. The atmosphere on the hill, one of triumph and revenge a minute earlier, had radically shifted.

To what, no one yet knew.

Without waiting for the Margrave's order, the torturer grabbed the next wooden splinter, and drove it home. And another, and another. Reuben didn't once show a single sign that he cared, or even noticed—except once, when he yawned, and stretched his legs as far as his bonds would allow, the splinters of wood sticking out from his big toe like the world's weirdest hedgehog.

"Get on with it, will you?" he told the torturer, his voice supremely bored. "I don't have all day. There are so many of you left to kill."

He let his gaze sweep over the assembled soldiers, stopping here and there, as if picking out the ones that looked fun to massacre. A ripple of unease went through Falkenstein's men, and the Margrave noticed.

"God's teeth, man!" he cursed at the torturer. "Do something!"

"I'm trying, your Excellency, I'm trying, I—Argh!"

Trying to pick up the next wooden splinter, Jürgen had reached a bit too deeply in the boiling oil. Cursing, he pulled off his smoking gloves and let them drop to the ground, waving his hand in the air in an effort to cool it.

"Awww." Reuben drew the word out, his voice dripping with false solicitude. "Did poor Jürgen burn himself? Maybe poor Jürgen has forgotten how to do his job. If you want, your Excremency, I could teach him. I know a few things he has never heard of, I promise you."

"That's it," Jürgen snarled, his voice losing its last shred of composure. "You asked for it!"

Ripping a pair of iron tongs from his belt, he clamped them down on Reuben's toenail. Up on the wall, Ayla covered her face with her hands. She had seen Reuben do impossible things before, but that intrinsically human part of her which knew that heat burned and iron cut, was expecting a sream of agony nonetheless.

Once again, none came.

Slowly, Ayla laowered her fingers just enough to see.

The soldiers, hers as well as Falkenstein's, sucked in their breath, and took a step backwards. Jürgen the torturer stared down in disbelief at the blood-stained nail he had just extracted from his victim's foot. Although, to judge by the look on his face, it wasn't at all sure anymore who was the victim, and who the master of torture. For Reuben lay on the saltire, grinning like a demon, not even seeming to notice the blood that ran down his foot.

Ayla watched as Jürgen frantically dived for the next load of wooden splinters. With every sharp splinter he pushed in, she felt an an odd, painful yet fierce kind of triumph. And with every splinter he pushed in, she felt herself drifting farther and farther away from her own men. She risked a glance at Linhart. His mouth was hanging open, his eyes were round as coins, reflecting the fear in everyone else's.

Friend or foe, knight or common soldier: they all felt it. Something beyond their understanding, beyond their world, was taking place here. The diabolical energy radiating off Reuben, lying there not like a victim, but like a demon lord surrounded by his followers, plunged a spear into their heart that reached the deepest, darkest corner.

With a cry, half twisted hope, half despair, Jürgen tore of another toenail.

Reuben yawned again.

"You'll have to think of something better sooner or later, you know. I have only six left."

For a moment, confusion drove away the rising panic on the torturer's face.

"S-six?"

"You don't think you're the first one to try and torture me, do you? My toenails are a hot commodity!"

The tongs moved towards Reuben's foot again, shaking. But before it could reach its destination, the iron implement fell from Jürgen's trembling hand.

"Try something else, you fool," the Margrave shouted. "Do something, or I'll have your head on a pike!"

"There are much worse fates than having one's head impaled," Reuben told the torturer, not taking his eyes off the man's ashen face. "Satan knows that, as does Lucifer, and all the other princes of hell. And I believe our Jürgen is starting to realize it too, aren't you, Jürgen?"

The torturer was sweating. Hurriedly, he stepped back and gestured to two of the soldiers.

"Help me get him off the cross. I need to get to his back, quickly!"

Not one of the soldiers stepped forward.

"Do as he says!" the Margrave thundered. "You!" He pointed to a man. "And you!"

Reluctantly, the two men stepped forward. The first one approached Reuben's right hand, and began to untie it from the cross.

Reuben smiled at him. "You will die from a spear in the belly," he told the man. "It won't be long, now, trust me. You'll be in hell, soon."

The man paled, and his fingers stopped fumbling at the knots.

"Oh, the wound won't kill you instantly," Reuben assured him, his demonic grin widening. "They'll try to stitch, and it will fester. You will die over a period of days, in horrible agony. But believe me when I say: the real pain will only start after death."

By now, the soldier's hands were shaking so badly, he couldn't have untied a knot even if he'd wanted to.

"Get out my way!" The torturer, who had apparently regained a shred of his courage, growled. He elbowed the other man out of the way and cut open the knot with a knife.

Ayla expected Reuben to crush the man as soon as his hands were free. She expected him to plow through the enemy soldiers, and make his bid for freedom. She knew it was dangerous, but there was a chance he could do it. He was the best warrior she knew.

Please, she prayed. Please take this chance and run. For me. For us.

Reuben didn't lift a finger to escape. Instead, he willingly let himself be hoisted up and when the cross was removed from the stake in the ground, knelt down again to let his hands be fastened to the iron ring with a coil of rope.

What are you doing? Run! Please run!

The last knot was pulled tight, and the torturer held out a thick piece of wood to Reuben. "Here. Bite down on that."

Reuben regarded the wood with supreme disgust. "Why? It doesn't look very tasty to me."

"It's not meant to be," the torturer hissed. "It's there so you don't bite your tongue off from the agony. The Margrave still wants you to be able to scream and plead for mercy."

"Here's what I think of your mercy!" Reuben spat on the ground in front of the torturer.

"Very well." Jürgen picked up the something from the ground, and grabbed Reuben's shirt, ripping it open with both hands. Underneath, Reuben was completely naked. Even terrified as she was for him, Ayla couldn't help marvel at the perfect musculature of his back, and the way the sun glinted on his smooth skin. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

He raised his arm. It was only then that Ayla recognized the object he was holding in his hand. Her gasp of terror was lost in the swish of the whip as it came down and bit into Reuben's back.

Blood sprayed up into the air, and Reuben...

Reuben laughed.

It was a terrifying laugh. A laugh Ayla had heard only once before, when he had held flames in his bare hands. There was evil in it, and a touch of madness. But more than that, there was something that wasn't of this world, something entirey "other", that both fascinated and terrified Ayla to the marrow of her bones.

"Fools!" Reuben's voice boomed all across the valley, a thousand times more powerful that that of Jürgen or the Margrave. "You think to harm me? Fools! Run, if you wish your souls to be saved!"

Several of the men took steps backward. Not just Falkensteins men, either, Ayla realized. Her own were just as terrified.

"Silence!" The torturer let the whipe come down on Reuben's back again. The crack, followed by the spray of blood, made Ayla flinch, whether it had the desired effect or not. She was still afraid for Reuben.

But Reuben wasn't. He laughed again.

"Why should I be silent, little torturer? Tell me that."

"I... I command you to be silent, or... or..."

"Or what?"

Twisting his head, Reuben bent his head until the blood from a whiplash on his shoulder was smeered all over his face. When he raised his head again, his face, split by the most evil of grins, resembled a gruesome demonic mask.

"Or you'll torture me? Oh please don't. I'm so afraid."

"Silence!"

The whip came down again, and again, and again. Ayla felt the color drain from her face, even as more blood sprayed onto Reuben's face, turning it a darker crimson. He licked his lips, swallowing the blood with relish.

"Ah... delicious. I wonder if yours tastes as good." He let his eyes wander over the assembled soldiers of Falkenstein, who retreated further under the glare of this madman.

Is he? Ayla couldn't help ask herself. I she truly mad? Or possessed, or in league with the devil?

One thing was for sure. He was... something. Something different.

The torturer was whipping Reuben's back like a maniac by now. The skin hung in tatters from the back which, just a moment ago, had been pure perfection. Ayla suppressed another shudder.

"Perhaps you should try the soles of the feet," Reuben suggested, solicitously. "I've heard that they are the most sensitive area of the human body. Maybe they're more receptive to torture."

"Silence! Silence, you worm! I'll... I'll..."

"Yes?"

"Gah!"

With a roar of frustration, the torturer threw the whip aside. He took two quick steps towards the still bubbling pot of boiling oil and pushed it off its bed of glowing coals. With a vile oath, he grabbed one of the metal implements from his belt and thrust it into the coals.

His gaze found Reuben's, and they stared at each other, not braking eye-contact for a single second. The torturer looked enraged and defiant, sweat streaming down his face in copious amounts. In contrast, the only liquid streaming down Reuben's face was blood, blood and more blood. His grin was more terrible and beautiful to behold than ever. Looking like he did, he could have presided over a witches' sabbath, and nobody would have even noticed the real Satan had gone out to take a breath of fresh air.

"Let's see how strong you really are," Jürgen hissed. He ripped the iron out of the coals, and to her horror, Ayla saw that the tip was glowing red hot. Striding back towards Reuben, the torturer swept the iron down in an ark and slammed it against Reuben's chest.

There was a low sizzle. Smoke rose from where the glowing iron touched Reuben's skin. Ayla knew that she was much too far away for that, but she fancied she could almost smell the flesh burning.

Reuben's grin didn't waver for an instant. He let his gaze sweep over the assembled crowd.

"I curse you," he said, in a low, yet perfectly audible voice. "I curse you in the name of Baal. I curse you in the name of Astaroth and Moloch. I curse you in the name of Belial, Belzebub, and Asmodai. They shall burn out your hearts and turn your members into little, squiggly earthworms."

"Silence!" The torturer drove the burning iron harder into Reuben's chest. "Silence, you bastard! Silence! I—"

Reuben moved.

It was so quick that at first Ayla didn't even realize what was happening. Before she could blink, Reuben's foot shot out, kicking the torturer's feet out from under him. His head shot up, and with a painful crack, his teeth closed on the iron implement the man had been holding. His head came around and, once more, smoke rose, as the glowing end of the iron made contact with Reuben's bonds.

Half a second later, the smoldering ropes fell to the ground, burned to pieces. In one swift motion, Reuben rose to his feet. Releasing the the glowing iron with his teeth, he caught it in his hand and brought it down, hot end first.

Jürgen the torturer hadn't even tried to rise yet. There was no resistance as the iron buried itself in his chest with a sickening crunch. The red robber knight, truly red now, covered in blood as he was, remained bowed over the body of his victim, his torturer, for a moment. Then he rose, pulling the deadly weapon, still glowing and covered in heart's blood, from the dead man's chest.

"His heart was burned, as I promised," he told the soldiers who stood around him, mouths agape. "That much of the curse is fulfilled. If any of you want to check if his pizzle has turned into an earthworm, go ahead."

Then he turned and walked away. He didn't run. He didn't move one jot faster than normal—on the contrary, his steps seemed torturously measured to Ayla, standing atop the faraway castle wall. But the movements of the men who got out of the way for him weren't slow at all. Oh no. Soldiers who only half an hour ago had laughed and joked and looked forward to seeing the enemy knight reduced to a heap of bloody scraps now stumbled out of the way, thrown back by the very force of his presence. Although the red-hot iron in his hand and the bloody mask of fury on his face might also have had something to do with it.

They parted for him like the red sea before Moses. It was truly magic. What else could move hundreds of men to obey one they had been ready to kill moments before?

"Stop him!" The voice of the Margrave von Falkenstein cut into the silence. "Stop him! Kill him!"

For a moment, all heads turned towards Falkenstein, standing there, his normally so composed face twisted into a mask of fury, his arm raised to point at Reuben's retreating back.

"Kill him, I say! Now!"

All eyes went back to Reuben. He stopped for a moment and looked around, raising an eyebrow, as if to say "be my guest and try."

Nobody moved a muscle.

Reuben went on his way. There were a few horses, tethered beside a large blue tent. He didn't even try to mount one, but walked right past, still at the same, infuriatingly steady pace. He was getting close to the edge of the camp now. Though not surrounded by a palisade, it was guarded by a number of sentries. They tightened the grip on their weapons as he approached.

"Kill him!" The Margrave took a few steps forward, his eyes boring into the sentries. "Kill him, or I will have you flayed within an inch of your life!"

The sentries' eyes swiveled to Reuben. He smiled at them.

"Yes of course," he said, nodding. "You must kill me. Here." Turning around the glowing iron in his hand, he offered it to the sentries cool end first, like a squire offering a knight the hilt of his sword. Reuben's hands closed sizzling around the hot end of the iron, and smoke rose into the cold autumn air. "With this it should be fairly easy to do. Just stab me through the heart. Go ahead."

The sentries took a step back.

"What? You don't want to?" Taking a step forward, Reuben took one of his smoking hands from the iron, and pointed at one of the men. "How about you?" His hand moved to point at another, leaving a trail of smoke in its wake. "You look like a brave lad. Here, take it."

Taking a few more steps forward, he offered the iron to the young soldier, who stumbled back with an inarticulate squeal.

"No? You maybe? Or you? No one? We'll let fate decide, then. Catch!"

And he hurled the glowing iron at the sentries. They scattered like seeds in the wind. Reuben gave another bark of laughter. Making a dismissive gesture with his smoldering hand, he continued on without even once looking back at the men.

Ayla heard a low oath from somewhere. Glancing towards its origin, she saw the Margrave reach between two tents to pick up something that had been leaning there. Her mouth opened in horror when he raised the bow over his head, an arrow already on the string.

"Reuben! Look ou—"

Before she had even complete the word, Reuben whirled around. There was a zitt-noise, as the arrow cut through the air, and Ayla knew the shot wouldn't miss. She had seen enough archers at work to recognize a master when she saw one. Reuben raised his arms as if to catch the arrow in mid-air, and for one crazy, impossible second Ayla actually thought he could do it. But then, pain lanced through her heart as she realized that even he could not do something like that. No human on earth was fast enough or strong enough.

And a moment later, when she heard the noise, she knew she had been right. He couldn't.

Thud!

Only one moment had passed. To Ayla it felt like an eternity. She didn't dare to look, knowing what she would find. Yet still, she had to. She owed that to Reuben.

She tried to lift her gaze, to search for his body, when she heard the whisper begin around her. All on the wall, and down in the valley too, among Falkenstein's soldiers, men where whispering in low tones. No—not whispering: praying. Praying for protection from evil.

What has happened?

Jerking her gaze up, Ayla saw him. Reuben. Still standing, his arms crossed in front of his face like a shield. Buried in his arms was the arrow, blood-stained and completely immobile. Not just in one arm: it had punched clear through the first, out the back and into the second, stopping only inches away from Reuben's face.

Blood from the entry wound was splattered over his face in an odd pattern, making it appear even more like a devilish mask than before. He remained in that position, tensed and slightly hunched over, for a few more seconds. Then he abruptly righted himself and twisted his arms.

With a crack, the arrow broke in half, each piece sticking out from one forearm like a malevolent spike.

"If you do that again," Reuben said, his eyes fixed on the Margrave, his voice so full of fiery fury Ayla could practically feel the blisters on her skin, "I will rip your heart out and make you eat it."

The Margrave made no response. But he also made no move to raise the bow again. When Ayla threw a glance at him, she saw that his hands were shaking—and not with anger. His face was white as snow.

Turning away from the camp again, Reuben continued on his path. He simply walked away, down the little hill, through the depression between, and up the winding mountain path that led to the gates of Luntberg castle. It was only when the men around her started to raise their bows, laying arrows to the string, that she realized that Reuben was nearing the castle.

All of the arrows were aimed at his chest.

"What do you think you're doing?" Ayla yelled, stepping towards Captain Linhart and grabbing his arm, just as he was about to raise his own bow.

He glanced at her for one moment, but then immediately focused his gaze back on Reuben. She felt his muscles strain under her grip, trying to raise the bow and take aim.

"Preventing that thing from coming anywhere near our people, of course," he answered.

Ayla didn't understand what the heck he was talking about. Everything had worked out perfectly, hadn't it? Better than she could have ever hoped for! Why were her men suddenly acting so strange?

"Thing? What thing? Lower your bows!"

"That, of course!" Linhart jerked his head towards Reuben, who was still walking the mountain path, a demonic grin dancing on his face, his pace steady and calm, not betraying a sign of the horrendous wounds his body sported. And suddenly Ayla understood.

They were afraid of him.

Was she, too?

No. She was too much in love for that.

"Lower your bow."

"Surely you do not intend to let that thing into the castle, Milady?"

"I said lower your bow, Captain! That was an order!"

"But Milady, it could be—"

"It? It? He, you mean, Captain Linhart!" Raising a trembling hand, Ayla pointed at the approaching figure. "That is Sir Reuben, my best knight and commander of my forces! The man who risked his life for for me, for you—for all of you!"

Linhart's haunted eyes flickered from her, to Reuben's back, flayed into bloody tatters, and to the arrows sticking out of his arms.

"Does he even have a life to risk?" he asked, his voice hoarse. "A heart? A soul?"

Ayla swallowed.

"He has a heart," she whispered, so only he could hear. "And it is mine. Please, Captain, lower your bow."

He hesitated for another moment, then, with a sigh, lowered his weapon, and made a sign for his men to do the same.

"I hope for your sake that you do not come to regret this," he told Ayla.

She smiled, sadly.

"So do I."

Then she turned, rushing off towards the tower, and down the stairs to open the gates for whatever would enter—monster, man or devil.

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My apologies fort he delayed chapter, Milords and Ladies! As you might have noticed, it was somewhat longer than usual and therefore took longer to proofread. I hope you enjoyed an extra doze of Reuben's bloodthirsty wayss? ;-)

One more thing: my story 'Storm and Silence' is currently in the running for Story oft he Year. If any of you haven't voted yet, please support me at:

I know I can count on you! Thank you so much for being awesome fans!! :)

Farewell for now

Sir Rob

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GLOSSARY

Saltire: A diagonal cross, often used to restrain people during torture. Famously, St Andrew was put to death by the Romans on a saltire, which is why in many countries, this is referred to as a "St Andrew's Cross."

Coup de grâce: Expression for finishing somebody off who is in a lot of pain.