Anno Domini 1234

"This is outrageous!"

Sir Gregor sighed. "I'm sure it is."

"To be summoned like this, like a couple of lazy servants, as if we had nothing better to do with our time than dance attendance on him—who does Falkenstein think he is? Our lord and master?"

"Well, he is our liege lord," Sir Gregor pointed out. "Which means that, technically, he is our lord and master."

Sir Blasius waved that fact away as if it were an annoying fly he could just swat beneath his armored fist. "Yes, technically. But still, we are knights of the Empire and he should treat us with the respect due our station. He can't just expect that we come running every time he says so."

"Actually, he can. We swore that oath of fealty, remember?"

"Bah!" Sir Blasius spat onto the forest path. "That only says we have to come for a few months. Whatever he says, I'm not going to stay longer than I have to."

Sir Gregor sighed again. Blasius had been at it the entire road up from the village of Mosgrund to Falkenstein Castle: It was intolerable that the Margrave would call on them like this, they were important men with important tasks to accomplish, they had many calls upon their times, and so on, and so on.

He had been so busy complaining that he hadn't even noticed what a beautiful day it was, how the late autumn sunlight filtered through the fiery-colored forest roof, and how the last of the birds that hadn't left for the south yet fluttered high up between the branches.

Sir Gregor for one couldn't see what more important tasks Blasius could be accomplishing right now, apart from maybe working to empty his wine-cellar and thinking up new taxes for the poor peasants who had the misfortune to be his vassals. Other than Blasius, Sir Gregor didn't mind at all being called to the Margrave's castle this late in the year, and so suddenly to boot. He rather enjoyed the rare opportunity to get out of his own castle and onto the road.

No, Sir Gregor didn't mind the journey. What bothered him far more were the two lances of soldiers marching behind him, his own and those of Sir Blasius. It wasn't unusual for them to bring an escort when they visited the Margrave's court. But this time, their overlord had demanded that they bring their entire force of men at arms.

Blasius hadn't paid much attention to that particular fact. He didn't care how much marching other people would have to do, as long as he could comfortably ride on a horse. Sir Gregor, however, had noticed and thought about the reasons ever since. He hadn't found an answer yet.

Taking a flask of water from where it was fastened to his saddle, Sir Gregor took a deep gulp of honey-wine. Next, he reached into his pack to withdraw a piece of bread. He bit off a piece and started to chew, but then noticed a few birds beside the forest path, picking between the tree roots, on the lookout for something to fill their stomachs before winter.

So, somebody else was hungry? Smiling to himself, Sir Gregor picked a few sunflower seeds from the crust of his bread and threw them to the birds. The little flutter fellows hopped closer and eyed him for a few moments, turning their heads from left to right as if to say "Really? For us?" Then they began pecking hectically at the seeds.

"You're welcome," Sir Gregor told them.

"What?" Blasius, interrupted in his incessant flow of complaints, turned his head to stare at him. "What did you say?"

"I wasn't talking to you."

"But there's nobody else around." When Sir Gregor didn't answer, Blasius shrugged. "Well, I can't blame you if you start to talk with yourself. This damnable forest is so deathly dull I think I might lose my mind any minute."

"That would be regrettable. If you lose small things in the forest they are so hard to find again."

From behind him where the men marched along, Sir Gregor heard muffled snickering. He threw a glance sideways at Blasius and saw the knight forming the words with his lips, trying to figure out their meaning. Hopefully, that would keep him occupied and he would be quiet for a while. Sir Gregor missed the gentle calm of the solitary forest and already cursed the ill fortune that had led him and Blasius to cross paths on their way to the Margrave's castle.

One of the birds he had fed suddenly appeared beside him, beating his wings energetically to hover in mid-air, and gave Sir Gregor a hopeful look. It swept down to settle on the pommel of his saddle, and looked up at him with expectation in its tiny eyes. Again, Sir Gregor couldn't keep a smile from his face. Plucking a few more seeds from his bread, he let them drop onto the ground beside the path and watched the bird dart towards them. Maybe the journey wouldn't be so dull, after all.

For a while, they rode through the forest in blessed silence. Sir Gregor fed the birds, enjoyed the fresh autumn breeze on his face and the fact that Blasius' mouth was still firmly shut. It was a full ten minutes before he opened it again. When he did, Sir Gregor braced himself for another tidal wave of complaints. But instead, Blasius asked:

"Do you hear that?"

Sir Gregor frowned. There was a distant sound, just audible. Now that Blasius mentioned it, he could hear it too. "Yes, thunder."

"No. I don't think that is thunder."

Sir Gregor shrugged. He had taken a blow to the head in a fight a few years back, and ever since then, his hearing hadn't been the same.

"Well, what is it then, if it isn't thunder?"

"I don't know. It just sounds... I don't know."

Sir Gregor decided quietly not to pay the matter any further attention. To Blasius, everything that didn't come out of his own mouth sounded odd, or annoying, or queer. You better learned to live with it, otherwise he could drive you mad sooner or later. Whatever this sound was, it surely was not worth worrying about.

Three minutes later, Sir Gregor wasn't so sure anymore. The sound had grown louder and louder. It was an eerily familiar noise, a dark, deep, thundering that seemed to reverberate within his very bones. Yet it was deeper and more threatening than anything he had ever heard before.

Without mentioning the matter, both knights sped up their horses. The men behind them marched faster. They, too, seemed to sense a certain urgency in the air. The sound came again, and again, always returning, never really ceasing.

"What is that?" Blasius muttered. He seemed to be too worried to find the words for a complaint, which was a rare occurrence indeed.

Sir Gregor shook his head. "I don't know. But I think we'll find out soon. Look."

He pointed ahead, where the forest path they had been riding on merged with a larger road, an ancient one left over from the time of the Romans. Just a few yards away from the point where the path met the road they could see a wooden sign, proclaiming "Falkenstein Castle—1 mile".

The road allowed them to make better time. Soon, they were traveling up the familiar rise between rocks strewn along the side of the road that led up the last hill before their destination. That didn't make them feel any more comfortable, though. The sound had grown louder the farther they had come. Sir Gregor could almost feel it now.

"Come on."

Frowning, he nodded to Blasius, and pressed his heels into his horse's sides, encouraging it to a last effort. "We're nearly there."

Blasius followed his example, and they passed the last of the rocks along the road, coming out into the open. Now they had reached the top of the hill and, for the first time, could see into the valley below them.

"Holy Mother of God!"

Sir Blasius pulled on the reigns of his horse so hard it jerked to a stop. Transfixed, he stared down into the valley. Sir Gregor was no less stricken by the sight. Again they heard thunder, and this time, they definitely felt the earth vibrate beneath the hooves of their mounts. The vibrations came in the rhythmic, thunderous drumbeat of marching feet.

Down in the valley rose a mountain, atop which sat a magnificant castle: an iron stronghold with several layers of walls, high towers and massive gates. Yet it wasn't the castle which had the two knights spellbound. They had seen it often enough, the castle of their liege lord, the Margrave Markus von Falkenstein. No, it was what covered the rest of the valley that captured their attention: in front of them, everywhere before and around the castle stretched out a sea of men, tents and horses. Hundreds of, maybe more than a thousand men-at-arms were training, sharpening their swords, marching around, erecting and dismantling tents.

This wasn't just a social occasion. All the Margrave's vassals had been called together.

"He's called a levy," Sir Blasius whispered. "He's called a god-cursed levy!"

Sir Gregor nodded. He could see it well enough for himself.

"And that can mean only one thing," he said, calmly. "We're going to war."

Turning around to Captain Arnd, the officer in charge of his lance of men-at-arms, Sir Gregor made a swift gesture of command. The Captain stood at attention.

"Yes, Sir?"

"We'll ride ahead to see what in God's name is going on down there. You go find the quartermaster and make sure that he gives everybody proper accommodation. Tell him if my men aren't treated properly, I'll have a word or two to say about that. Understand?"

"Yes, Sir! As you command, Sir!"

"Good."

Turning to face the valley again, Sir Gregor spurred on his horse.

"Come on, Blasius. We're getting to the bottom of this."

"But shouldn't we wait and..." Blasius protested. Sir Gregor didn't hear the rest of his words. His horse was already speeding downhill, towards the entrance of the huge encampment.

Well, "entrance" might not be quite the right word, Sir Gregor thought as he raced downhill towards the mass of tents, Blasius on his heels. Here, in the shadow of its commander's mighty castle, the soldiers felt safe enough to not even put proper lookouts around the encampment, let alone surround it with a wooden palisade. At the edge of the camp, where the broadest of the open paths between the tents seemed to begin, there stood a lone sentry.

"Halt!" he shouted. "Who rides there?"

The show of vigilance was a bit overdone, considering Gregor could have just rode into the camp at one of the two dozen other, unguarded, entries without the man being any the wiser, but he humored him and brought his horse to a halt.

"Sir Gregor von Armsheim and Sir Blasius von Balderingen, to see his Excellency the Margrave von Falkenstein."

"Welcome, Sir Gregor, Sir Blasius." The guard bowed, and gestured over his shoulder. "Well, um... as you see, a great many people have come to see his Excellency."

"We've noticed," Blasius remarked, drily. "What the hell is going on here, man? We just received word to come here as quickly as possible, and when we arrive, we find this!" He swept his arm out, indicating the roiling masses of soldiers. "What is Falkenstein up to?"

"Please, Sir, I'm just a simple man-at-arms," the soldier said, avoiding their eyes. "I know nothing of grand people's politics."

"Then lead us to the Margrave. Now!"

"I'm afraid I can't. His excellency is very busy and gave orders not to be disturbed."

Blasius bristled. "What? Now listen here, you beetle-headed scut..."

"Is there somebody else who could tell us what is going on?" Sir Gregor cut in before he could really get going. "Someone in charge we could talk to?"

The guard scratched his head.

"Well... there's Sir Hartung, the Margrave's Field Marshal and second-in-command. You could talk to him, I guess."

Sir Gregor breathed a sigh of relief. He knew Hartung—a hard man, but reliable. If he was in charge of things, they couldn't be quite as bad as they seemed.

"Hartung?" Blasius demanded. "What in God's name made the Margrave make him Field Marshal? My land and lineage far exceeds his! Why him and not me?"

Maybe because Hartung has a head on his shoulders instead of up his ass, Gregor thought, but didn't voice his suspicions. Instead, he inquired:

"Can you direct us to his tent?"

"Of course."

The sentry, apparently very glad at the chance to be rid of the two noblemen, pointed down the row of tents towards the center of the camp. "Just follow this path until you come to the stables, then turn left and only ride a few more dozen yards down that path, and you'll be at his tent. You can't miss it, it's big, and he has had a flag with his coat of arms put on top."

"Thank you."

The sentry stepped aside, and Sir Gregor urged his horse past him, into the camp. Sir Blasius was right beside him, keeping pace.

"Field Marshal Sir Hartung," he muttered. "Ha! I really want to know what made him choose Hartung of all people."

"I want to know what we need a Field Marshal for in the first place," Sir Gregor said, quietly. "Last I heard, we were not at war."

*~*~**~*~*

They found Sir Hartung in front of his tent, practicing swordplay with the unfortunate youth who bore the burden of being his squire. They weren't using real swords, just wooden sticks, but still, the sight of all the bruises on the young man's face and arms made Gregor wince.

He brought his horse to a halt beside the two combatants and cleared his throat.

"Hartung? Hartung, it's me, Gregor. I've just arrived. Can I talk to you for a moment?"

Hartung didn't look up. He swept his squire's wooden sword aside and landed a stunning blow on the left shoulder.

"Can't it wait? I'm busy."

"I can see that. But we've been summoned here by the Margrave, and now we've arrived and find the whole castle in an uproar with hundreds of men-at-arms camping everywhere, and Falkenstein, it seems, is too busy to receive us. We were told you were in charge, and we would like to know what's going on."

"We?" Hartung still didn't look up. He was busy driving his opponent back across the open stretch of ground in front of his tent. It wouldn't be long and the youth would fall backwards into a pile of horse-dung behind him.

"Yes, Sir Blasius is with me. And, as I said, we would like to know what is going on here."

"All right." Grunting, Sir Hartung let his stick clatter to the ground. "Enough for today, lad. Go and check my armor again. I want it in perfect condition for when we ride, understood?"

"Yes, Sir Hartung. Immediately, Sir Hartung." The youth bowed deeply, threw Gregor a grateful glance and hurried away.

Wiping the sweat from his broad, angular face, Sir Hartung turned to face his visitors.

"So you want to know what is going on, do you? Well, by the saints, I'd like to know that too. There are all sorts of rumors flying up and down the country. The Margrave hasn't told me anything. Well, that's not strictly true, he's told me one thing. He hasn't told me when or why, but he has told me we're going to war."

"War?" Sir Gregor slid out of the saddle, and, his feet firmly on the ground, took a few steps towards Hartung. Blasius followed his example. "But against whom?"

"Luntberg," the newly appointed Field Marshal grunted.

"What, against Count Thomas?"

"Against his daughter, rather," Hartung corrected, starting to remove the leather armor he had worn during the practice-fight. "The Margrave has declared a feud against her, and he means to see it through."

Blasius frowned. "Yes, a feud... I seem to remember hearing something about this business. But why bother his vassals with a trifle like that? Didn't the Margrave hire a mercenary army to take care of the girl?"

Hartung gave a grunt. "He did. Only, the girl met and dispatched said mercenary army. There's not a man left alive."

For once, Sir Blasius couldn't think of a single complaint in reply. Sir Gregor couldn't blame him. He didn't know what to say, either. He had met the mercenaries the Margrave kept in his service—not an experience he wanted to repeat. And now, Hartung was telling him he'd never have to. He was telling him they had been destroyed. By a girl.

Almost without meaning to, he leaned closer.

"How old exactly is this girl?"

"Seventeen."

A derisive snort escaped Sir Blasius. "So you're really trying to tell us that an army of battle-hardened men, led by a seasoned commander, was dispatched by a young girl and her troop of lazy castle guards?"

Hartung's eyes narrowed. Gregor wished Blasius would shut up. As newly appointed Field Marshal, it couldn't be very pleasant for Hartung to have his nose rubbed in the mess he was going to have to clean up. And when Hartung had to deal with unpleasant things, he usually collected all the unpleasantness and started dolling it out to others, multiplied by a thousand and studded with sharp steal spikes.

"Yes, she did," the Field Marshal said in a tight, controlled voice. "She killed them to a man."

"Indeed?" Blasius still didn't sound any more convinced. "And how did she manage that?"

Hartung shrugged.

"There are rumors about the involvement of some mysterious knight in a blood-red armor, but no one really knows. The dead don't tell tales."

Blasius gave another derisive snort. Apparently, he had rediscovered his urge to nag. "One knight? How big did you say that mercenary army of the Margrave's was?"

"I didn't. But if you want to know, it was at least six-hundred strong."

"Ha! That must have been one mighty knight indeed." Blasius spat on the ground. "All nonsense, if you ask me. The girl probably bribed the mercenaries and they went off to storm the nearest brothel instead of her castle. There's no mysterious red knight, you take my word for it."

"You're probably right," Hartung grunted. His eyes added: "as much as I hate to agree with you." "What do you think, Sir Gregor?" he asked, turning to the knight who had remained silent through most of the conversation. He had, lost in thought, been staring off towards the west. The direction where Luntberg lay.

"Hm... what?" Quickly, he turned his head back to the other two, and his lips twitched. "Yes, yes, you're quite right. This business about one warrior being responsible for the defeat of an entire army is nonsense. Such things only happen in Arthurian legends." He glanced west again. "I'm sure this red knight will turn out to be just another fairy tale."

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Greetings, Milords and Ladies,

It has begun! The finale of the Robber Knight Series! What do you think? Are you looking forward to what the so-called 'fairy tale'-knight Sir Reuben will do to the Margrave's army? ;-)

By the way, for anyone who does not know the series so far, these are the volumes, in correct order:

-The Robber Knight (Volume 1)

-The Robber Knight's Love (Volume 2)

-The Robber Knight's Secret (Volume 3)

Yay! I can count to three! Quite an acchievement for a medieval knight, I assure you.

Your Truly (proud of his mathematical skills)

Sir Rob

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GLOSSARY:

Levy: Calling a levy was a medieval expression for when a medieval Lord called his vassals to war. The fact that levy, today, is often used in the sense of "tax" comes from the fact that when vassals got lazy in the late Middle Ages, they started paying money to their lords to get out of having to fight, and this turned into a regular taxation system. So you can essentially thank cowardly medieval vassals for your high taxes today ;-)