The castle gates gave way with an almighty crash, the doors flying open, the portcullis ripped from its stone curb and hurled to the side, far out of the way. For a moment, Hartung was blinded by the light flooding out through the archway. It wasn't that the archway itself was lit—no, it was pitch black. But beyond the arch, at the other end of the courtyard, half a dozen torches burned in brackets on the inner wall. And in front of the torches, only visible as a dark red silhouette in front of the flickering flames, a gigantic man sat on a beast of a black stallion, waiting.

Hartung's heart jumped.

"Forward!" he heard himself shout, and all around him, horses started to move. He urged his mount forward, too, and they started to proceed up the mountain, faster and faster.

Halfway to the gate, the first arrow zipped passed Hartung's face.

"Raise your shields!" he bellowed. Most of the knights didn't need to be told. These men weren't mindless arrowfudder, like the simple men at arms. They were born warriors, able to think for themselves and decide over life and death.

"Canter!" At his command, everyone increased their speed. They were approaching the gate now, a hailstorm of arrows and pebbles raining down on them. Hartung ignored the annoying flies, instead focusing on the dark red figure in front of the torchlight which was all he could see beyond the archway.

The fool actually has the arrogance to believe that he can face all of us alone!

This was too good a chance to miss. They were nearly there, already!

"Knights of the Margrave, charge!"

Spurring on his stallion, Hartung drove the beast under the archway, towards the courtyard, shielding his eyes against the blinding light ahead. The other knights followed close behind, the thunder of their horse's hooves against the cobblestones rising towards the sky, a deadly threat to all who heard it.

The red knight didn't seem overly concerned by that threat, however. Casually, he raised his lance—a knight's equivalent to a raised middle finger.

"You..." Hartung growled into his beard. "I'll gut you and hand your head over to the Margrave, you devil!"

Pressing his heels even harder into the sides of his stallion, he spurred the animal on to still greater speed. Horse and rider came shooting out from under the archway like a thunderbolt: deadly and unstoppable.

Hartung lowered his lance, aiming at the red knight's chest.

"Prepare to die!" he roared over the clatter of hooves.

Too late he saw the metallic glint on the dark ground in front of him. Too late he heard his horse's painridden whinny. Too late he realized what a terrible mistake he had made.

"Good's tee—"

Before he could even finish his curse, the stallion's legs buckled. The animal fell sideways, smashing onto the ground and making a sound that sounded more like a human scream than any sound a horse could make. Hartung caught a brief glimpse of the objects that, hidden by the shadows, littered the ground—small metal tripods with wicked spikes and sharp edges—before his own head hit the ground with a thud, and his world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of colors.

Through the haze of dancing rainbows around him, he could hear screams, and thuds, and shouted orders that nobody listened to. Something slammed against the prone body of his horse, hurling him from the saddle. Another rider from behind him colliding with him, he realized just a moment before his head slammed into the cobblestones again.

"Argh!"

Dazedly, Hartung realized that the cry of pain had come from his own throat. What was happening to him? He never cried out in pain. He never showed weakness.

But then... he had never before lain on the ground, beaten by an enemy who had just felled an entire company of knights without touching one of them.

He lay there, stunned, on the ground, for how long he knew not. It was the thump of another body colliding with his that jarred him from his state of semi-consciousness. Raising himself to his elbows with difficulty, he saw the man who had slammed into him—or rather, the thing.

The knight was so disfigured Hartung couldn't even identify the crest on his surcoat. His body was pierced over and over with sharp metal spikes. His head had been smashed under the weight of a horse, splattering red and gray all over his armor, obliterating the original colors that identified him on the battlefield. Both of his arms were broken, as well as one leg, and fluids Hartung didn't even want to know the name of were leaking out of various holes in his armor.

"God's breath!"

Suddenly wide awake, he jerked away from the disgusting sight. He was on his feet before he knew he had started to move. The sight that met his eyes was worthy of the innermost circle of hell. Bodies sprawled in grotesque piles, men and horses twisted or broken, and glinting metal tripods everywhere.

He had never seen one of those before, though he had heard of them. Crow's feet. God's-cursed crow's feet!

His men were dead. All of them. Killed by crow's feet.

For just a moment, he felt dizzy, but then a flood of strength hit him, as his eyes focused on the silent red figure on the other side of the courtyard. He! The one responsible for this carnage.

"Coward!" His roar rang out over the courtyard louder than a lion's. "Coward! You let traps and tricks win your battles for you? You are no knight! Come here and face me, coward!"

"Isn't that the pot calling the kettle black?" the red knight's voice drifted over the courtyard, deep, soft and mocking. One could almost hear the smile behind the visor. "After all, you came storming in here with six dozen knights, and here I am, all alone, poor and helpless."

He extended his arms in a show of innocence. "I've helped even the odds a little, that's all."

"Is that so?" Sliding his hand to his belt, Hartung felt for the hilt of his sword. Thank God! It was still there! The blade made a scraping sound as drew it from the scabbard. "Well, if that's the case, then you won't mind meeting me in honest battle now, would you?"

"Not at all." Dropping his lance to the ground, the red knight slid out of the saddle and drew his own sword. Never before had Hartung seen a blade that was a match for his meet cleaver—but this one certainly was. He swallowed.

Raising the blade to the standard guard, giving nothing away, Hartung began to advance. "Ah. So you do have some honor."

The red knight laughed. It was a laugh that made the hair stand up on the back of Hartung's thick neck.

"Me? Honor?" Again, that laugh. "Don't fool yourself, Sir Knight. I have no more honor than Satan himself. I just don't want to leave the pleasure of killing you to anybody else."

Then he moved. He was across the courtyard in a flash. Never would Hartung have expected a man of this size to move with such speed, such deadly grace. He didn't even glance down to see where the crow's feet lay, as if already knew by some sixth sense where it wasn't safe to step. His sword came swinging down towards Hartung's neck, and the Field Marshall had hardly enough time to raise his own blade.

Clang!

Their weapons locked, and Hartung gritted his teeth, pushing against his enemy's steel, testing the strength of the bind. Immediately, he wished he hadn't done so. The force pushing his arm sideways was greater than any he had ever felt—except perhaps a kick in the ribs his stallion had once delivered.

Before Hartung could even raise a finger, the red knight twisted his hand. Suddenly, it was no longer flat of the blade against flat: the edge of the red knight's sword was pressing against his, exerting three times as much pressure.

"Nng... No!"

Just in time, Hartung managed to twist his blade as well, taking the worst of the pressure off his screaming muscles. But the red knight had already taken advantage of the brief gap in his defense, and pressed forward.

"Disappointing," Hartung heard a hiss in his ear, just before a metal gauntlet slammed against the side of his helmet. "I had hoped for a little more fun."

Staggering back, he heard the hiss of the blade cutting through air just in time. He ducked, and something sailed over his head.

"More? Like that?" he growled and threw himself forward. He slammed into the red knight, one giant grappling with another. It was a desperate move, but the only one he'd had the time to make. His blade was useless at this range. Yet his sword had other useful parts.

The steel pommel smashed into the front of the knight's helmet, leaving a large dent. Hartung even heard something crack. For a moment, just one moment, he hoped his opponent would howl in pain and withdraw—but that hope was smashed when the devil laughed again.

"Is that all you've got?"

Suddenly, big arms were around him.

What in God's name... he thought. Is he trying to hug me?

Then he felt a pommel strike his kidney, and colored lights exploded in front of his eyes. All air rushed out of him in one giant gasp. Even through his armor and six layers of padding, the punch was still incredibly painful. A problem his enemy obviously didn't have to worry about.

Of course he doesn't! He's a devil! A devil can't feel pain.

Hartung tried his best to ignore the nasty voice whispering into his ears. But seeing the grey eyes of his enemy burn with hellfire through the slits of his helmet, it wasn't easy.

I'm not beaten! he bellowed at himself. Not now! Not ever!

"Take that!"

Kicking out wildly at the sparkling lights dancing in front of his eyes, Hartung felt his foot make contact with a shin. A satisfied growl escaped his throat as he swept his enemy's legs out from under him. Entangled as they were, they both crashed to the ground together, Hartung on top. Not like he wanted it.

Quickly, he rolled to the side, clutching the red knight tightly. Now, the devil's sword arm was trapped beneath him.

Wham!

Hartung's fist made contact with the red knight's face again.

Wham!

And again! Even if the demon couldn't feel it, he wouldn't be able to survive with a smashed brain. At least Hartung hoped to God he wouldn't.

Wham!

At the third hit, the leather straps that held the knight's helmet in place gave way, and the thing was ripped off, clattering away, over the cobblestones. The face that came free covered in blood—but more than blood on the face there was bloodlust in the eyes.

The red knight's left hand shot forward. Before Hartung could do anything, gauntleted fingers had hooked into the visor of his helmet, and pulled.

The sound of screeching metal and tearing leather deafened him for a moment—a moment long enough for the red knight to roll them around. Now Hartung was on top, his sword hand trapped between the cobblestones and the red knight's crushing weight. Half a second later, a powerful half-kick, half-shove sent him flying sideways. He had just enough sense left to extend his elbows, to protect himself from the worst of the fall, then he slammed into the stones and his world exploded in color again.

Rolling on his front, he started to crawl. Not like toddlers crawl, easy and carefree. No, Sir Hartung von Ehrsfeld was crawling for his life. He only stopped when instead of flashing lights, he once more saw solid stone under him. Shakily, he got to his feet. His sword, thank God, was still in his hand.

And his enemy?

Turning to look, he saw that the red knight had mirrored his actions. He sat a few yards away, near the still jerking soon-to-be carcass of one of the Margrave's knights. He didn't even seem to notice the man dying beside him. His eyes were focused on Hartung, an evil light dancing in their depths.

Reaching up to wipe his face, he spit out a globule of blood.

"You're good," he rasped, giving Hartung the diabolical grin that still made him feel cold all over. "Better than I thought you were. Needed to warm up, did you?"

"This is not a game, you devil!" Hartung growled.

The red knight's grin widened, and the Field Marshall had to suppress a shudder. Not just the armor of the man was red now. His teeth, shining with wet blood, sparkled like those of a raptor looking forward to his next meal of human flesh.

"That's where you're wrong," he whispered, slowly crouching, and bringing his sword up for the guard position. "It is a game. The most exciting game ever. And the winner gets to live."

He charged. For a moment, a trail of blood flying in the air behind him, he really looked like a devil, fiery tail and all. Then Hartung's instincts screamed for his legs to get moving, and he started up and forward. A second later, their blades collided.

No matter how much he hated the man, Hartung couldn't help but feel a twinge of admiration for the red knight. Never in his whole life had he met someone who could match him with the sword, except perhaps the Margrave. But this man was in a class of his own. He didn't fight like men did, he fought like a monster, who didn't care how many limbs he lost, if only he could sink his teeth into the neck of his enemy.

And there was more. Things Hartung didn't admire. Things that were equally deadly.

Wham!

He ducked just in time to avoid being brained by a foot-long splinter of wood. Thrown off balance, he stumbled sideways.

"You half-faced hag seed! That was—"

But before he could finish and tell that devil exactly how dishonorable his move had been, the red knight was there, in front of him, his sword flashing. This time, Hartung's sword didn't manage to come up in time.

"Aaar!"

"Oh, pain." Sighing blissfully, the red knight smirked at him. "What a wonderful sound. Make it again. Please. For me."

Clutching the spot where his enemy's sword had hit the ribs, Hartung stumbled back against the wall of some outbuilding.

"You bastard!"

The blow hadn't cut through the chain mail, but it had twisted and mashed the metal links, driving them painfully through the protective fabric, into the skin beneath.

"Guilty as charged." Snatching up another splinter of wood from the cobblestones with his left hand, the red knight extended both his arm, in a peaceful pretense. "Do you want me to kill you right now, or do you want to finish the charade of a fight? I could say 'If you let me kill you, I'll make it quick'—but I'd be lying."

"So, what are you going to do?" Hartung rasped, trying to gain time, praying his ribs would stop feeling as if they were on fire.

"Well... what I'd like to do is torture you to death, very slowly. But she probably won't allow that." He sighed, as if not being allowed to torture people was a gruesome injustice. "She never allows me to torture anybody."

"She?"

"The lady to whom I'll present your severed head. Hopefully, she'll appreciate the gift."

"I'm not scared of you!" Hartung spat—literally spat. He could feel the metallic taste of blood on his tongue.

The red knight's eyebrow quirked. "Don't you think I'm the devil? Most of your comrades seem to think so."

"No, I don't!"

The not-devil laughed, and Hartung couldn't help it. He shivered.

"Well, you're right. I'm not."

"You're not?"

"No. I'm something much worse. I'm the man who is going to kill you."

His left hand flicked, and suddenly, a piercing pain flared up Hartung's arm. Gazing down, he saw what was the matter, and it almost made him vomit on the spot. The splinter of wood was jutting from his left hand. It had pierced the leather gauntlet and the soft tissue beneath, burying itself between two handbones with sickening precision.

Look up! Damn you, look up!

The scream from his fighting instincts came too late. The red knight's sword struck his exposed breastplate, denting the metal and driving all the air out of him. A moment later, a powerful hand gripped his throat and herked him away from the wall protecting his back.

"No!"

He had just enough sense to duck. So the blow meant for his neck ripped a lock of his hair off instead, a loss you could live with, literally. Hartung whirled around and raised his arms just in time. The next strike caught his arm plates.

Instead of pushing against it, he quickly let his arms slide down to the left, directing the force of the blow to the ground. The sword hit the cobblestones with a nasty crack.

"Satan's hairy ass!"

Hartung grinned with satisfaction at the curse.

Maybe he's going to kill me, he thought. Maybe I him. But at least I've put a big knotch in his sword!

And with luck, he'd do more than that. His own weapon came swinging around, and crashed into the red knight's side with enough force to crack a rib. Hartung's grin grew wider when he heard a satisfying crunch.

It disappeared, when the red knight didn't move an inch, or even scream in pain. The devil looked at him, smiling.

"Thank you!"

The fist came out of nowhere, smashing right into Hartung's face. It felt like being hit with a sledgehammer.

"Thank... you... so... much!" After each word, the fist hit him, again, and again. In some dim, distant part of his mind, Hartung wondered why the red knight hadn't used his sword to finish him off yet. He guessed the devil had been telling the truth. He really did want to take it slow. "Do you know why I'm thanking you?"

Wham!

Hartung was leaning against the outer wall, now. He didn't remember how he'd gotten there. Had he stumbled that far back under the onslaught of blows?

"Thank you!"

Wham!

"Really, I mean it."

Wham!

"Do you know why?"

No. Why?

At least that was what Hartung tried to say. But his face was on fire, his mouth filled with blood. It came out more like a "Nwhhhh!"

"Because," the devil who wasn't a devil whispered into his ear, "she'll have to take care of that broken rib. Very nice opportunity for seduction, that. I owe you one. So maybe I'll make it quick, after all."

Grabbing Hartung by the throat again, he ripped him away from the wall and pushed him, pushed him farther, making him stumble backwards.

What's he doing? The small part of his mind that wasn't battered into submission yet wondered.

Then he caught the odor of spilled intestines, and heard the cries of dying men and horses. Suddenly, he knew what was happening. The devil was pushing him back towards the gate, so everyone watching from outside could see.

That same small part of his mind that was still working realized what this meant.

I'm going to die.

Strangely, the thought didn't bother him as much as it would have a minute a go. Maybe it was the fact that his head was hurting, or that he already felt so sleepy. Lying down would be nice. Even if he never got up again.

His vision was beginning to cloud. His ears still worked, though. There was a short silence, and then a whistling sound, like a sharp wind, or a sword cutting through air.

*~*~**~*~*

Reuben's sword hit the man's neck with a satisfying, wet thud. The enemy's figure froze. Reuben jerked once, to free the blade—but it was stuck.

"Pardon me, you reeky little bastard." Placing a fist against the man's chest for leverage, Reuben jerked at his sword again, harder this time. "That's my sword you're dying on. You can't keep it."

The blade came free with another, even wetter sound, and a river of blood gushed out of the wound.

"Now look what you've done, you bastard! Do you know how long it takes to properly clean blood off a blade?"

The man didn't reply anything, which Reuben thought was really rude, even for his standards. Instead the fellow just slumped to his knees, gasping. Reuben waited for him to keel over altogether, but he remained on his knees.

"You..." The voice that came from the damaged throat was hardly more than a rough whisper. "You just..."

"Oh please." Reuben rolled his eyes. "Not a dramatic death scene!"

Bringing his sword around, he took the fellow's head of with a single swipe of his blade. The helmeted head hit the cobblestones with a clatter, followed by the rest of the corpse.

"Finally!" Taking a deep breath, and inhaling the intoxicating smell of dead enemy, he stepped passed the corpse, to survey for the first time the bloody tangle of human and equine limbs that surrounded the front gates. Smiling, he raised his sword.

"Anyone else want to try me?"

Nobody put his hand up. How disappointing.

*~*~**~*~*

The Margrave von Falkenstein sat inside his tent, eating dinner and drinking wine. Some men, he knew, had trouble digesting food while only a few hundred yards away, a battle was being fought, but he had never understood this particular digestive problem. After all, he knew he was going to win.

The noise that drifted down from the mountain didn't disappoint. There was a short clamor of metal and death, followed by silence. Just as he had thought, this battle hadn't taken long. Why would it? Now, nothing remained to do but to wait, and drink to his own victory. He had just started on an excellent bottle imported at not inconsiderable expense from Greece, when he heard hoof beats from outside the tent.

"That will be the report on the battle," he told the servant attending him. "Go and let Sir Hartung in."

"Immediately, your Excellency."

A moment later, the servant returned, in his wake following not Sir Hartung, but an ordinary soldier. The Margrave's hand with the wine cup froze in mid-air.

"Where's Sir Hartung?"

The soldier gave a nervous bow. "He, um... couldn't make the report in person."

"Still busy, is he?"

"In a manner of speaking, your Excellency, yes."

"Well, how did things go?" the Margrave asked. "How many dead?"

"Seventy-eight, your Excellency."

The Margrave nodded. "And on our side?"

The soldier took a deep breath. "Um... those are the dead on our side."

Slowly, very slowly, the Margrave raised his head. When his gaze found the soldier, the man flinched.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," the Margrave said, his voice low and dangerous as a viper's hiss, "but it was my impression that we sent exactly seventy-eight men up there. Seventy-eight highly trained, heavily armored knights, to be exact!"

"Err... yes, your Excellency."

"They are all dead?"

The soldier swallowed, and secretly wondered what his chances were of leaving this tent alive. If only he hadn't agreed to draw lots with his comrades to deliver these news. He always drew the short straw! Always!

"Yes, your Excellency."

"Sir Hartung?"

"Dead, your Excellency. A soldier I know saw him fall."

"Saw it? And didn't try to do anything?"

What little color remained in the soldier's face, drained away. "He was... He was fighting against...." His voice dwindled into nothing.

"Who? Who was he fighting?"

No answer.

"Who," Falkenstein repeated, his voice even lower than before, "is responsible for this?"

The soldier wet his lips. It took him a few moments more, but finally he managed to get a dry whisper out into the open.

"The... the red knight, your Excellency."

Crash!

The Margrave's fist came down on the dinner table with almighty force. It split the wooden tabletop clean in two, flinging meat, bread and wine in every direction. A half-empty cup of wine hit the soldier in the chest. He flinched, but otherwise didn't move. He didn't even try to grab a cloth to dry off the wine that was dripping from his tunic. He knew that right now, it was best not to move a muscle.

"That red vermin! Do you mean to say that his men killed all my knights? All of them?"

"N-no, your Excellency. He did."

"What?"

"There were no other men, your Excellency. He killed the seventy-eight knights all by himself, your Excellency. We believe that he used some... kind of... trap..."

The soldier's voice trailed off again. The Margrave's face wasn't angry, exactly, or enraged, or wrathful. He was in a place where rage didn't matter anymore, where retribution was a given, where there existed only one word, one way, one solution to everything: annihilation.

Slowly, the Margrave von Falkenstein rose from his chair.

"You will go to the officer in charge," his iron voice dictated the future. "Tell him to call together the lances."

"H-how many lances, your Excellency."

"All the lances, of all the banners! Every single man in the army! I don't care if he's a soldier, cook, engineer, or the boy who cleans the boots! Every single one will be armed and ready by the time I reach the gates of Luntberg Castle!"

"Y-you, your Excellency? You will ride up to the castle yourself? Do you wish to inspect the troops?"

The Margrave met the soldier's eyes, and the man twitched back.

"No," said the iron voice. "I wish to take personal command of the army and lead it in the final assault on Luntberg Castle."

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Greetings, Milords and Ladies,

I'm working on the special edition of "The Robber Knight's Love" - with extra chapters from Sir Reuben's POV! Soon it should be available for preorder! Excited? :)

Farewell,

Sir Rob