Fritz the Soldier was sitting at a campfire in the middle of the Margrave's camp, keeping watch, and at the same time trying to keep warm. To the latter purpose, he employed not only the campfire but also a bottle of honey wine he had brought with him from his tent. He had already emptied half of it and was just beginning to feel slightly woozy when he heard the voice.
“Help!”
He cocked his head. Had that been what it had sounded like? A cry for help from inside the camp? But who would cry for help in the middle of a well-armed force such as theirs? If anyone had cause to cry out for help, it would be the people in the beleaguered castle.
“Help! Help! Help me!”
This time there could be no mistake. Someone was yelling for help. Sighing, Fritz abandoned his post and followed the sound of the voice. His steps were a little unsteady because of the wine, but following the continued cries for help, he found his way through the tents well enough. To his utter surprise, his steps led him to the commander's tent. Apprehension flooding through him and mixing with the alcohol that was already there, Fritz stopped in his tracks. This couldn't be right, could it? Why would the commander cry out for help in the middle of the night? Fritz hesitated. Sir Luca wasn't someone to disturb in the middle of the night out of pure fancy. The soldier was suddenly unsure what to do.
So Fritz was relieved when he saw his commander in his brilliantly red armor step out of the tent—praise the Lord, there was no need to wake him!
Fritz studied the impressive form of his commander in the devilish red suit of armor. He really cut an impressive figure. Why, Fritz could have sworn that he was a foot taller than when he had last seen him. But it was probably just the light from the campfires that made everything seem taller by throwing long, dark shadows on the grass and tents. Or maybe it was the wine.
“Help! Damn you all, doesn't anybody in this godforsaken camp listen to me?” came sir Luca's enraged voice out of the tent. “Help me! Now!”
Fritz frowned, his befuddled brain trying to grasp the situation. If Sir Luca was inside the tent and needed help and Sir Luca was standing in front of the tent in his red armor…that made two Sir Lucas, which was one too many…
Good Lord! Did that mean that, in future, he would have to take orders from two commanders at once? Fritz didn't relish the thought at all. One commander was difficult enough, but two? What if they disagreed about a battle strategy? Or what if they wanted to use the commander's bathtub at the same time? Fritz could already see multitudes of problems arising.
“Help me, someone!” the Sir Luca inside the tent bellowed. The Sir Luca outside the tent motioned with a thumb for Fritz to enter the tent. Fritz thought that was an excellent idea. Maybe the Sir Luca inside the tent would be able to explain what the other one was doing outside. Or maybe, by the time Fritz left the tent again, the effects of the wine would have worn off and there would just be one commander again.
With that cheerful thought in mind, he stepped past the armored Sir Luca into the tent, not forgetting to bow respectfully, of course. The figure in red armor answered his greeting with a curt nod and strode off towards where the horses were tethered.
*~*~**~*~*
At the back of the tent, Reuben found both his black stallion, Satan, and the mare, Eleanor, tied to a rope between two tent poles. With a swipe of his sword, he cut their bonds and then whistled once.
“Satan! Come here!”
Only when the black stallion didn't move away from Eleanor did Reuben look more closely and saw what the horses were doing. The black horse was standing closer to Ayla's mare than Reuben had originally thought. In fact, a lot closer. And they both appeared very busy.
“Satan! Now isn't the time for that!”
He smacked the horse’s rear end. The stallion whinnied in protest but left off his activities and trotted to his master. Eleanor followed quite willingly.
The knight took his time saddling his horse. Having checked the straps a final time, Sir Reuben Rachwild swung himself into the saddle and rode at a leisurely pace between the tents of the soldier's encampment. Behind him, he could hear the shouts of Sir Luca DeLombardi escalate, and soon after, the clamor of weapons joined the shouting. Reuben didn’t ride one iota faster.
In front of him appeared the camp's main gates: impressive constructions, considering they had only been put up yesterday. As he had anticipated, the guard by the gates were reduced by several men already. As was probably the case with other guard posts in the camp, several soldiers had gone off to inquire after the source of the shouting from the commander's tent.
Only about a dozen men were left now. Under his helmet, Reuben smiled. A dozen. What a pitiful challenge.
They all sprang to their feet and stood at attention as he approached. See how eagerly they greet death, Reuben thought to himself.
“Sir,” one of the men said, stepping forward and bowing. “What do you wish of us at this late hour?”
“I wish to leave the camp,” answered Reuben in a low, gravelly voice that nobody in the world could have mistaken for the affected tones of Sir Luca DeLombardi.
The soldier tensed. “What is wrong with your voice, Sir?”
“Nothing,” replied Reuben. “It sounds just as it always has.”
Slowly, the hand of the soldier crept towards his guisarme.
“I wouldn't recommend that.” Reuben's tone was leisurely. His hand still rested on the neck of his stallion, nowhere near his sword hilt.
“Are you…” The soldier swallowed, and his comrades behind him slowly rose to their feet. “Are you Sir Luca DeLombardi?”
“Do you really want to have the answer to that question?” Reuben wanted to know, his deep voice like a black, bottomless pit. “You could say you believed I was him and let me out.”
The soldier’s hand crept a little closer to his weapon.
“But why would I do that?” he asked, hoarsely.
“Maybe because you'd like to stay alive.”
There was a moment of silence—and then the soldier grabbed his guisarme and stormed towards Reuben.
Like a flash, Reuben's sword was suddenly in his hand. He didn't even appear to have drawn it. It just suddenly was there. His arm delivered a quick, simple cut.
The soldier was about to raise his guisarme in triumph when his expression changed abruptly. His face contorted, then slackened—and then, slowly, his head toppled off his shoulders. Reuben jumped down from his horse. It hadn't rained last night, but, as he landed, he heard a wet splash beneath his feet.
Ah, well, he grinned to himself, my armor is red anyway.
With determined steps, he advanced towards the remaining men. All of them were ordinary men-at-arms—nothing but simpletons armed with clubs and pig-stickers. He snorted in disgust. Nevertheless, half of them had the good sense to turn and run. The other half grabbed their pole weapons and came at him, swinging their stupid makeshift arms as if he were a tree they wanted to fell.
He amused himself for about a minute with chopping all their weapons in two, then started chopping off heads for variation. It was great fun! He hadn't chopped off heads in weeks. It felt really good to pick up an old hobby again.
Plus, these villains were Ayla’s enemies. That only doubled the fun of the exercise. After only two minutes, though, all heads were cleanly separated from their bodies. Reuben looked around with regret. He shouldn't rush things so! Patience was an important virtue for a knight! If you always rushed everything good, it was over far too quickly. He should have chopped off a few arms and legs instead of going for the heads right away. Oh well, maybe next time…
Thoughtfully, he turned back to the camp. A few hundred feet away, he could see a line of soldiers rapidly advancing, among them Sir Luca, wearing an Italian armor and screaming at the top of his lungs. Reuben's mood brightened immediately. There were plenty of people for him to kill still, after all! But if he were to take care of all of them single-handedly, he would be busy until Christmas.
No, his primary mission was accomplished. He grinned again as he threw a look over his shoulder at the mare, Eleanor. One horse acquired, check. One lady's heart conquered, check. It was time to get back to her.
He unbolted the doors of the siege fortifications, threw them open—and found himself facing a cavalry force of about thirty lancers.
“Sir Luca!” the captain at the front bowed deeply. His hand was raised as if he had just been about to knock at the camp gates. “You came to greet us in person, Sir? What a great honor. I have come back to report that all is quiet in the vicinity of the camp. No intruders or spies anywhere.”
Reuben gripped the hilt of his sword tighter and swung himself into the saddle. Behind him, he heard the voice of Sir Luca shriek, “Seize him! Seize him!”
“Hüa, Satan!” Sir Reuben bellowed, gave his stallion the spurs as never before, and drew his bloody sword.
Quickly, just before he collided with the surprised cavalry detachment, he threw another glance over his shoulder. Two hundred men, perhaps? Plus these thirty here. Hmm. This might actually be challenging.
Well, maybe not. He didn't have to kill them all, just hack a path through them.
*~*~**~*~*
“Milady! Milady!”
The frantic cries of the guard tore Ayla from the pictures painted by her horrified imagination. She wrenched her gaze away from the chessboard and whirled around, just in time to see a soldier skidding to a halt in the doorframe.
“What is it?” she demanded.
“Milady, Sir Luca DeLombardi is riding up to the castle as if the hounds of hell were chasing him!”
“What?” Ayla's mouth fell open. This didn't make any sense. “Are you sure it is Sir Luca?”
The soldier nodded. “Aye, Milady. I'd know that red armor anywhere.”
Ayla's eyes went wide. Red armor? Could it be that Reuben…?
“There is a terrible host right behind him, shouting and yelling battle cries.”
Ayla's eyes went a bit wider still.
“But don't you worry, Milady,” the soldier added with concern, as he saw the panic on the face of his mistress. “They can't get over the walls, and Captain Linhart told me to tell you that he has everything well in hand. As soon as they are in range, our archers will shoot Luca down like the dog he is. Soon, that red-armored villain will be filled with more arrows than my quiver, and we will mount the head of his corpse on a spike to celebrate the death of our enemy!”