Ayla rode as if the devil were at her heels. Halfway to the bridge she met Burchard, who was running the other way.

When he caught sight of her, he skidded to a halt and his mustache bristled. “What are you doing here?” he yelled at her.

“Riding!” she yelled back, without stopping.

“Get the hell back to the castle! You're not...”

The rest Ayla didn't hear. It was drowned out by the thunderous pounding of her horse's hoofs. Her ride was no Eleanor, but he was quick enough. After only a few minutes, she had reached her goal and slid off the horse's back to storm towards the bridge, waving with her arms to attract the men's attention. To say that Isenbard didn't look pleased to see her would have been the understatement of the century.

“Back!” he growled, pointing to the castle.

“No.” She shook her head. “I came to warn you. There are riders approaching.”

“Already?” Isenbard didn't curse. He was a true knight and never a foul word came over his lips. But the expression on his hard face spoke volumes. “I had hoped for them to take at least another day!”

“I saw them from the castle and came to warn you.”

“I should have stationed a lookout there,” he mumbled to himself. Then he pointed at the castle again. “Well, now you've warned us, you can go back.”

“No.”

“This is no place for a girl, Ayla. And I need you to go back to alert my men at the castle. We need them down here as quickly as possible.”

She met his eyes without flinching. Behind her, a horn sounded. “I have already alerted your men. They are marching here as we speak. I have also posted a lookout on the highest tower of the castle. And where do you think my place would be, Sir Isenbard, if not here with my people?”

He held her gaze for a second or two—then he nodded. “Stay behind the barricade. Don't alert the enemy to your presence.”

She just nodded, knowing that it was useless to argue further. He was probably only letting her stay because he had no time to drag her back to the castle himself, and none of the villagers would dare manhandle her, even with an enraged Sir Isenbard glaring at them.

Anxiously, she looked toward the castle, watching out for Sir Isenbard's men. The enemy riders hadn't been very numerous, but still, would twenty warriors be enough to repel them? Without the barricade finished?

“Were they knights?”

Startled, she looked around. Isenbard was standing there like a pillar of stone, staring in the same direction as she did.

“Who?”

“The riders. Were they knights?”

“I... I don't know. I'm afraid I don't know very much about warriors. But they must have been. Who, other than a knight, would dare ride into battle on a horse? Only knights are allowed to do that, aren't they?”

“Did they have crests? Banners?”

“I saw none.”

He grunted, as if this confirmed a suspicion. “Mercenary cavalry, probably.”

Ayla was aghast. “You mean the Margrave has common killers in his service that ride into battle armored as knights?”

Isenbard nodded grimly. “Killers, yes. Whether they be common I cannot say. I have not crossed blades with them yet.”

From beyond the river, Ayla could hear cries and the thumping of hoofs. Quickly, she ran towards the half-finished barricade and peered around it.

“Back!” Roughly, Isenbard grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her away. “Didn't you hear what I said? You stay behind the barricade!”

But it was too late. Ayla had already seen the riders flooding from the forest onto the meadow.

“Those are at least a hundred!” she gasped.

“About fifty, I would estimate,” Isenbard corrected her.

“We'll be crushed—even if your men get here in time!”

“We'll see. And what do you mean if? They are already here.”

Startled, Ayla turned. And indeed, she had been so intent on watching the riders, that she hadn't noticed the small host that was now marching down the path from the mountain towards them. At first Ayla thought it would take them ages to get there, but they were almost as quick as she had been on horseback.

“You can go,” Isenbard told the villagers who had been helping to build the barricade. They had been standing around, uncertain what to do, throwing fearful glances at the approaching riders. “This is a matter for soldiers.”

The relief on their faces was evident. They ran, evading the small force that was marching the other way, shouting encouragement to the hard-faced men in armor.

The warriors reached the bridge and looked to Isenbard.

At a silent hand gesture from the old knight, five of them took up positions blocking the narrow bridge. The rest arrayed themselves in a line on the meadow behind them. Then they stood and waited.

And waited.

While the riders advanced.

“What's the matter?” Ayla hissed. “Why aren't they doing anything?”

“Like what?” asked Isenbard, not taking his eyes off the approaching enemy cavalry.

“Attacking those riders, for instance!”

“The bridge is the best defensive position. Wait and see. And remember.”

The mercenary cavalry gathered speed. They were only a few hundred feet away now. The riders lowered their lances to the height of a man's chest. Ayla could see their grips tighten, their spurs pressing into the sides of their stallions. The thunder of the hoofs grew louder and louder.

“And what are those men behind them doing?” she demanded. “Those on the meadow? Tell them to join the others! Never can five men hold the bridge against such an assault!”

Isenbard didn't reply.

“Uncle? Did you hear what I said?”

Isenbard raised his arm.

“Ready your bows!” he shouted, and his voice sounded even over the thundering hoofs.

As if one man, the fifteen on the meadow threw their cloaks back, revealing long bows and quivers.

“Nock!”

The men put arrows to their strings and placed the bows against the ground for leverage.

“Mark.”

The bows shifted slightly.

“Draw!”

Isenbard's voice was hard as stone, and just as unemotional. Fifteen bowstrings were drawn back at his command. Ayla's heart hammered as her gaze went back and forth between Isenbard's men and the mercenaries—the mercenaries whose eyes widened at the sight of the weapons aimed at them.

“Hold...” Isenbard growled. “Hold... Hold...”

The riders gathered even more speed. Blood gushed from the sides of their horses as they drove their spurs into the flesh in a desperate rush to close the distance.

“Loose!”

Like a dozen angry hawks, the arrows took flight, splitting the air before them and heading straight for their targets. Quickly, Ayla ducked and closed her eyes. But she could still hear the anguished cry of the first horse and the thump as it stumbled and fell, smashing its rider into a bloody pulp. More cries erupted from all around her as other arrows found their mark.

“Nock! Mark! Draw, and... loose!”

A second volley erupted into the air with the swish of sudden death.

“Nock, mark, draw! Loose!”

And a third.

“Nock, mark, draw! Loose!”

And a fourth. And fifth, and sixth, and seventh.

All of it took not much more than a minute. Yet, for Ayla, it seemed like hours as she cowered behind the barricade, listening to the sounds of men dying—dying for her.

No, not for me, she reminded herself. For all our freedom.

That didn't make her feel much better, though.

What am I doing? I came here to be there for my people and now all I'm doing is cowering behind a barricade. I have to face the enemy.

Finally, she gathered all her courage, stood up, and turned to look past the barricade—just in time to see the last rider yank his horse around and gallop back towards the safety of the forest. The meadow was strewn with the bodies of men and horses. The lush grass which had formerly been green was now dyed red. Ayla felt bile rise up in her throat from the violent sight and quickly turned away.

After a few moments, she felt someone's eyes on her. Looking up, she saw Isenbard studying her intently. Defiantly, she raised her chin and met his gaze. “Yes? What is it?”

“You had the courage to watch, Milady. At the very end, you found it.”

To everybody else, it sounded like a simple statement. Ayla, however, knew that it was more—much more.

She nodded thankfully.

“You want to see. To be there,” Isenbard continued.

It wasn't a question.

“I have to,” she said.

“And there's nothing I can say to dissuade you?”

She shook her head, repeating: “I have to.”

Isenbard nodded to the soldiers who still hadn't moved. “None of them would think any worse of you if you didn't, and neither would the villagers.”

“I know that they wouldn't, Uncle, but... I would.”

The old knight nodded again. “I see. Then perhaps, next time, you will find the courage to give the order yourself.”

Ayla looked back at the field of death across the river. A shiver ran down her spine. “Perhaps,” she whispered.

*~*~**~*~*

One of Isenbard's men was sent into the village to fetch back the peasants and carpenters. Work on the barricade still wasn't finished and Isenbard seemed to be in a hurry.

“Why, though?” Ayla asked, looking at the slain enemies. Though the sight filled her with dread, it also filled her with a strange, fierce kind of hope. “You were perfectly able to handle their cavalry. Why not the foot soldiers, too?”

Isenbard looked at her with sad eyes. “Think, girl.”

Ayla stared at him. “I don't know what you mean, Uncle.”

“What did they come here for? What are they expecting?”

“Err... a siege, I presume.”

“And would you bring many riders to a siege?”

“I don't know. I'm no expert at tactics.”

“Can horses climb castle walls?”

“No, of course not!”

“Then let me ask you again, would you bring many riders to a siege?”

“Err... no?”

“Exactly. And yet they had fifty riders—a force double the size of mine. How large do you think their force of foot soldiers will be?”

There was silence. Ayla could almost taste her fear on her tongue. Isenbard looked uneasy. He probably would have put a comforting arm around her—but he’d had problems with gestures like that ever since she had grown into a young woman. His personal code of chivalry and respect for the honor of the fair sex forbade him to touch just about any spot on her, apart from her foot when helping her into a saddle.

“Come.” Isenbard nodded towards the castle. “You need to rest. And I need to report to your father.”

“But what about the bridge? Who will guard it?”

Isenbard looked back to his men. One stepped forward and bowed. “We will defend it to the last man,” the soldier said.

The old knight nodded, as if he had expected nothing less.

Then, to Ayla's utter surprise, the soldier turned and bowed to her. “I have never seen a lady leave her castle to be with her men in battle. I am honored to serve you, Milady. Your father must be proud of you.”

The sincerity of his voice was unmistakable. Ayla couldn't help smiling. “Thank you. Be careful. I wouldn't want anything to happen to you—any of you.”

“We will fight with all we have. God be with you, Milady.”

“And with you.”

Ayla and Isenbard shared one horse again on their way back to the castle. Halfway there, Ayla asked: “What about the barricade? Don't you need to be there to make sure the villagers do their job properly?”

“I have instructed them already. They can get by for an hour or so without me. I have to report to my liege lord.”

Ayla appreciated his need to keep the Count in the picture. The two had been childhood friends, Count Thomas always the stronger, the quicker, the more powerful one. Now he was lying up in his tower chamber, an invalid, watching powerless while his friend had to defend his lands and his only daughter.

With horror, she realized that her father had probably seen the entire battle from up there, had seen how she ran down towards the fight. The thought filled her with guilt, though she knew she wouldn't have acted differently even had she thought of it beforehand. It had been her duty. Her father would understand, even if he might not like it.

At least, if he had seen the battle, he would also see her riding back to safety, unharmed.

But the thought of what battles he might yet have to watch filled her with dread. Fifty men killed... and yet, according to Isenbard, they had hardly inflicted a scratch on the enemy. She shuddered.

“Uncle Ironbeard?” she asked.

“Yes, Milady?”

“Are we going to survive this?”

There was silence for a moment, apart from the pounding of hoofs.

“I don't know, Milady.”

Silence again—silence filled with fear.

“But I do know one thing,” he added.

“Yes?”

“We will not stop fighting until the end.”

Ayla felt a feeling flood her. It wasn't happiness. It wasn't even hope. No, it was... determination.

“No,” she said. “We won't.”

They rode in silence the rest of the way to the castle. Now though, the fear was gone. Having passed through both gates, Ayla jumped off the horse and ran up towards the keep. In front of the door she hesitated, remembering how she had run up the keep just about an hour ago. Remembering Reuben.

Pain shot through her chest, and for a moment she thought she knew how the mercenaries must have felt—she thought she knew how it must feel to have an arrow pierce your heart. Then she pushed those thoughts aside and wiped away a small tear that had escaped her. Reuben was long gone now. It was useless to think of him.

She pushed open the door and marched towards the staircase. Only when she was almost upon it, did she see the lifeless body lying at the foot of the stairs.

Her scream echoed all around the valley.