The sounds of battle slowly subsided as Ayla hurried towards their origin. One blade after another went silent and spoke no more. She knew why: its wielder had met with an untimely end, had met with a faster blade. One side seemed to be winning the combat. She hoped against hope that it was not Falkenstein.

With ruffled skirts, Ayla ran from tree to tree, always keeping behind cover and watching the path before her closely. Despite what Burchard might think, she was not an irresponsible girl taking every opportunity to stick her nose into trouble. She was a responsible woman taking every opportunity to stick her nose into trouble—if by so doing she could help others. Whoever was fighting up there was fighting against the Margrave Markus von Falkenstein, fighting valiantly by the sound of it. That was more than enough reason for her to risk her neck.

As she neared the place of the fight, she slipped from the path into the trees. Ayla knew this forest well; as a little girl she had gone riding out here often. She recognized the place in front of her. Not twenty yards away was a clearing where pilgrims and other travelers often stopped on their way to the castle. Now, it seemed, the clearing was much less peaceful.

The sound of the furious blows intensified as Ayla crept nearer. And then, suddenly, there were the cries of men:

“That's the devil! Run! He's not human!”

And another voice, trying to be commanding, but quivering with fear: “Stand and fight, you cowards! Fight or the Margrave will have your heads!”

Ayla tried to catch a glimpse of what was going on, but the foliage was too dense; it blocked her view.

And then, a second later, she was almost glad for it. From the center of the clearing came a truly frightening sound, an animalistic growl that seemed to reverberate around the entire forest and make even the trees shudder with fear. A hailstorm of blows followed, and a cacophony of cries of human pain.

“Stand and fight, or the Margrave...”

“Dammit, I don't care about the Margrave! Run!”

“Run for your lives!”

“Stand and fight, I say! You have sworn an oaaaarrr...!”

The cry ceased abruptly.

“Captain! Captain!”

But the captain did not answer.

Instead, another sound reverberated around the clearing, a sound even more frightening than the growl: a devilish laughter, seeming to glory in the violence and gore.

“Damn you! I'll kill you for that, I'll kill y—”

But apparently, this man was not any more successful than his commander and dozens of other men had been. The unknown force that had growled and laughed like the devil cut him short in mid-sentence.

“He's not human, I tell you! Run!”

“Run!”

The cry was picked up by many a fearful man. Then, suddenly, another terrified voice shouted:

“Conrad! Get him from behind! The others, get out of the way, now!”

There was a zitt-noise, a thump, and then, suddenly, there was silence.

Utter silence.

Ayla was just about to peek around a tree and risk a glance into the clearing, when a man's hand grabbed her from behind. A scream raced up her throat, but before it could escape her mouth, a gloved hand clamped down over her lips.

“Are you totally insane?” Burchard hissed into her ear and dragged her back. “-Milady?” he added as a polite afterthought.

She shook her head.

“Well, you give a pretty damn good impression! Look!”

Slowly, he removed the hand from her mouth and pointed to a gap up between the branches of two tall trees, where the black and silver banner of the Margrave was visible.

“I had to come and see whether we could help,” she hissed back.

“Of course you had! I almost wish I let you go out there just so I could have watched what you would have tried!”

“Really?”

“No, of course not,” the steward growled. “Now let's get back before they notice us.”

“No. We're not leaving until we have made sure that we can't help any of these unfortunate souls that have fallen prey to the Margrave.”

“We are already too late. Whoever they were, they have lost the fight. May God have mercy on them.”

“And what if there are wounded?” she asked in a whisper. “We can't leave yet.”

“Milady...”

“Don't argue with me, Burchard. It'll be safer to leave once they've gone anyway. While they're here, they could hear us moving through the underbrush.”

“Or they could hear us arguing!”

“Exactly. So you'd better give in,” Ayla said with a sweet smile.

Burchard scowled at her. “I hate it when you're right.”

Together, they cowered in the dense foliage of the forest and listened to Falkenstein's men shout and argue.

“We have to bring the others back to camp!”

“Are you mad?” a haughty voice sneered in response. “What if there are others like him lurking around? Do you truly want to chance another such encounter?”

“We can't just leave them here!”

“Look around you, man! They are dead! All dead! Not one of the blows that devil struck missed its mark! Let's leave them and get back to the camp. But before we go, you'll get me his things. Everything.”

“What? I'm not going within twenty feet of that monster!”

“He's dead.”

“He's possessed! Didn't you see what we did to him? And he didn't cry out once! Not once, Conrad!”

Ayla smiled grimly. Whoever had been fighting Falkenstein's men, they seemed to have held their own.

“Yes, he might rise from the dead and kill you,” the man called Conrad said in his deadly sweet voice. “But, on the other hand, if you don't do as you are told, I will put an arrow through that empty head of yours! What do you think the Margrave will have to say when we tell him we lost an entire battalion of men to... that! And without any proof? Now go!”

“Yessir! As you say, Sir!”

Behind the trees and bushes that hid them from sight, Ayla leaned closer to Burchard and whispered: “Did you understand the meaning of any of that?”

He shook his head, frowning—even more than usual.

“Get on with it!” Ayla heard Conrad's voice. “Cut the arrows off, if you need to, but hurry!”

“No, it's all right. I can get it off easily enough; the arrows went in between two armor plates. Excellent shooting, Sir.”

“I want results, not flattery. Get on with it, I say!”

“Yessir!”

There was movement in the clearing. To judge from the sound, someone was dragging around something heavy. Then they heard the clinking of metal.

“Can you make out a coat of arms?” the man called Conrad asked.

“No, Sir. Everything is matted with blood.”

“Give it to me.” A short pause. “Hm... something red, definitely.” Conrad laughed. His laugh was as unpleasant as his voice. “Not that that's saying much. Everything is red with blood here. All right, let's get out here before another one of these maniacs comes along.”

“Yessir.”

The sound of heavy boots retreated from the clearing. As best as Ayla could tell, they were moving eastwards. While their trampling and the clinking of armor could still be heard, she and Burchard said nothing, didn't move a muscle. Still and silent, they sat among the trees and waited for their enemies to disappear.

A squirrel came running out of the direction of the clearing. It looked at Ayla with large, intelligent eyes and then ran off into the foliage. On the forest floor, it left behind small, muddy paw prints.

No, she realized—those weren't muddy paw prints. She squinted. The color was wrong. It was too bright, glossy... red. Slowly, very slowly she reached out and touched the bloody spot where the squirrel's foot had touched the ground.

A shudder ran down her back.

“Come,” she said to Burchard and got up.

“Milady,” he protested, “shouldn't we just return to the castle? It's dangerous for you out here.”

“Come with me,” she repeated.

Pushing aside the branches of a yew tree, she stepped into the clearing, followed by her loyal though reluctant steward.