A terrible and strange sight met their eyes. Dozens of dead bodies littered the ground: bloody, mangled, their faces contorted into masks of terror frozen in death. What was strange, however, was not the enormity of the carnage, but the fact that of all the men lying in the clearing, only one did not bear the crest of the Falkensteins: a black-haired man in bloody linen clothes, lying on his face, with three arrows jutting out of his back. He lay at the center of a circle of enemy soldiers surrounding him.

Ayla tried to swallow but could not. Her eyes wandered over the dozens of Falkenstein's soldiers that lay slain. A grizzly sight, yes, but also one that gave her a strange, fierce kind of hope.

It can be done! The thought shot through her head. He is not invincible!

“Where... where are all the men who did this?” she asked out loud. She tried to keep her voice steady, yet didn't quite manage it. Somehow, she felt queasy. What was wrong with her? Had she eaten something bad this morning? It couldn't be because of this, could it? These were her enemies!

She tried to avert her eyes from the slaughter but could not. “It had to have been a considerable force. Where could they have gone?”

“They probably fled,” Burchard grunted.

Ayla threw him a sideways glance and was surprised to see that his face had turned pale. Did she, too, look like that?

“Except for this poor fellow.” The steward pointed towards the fallen man with the arrows in his back.

The fallen man whose fingers twitched just at that moment.

Ayla gasped and started to run forward, jumping over dead bodies and bloody blades.

“Milady!” she heard Burchard shout behind her. Ignoring him, she rushed to the man on the ground and knelt by his side.

“Milady, what is it?” demanded the old steward, appearing beside her.

“He moved, Burchard! I swear! I think he isn't dead. Help me turn him over.”

“Milady, I don't think...”

“Help me turn him over!”

Sighing, Burchard did as she asked. Together, they gripped the man's shoulder and pulled. Ayla could feel his hard muscles under her slender fingers. However, her attention was more focused on another thing her fingers felt: copious amounts of half-dried blood. How could the man still be alive? It was unbelievable. Aided by Burchard, she pulled and pulled. The man was heavier than he looked.

“We aren't going to manage it, Milady,” Burchard said. “Maybe the arrows pinned him to the ground or something.” He raised his arm and wiped the sweat from his face.

Ayla tugged once more—and suddenly, the man rolled onto his side, his head lolling from left to right. She gasped.

“What is it?” In a second, Burchard's arm was away from his face and he was staring down at the stranger. Then he turned to Ayla, a frown on his face. “What's the matter? He looks perfectly normal. He hasn't even got a scratch on his face.”

True, Ayla had to admit. Only the reason for her surprise had nothing whatsoever to do with the young stranger lying before her having some grizzly injury across his face. She was not, however, about to divulge the true reason for her surprised gasp to Burchard—namely that with his long midnight-black hair, prominent chin, and high cheekbones, the young man was without doubt the most handsome man she had ever seen in her life. No, she definitely didn't feel like explaining this to Burchard.

Deprecatingly, she waved a hand, unable to form a coherent sentence.

The only thing that could be said to mar the young man's truly perfect face was a curved scar, like a scimitar, on the left side of his forehead. However, this only served to give him a dangerous look which increased the allure of his features.

With some difficulty, Ayla looked away from the stranger's face and pressed her ear against his chest.

Try to ignore that it is sticky with blood, she told herself. Get a grip! You have a head on your shoulders, so use it!

“He's still breathing,” she announced with obvious relief in her voice. “He is alive, but barely.” Straightening, she demanded: “We must get him to the castle, right now.”

“What, just the two of us?” Burchard raised a bushy eyebrow. “Forgive me, Milady, but how are we going to accomplish that? The fellow is pretty big.”

It was true. The young man was tall, probably six foot seven inches.

Ayla smiled. “Ah, but we are not alone.” Turning to the brush, she called: “Come out! I know you're hiding out there somewhere! We need you out here.”

A few moments elapsed. Nothing happened.

“The Margrave's men are long gone, by the way,” she added.

With rather sheepish expressions on their faces, six castle guards emerged from the underbrush.

“We're going to make a stretcher. You and you,” she ordered, pointing to two of them, “go find two solid and straight branches for me in the forest.”

They ran off hurriedly, obviously eager to prove their loyalty, as long as it involved hacking at trees rather than well-trained soldiers. Ayla supposed she couldn't blame them. There hadn't been a conflict in this part of the Empire for decades. Her father's guards were more accustomed to taking a nap beside the gate than to fighting. Still, that didn't mean she would condone such lax behavior in the future.

Quickly, she went searching among the fallen enemy soldiers for a piece of cloth that would suit her purpose. All she found in the end was a banner bearing the escutcheon of the house of Falkenstein. Smiling at the irony, she returned with it to the injured young man, just as the two soldiers approached with one suitable branch each.

“Tie this banner around each of the branches,” she ordered. “Then you lift him on the litter and be careful to put him on his side so the arrows won't be twisted or broken. Each of you takes one end of the litter. The others scout ahead to make sure there aren't any surprises waiting for us on the way back to the castle. Report back to me immediately if you see something out of the ordinary.”

The men obeyed her without question. Once the wounded stranger was lying on the makeshift litter, they lifted him up and made their way quickly and quietly back up the path towards the bridge, and away from the terrible field of death behind them.

Ayla stayed by the young man's side, not knowing entirely why. Just before they went around a bend in the path and the bloody clearing went out of sight, Ayla looked back with an odd kind of longing.

Burchard, who marched right beside her like a protective bear father beside his cub, noticed her look back and asked her what was wrong.

“I just wish I knew who managed to fell that many of the Margrave's men.”

“Do you?”

“Of course! Such people would be valuable allies indeed in our current predicament. Don't you?”

Burchard grunted. “Not particularly, no.”

“Why not?” she asked.

“Because, as strange as it may sound, there are more powerful, evil, and dangerous things walking this land than the Margrave von Falkenstein. Didn't you see what was done to the men back there?”

Ayla took a long, steadying breath so that she could answer in a more or less calm voice: “Not in any great detail, no. I must confess that I didn't look that closely.”

Burchard's face grew even grimmer than usual, if that was possible. “I'm glad you didn't. They were... mutilated. In a very vicious, but precise and deadly way. Some were stabbed through the heart, others had their sword-arms or heads missing.”

Ayla smiled wryly. “Is that so unusual in war?”

Burchard remained deadly serious. “Not technically, no. But only when none of the warriors are wearing heavy armor. A blow so powerful as to pierce chain mail, sever the bone and flesh behind it and the second layer of chain mail at the back of the body...” The old steward shuddered. “It is not... usual.”

“What exactly do you mean by that?”

“It is not... human.”

Ayla frowned. “Burchard, I may not have looked closely, but I looked closely enough. The wounds on the soldiers back in the clearing—those were sword wounds. Wild animals don't wield swords, only humans do.”

“Yes, I know.”

“And you say no man could have inflicted those wounds?”

Burchard snorted. “Well, he could have. If he was half-crazy and didn't mind that his arm would be burning with pain like the very pits of hell after the second stroke. How can I explain it...? It would be like hitting a stone wall with your bare hand. You could do it again, and again, and again—if you didn't mind beating your own hand into a bloody pulp in the process.”

Ayla gulped.

“So you see, anybody who did this,” Burchard said, jamming his thumb over his shoulder, “would have to have been as wild with bloodlust as one of the Berserkers of the Norsemen—more unholy beast than man. And yet, the blows were not wild and random, as many blows struck in the rage of battle, but placed as precisely and coldly as the strokes of a butcher's knife dismembering a carcass that was already dead and helpless before him. So no, Lady Ayla. Whoever did this—I would not want them as an ally.”

The Lady of Luntberg Castle nodded slowly. “I understand. I'm glad that he at least,” she pointed to the young man on the stretcher, “escaped the worst.”

“Aye,” Burchard said with another frown. “I'd like to know why both sides spared him, though.”

“Spared him? He has three arrows in his back!”

“He's still breathing, isn't he?”

Ayla threw him a look. “You have an odd conception of mercy. Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

“I'll do that.”

“And now go and check on the guards that are scouting.”

“Why?”

“Because I wasn't exactly impressed with their performance earlier. And because I'm the Lady of the castle and you have to do what I say.”

Burchard's suspicious gaze wandered between her and the young man on the stretcher. “I don't know. I don't like leaving you alone with that fellow. We know nothing about him, after all.”

Ayla rolled her eyes. “We know that he's in pretty bad shape. My virtue is in no immediate danger. Now go, before I have to start yelling at you.”

“Yes, Milady!”

Ayla waited till Burchard was out of sight, then moved slightly closer to the young man on the stretcher and allowed herself a long look at his face. Just checking, she told herself, just checking if he was worse. That was all. Carefully, she reached out and brushed a lock of his midnight-black hair out of his face. The scar on his forehead shone prominently, glinting with sweat. He looked so innocent and vulnerable, lying there. Ayla wondered what his name was. She also wondered what color his eyes were. They were surely beautiful.

And then, suddenly, as if her wish had been heard, his eyelids fluttered open and a pair of intense gray eyes stared up at her. She held her breath. She couldn't have imagined that he could exude even more attraction—but that was before she had seen his eyes. They were brilliant, fiery, and of a gray as strong as the storm-clouds of an approaching autumn gale.

The young man raised his head a bit and his lips moved. Ayla realized that he was trying to speak. Eager to hear what he wanted to say to her, she bent closer.

The voice coming out of the young man's mouth was raspy. In a barely audible whisper, he said: “Oh God! Not you again!”

Then his eyes closed, and his head slumped back onto the stretcher.

*~*~**~*~*

The man in Italian armor was standing in his tent, holding up a map of Luntberg, when one of his subordinates hurried in and fell to one knee.

“Rise,” the man said, lazily.

The soldier did as commanded.

“I suppose you've come to tell me that the patrol is back?”

The soldier swallowed. “Not... as such, Sir.”

“Really?”

The man looked up from his map for the first time, a thin black eyebrow raised. “What then?”

“Only Conrad and a few others have returned, Sir.”

“And the rest?”

Again, the soldier swallowed. Now came the hardest part. “Dead, Sir.”

The eyebrow came down again. “You don't say.”

A shiver ran down the soldier’s back. He had expected anger, screams, even a beating. He had forgotten who he was talking to. Anger he could have accepted, but this... It was obvious that the man didn’t care how many of his men died, as long as there were still enough left over to accomplish the task at hand. And that, to a soldier, was much more frightening than anger.

“Conrad would like to speak to you, Sir. To give his report.”

“That can wait.” The commander waved his soldier off. “I am planning our approach. Tell him to come to me at sundown.”

“Yes, Sir. Conrad also said to give you this.” The soldier gave a sign, and two others who had apparently been waiting right outside the tent came in, carrying a heavy burden in flaming red. “A gift for you. They procured it whilst scouting ahead.”

“My, my.”

Now the commander put his map aside. For the first time, he looked interested. “What a fine piece of armor. And an interesting coloring.”

“Yes, Sir.”

A long finger stroked a bloodstain on the metal. “Procured with difficulty, I see?”

“You will have to ask Conrad that, Sir.”

“Yes, of course. It really is of no importance.”

“A horse comes with the armor, Sir.”

“Of similar quality?”

“Better, I'd say, Sir, if that's possible.”

“Excellent! Have the armor brought to the smith for a thorough check and repairs, will you? And then have it packed on my new horse.”

“Yessir!”