The rumor spread through the castle like wildfire: the spirits of the dead themselves had risen from the earth to conquer Luntberg and plunge all of them into eternal darkness.
Proof? Weren't the severed heads and the creepy howling proof enough? Those were the spirits of the dead out there, that was as clear as daylight.
Reuben found this rumor very interesting, especially since it had been the heads of Luntberg soldiers which had been catapulted over the wall. Ergo, if their spirits were indeed wandering around the castle, one should rather expect them to defend it rather than attack it, shouldn't one?
The villagers didn't seem to share this optimistic view of the supernatural. They kept as far away as possible from the old pigsty where the gruesome missiles were temporarily stored.
Well, apart from one particular villager.
“Sir Reuben?”
Reuben looked down. Then he looked a little farther down. Finally, his eyes found the little girl in front of him. She couldn’t have been more than five years old, with a mass of black hair hiding most of her face, except for the eyes and the stubborn mouth. In each hand, she clutched a doll.
“Yes?” he asked, not really paying attention. “What do you want?”
She pointed to the old pigsty. “To get in there.”
That got her Reuben’s full attention. He frowned. “There are parts of dead people in there.”
“Aye, I know. I want to know what chopped-off heads look like.” She pouted at him. “But the guard in front of the door won’t let me!”
“Fancy that. What a cruel man.”
“That’s what I said! So I thought maybe you could bash him on the head to make him let me go inside.”
As tempting as the idea was, Reuben could already see Ayla chatting with the guard at the pigsty, who was explaining to her with expansive gestures what had happened. The lady of Luntberg threw a suspicious glance at him and the little girl.
Hm…maybe no head-bashing today. It was probably more than his life was worth.
“Fye? Fye, come here. I need to talk to you.” Determinedly, Ayla strode over towards them.
It took a while, but finally Ayla managed to dissuade the little girl, although she didn't go without considerable protest.
After that, Ayla called together a detachment of guards to bury the heads in a secluded corner of the outer courtyard. But that didn't help. The muttering among the villagers continued.
If only I could do something! I want to burn those goddamn soldiers alive! I want to tear out their guts and feed them to the dogs!
But he couldn’t. The soldiers dressed up as spirits were staying safely out of bow range, and to open the gates just to try and send out a party of soldiers to attack them was much too risky. That might be exactly what the enemy was hoping for.
So for now, we’re stuck with the whole castle thinking that the spirits of the dead are hounding us!
Not that the villagers ever voiced their fear of the supernatural when Reuben was around. Oh no! As soon as either he or Lady Ayla appeared, the villagers fell into silence immediately and looked as though nothing in the world could bother them.
However, Reuben suspected that this same reaction was triggered by entirely different motivations. In his case, they said nothing because they were afraid of his reaction—in Ayla's case, because her presence probably genuinely assuaged their fears.
There was fear in the castle, undoubtedly. But Ayla's presence, her talking to and being with the people, kept it from turning into outright panic. So far, the enemy's plan seemed to have failed.
An assumption that could not have been more wrong. For besides frightening the people of Luntberg, there was a second part to Sir Luca's devious plan.
It became apparent when, at midnight, one shift of guards was replaced by another, and the men who had been standing watch up until then wanted to go to sleep. The minute the watch changed, the wailing and clanking outside the castle intensified tenfold. At first, none of the soldiers dared approach Lady Ayla about this. It was just noise, after all. But finally, after three sleepless hours, one of them came to her chambers to tell her that they could not find rest because the voices of the ghosts were keeping him and his comrades awake.
“I should have foreseen this!” Angrily, Reuben smashed his fist down onto the table in his old sick-room, where Ayla, Isenbard, and he had gathered in an impromptu nightly meeting to discuss the situation. “I should have known from the start! Luca does not only intend to frighten our men, he intends to wear them out! To sap every last bit of strength from them! I am a fool!”
“No, Reuben, no.” Tiredly, Ayla laid a hand on his shoulder, and immediately Reuben, who had just been about to strike the table again, felt his rage drain away. “You couldn't have foreseen this. Nobody could. I mean…it is such a strange thing to do. What do they hope to achieve by it?”
Reuben snorted. Wasn't it obvious? Well, maybe not for someone who hadn't spent his entire life on hundreds of battlefields between Cordoba and Jerusalem. He swallowed, trying to calm himself. No, she wouldn't have any reason to know this.
“What they hope to achieve? Simple,” he said. “As I said before, they want to tire your men, bring them to the brink of collapse.”
“But what…what would be the benefit of that?” Ayla yawned. “Surely they’re keeping their own men awake, too? Nobody could sleep with this racket going on.” She blinked repeatedly. For a moment, Reuben wondered why her sapphire eyes looked even more beautiful now that she had difficulties keeping them open.
Maybe it is because it might not be too long before they close forever.
Clenching his teeth, he banished that thought firmly from his mind. He would not let the enemy’s mind tricks get to him! He would survive this, and he’d make sure that Ayla would, too! Tentatively, he snaked an arm around her waist, hoping that Isenbard wouldn't notice. It was only to support her, after all. Well, mostly anyway.
“That's exactly the problem,” he said as gently as possible. “The enemy will be able to sleep, racket or no racket. The main host will have stuffed their ears with beeswax, and won't hear a thing. Every few hours, they will wake a few dozen men to continue their parade around the castle, and thus will be able to keep the whole thing up indefinitely. I've seen it done before.”
“Well…we'll just do the same,” Ayla mumbled sleepily, snuggling closer to his chest. She didn't seem to be quite awake anymore—certainly not awake enough to remember that Isenbard was in the room with them. Reuben was still a little more alert and very conscious of the old knight's disapproving expression. He tried to step away from Ayla, which caused her to stumble and fall right against his chest. Reuben's arms came up to catch her.
“Hmm…” she mumbled, hugging him and rubbing her face against his chest. That was how he knew she was definitely asleep. Awake, she’d rather have cut off her foot than do something like this in front of her Uncle Ironbeard.
Nervously, Reuben glanced at Isenbard. From what he remembered of his days as a courtly knight, he knew that clutching a sleeping lady against your chest wasn’t exactly considered very decent. Not that he would have minded, under normal circumstances, but having the old man direct his searching gaze at the two of them made him nervous. Enormously nervous.
“Some help?” he asked as he tried to direct the semi-limp figure of Ayla to a chair.
Isenbard's thin lips twitched. “You seem to be doing fine on your own.”
“Um…thanks.”
“Go on. You were going to say something to the Lady's suggestion regarding the beeswax.”
“Oh, yes.” As gently as possible, Reuben deposited the by now lightly snoring Ayla onto a chair. Damn! If only the old devil weren’t in the room. Then he could…well, he could have done a great many interesting things. “I don't believe we have enough beeswax in the castle for a shift of the castle guard. Just a few candles, that is all, and we are cut off from any supply lines, other than the enemy. So none of us will be able to catch a wink of sleep.”
“Some of us seem to be managing well,” Isenbard pointed out, nodding towards the slender, sleeping figure in white.
At that moment, a particularly loud clang sounded outside the castle, and Ayla's eyes flew open. “What's that? What's the matter? Who dropped the pot? Dilli…oh. It's you, Reuben.” Yawning, she rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. “Did I miss anything?”
“Point taken?” Reuben asked, raising an eyebrow at Isenbard.
The old knight nodded grimly. “Point taken.”
Thoughtfully, he stroked his white beard. “What if we rearrange things? We could place the main contingent of the guard in the dungeons of the central keep, as far away from the noise as possible, and close the doors. Then they would only hear faint noises and probably be able to sleep.”
“Don't you see?” Reuben shook his head. The old knight was intelligent, but he lacked experience in the latest battle tactics. “That is what they want us to do: station our main force as far away from the outer walls as possible. Can't you guess why they would want to disturb our sleep? Do you think they simply want to annoy us while they wait for us to starve over the next few months?”
Isenbard hesitated. “No. I don't think so. But what…?”
“They are planning an attack,” Reuben said savagely. “I held a knife to the throat of their commander, Sir Isenbard! From what I know of him, he's not the man to let something like this slide. He's planning to storm the castle, maybe even against the express orders of his Lord.”
Raising a hand, Reuben gestured out of the window, towards the otherworldly noise outside.
“He is doing this to divide our forces, hoping to be able to overwhelm the few guards on the walls in a surprise attack before the main force, stationed far away in the inner keep, has a chance to get there. That way, he will secure the castle in one simple, bold stroke.”
Feeling an ache in his heart that was becoming increasingly familiar, but not easier to bare because of it, Reuben looked down at Ayla, sitting in her chair, still looking a little sleepy. Slowly, he stretched out his hand and stroked her cheek.
“I'm sorry. If not for my actions in the enemy camp, it might not have come to this.”
He had feared she might be angry. He certainly would have been, in her place. But she simply captured his hand between hers and pressed down. The warmth of her soft little hands was a greater gift than Reuben thought he deserved. And, being him, he thought he deserved quite a lot.
“You're not to blame,” she whispered, still sounding drowsy. “He is. And besides, if the end is indeed to come, I would prefer that it finds us ready and waiting with our eyes open than half-dead with hunger in some dusty corner.”
She blinked and yawned again. “Actually, scratch that bit about open eyes. I think closed eyes would be much better right now.”
“I agree,” Reuben said with a grim smile. “But I fear we're not going to get them for quite some time.”
“So what can we do?” Isenbard asked.
Reuben shrugged. “Be vigilant and awake.”
*~*~**~*~*
By the next day, Ayla was finding it increasingly difficult to follow Reuben's advice. She had already been exhausted when she stood on the wall with Isenbard, looking down at the strange procession in white. While she had tried not to show it, the night's horrors had drained nearly every bit of strength she had, and now she was running on strength she didn't have but, in spite of that, managed to finagle out of her body somehow.
She didn't know how she would have remained upright if it hadn't been for Reuben.
“I'm not leaving your side,” he had said after their war council had ended. “We'll see this thing through together. I told you that I’m expecting an attack. As long as that’s the case, I will follow you wherever you go.”
And he had been true to his word, accompanying her when she made her rounds of the castle, talked to the villagers, and checked that the increasingly fatigued guards were still on their feet. It was amazing how quickly the latter seemed to find new strength when he focused his fiery gray glare on them.
Yes, Reuben kept his word to watch over her, even more literally than she had expected. When she wanted to retire for the night, to try and catch a bit of rest in spite of the incessant racket, he had said, “Fine. Where do you sleep?”
“Err…why do you want to know?”
He grinned his devilish grin. Even tired, it looked gorgeous. “I promised I wouldn't leave your side for an instant, remember?”
“I stay in my chambers, together with my maids.”
“Not anymore you don't. I'm sure my presence will frighten them off, so you had better find other quarters for yourself.”
He was being absolutely serious.
She had pointed out very forcefully to him that he would have to leave her at night, since it wasn't proper for a gentleman to sleep in a lady's room.
He had replied with a tired, but nonetheless breathtaking smile that, firstly, they wouldn't be able to sleep with that racket going on, secondly, he was no gentleman, and thirdly, he could think of a few things they could do other than try to sleep.
She had almost thrown him out of the keep after that—but in the end, she hadn't, because she needed him too much. She could feel the need, almost like a physical ache. And, if she wasn't very much mistaken, he needed her too. So they both returned to his old sickroom and sat down on the bed.
“You're right about not catching any sleep,” Ayla mumbled as a particularly loud wail from outside the castle disturbed the night. “So I suppose it’s all right if we stay together. But just in case I do fall asleep…you keep your hands to yourself, understand?”
“What?” he almost looked injured. “You think I would do anything to soil your honor while you are asleep? What do you take me for, some kind of lecherous rogue?”
“Frankly, yes.”
A grin even wider than the previous one spread across his face. “I'm glad you know me so well.”
“Just thought you ought to be forewarned,” she mumbled, sinking against his shoulder. Her eyelids felt incredibly heavy. From somewhere above her, she heard his voice. “Don't worry. For what I have in mind, I want you to have your eyes open.”
As suspected, Ayla didn't find any sleep this night. She drifted in and out of a semi-darkness that was the feeble brother of sleep, each time interrupted when a particularly loud howl or clanking intruded through the windows of the castle.
She wasn't aware of anything around her, except sometimes Reuben’s arms. But she wasn’t truly asleep either. When she 'awoke' from this night the next morning, she felt as if she had been broken on the wheel. Yet to her delight, she discovered that she still had all her clothes on.
She was less delighted that the wailing and clanking outside was still going on without one minute's interruption.
“Good morning, Milady.”
Reuben sat astride of a chair on the other side of the room, regarding her with heavy-lidded gray eyes.
“What are you doing over there?” Ayla asked, confused, rubbing the non-sleep out of her eyes. “You could have stayed here.” She patted the mattress. “There's more than enough room on the bed.”
Reuben flashed his devilish smile at her. “I thought that might not be wise, considering the harsh interdiction you placed on me. You remember? The one about not ravishing you.”
“Harsh?” Ayla let out a little snort.
“Oh yes, very harsh.”
“Well, then let's get up, before you crack from the strain.” Ayla held out her hand, fluttering her eyelashes. “Will you help a Lady up, Sir Knight?”
Sighing, Reuben stood and gripped her hand. She noticed that not only had he spent the night on the chair, but he also had kept his full armor on. Not just the chainmail, but the plate armor as well. She looked questioningly at him.
“I thought it might be as well to be prepared,” he said, catching her look.
He didn't say for what he thought he might need to be prepared exactly. But then, Ayla thought, maybe she didn't really want to know.
“Let's go check up on everybody, all right?” she asked.
*~*~**~*~*
Over the next few days, life in the castle went on pretty much uneventfully—unless you counted an old guard falling asleep on the wall and nearly falling off before a comrade caught him as a notable event.
Reuben stayed always at Ayla's side. They didn't talk much. They were too tired, and Ayla, for her part, was too full of anxiety. They just stayed close to each other and tried to organize the watch of the castle in such a manner that at least a few decently rested guards were available.
To no avail.
Over the next few days, the incessant noise from the enemy gnawed at everybody's nerves and exhausted them almost to the point of collapse.
All except one, that is. Sir Isenbard never once left the wall in three days.
Apparently, he reasoned that, nobody being able to sleep anyway, it was useless for him to try and attempt it. Thus, he could now fully concentrate on his self-appointed mission of watching over and protecting the castle of Luntberg all on his own, and could be seen striding on top of the wall long after most guards had retired to their barracks, trying to catch at least a few minutes of restless slumber.
Ayla tried to dissuade him more than once.
“It's not your fault these mercenaries got into the castle, Uncle Ironbeard,” she said in a tired voice, supporting herself against a crenel to keep standing upright. “You don't have to prove anything to me.”
“I know I don't, Milady,” the staunch old knight replied, holding himself as erect and strong as one of the castle towers.
“Then get some sleep, will you?”
“How, Milady? I cannot.”
And that argument pretty much ended the conversation every time. So day followed night and night followed day. The two intermingled and blurred, since it was not really important anymore whether the sun or the moon stood in the sky. The people of Luntberg were always tired and increasingly afraid.
Something was coming. Ayla could feel it.
Then, on the fourth night after the bombardment of the castle, there appeared a glimmer of hope. As Ayla went to bed, the noise coming from outside the castle was by no means as loud as it had been on other nights.
Maybe they're getting tired of it, too, she thought. Maybe they've run out of beeswax for their ears. Maybe…they’re just…
And the darkness claimed her for the first time in days.
Hours later, a particularly loud metallic noise ripped her from the half-sleep she had managed to sink into. It took her a moment to realize that the clang of metal on metal sounded different than before. Different from all the metal cacophony they had been forced to listen to day after day and night after night.
Then she suddenly knew why: It wasn't the sound of some metal pot, clashed against another. It was a bell. The castle alarm bell.
“Attack!” called a voice through the night. “We're under attack!”
The voice of Sir Isenbard.