Reuben hit the stork's nest with a resounding thump! Even had it not been for the noise, though, the stork family living on the castle roof would probably have been awakened by a 6-foot-7-inch ironclad figure crashing into the middle of their home. The stork father pecked at Reuben, who rolled away and shielded his eyes, cursing.
Still in one piece! The blasted thing had cushioned his fall, and he was still in one piece! Although the breath had been knocked out of him, Reuben dragged himself to his feet and stumbled farther down the roof. It took him only a few moments to find his strength again, and his movements steadied. Behind him, the stork family shrieked in triumph over the fleeing intruder.
“Now I definitely heard something!” he heard one of the mercenaries call out, still from inside the castle.
“Yes,” the beefy one growled back. “A stork! Now shut up and move, or I'll give you a taste of my blade!”
Underneath him, the voices of the mercenaries continued through the keep and towards the exit. Reuben scuttled over the roof tiles, following closely. By the time he had reached the edge of the roof, he felt like himself again. He knew, because he could remember every single item on the list.
Peering over the edge, Reuben saw the flickering light that emanated from the half-closed keep door. It increased in intensity as the voices and steps of the men approached. One of them had to be carrying a torch. They were approaching quickly. He had to hurry!
Quiet as the night, Reuben swung himself over the edge and again began to climb down the castle wall, more careful not to slip this time. There was no roof beneath him now, only cobblestones. No storks built their nests there.
He climbed and climbed, getting more desperate and ferocious as he went. The voices were getting closer so quickly, and he didn't seem to be making any headway at all. Then, suddenly, his foot came down on stone. A windowsill? No! This was the archway! The archway over the keep door - what he had been waiting for!
Carefully, he positioned his feet so they stood solidly on the slippery stone. Then he turned, slowly.
Underneath him, he could see the courtyard, a maze of shadows thrown by the crenels high up on the walls. Guards had assembled from all directions, their faces grim, their spears in hand. They had realized that intruders were in the castle and were waiting for them to emerge, to be able to surround them. All their eyes were fixed on the door under Reuben's feet. Nobody had spotted him, crouching on top of the archway, in the shadows.
“Whoever you are,” called the man who seemed to be in command of the soldiers, “come out and lay down your arms! I am Captain Linhart, vassal to the mistress of this castle, and I command you to surrender!”
“Surrender?” came the mocking voice of the beefy mercenary from inside the castle. “I don't think so.”
“We know your numbers. We caught the lookout you left on the walls. You cannot hope to match us. Surrender, and maybe Lady Ayla will spare your lives.”
“Will she, now? How very nice of her.”
Beneath Reuben, the door was thrust fully open, and light flooded into the courtyard. Captain Linhart gasped, and his spear, leveled at the door just a moment ago, sank limply to the ground.
“Milady!” he whispered, horror-struck.
Reuben's jaw muscles tightened. He could imagine all too well what the captain was seeing.
“Now, you all drop your weapons and back away,” the mercenary growled, still just inside the keep. “Or this pretty little lass gets a second pair of lips—blood-red ones, on her throat!”
The soldiers stayed where they were but shifted uncomfortably.
“Do it!” The man snarled. “Now!”
Captain Linhart worked his jaw, then said in a low, controlled voice, “Do as he says.”
With a clatter, a dozen or so spears and guisarmes landed on the ground. Slowly, the mercenary emerged from within the castle, still holding his knife to Ayla's throat.
“Don't worry, Milady,” said Captain Linhart, hateful eyes focused on the mercenary. “We're going to get you out of this.”
That's where you're wrong, my friend, thought Reuben with grim satisfaction. Not you—but I.
And he jumped.
He did not make the mistake to scream or otherwise alert the beefy mercenary to his attack. He just dropped out of the sky like a hunting falcon. One of his boots hit the man's hand and sent the dagger flying off into the night. The other crashed into his skull and made him stagger back. The man's arm was still firmly clasped around Ayla, but, before Reuben's feet had even touched the ground, he had seized her by the arm and pulled. With a surprised yelp, she staggered towards him, right into his arms.
For a moment Reuben stood there, holding her.
Everything in him ached not to let her go. Yet there was still the small matter of half a dozen enemies around him. Around her. With a flick of his foot, he kicked the dagger that had fallen from the mercenary’s hand into the air and caught it. Seizing Ayla around the waist, he whirled her around, pressing her against the castle wall and placing himself as a human shield in front of her. A shield more impenetrable than any made out of solid steel.
With cries of mixed rage and panic, the mercenaries fell upon him. Normally, Reuben could have attacked and felled them easily—but with Ayla behind him, he dared not take any risks. Doggedly he remained in a defensive position. Yet the surroundings and his meager weaponry were hardly congenial to defense. He was surrounded on all sides by enemies who knew exactly what his weak spot was. And if that wasn't enough, the stupid girl he was unlucky enough to be in love with kept wriggling behind him.
“Stay where you are!” he hissed at her.
“I can't just let you face them alone!” she hissed back at him.
With the hilt of the dagger, he fended off a blow from one of the enemies and glanced angrily over his shoulder at her beautiful, stubborn eyes.
“Do you know how to fight?”
“Of course not, but…”
“Then stay where you are, you little shrew, and shut up!”
She obeyed his former command, though not the latter. Reuben tuned her out and concentrated solely on his weapon. Satan's hairy ass, if he didn't have to be careful, he would have those fools dismembered within seconds! As it was, he was slowly driven back against the wall. Against Ayla.
Suddenly, one of the men in front of him dropped to his knees. Reuben was about to strike him, when he saw a guisarme jutting from the mercenary's back. Through the gap between his enemies, Reuben saw Captain Linhart, who had fought his way far enough up the steps to throw his weapon at the men threatening his mistress.
It was a bold stroke, and Reuben knew it. Now the Captain had only his knife to defend himself against fully armed men. He had sacrificed his only real weapon in a desperate attempt to get to his mistress—and still was too far away.
Hmm. Maybe I can help with that.
Deflecting another attack from one mercenary with a swift backhand blow, Reuben grabbed Ayla around the waist again and, as she gave a yelp of surprise, hurled her through the air at Captain Linhart, shouting, “Catch!”
If he hadn't been burning with battle rage, Reuben might have found the expression on Linhart's face funny. It took him a second before, just in time, he reached up and sort of caught his mistress, though it looked more like she landed on top of him. He staggered back into a clump of his men, who made room and formed an iron wall of protection around their lady. An iron wall that would keep Ayla safe.
That was the moment when Reuben let go and loosed the salivating beast inside him.
With his next blow, he buried his dagger in the throat of an enemy and ripped the guisarme out of the dying man's hands. Two swift swipes cleared the air before him. The mercenaries jumped back in alarm—suddenly, the blows of their enemy seemed much quicker than before. Reuben grinned and charged, screaming like a berserker.
The mercenaries before him were like snow before the summer sunrise: they melted away, and everything was red. Reuben swung the guisarme with violent glee, felling not one man after another, but two or three with a single stroke. His impact was so devastating that the line of mercenaries defending the stairs against two dozen of Ayla's guards turned to rush to the aid of their companions falling before the blade of this one single, mighty enemy.
Shouting in triumph, Ayla’s guards hurried after them, dividing them, defeating them, coming up the stairs to Reuben's aid. Yet he had no need of any. By the time they reached him, he was standing on a small mountain of corpses. Every last intruder was dead.
Every last but one, that is.
Growling like a wounded bear, the beefy mercenary rose from where he had fallen on the cobblestones. He had an ugly bruise on the side of his head, but although he had been momentarily stunned, he seemed more than fine now. Still he held the burning torch in his left hand. With the right, he pulled the sword from his belt that he had picked up in the keep. Reuben's sword.
A few of the castle guards rushed towards him—but Reuben had other plans. He had a list in his mind. A long list.
“Back!” he roared and punched a guard in the chest who wanted to advance on the big mercenary. “This one is mine! Mine, I say! Back with you!”
Slowly, the guards complied and formed a loose semi-circle behind Reuben. Everything slowed down: breathing, movement, heartbeats. Reuben could feel the semi-circle widen behind him. In the end, it was just him and the mercenary, facing each other over a dozen feet of wet cobblestones.
Reuben still stood high up on the stairs. He jumped down, letting the guisarme fall to the ground. With a swift motion, he bent and picked up another weapon, one of the many that lay between the corpses.
It was a sword.
Then he faced the big mercenary again. They glowered at each other with hate burning in their eyes—hate as hot as the torch the mercenary was still holding. The flames sizzled as the rain fell faster.
The soldiers around Reuben retreated even farther. They were warriors and instinctively knew what he intended to do.
From somewhere behind him, Reuben thought he heard a female voice. A familiar voice, pleading with him not to be stupid, not to do this alone—but he was in a place all of his own. A place where he listened to nothing but the pounding of blood in his ears.
It was time for battle.
With a bellow of rage, he raised his sword and charged at his enemy!