More than once, Reuben was tempted to just pick Ayla up and carry her the rest of the way. Every time she winced as she took a step forward with her wounded feet, the impulse grew stronger. However, he knew she wouldn't have wanted that, and for some strange reason, he didn't consider what he himself wanted most important where she was concerned.
With a little of his help, rendered so gently that she probably didn't even notice, Ayla managed the way down the courtyard and through the inner gate. When they passed under the archway, he heard her whisper, “Don't let go of my hand, please? I'll have to see them again soon, and I need you.”
He knew right away what she was talking about, and his heart ached for her. She should never have had to see any of the horror the enemy had flung over the castle walls.
Some part of him was seriously considering implementing the plan he had outlined to Ayla only in jest. If he could kill all her enemies himself, that would be immensely satisfying. Not quite as satisfying as some other things he could think of doing in regard to her, but still immensely so.
“They are just dead pieces of meat and bone,” he tried to comfort her. “There's nothing terrible about them.”
In the darkness under the arch, he couldn't see her face, but her voice quivered slightly as she answered, “I try to tell myself the same. But then I look into their eyes, and I know differently.”
Yes, killing all her enemies himself would definitely feel great.
The gates to the outer courtyard swung open, and a flood of utter confusion hit them with the force of seven thunderstorms. Heads—rotting, split in half, grinning ghastly at everyone around—were littered around the courtyard. People were milling around everywhere, the women wailing and crying, the men shouting senseless orders nobody paid attention to. There were even, Reuben saw, one or two children staring with empty eyes at the horrible, empty eye-sockets of one of the skulls.
Reuben thought that Ayla would start crying. That she would run back into the inner fortress and try to hide. He felt her body stiffen and anticipated having to support her if she collapsed.
Only then did he notice that her eyes were not fixed on the grizzly heads scattered over the courtyard, but on the children.
“You there!”
Suddenly, Reuben found himself standing alone under the archway. Ayla seemed to have forgotten that her feet were covered with painful cuts. She was striding, as determined as a soldier on the march, towards the young boy and the girl, and with a swift movement, engulfed them in the loose folds of her dress, covering their eyes.
“You people!” she called to several villagers standing nearby, yammering. “Have you lost your senses?”
The yammering stopped abruptly. Everyone turned to stare at their liege lady dumbfounded, like they had not expected to see her in the world of life again. One middle-aged woman raised a shivering hand, pointing out over the outer wall, towards the origin of the strange, unearthly wailing that was still wafting over the castle.
“It is the dead, Milady!” Her twitching hand wandered to the severed heads of the Luntberg soldiers all around the courtyard. “The spirits of the dead are angry with us! They have come to take us all to Hell!”
“I might very well take you to Hell myself if you don't get these children out of here immediately,” Ayla hissed, thrusting the two youngsters into the woman's arms. “And, while you are at it, rid yourself of your foolish superstitions. The souls of the dead are either in Heaven, Hell or purgatory, and they will stay there and not bother us. Now go!”
Apparently, Ayla was more intimidating than the spirits of the dead, since the woman hurriedly gathered up the children and made her way through the gate into the inner castle. Reuben watched with wonder as Ayla proceeded towards one of the guards, who had just ceased running around like a headless chicken and now stood straight, aiming to look as professional as possible as his mistress was bearing down on him.
“You there!”
“Yes, Milady?”
“Gather all the people you can find around here—not just guards, all able-bodied men and women. Have them tie cloths over their mouths and noses and remove the heads of your fallen comrades from the courtyard and the walls. Do not touch them with your hands, they may already be befallen by some evil infestation. Use tools to carry them, but treat them respectfully. Bring them to some secluded spot in the castle, well away from any food, water, or living quarters, and have it guarded at all times so no one comes too close.”
“Yes, Milady.” The guard bowed more deeply than he probably ever had before and then hesitantly asked, “What are we to do with them in the end?”
Ayla hesitated for a moment, too. Reuben wondered if now she was going to collapse, when she said, “I will come and take care of the matter myself. For now, just collect and guard them.”
Another swift, relieved bow followed immediately. “As you command, Milady!” He hurried off, and Ayla remained alone in the middle of a widening circle of people, who were calming down, finding things to do, or simply going away. Some bowed into her direction now and again, and all looked awed.
Reuben judged the moment right and stepped up to stand beside Ayla.
“And does Milady have a command for me, too?” he asked, only half in jest.
“Yes,” Ayla whispered. “Hold me.”
Reuben's fingers found hers just as a guard came out of a tower down at the outer wall. Spotting them, he started towards them.
“Milady,” he called as he approached. “Milady, you're wanted on the wall!”
“Shall we go?” Reuben asked and was surprised to hear gentleness in his own voice. What the hell was happening to him?
“Yes.” Ayla nodded, and hand in hand, they made their way towards the wall and the unearthly sounds that were drifting over the castle from somewhere out there in the darkness.
*~*~**~*~*
Isenbard awaited them atop the wall. His worried face brightened a little as he saw Ayla. Guilt swept over her. She felt more than a little stupid now for acting so irrationally when the first of the heads had struck. She had probably caused him no end of worry.
“Milady.” Isenbard examined her with sharp eyes. “Have you recovered?”
“My feet are a little sore, but apart from that, I'm fine,” she answered with a weak smile.
“Are you, now?” Isenbard's eyes moved away from her face for a moment, landing on her and Reuben's entwined hands. Ayla felt blood rise to her cheek but didn't let go of Reuben's hand. She needed him too much right now.
“All right then,” grumbled Isenbard. “Come along. I've got to show you something.”
They followed him, stepping up closer to the crenels. As soon as they did, the eerie howling grew louder in Ayla’s ears. Metallic clanks and strange noises were mixed in with the ghostly wail.
“What's that?” Ayla asked, not entirely managing to keep her voice steady.
“That's what I have to show you.” Isenbard threw a look at Reuben. “Though I figure your friend here already knows.”
Surprised, Ayla looked up at Reuben, just in time to see him nod non-committaly.
“You know?”
“Probably.” He shrugged. “But let's have a look first. I want to be sure.”
Ayla stepped to one of the slits between two crenels and looked down into the valley. Far, far beneath her, down on the ground, she saw one of the strangest sights that had ever met her eyes.
The enemy camp appeared to have vanished. Where, previously, dozens of campfires had illuminated the night, there now only was a large plain of blackness. Closer to the castle, halfway up the hill, however, there was something which made the disappearance of the entire enemy army seem rather insignificant:
A train of ghostly, white figures was marching, no, rather floating around the hill. Their entire forms were covered in loose, pale garments that fluttered in the cold night wind and gleamed in the light of the torches they all were carrying. None of them bore a single weapon, nor anything else apart from the torches.
This made the noises which drifted up to castle even more eerie than they would ordinarily have been. Unearthly howls and screeches were accompanied by metallic clangs and noises the origin of which Ayla could not, for the life of her, determine. As she watched, Reuben and Isenbard on either side of her, the figures in white continued their march around the castle, not even seeming aware of the people watching from the castle wall, apparently gripped by some demonic trance.
“Who…” Ayla whetted her dry lips and rephrased the question. “What are they?”
“Enemy soldiers,” Reuben replied, off-hand.
Ayla stared up at him. Was he being serious?
“But…” She gestured down towards the white figures. “They don't look anything like soldiers. They don't have chain mail, helmets, or even weapons. They don't even look like normal people!”
Reuben shrugged. “It's not that hard to find white cloaks and hoods. Just ask the Cistercians.”
“You mean those are enemy soldiers, dressed up?” Ayla could hardly believe it. It was hard to associate the weird, ethereal, white figures down there in the valley with the rough mercenaries that made up the Margrave's army.
“They are.”
“But those noises…” Ayla shook her head, not quite ready to believe it. “This otherworldly clanking and screeching…”
“Probably cooking pots and other metal objects they have concealed under their cloaks, where they rub and bang them together,” was Reuben's reply. He didn't seem very distressed about the whole thing. As if a column of white creatures—that to Ayla at least still seemed not entirely human—marching around her castle was something perfectly normal.
“And the camp?” Ayla gestured towards the black nothingness. “Where has their camp gone?”
“It's still there. They have just put out the fires for tonight.”
“Why,” inquired Ayla incredulously, “should the enemy army put out their campfires, discard their weapons, and march around my castle dressed in white cloaks, wailing like tortured demons from hell?”
Reuben looked at her, and Ayla didn't need to hear the answer. The moment she had finished the question, she remembered what he had told her earlier.
“They do it,” she whispered, looking up at Reuben with wide eyes, “to strike fear into the hearts of their enemies.”
He smiled at her, and for once, his smile was neither devilish nor cunning—it was full of pride. “Just so.”
“Well, they won't have any luck with that,” Ayla said determinedly. “Flying heads—all right, that is scary. But a bunch of people dressed up in funny white cloaks, wailing all night… Nobody will be afraid of that once they hear the explanation, will they?”
When nobody answered, Ayla looked from Isenbard to Reuben and back again. Neither of the knights were paying attention to the enemies outside, but looking into the courtyard where a crowd of anxious villagers had gathered once again, whispering and pointing to the sky from where the wailing appeared to come.
“They won’t, will they?” Ayla repeated desperately. “Reuben? Isenbard?”