The six of them—Ayla, Burchard, Captain Linhart, Sir Waldar, Sir Rudolphus, and Reuben—stood on the allure, looking out over the outer courtyard of Luntberg castle.
“Look out there,” Reuben said, pointing down from the walls. “What do you see?”
Ayla looked at the others. They shook their heads, seemingly just as confused as she was.
“The outer courtyard,” Burchard stated in a you'd-better-stop-messing-with-me voice.
An evil smile spread over Reuben’s face. “That's what it may be called by you—but it has another name.”
“No, it hasn't,” Burchard snapped.
“Yes, it does, steward.”
“Reuben,” Ayla said in a soft voice, not wanting to disappoint him. She wasn't sure what this supposed idea was that he had come up with, but it didn't sound very promising so far, and she was loathed to have to smash his—and, moreover, her own—hopes, small as they were. “I'm sorry, but I have to agree with Burchard. I've lived at this castle my entire life, and the outer courtyard has no other name. It's just the outer courtyard.”
“No.” Reuben shook his head, as if her words didn't mean anything. “You don't understand. I didn't mean that somebody came along and named this particular courtyard. I mean that this kind of courtyard has a special technical name or term in poliorcetics.”
Ayla checked, and yes, all the four others were looking at Reuben with just as much confusion as she was. Only Sir Rudolphus seemed to be thinking, moving his lips as if tasting the word on his tongue. This wasn't going the way she had expected.
“In polio…what?” she asked.
“Poliorcetics, Milady. It is a term derived from Ancient Greek, meaning ‘the art of siege warfare’.”
“Ancient Greek.” Ayla couldn't keep her lips from twitching as she imagined Reuben in a scholar’s robe, studying some dusty old Greek scroll in a library. “I had no idea you were so knowledgeable.”
“Knowledgeable, I? Only about…certain things,” Reuben returned with a lascivious smile that gave the words special meaning. “I certainly know how to wear down defenses and storm a stronghold.”
Ayla blushed, though she didn't really know why. Her hand tingled at the spot where Reuben had kissed it earlier that day.
“Aaaall right,” Burchard growled. “If we could return to the subject, please…?”
“Did we ever leave it?” Reuben raised an eyebrow. “I thought we were talking of poliorcetics the entire time.”
“I certainly hope so,” grumbled Burchard.
“You were just saying that this courtyard had another name?” Ayla said hastily, trying to avoid Burchard's suspicious eyes.
“Yes.” Reuben nodded, and a smile filled with blood-lust spread over his face. “Oh yes. A name very much to my liking.”
*~*~**~*~*
Sir Luca pointed his sword at the door of the outer gatehouse tower, then raised it towards Linhart and his men, high above.
“Smash the door in! Smash the accursed door in, and we'll rout these bastardi figli di puttana!”
Enemy soldiers streamed in from all directions. They didn't have a ram with them, but they took the largest spears and heaviest swords and began hacking and beating at the door. It shuddered under the blows that rained down upon it.
Anxiously, Ayla tore her gaze away from the enemy to search for her own people. Thank God! Atop the wall, Captain Linhart had not been idle.
“Bring the oil forward!” he yelled. “Faster, men! Move!”
Men appeared, carrying gigantic, steaming pots forward. Sir Luca down in the courtyard looked up, frowning, and realized what was happening a second too late. The Luntberg soldiers on the wall poured the content of the pots down the wall, and it splashed and sizzled in all directions. Men who had been standing too far away from the wall, believing themselves still safe from the arrows, were suddenly falling to the ground in agony, covered in hot oil, angry red boils springing up everywhere on their arms and faces. Once they were on the ground, it was worse. They rolled about in a sea of burning pain, quickly spreading across the courtyard, and their howls echoed from the walls like the screams of the tortured souls of hell.
“Back! Back, farther against the wall!” Sir Luca shouted as a few of his men tried to dash under and away from the boiling rain of pain. “If you run, their arrows will get you! Against the wall, I say! Now!”
Growling and cursing, his men did as he commanded.
“Bash the door in! Bash the door in, and we'll go up there and deep-fry them in their own oil!”
This suggestion met with considerably more enthusiasm, and the battering on the door resumed with renewed vigor. The mercenaries didn't turn from the wall again. They didn't even throw a glance into the courtyard, for fear that a splash of boiling oil might hit their eyes and blind them.
Slowly, Ayla rose from behind the crenels. Farther down the wall, she could see Reuben doing the same. He had taken his helmet off to see better. His long black hair, slick and shiny from the rain, flew behind him in the wind. The scar on his forehead gleamed menacingly in the light of every thunderbolt that flashed across the sky. And his eyes, oh, his eyes…
They were more demonic than she had ever seen them before, a gray exactly like that of a merciless blade. And they were moving fast, scanning the courtyard. Ayla wasn't surprised by this. She knew exactly what he was doing, because she was doing the same.
“Not enough,” she murmured, tears coming to her eyes. “Not enough!”
“What?” Burchard grunted and appeared from behind one of the crenels. His mustache drooped in a way that would have been rather funny had they not been in the midst of a bloody battle for survival. “What are you talking about?”
“Look!” Ayla pointed down into the courtyard, to the heaps of dead bodies scattered over the ground. “There's a dozen, there another two, there about twenty…” She continued to count, using her fingers to remember battalions. “About two hundred dead. There are still three-hundred left. More than enough to kill Linhart and all his men on the outer wall if they get through the door. They’re going to be killed!”
Burchard spat on the stone and said a very bad word that, normally, he wouldn't have dared to utter in the presence of his mistress. “At least you're safe in here. They can't get over the walls.”
Ayla turned her tear-streaked face towards him. She couldn't believe she was hearing this. “And you think that matters to me?”
“It bloody well should! You're the heart of this castle! The last surviving heir in the line of Luntberg. Without you, everything falls apart.” The steward's face was grim and unusually cold as he added, “Linhart and his men might die. But their arrows killed hundreds of enemy soldiers. At least their sacrifice would not be in vain.”
“Oh, you think so do you?”
In quick succession, Ayla pointed at three enemy soldiers down in the writhing mass of bloody bodies who had grappling hooks tied to their belts. Her words came in short, fearful gasps.
“The inner wall isn't as high as the outer one. They can kill off Linhart and his men, and then come back at their leisure to dispose of us! Even if they can't get to us right away, it's no use! With half our garrison dead, we can't possibly defend the castle! We must act now!”
“Milady, we can't. Not yet. There are still too many of them. It's too risky, especially with you here.”
“I won't watch my own people die if I can prevent it!”
“Then look away,” he growled. “In war, sacrifices have to be made!”
“No!”
“Don't you remember what the red knight said? The enemy has to be down to one hundred men before we act! Otherwise, some of them might get through! As soon as we start, they'll turn and rage like a trapped lion! You might get hurt!”
“Then so be it!”
The cracks of thunder were not the only cracks to be heard anymore. Down in the courtyard, Ayla heard wood splinter and groan as the door slowly weakened under the mercenaries' merciless assault. The soldiers atop the wall still brought boiling oil, but the mercenaries were now so tightly packed together, pressed against the wall with their faces turned towards the door, that hardly a drop hit them. Ayla could see desperation in the eyes of the archers on the wall. They were only twenty. Down there waited a ravenous pack of wolves of more than three hundred.
“Faster,” cried Sir Luca, seeing victory at hand. “Faster, men! We'll have them! We'll have them soon!”
Ayla began to stride down the walkway. Burchard tried to grab her, but she dodged out of the way. Desperately, she waved at Reuben.
“It's time!” she screamed.
Abruptly, he looked up from the courtyard. Their eyes met.
“It's time! Do it, Reuben! Give the command! It's now or never!”
He nodded. Gravely, he put his helmet back on. Then he bent and grabbed the torch which had fallen onto the walkway again. With a single swift motion, he plunged it into the air, a fiery signal!
*~*~**~*~*
They stood on the wall, silent, waiting for Reuben's explanation.
“Well?” Ayla demanded when Reuben said no more. “And the name is?”
Reuben's smile widened, and he turned to her, a fire burning in his eyes that made her shiver with fear and hope.
“The name,” he whispered with dark relish, “is the Killing Fields.”