Reuben lay in his room staring at the stone ceiling, fury raging through his veins. While his mind had been slow before, dulled by fever, now it was almost painfully alert. He saw what must have happened with absolute clarity: after beating him into the dirt, the mercenaries must have taken the horses, his sword, and his armor and brought them to their master. And now that colverd piece of pig shit was riding his horse, wearing his armor, and swinging his sword in battle.

Reuben's blood boiled at the insult!

A tiny voice in the back of his mind reminded him that maybe he should be glad that this Sir Luca had stolen his armor. Now Ayla was unlikely to uncover his true identity. But the larger part of him shrank from such thoughts. It should be a good thing the enemy was carrying his sword, when at this very moment, that sword was probably being used to cut down one of Ayla's defenders after another?

Reuben could hear the rising sounds of battle from afar. They sounded strange. He had often heard the music of death played with instruments of iron, but never from far away. Always he had been in the midst of the action.

He yearned to be there now, to be up against the fiend who dared raise his own sword against Ayla's defenders; maybe, he realized, even against her.

Reuben tried to stop it, but couldn't. He imagined Ayla, slender as a lily, her sapphire eyes shining with unshod tears, shrinking back from the violent blade. The image was too much.

“Someone!” the red robber knight yelled. “Someone bring me a sword! And ready a horse for me!”

Then he realized that nobody would be listening. Everybody who wasn't fighting would be watching the fight from the castle walls, hoping against hope for a victory and praying for the safe return of their loved ones. And even if they heard him, why would they do as he asked? They would think he was raving from the fever. They would continue to pray.

Reuben didn't set much store in prayers. There were few things a good, sharp blade couldn't achieve more effectively.

“Satan's hairy ass!” he growled. “So I'll have do everything myself, as usual.”

Taking a deep breath, he braced himself against the bedstead and pushed with his arms to get into a sitting position.

Nothing happened.

His arms were too weak to raise him even an inch from the bed.

“Hellfire and damnation!” Reuben roared, fury at himself raging in every one of his veins. “Up! Up with you! You've eviscerated entire armies! You can get off this bed! You will!”

Outside, the noises of battle were getting louder. War cries and the rush of flying arrows accompanied Reuben's groan as he attempted to lift himself, or at least roll, off this accursed bed that was holding him prisoner. Sweat spilled down his forehead in a waterfall. His heart hammered at twice its normal pace. Again and again he attempted to rise—to no avail.

It was not the bed that was at fault. It was he himself. His own weakness was holding him prisoner.

No! He would not give up yet. He had to go down there and help!

One last time he pressed his big hands against the bed. His muscles bunched in an attempt to lift his torso. Reuben felt the fever burning through him in waves of heat, felt it burning the strength out of him. He had just managed to raise himself about an inch, when his fingers gave way and he slumped back onto the bed.

He lay there, panting, too weak to even utter the string of violent curses that flitted through his mind. There, in his mind, he painted a picture in tones of red. A picture that showed what he wanted to be doing at this very moment out on the battlefield.

Just mind games.

In the end, there was nothing for him to do but one thing: lie there on the bed and face the fact of his own impotence.

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

Lying there, listening to the sounds of battle and not knowing whether Ayla was out there, whether or not she was still alive, was the worst kind of torture. The only kind, for him.

Cursed as he was, he had not known pain for years. He had almost forgotten what it felt like, sometimes wishing he could feel it again just to interrupt the monotony.

He laughed a bitter laugh. How he now cursed this foolish wish. True pain, he realized, doesn't come from being branded with hot irons or stretched on the rack. True pain comes from seeing those you care about in danger.

He only wished that lesson didn't come at this high a price.

I vow to myself that I will beat this illness, he thought, fiercely. I cannot rise yet, but I will beat this accursed fever. I have triumphed over worse afflictions in my time. I will beat this one as I have beaten any other enemy that dared stand in my way, and then I will take up my sword and make this Sir Luca rue the day he presumed to don the armor of Sir Reuben Rachwild!

From outside, above the clamor of battle, he thought he heard the scream of a woman. The scream of a very familiar voice.

No. It couldn't be. She couldn't be... No, please no!

Reuben balled his fists and bellowed out his rage against the bare stone walls.

*~*~**~*~*

Desperately, Ayla stared at the empty space where just a moment ago her Uncle Ironbeard, her only pillar of strength, had stood. Now he was gone, and she was doomed. Tears began to cloud her sight.

Suddenly, like a piece of wood you push under water, Sir Isenbard resurfaced from the sea of writhing bodies. In total astonishment, Ayla stumbled back a few steps. The mercenary on the wall wasn't any less surprised. Isenbard drew back his iron fist and hit the fiend so hard in the chest that the man flew backwards over the top of the barricade and into the roiling mass of pikemen below. His scream was abruptly cut short as he was skewered on a dozen spears.

“Yes!” Ayla punched the air. “Yes! Yes!”

Only then did she realize that she was still holding the surgical knife in her hand and that a few soldiers, bearing several wounded comrades, had nearly reached her. They stayed back a few steps, eying the knife in her fist apprehensively.

“Oh, sorry.” Hurriedly, Ayla put the knife away and gestured to the tent. “Bring them in. We'll do what we can.”

After that, Ayla didn't catch much of the battle outside. The rest of the day for her was a confusing medley of broken bones, skulls bashed in, and screams of pain. The latter, luckily, weren't as bad as they could have been, due to an unexpected medical contribution from one of her vassals. Sir Waldar had only brought eight men with him, but they had carried enough wine for an entire army to drink itself into oblivion. Sir Isenbard, recognizing the strategic value of such supplies, had confiscated Waldar's entire store of alcohol and put it into the tent, at Ayla's disposal. Thus, most of the soldiers Ayla operated on were drunk as a lord before she used the knife and hardly noticed what was going on.

While she carefully removed the broken-off tip of a sword from a man's arm, she contemplated the expression. Drunk as a lord. It was silly, really. Her father was a lord, and he was never drunk. On the other hand, the castle guards seemed to like getting drunk, as did several of the villagers, and... Reuben. Yes, the expression was silly. Drunk as a very drunk man, that made a lot more sense than drunk as a lord.

Ayla knew that her own thoughts weren't making a great deal of sense at the moment. But thinking about castle guards, silly expressions, and Reuben helped her to keep her thoughts away from the blood on her hands, and from the work they had to do. Especially thoughts of Reuben. Oh, Reuben...

Why couldn't the man have been born a nobleman? Why couldn't he have been a knight or something, but had to be a merchant? Then things might be different. Then it might actually have been right for her to feel the way she was beginning to feel.

Having removed the bloody piece of steel, Ayla wrapped a cloth around the man's arm.

“Thank you, Milady.” He rose quickly and bowed. “Thank you so much.”

“Come to me again in a couple of days. I'll have to check if the wound is healing properly,” she ordered him.

He bowed again, deeply. Ayla could see something she hadn't seen in many soldiers' eyes before: respect. The man knew what such a small wound could do if it wasn't treated correctly.

She smiled at him. “You'll be all right. Now run along and send the next one in.”

The man left the tent. Ayla let herself fall back against one of the tent poles and breathed in deeply. She was exhausted. She had cut, stitched, and mended more this day than in the whole course of her life. But it wasn't over yet. Footsteps were approaching from outside the tent. She looked to the flap just as Dilli came in, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. She blushed as she saw Ayla watching her.

“Oh, Milady. I'm sorry, I just had to step out to err... get a breath of fresh air.”

“And vomit into the river?”

“Milady!”

“It's all right. I'm sure the river didn't mind. It'll have to carry off worse than the contents of your stomach before the battle is over.”

Dilli stared at her in astonishment. “Milady... don't you know?”

“Know what?”

Her friend came towards her, a smile spreading on her face. “The battle is won. The enemy has retreated!”

*~*~**~*~*

Rushing out of the tent, Ayla saw the truth of Dilli's words. The giant monster of the Margrave's army was retreating, the defenders still standing atop the barricade, sending volley after volley of arrows after their enemy. In their midst stood Isenbard, his helmet dented, but otherwise appearing unhurt.

When he saw Ayla, the old knight climbed down the barricade and advanced towards her. She rushed to meet him and threw her arms around him, armor and all.

“Uncle! You did it! You did it!”

“I'm aware of the fact. Now let go of me, girl! You'll ruin your dress.”

“Are you kidding? My dress is one single bloodstain anyway.”

Isenbard tried to find a spot where he could grab her and push her away that wasn't unseemly for a knight to touch on a lady. “Well... then you'll ruin my armor.”

“Oh, if that's the case, of course I'll let go of you.” Ayla grinned up at him. “But I was just saying thank you.”

“You can refrain from such outbursts of thankfulness in the future, Milady. I was merely doing my duty.”

“You,” she said, tapping on his armor, “did the impossible. You drove away their army. How did you do it? There were so many!”

From what she could see of his face through the visor, he looked troubled, and very, very tired. “That's the thing,” he murmured. “I didn't. I didn't drive them away. They suddenly retreated, just like that. I have no idea why.”

Frowning, Ayla let go of him. “But why would they...?”

“Ayla, not now.”

Her frown deepened. His voice sounded strange. “Uncle? What's the matter?”

“Let's go into the tent, where no one can see,” he replied.

After a moment studying his face through the visor, she led the way, and he followed. Dilli had left the tent again and was probably somewhere either celebrating or rinsing her mouth. Two other young women were in the back of the tent, piling blood-stained bandages into a washing basket. Isenbard gestured to them wordlessly, and they scurried out.

“Isenbard?” Ayla asked, concerned. “What's the matter?”

The old knight didn't answer. He stood, stock-still, in the middle of the tent. No, not stock-still. Looking more closely, Ayla saw that he was swaying slightly.

“Close the tent flap, will you, girl?”

Ayla did as he wished.

“Are they all gone?” Isenbard asked.

“Yes.”

“And no one is in sight?”

“No, Uncle Ironbeard.” She stepped up to him, worry etched into her face. “Now will you tell me what is the matter?”

“You are absolutely sure that no one is watching? None of the soldiers?”

“Yes!”

“Good,” he said.

And without uttering another sound, Isenbard collapsed, crashing to the ground.