It took over half an hour to reach Reuben's room. Getting the mountainous knight up the circular castle stairs while neither of his legs was truly working hadn't been easy, and had only been possible because Burchard had finally succumb to Ayla's pleading and lent his strong arms to the task.

When the door was finally bolted behind them, separating them from the rest of the world, Burchard, Ayla and Theoderich toed Reuben to the bed. The two men were just about to let him drop, when Ayla held out her hand.

"Stop! Don't lay him on the back! The way his skin looks their right now, bloody and torn, it may come off when he wants to get up, or the sheet might stick to his back!"

"Does that mean he'll be stuck to the bed and unable to get up?" Burchard growled, a certain hopeful note in his voice.

"No," Reuben grunted. "It just means I'll be horribly disfigured for life."

"Oh well, that's not too bad either."

"Stop it, you two!" Ayla snapped.

"I'll stop when I know that he is no servant of the evil one," Burchard told her. "Until then, I'll be ready to kill him at a moment's notice."

"And I'll stop when the mountains start to dance and the sun turns to water," Reuben informed the steward merrily. "Until then, you can kiss my rosy-cheeked ass, brush-face! And for the record: I am always ready to kill anyone at a moment's notice."

"There!" Still holding Reuben's shoulder with one arm, Burchard pointed down accusatory at the knight with the other. "What does that sound like, if not a servant of Satan?"

"Reuben," Ayla said simply. She could feel a smile twitching on her lips. "It sounds like Reuben."

Burchard glared at her, as if her smile was a personal offence, and muttered something about the might of the devil, and young, foolish girls being easy to bewitch with evil powers.

Still, he let Reuben sink onto the bed front-first. Apparently he wasn't quite sure enough that Ayla had succumb to the evil powers of Reuben the incubus to not follow her orders.

Quickly, Ayla waved her hand, shewing Burchard out of the way. He went reluctantly.

"Are you sure we shouldn't tie him up, first, Milady?"

"Don't be silly, Burchard! This isn't the first time I've taken care of his wounds. I've been alone in a room with him more times than I can remember."

"That's what I'm starting to worry about," he muttered.

Ayla chose to ignore his remark, and looked up at Theoderich. In his wide blue eyes she could see the same fear as in Burchard's, but also a fierce loyalty, and willingness to help. She smiled up at him.

"Please, run and fetch me warm water. A lot of warm water. Also, send someone to find Dilli, and have her fetch the bag with my knives and needles."

Theoderich nodded, and hurried out of the room.

"Are you planning to have me for breakfast, or do you want to practice embroidery on me?" Reuben's muffled voice drifted up from where his face was pressed into the matrass.

Carefully, Ayla lifted the rags that were all that remained of the back of his tunic. "Neither. I'm just going to stitch together what is left of your back."

"How kind of you, Milady. If you wish to inspect my backside as well? I assure you, it is in excellent condition, and well worth a peep."

A growl came out of the corner into which the steward had retreated.

"If you're trying to convince Burchard that you're not some kind of incubus, you're not doing a very good job," Ayla hissed, her face reddening. Not so much because of Reuben's suggestion, but because she knew that if Burchard hadn't been here, she might have been tempted to follow it.

"Who says that I'm not an incubus?"

Ayla couldn't see his face, pressed into the matrass as it was. No matter. She could feel his devil's grin.

"Please, Reuben!" she begged tearing his two sticky rags apart and carefully lifting them from his back. "This is not funny!"

"There you are again, supposing I am joking." He lowered his voice, so Burchard couldn't hear them. "Would it really be so terrible to be loved by a demon from the pit?"

Dear God! Ayla blanched. Was this why he hadn't proposed to her? Because he was really a demon, and the sacraments of the church were anathema to him?

How could she live with herself if that were really true? And more importantly, how could she live with him?

She couldn't! She was a virtuous maiden, a good Christian!

And yet...

And yet there was something darkly fascinating about the way he said it: loved by a demon from the pit.

Ayla closed her eyes. Her finger's itched to stretch out, to caress Reuben's wild hair, to run down his neck, over the smooth muscles of his back—

Then she remembered that his back wasn't smooth anymore, but a patchwork of lashes. She had to take care of him. Where was that boy with the water?

As if he'd read her thoughts, Theoderich came into the room, carrying bowl, twho pitchers of water, the bag with her knifes and, God bless him, her reserve bag with salves and herbs! She had completely forgotten about that.

"Thank you!"

Quickly helping him unload before he collapsed under the weight, Ayla took the pitchers from Theoderich and set to work.

She worked quickly and eficiently, pulling pieces of skin in place, stitching, applying salve, doing all she possibly could. Her hands moved automatically, while her head still turned Reuben's words over and over.

"Reuben?

"Hmm?"

Leaning forward, she whispered into his ear: "You were joking, right? You're not really a demon from hell?"

Turning his head just enough for her to see his face, he smirked up at her. He didn't say a word in reply.

Ayla felt her fingers itch again—but this time she didn't want just to touch him. She had something rather more forceful in mind—like strangulation!

He's injured, she reminded herself. He's terribly injured. You can't do something like that.

All right. Maybe later, then.

It took Ayla over two hours to take care of all of Reuben's injuries. During that whole time, she spoke not a single word to Reuben. Neither did Burchard. He seemed to feel instinctively that Ayla wouldn't appreciate any interference with her work. Maybe he felt too that she wanted to delay getting the answers they wer going to ask for as long as possible.

Sometimes, ignorance really was bliss.

What if he really is... something evil? I love him!

Ayla didn't think she could bare it if a future that brought the two of them together turned out to be impossible. Better not to think of it. Maybe it wouldn't come true. Maybe this all would turn out to be a bad dream.

But when she finally closed the pots containing her salves and helped Reuben into a sitting position, she caught sight of Burchard's face, and she knew it wasn't a dream. Burchard was too solid for dreams.

Crossing his arms in front of his chest, the steward glared down at Reuben, and Reuben glared right back.

A moment of silence past. Ayla looked up at her father's old servant and friend, pleading with her eyes for him to be gentle with Reuben. Please, she thought. He's just gone through a terrible ordeal. Please be gentle with him.

Finally, Burchard unlocked his jaw.

"Do you serve Satan, you foul-mouthed bastard?" he demanded.

Thank you, Burchard. That was so very nice and gentle.

Reuben gave him a look that could melt through iron, and maybe had on several occasions. Maybe Reuben could spew fire from thos flaming gray eyes of his. Ayla didn't know. At this point, she wasn't sure what Reuben could do and what was still safely in the realm of the impossible.

"Of course I serve Satan." Reuben's voice was low and dangerous. "I groom him every day. We often travel together, and when we're alone, it's my job to get rid of the muck he makes when he shits. I also bring him food occasionally. He likes carrots."

Burchard didn't look quite so ready to tackle Reuben anymore. He took a step back and crossed himself.

"Satan likes carrots?" he demanded, paling under his thick, black beard.

"Yes, and apples if he's in bad mood."

"Apples... of course! The fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and Evil! The fruit he gave to Eve, and that caused the fall from Paradise!" Taking another step back, the steward slid a hand into his tunic, and to Ayla's surprise, fished out a massive wooden cross which he held out towards Reuben as if to ward the knight off.

"Begone, you warlock, you servant of the Devil! If thou doest that which is evil, be afraid; for he beareth not the sword in vain: for he is the minister of God, a revenger to execute wrath upon him that doeth evil!"

Ayla sighed, and covered her face with her hand. "He's talking about his horse, Burchard."

"Almighty Father in Heaven, protect me from this abomination and—what?"

"He's talking about his horse. His horse is named Satan."

Burchard stood there for a moment, not moving, and Ayla had to suppress a smile at the look of him, standing there like a pillar of salt, the cross extended towards Reuben, who, unlike her, didn't do anything to conceal the smirk on his face.

"Oh. Ehem..." Burchard cleared his throat, and quickly tucked the cross back under his tunic, giving first Reuben a glare, and then Ayla, which she really thought was unfair, considering she had no hand whatsoever in choosing the name of that four-legged fiend.

"Nobody told me that."

"I'm so sorry," Reuben drawled. "Next time I name one of my horses, I'll be sure to inform you first."

Burchard glared at him again.

"Are you a servant of the devil, or aren't you?"

Reuben glared back just as fiercely.

"I only serve Ayla, the Lady of Luntberg!"

"Then what is it?" the steward demanded, pointing a shaking finger at Reuben. "What makes you... the way you are? How could you withstand torture like that? Who are you? In God's name, what are you?"

*~*~**~*~*

"What in God's name," Sir Hartung asked, "was that?"

He received no answer.

His gaze was transfixed on the smoldering remnants of rope in his hands, the only thing that remained of the man who had destroyed his best weapon, his camp, and the morale of his men.

And he didn't even have to lift a sword to do it. He just had to let himself be tortured. Good God, how can this be possible? How can there be a single man that dangerous?

He heard, as if from very far away, the unnatural laugh of the robber knight. The laugh of a man who knew no pain, hesitation or mercy.

A man? Or rather a demon?

Abruptly, he shook his head. What was the matter with him? There might exist demons, witches and warlocks in this world, but why on earth would any of them be fighting on the side of Lady Ayla von Luntberg? For Heaven's sake, she was more pious then a dozen popes put together! If disciples of Satan were coming out of hell to fight for anyone, they should be offering their services to the Margrave free of charge!

And yet, there the smoldering rope lay in his hand, undeniable evidence of something inexplicable. Something... supernatural.

"What was that," he repeated, extending the smoking coils towards the knights gathered around the great table in the command tent. "How can this have happened? Well? I'm waiting for answers, gentlemen."

The gathered noblemen glanced at each other nervously.

They weren't all gathered here; there were too many knights in the army for a general war council to fit inside a single tent. Only those who were entrusted with higher positions of command had been called to this meeting: Hartung himself of course, Sir Gerlach, Sir Faramund, Sir Widargelt, Sir Cornel, Sir Dieter and Sir Clawes. The Margrave stood in a corner, face expressionless, as still as a stone statue.

"It was an evil warlock," Sir Gerlach von Rothuf proclaimed. "Or an demon! Only a creature from the pit could have struck down my noble brother like that!"

"A demon, or two bottles of good wine," someone muttered from farther back.

Sir Gerlach whirled around. "Who said that? Who dares to besmudge the honor of my house?"

Hartung gave the man a glance of thinly-vailed disgust. Gerlach was the younger brother of Ernolf von Rothuf, whom the robber knight had skewered during his nocturnal infiltration of their camp. He was here because by virtue of blood, he had inherited his brother's position of command in the army. The more Hartung saw of him, the more he started to believe in the merits of appointing instead of inheriting.

"Be silent, Gerlach," he barked. "The honor of your house was already stained, ever since your brother let himself be taken down by that maniac! If not for his failure, the trebuchet would still be standing, and hundreds of our men would still be alive."

"Indeed?" Narrowing his eyes, Gerlach turned on Hartung. "And what about your failure, Sir Hartung? You are the field marshal of this army, the high commander! And yet when the demon freed himself from his bonds to return to his witch in the castle, you didn't lift a finger to stop him! You didn't even command the men to shoot him down."

The gaze Hartung directed at the man in return made him close his mouth very quickly.

"One should be ready to ward of blades in wartime," he said, his voice cold as the heart of a mountain of stone. "But can you tell me how anyone could have been ready for what happened out on the hill this morning? If I had called my men to arms, if I'd told them to kill the stranger, they might have done so—but they might also have run for their lives, or turned on me. That wasn't a risk I was willing to take."

"Which brings us back to the original question," Sir Faramund murmured in a subdued voice. "What exactly did happen?"

Once again, they exchanged uneasy glances, all thinking what nobody was ready to voice: What it really was a demon? What if the powers of hell really were fighting on the enemy's side?

The powers of heaven were one thing. Every soldier had fought against plenty of enemies claming to have heaven on their side. It was a common enough claim to bolster soldiers' moral, and easily enough refuted by putting a spear through your enemy's eye.

But the devil...

No soldier wanted to contemplate what it would be like to fight against the Devil. God was Merciful and Loving. The Devil wasn't.

"Could the torturer have been bribed?" Sir Dieter suggested. "He could have been in league with the enemy, and only pretended to torture the man."

"And then he pretended to let himself be stabbed through the heart?" Sir Clawes snorted. "Yes, that sounds very believable."

"It was only a suggestion..."

"Yes, and an admirably ridiculous one."

"Not so ridiculous," Sir Faramund interrupted. "I thought the same thing, which is why I got these."

Opening his hand, he dropped two smallish, beige plates of some translucent material onto the table.

"What are those?" Sir Gerlach demanded, bending forward to examine them. Picking one up, he sniffed at it, then stuck out his tongue to taste it.

"Human toenails," Sir Faramund said, matter-of-fact.

Gerlach jerked back his hand as if it had been burned. His face had turned the color of fresh June grass.

"Freshly pulled, too," Sir Faramund continued. "If you look closely, you can see that there's still fresh blood on them. I checked with one of the healers. This was no trick."

Gerlach took a few steps back, rather shakily. "Excuse me, I must... I... Excuse me!"

He rushed out of the tent. Shortly after, Hartung heard gagging noises from outside.

"Fascinating, how he has to vomit from touching a few human toenails, but can watch them being pulled out of a living human being without suffering any ill effects," he commented.

Faramund shrugged, his lips twitching. "What can I say? He must abe a really sensitive individual."

Hartung had to admit, he was really beginning to take a liking to this knight.

"So," he said, "I think the possibility of a fake is off the table?"

Reluctantly, the assembled knights nodded.

"Then what did happen? Who or what exactly was it that killed Jürgen?"

"If you don't mind, my Lord Field Marshal," Faramund said, thoughtfully, "I'd like to focus on another question for now. One that we can actually get the answer to. How many men do we have left?"

If possible, the mood in the tent became even darker. Hartung scowled.

"We lost a hundred and fifty men at the braking bridge," he said, voice devoid of emotion. "Another hundred in the fire caused by the collapsing trebuchet, and another hundred were slaughtered by that maniac on the riverbank before we managed to subdue him."

Sir Reuben.

They all knew his name now—but none of them liked to say it out loud. Hartung was by no means a superstitious man, yet after what he had seen out on the hill, even he hesitated to let that name pass his lips.

God's teeth! What am I? A child? A sniveling coward?

"Sir Reuben," he said aloud. Maybe a bit too loud, but what the hell! "Sir Reuben killed a hundred of our man out on the riverbank."

"So, all in all, directly and indirectly," Faramund summed up, "this Sir Reuben—"

Hartung's respect for the man went up another notch.

"—this Sir Reuben has killed three hundred and fifty of our men, not counting the number that are sure to have deserted after this morning's amusing display."

He leaned forward and rested his knuckles on the table.

"I think I know what kind of creature this Sir Reuben is."

Everyone in the tent tensed, even Hartung. Sir Cornel's eyes widened. "S-so you really think his something... other? Something unusual?"

"Certainly he is something unusual." Faramund fixed Cornel with a cool look. "He is a brilliant tactician. That's what he is, my fellow knights, and that's what we should be concerned about."

"Faramund is right," Hartung growled. It was time to get this discussion back down to earth. They had enough real problems without coming up with imaginary ones. "I don't know whether he is a demon from hell, and honestly, I don't care. Even demons can be vanquished. But he is a brilliant leader, that much is for sure. He has managed to kill almost a third of our forces, while multiplying his own by seven."

"Bah! Peasants!" Cornel snorted.

"That doesn't mean they can't fight, Cornel! We must reassess our strategy. Then we can see what further steps may be taken."

"But if he truly has the forces of hell on his side, maybe we should not pursue this conflict any further. We could retreat and..."

"Silence!"

The roar from the corner of the tent made every single one of the knights fall silent in an instant. Face lit by cold rage, the Margrave stepped forward and looked at each of them in turn. They all shrank back. Even Hartung felt himself retreating a few inches.

"Reassess our strategy? Retreat?" he repeated, his voice dangerously low now. "Are those my knights I hear talking, or a pack of sniveling dogs?"

"Mylord," Sir Cornel began, "you can't seriously expect us too—"

Hartung winced. Cornel had never been the sharpest dagger in the armory.

"Expect?" The Margrave rounded on Cornel, and the knight took another step back. "What I expect of you, Sir Knight, is to fulfill your oaths of fealty!"

Turning back to the rest, the Margrave somehow managed to lock eyes with all of them. They were captured by the cold blue steel of his irises.

"We still outnumber them two to one. Two to one, my knights! Are those odds you are afraid of? Is this a battle you will flee from? Is this the bravery you swore to show?"

They ducked their heads.

Finally, Hartung spoke.

"You are right, my Lord. I let my emotions color my judgment. We are still in a superior position, militarily speaking. Very much so, in fact. I have won many a battle with much worse odds."

"But what about what that man did?" Cornel protested. "That Sir Reuben... It is not natural! What if he is—"

With two quick steps the Margrave was in front of him, his peculiar slanted face only inches away from Cornel's. Cornel flinched. There was a look in the Margrave's eyes that Hartung didn't like at all. Usually, his liege lord was calm and in control. And he still seemed to be, on the surface. Yet in his eyes there flickered a fire that spoke of a dark anger burning somewhere deep, deep down.

"Let's say, just for argument's sake," the Margrave whispered, "that this Sir Reuben really is a demon. Now tell me, Cornel..."

The Margrave's hand reached up, tracing a line down the knight's chest, until it lay directly over his heart.

"Tell me, who are you more afraid of at this very moment: a demon from hell, or me?"

Sir Cornel swallowed.

"Y-you, Milord."

The Margrave's hand remained where it was for a second longer. Then it dropped.

"Right answer."

He turned to face the rest of the group. Hartung could see the fire of war slowly rekindling in their eyes. "Now, my brave and loyal vassals, listen to me. This is what we are going to do: We are not going to retreat. We're not going to take even a step backwards. We will move on the castle, and we will crush their resistance. I will have that red knight's head on a pole, and Lady Ayla in chains! Remember what I said: Two to one, my knights! Trained soldiers against peasants!"

His fist slammed down on the table, and the knights gave a cheer. All of them, except Hartung and Faramund.

Faramund was frowning. He waited until the cheers had subsided, then opened his mouth and licked his lips. "Two to one is not a big enough advantage for a protracted siege," he dared to point out.

To Hartung's surprise, the Margrave nodded, and his lips twitched in a thin smile.

"No. But it is enough to march directly on Luntberg and storm the castle."

*~*~**~*~*

Reuben remained silent.

"I saw things today I never wish to see again," Burchard said, his voice suddenly low, devoid of any emotion. "You did things no human can do. All I want to know is how you did what you did, Sir Knight. And I warn you, this is no joke. If you are a servant of the Evil One, invested with unnatural powers, then all of Luntberg will stand against you. We are God-fearing Christians, and will strike you down without a second's hesitation."

"You think I'm a demon?" Reuben gave the steward an importenant smirk. "Don't demons usually have horns, and goat legs, and tongues like serpents?"

"Demons come in many shapes and sizes," Burchard retorted, unfazed. "And there are more frightening things than horns and serpent's tongues."

His gaze dropped to the burn marks on Reuben's chest, and the tatters of skin hanging from his back.

The knight's eyes narrowed. "You're right, there are more frightening things, and beings. And it is unwise to antagonize one of them."

"Are you threatening me?"

"What if I where?"

"Reuben," Ayla interrupted, hurriedly, not liking the direction the conversation was taking. "What is the matter? I thought you... I thought you agreed to tell us."

Tell us what makes you invulnerable. Tell us what makes you a devil, or angel, or something even beyond that.

He turned his gaze towards her, and she could see the anger draining out of his eyes as he did so.

"I did," he confirmed. "But the question is: do you really wish to know?"

Though his words were meant for all of them, he had only eyes for her. There was pain in his gaze. All the pain she had felt while he had been tortured, and more. "Consider it carefully. Once you know, you can never go back to not knowing. And you will have to make up your mind about me. Whether I'm good or evil. Whether you want me as your ally, or want me dead."

"That we will never want!" Ayla declared, her fingers tightening around his. "Never, ever!"

"Speak for yourself," Burchard grumbled, but shut his mouth when Ayla shot him a look.

Then she turned her gaze back to Reuben.

"Last chance," he warned her. "Last chance to change your mind."

"If you don't tell us soon, I'm going to start breaking your bones," Burchard growled.

"I, too, would be most desirous of knowing what happened to you, Milord," Theoderich said, earnestly. "What you did was... extraordinary."

Extraordinary. Ayla almost laughed. Well, that was one way to put it.

"Terrifying" was another.

Reuben looked around the room, seeing only determined faces. Last of all, his eyes found hers. The question in them was unmistakable.

"Tell us," Ayla said, her eyes saying Tell me. Please.

"As you wish, Milady." Reuben lowered his head, gravely. When he began speaking a moment later, his voice sounded strange: distant, as if he were reaching back eons to a past so far gone it was like another world.

"I don't know exactly when it happened. For so long I was cast into blackness that I lost my sense of when, and how, and where."

Ayla shivered. Was it only her imagination, or did the room suddenly darker?

"All I know is," he continued, "that it began years ago. Years and years ago, at the Emperor's Court, in the City of Palermo..."

-------------------------------------------------------

It is time, Milords and Ladies! Time for the big reveal! No time for a longer author's note, I have to get back to writing! The Muses are hunting me, determined to smooch me ;-)

Yours Truly

Sir Rob

-------------------------------------------------------

GLOSSARY:

Incubus: Insanely attractive male demons whose only purpose in live was to seduce innocent young maidens. The idea of the existence of incubi was first invented by the 4th Century Church authority St Augustine. Makes you wonder what was going on in that particular saint's head, doesn't it?