Once more, the enemy's horn sounded. Then there came the defenders' horn, echoing the other one, sounding the alarm. Ayla's hand, only inches away from Reuben's face, suddenly froze—as did her heart. Frantically, she looked over at Isenbard. But time had run out. The enemy was coming, and Isenbard lay just as motionless as he had yesterday or the day before. There was nobody to help her.

She felt a strong hand grip her own and looked down to see Reuben grasping her fingers. All his weariness seemed to have vanished, and there was a fire smoldering in his gray eyes. It made a shiver run down her back.

“Help me up,” he rasped.

“What? Reuben, have you totally lost your mind?”

“Help me up! I need to get down there!”

“I think you have that slightly confused. I need to get down there. You need to stay here.”

She tugged her hand from his and it went easily, his momentary strength vanishing as he broke into a sweat and tremors shook his body.

“Stay where you are,” she yelled, jumping up and running to the door. “Don't you dare follow me down there, Reuben, or I'll swear I'll put you into the stocks for a day!”

For some insane reason, that made him laugh. “Oh please!” he gasped. “Can't you think up a worse punishment? You're not at your best today.”

“I'll think of something if you don't stay here, I promise you!”

“I couldn't get down there anyway,” he spit out between clenched teeth, all humor suddenly disappearing from his face again. “I... don't have the strength.”

“Good!” She threw open the door. Just as she was about to hurry out, she heard her name called behind her.

“Ayla!”

One final time, she turned and looked at Reuben. The intensity of his gaze nearly took her breath away.

“Survive,” he whispered.

She nodded, mutely. Then she dashed down the corridor, down the stairs, and out into the courtyard as quickly as her long dress would allow. Thanking God she’d had the foresight to order a horse to be ready and waiting for her at all times, she swung herself onto the animal's back and spurred it on.

Arriving at the bridge only two minutes later on a totally exhausted horse, she was aghast to find only two guards atop the barricade. Two! She had ordered twenty to be there at all times, and when an actual attack came, even more were supposed to rush to the defense! And now there were only two, and these two weren't even looking in the right direction. They were staring off to the side, totally oblivious to whatever enemy was crossing the bridge.

Quickly sliding off her horse, she climbed the barricade and grabbed the arm of one of the soldiers. “What's the matter with you, man? The enemy is ther—”

The words stuck in her throat.

From atop the barricade, she could see what had previously been out of her field of vision. She could see the meadow across the river, she could see the forest beyond, and she could see the bridge. There were no mercenaries on it. Not a single one.

“What's the matter with you?” she asked the soldier, breathless. “What possessed you to sound the alarm? There's nobody here!”

Wordlessly, the man raised an arm, pointing in the direction he had been staring the whole time, off towards the left, to the river. Annoyed, Ayla turned her head. What could possibly be on the river that could be of any interest?

And then she saw them. The sight hit her in the stomach like a fist of iron.

Boats. Dozens of rough, small, wooden rowing boats. Some of them had the marks of axes and bits of bark still on them. All of them carried soldiers, moving determinedly across the river, using rough wooden paddles. They weren't going very fast, but the river wasn't very broad, either. They would be across soon. And there were many. Too many.

Behind them, clearly visible on a small hill overlooking the river, the red robber knight sat on his stallion and watched the proceedings calmly. The deadly aura radiating off him was almost palpable.

“Shoot them,” Ayla yelled, pointing to the soldiers on the river. Was it only her imagination or did her voice sound slightly higher than usual? “Shoot them all! Now!”

Before all the words were out of her mouth, she spotted Waldar on the bank of the river beside a company of archers, his arm raised. Suddenly, the fat man didn't seem quite so silly to Ayla anymore. He had already given the orders. Now, his arm came down, and the arrows took flight.

The soldiers in the boats, however, had apparently just waited for this. Quickly, they discarded their paddles in favor of wooden shields, holding them up over their heads as the hail of arrows came down upon them. The arrows stuck in the shields or even bounced off harmlessly. Laughter erupted from the boats, and Ayla's eyes widened in shock.

Nothing! Their counter-attack had had no effect whatsoever. Her eyes darted towards the red robber knight. He still sat on his horse which hadn't moved an inch. He didn't need to shout commands or run about. He was master of the battlefield. Slowly, he raised his arm in her direction and held up his hand in the most threatening greeting she had ever seen.

Near tears, Ayla wrung her hands in desperation. What was she supposed to do now? Was there another way of counter-attack? Anything else her soldiers could do?

As if in answer to her silent question, Sir Waldar turned and saw her standing on the barricade. For once, he was not laughing or making jokes. Fixing her with his eyes, he shook his head.

That was it. He didn't know how to repel the soldiers. And Ayla? She had no idea. There were at least a hundred of them in the boats. Once they were across, there would be no stopping them. They had already covered a quarter of the way. Regardless of how many arrows Ayla's men fired, they would only distract their enemies, not destroy them. Soon they would come ashore, and then it would be over.

Ha! Bitter self-disgust shot through Ayla. She had played at being a leader for these last couple of days, but that was all it had been—a play. When things got dirty and bloody, she had no clue what to do. How could she? No one had ever prepared her for something like this. She was no commander.

Unlike the red robber knight.

There was only one person who could help her now. Only one person who could possibly know what to do.

Suddenly decided, she slid down the ladder and ran to her horse. The poor animal could hardly stand, but she swung herself into the saddle regardless. If she didn't do this, they would all suffer the consequences. She, her people, even the poor animal panting underneath her as she drove it on towards the castle.

For that matter, they might still suffer—if God in his mercy didn't work a miracle today for the man she needed.

Please let Isenbard be awake, she prayed. Please let him be awake!

*~*~**~*~*

By the time Ayla arrived at the keep, her horse was half dead. It tore at her heart to have to hurt a faithful animal so, but she couldn't spare any thoughts on it now.

Jumping from the horse, she raced up the stairs to the front door and didn't slow down inside, making her way up the inner stairs and down the corridor in record time.

Exhausted as she was, she almost fell against the door and into the room. Next to Isenbard's bedstead, she collapsed onto her knees and began to shake the old knight by the arm.

“Wake up!” she shouted. “Wake up, we need you! Please!”

Isenbard's head rolled from side to side from her shaking. Other than that, nothing happened. He didn't reply, didn't even open his eyes. His unnatural sleep was as deep as ever.

“On your feet, Sir Knight!” She tried to keep back the sobs that were threatening to break through, tried to make her voice sound commanding. “We need you now! Please, wake up at least. I don't know what to do...”

No response. Isenbard's lined features didn't twitch. It was as if she hadn't spoken.

“Please, Uncle, I beg you.” There was no holding back the sobs; they forced their way out into the open. This was the end. If Isenbard didn't wake now, he would never wake again. It would be endless darkness for him, for her, for everybody.

Again, she shook him, although she knew it was to no avail. He wouldn't wake. The enemy had as good as won.

“Ayla, what is the matter? He's sick! You can't wake him and you shouldn't even try, you told me so yourself.”

For a moment, Ayla didn't recognize the voice coming from behind her. Then a set of warm, muscular arms enfolded her and she remembered. Oh yes. Reuben. Reuben was here.

“Shh,” he said, gently pulling her away from Isenbard. Ayla was so distraught, she didn't even think to ask herself how he could move in his still weakened state. “Don't try to wake him. Don't.”

“But I have to,” Ayla wailed. “He's the only one. The only one who might be able to help me.”

“Help you how? Ayla, he can't help anyone just now. What's the matter? Tell me!”

It made absolutely no sense, wasting time like this, telling a sick merchant who couldn't even stand straight of their approaching doom, with the enemy probably halfway across the river by now. But somehow the entire story tumbled out of her mouth.

“...and when they've crossed they're going to kill everyone, except me. Me they will take and bring to Falkenstein and he... he...”

Ayla found she didn't have the strength to continue. Reuben had held her in his arms the whole time she had spoken. She was really glad for it, feeling safe there, warm and protected. Of course, it was only an illusion. Nobody was safe anymore. But it was a nice illusion to indulge in. Just a few minutes more before the soldiers came and dragged her off into captivity...

“They are crossing the river on wooden boats?” Reuben's voice was toneless.

“Yes.”

“Do you have lard?” he asked.

“What?” Ayla sobbed.

Reuben let go of her, and Ayla wanted to shout in protest. No! Please no. She wanted to be in his arms for a few more minutes before the end. But then he turned her around and every other thought in Ayla's mind was eradicated by the look on his face.

“Do—you—have—lard?” he asked, enunciating each word, his voice flaming with fiery fury. “You know lard? The stuff that makes pigs' bottoms fat?”

“Reuben, what has that got to do with anyth—?”

“Answer me!” he bellowed, and she shrank back, her tears halting from the sheer shock of seeing him like this.

“I... I think so,” she stuttered. “The peasants in the village... They must have some, I think.”

“Good. Now listen to me, My Lady of Luntberg. Return to the battlefield. Make them bring you lard. As much lard as they have. Wrap your arrows in rags, cover them with lard and set them on fire. Then shoot them at the boats of the enemy. Do you understand?”

She stared into his gray eyes, which burned so intensely that it almost seemed they alone could burn the approaching boats of doom down for her. He seemed certainly willing to try, no matter how insane his idea. Lard was used for baking, mostly, and in some medicinal salves. Yes, it burned well, and poor people used it in their lamps, but still...

“Reuben,” she said, her voice choked, “I appreciate that you're trying to help, but...”

“Do you understand?”

Again she shrank back from his violent roar. She almost wanted to do as he asked just to keep him from yelling at her again.

But she couldn't. She couldn't give into hope. Not now that she had already abandoned herself. She was too weak to continue fighting, so she just shook her head and let it sink to her chest in defeat.

A finger appeared in her field of vision, coaxing her chin up. Surprised by the gentle touch, when a moment ago the owner of the hand had been shouting at her with enough ferocity to bring the castle down, she looked up into his dear, devilish face.

“Ayla, do you trust me?”

And amazingly, stupidly, she nodded. Because she really did trust him, trusted him more than anybody else in her life.

“Then go,” he whispered. “Please?”

She knelt there for one moment more, then sprang up and rushed to the door. As she ran down the corridor, her tears began to flow again. If she died today, it would not be in his arms.