Sir Luca DeLombardi woke up and noticed that there was the blade of a knife pressed to his throat.
“I could kill you now,” a low and powerful voice growled into his ear, “but that wouldn't be any fun at all.”
Sir Luca couldn't help but agree with the voice. In fact, there wasn't anything he would have considered less fun.
“If I were to kill you now, the Margrave would just send another puppy to direct his army,” the voice mused. “Killing you would be of no use.”
It was amazing, contemplated Sir Luca, how much he and the voice coincided, considering its owner was near to cutting his jugular at this very moment. He himself definitely was also of the opinion that killing him would be not be a good idea. Not at all.
“Besides,” purred the deep voice, “I want to kill you where everybody can see you die, and I want to kill your entire army right along with you. And I haven't got time for that right now. I have a delivery to make.”
Sir Luca had to admit that his views and those of the voice were slowly beginning to diverge. He didn't want to be killed, whether in front of other people or alone. However, he didn't feel like disagreeing openly with the voice. There was still the blade at his throat to consider.
“Get up,” the voice commanded.
Sir Luca slowly rose into a sitting position, the knife moving along with him all the while. Then, he slowly slid his legs down from the cot. The stranger moved behind him and forced him to sit more erect than he had ever done in his life. The blade was pressed so tightly against his skin that he did not even dare to swallow for fear of decapitating himself.
“By the way, it just occurred to me to ask, you are Sir Luca DeLombardi?” the stranger asked in a conversational tone of voice. “It would be so annoying if, after all the trouble I took sneaking into your camp, I actually picked the wrong tent. Are you Sir Luca? Raise your right hand for yes, your left hand for no. I would imagine you have slight difficulties with nodding at the moment…”
Hmm…This stranger seemed to be after him personally. Maybe if he pretended to be someone else, that would solve the problem.
Sir Luca raised his left hand.
The stranger sighed. “Oh, how unfortunate. Then I will just have to kill you so you won't alert the guards. Before I do, be so kind as to tell me which is Sir Luca's tent?”
By the time the stranger was finished with speaking, Sir Luca was frantically waving with his right hand.
“Ah, I see. I thought as much.” The stranger sounded amused. “Now, tell me, where do you keep your horses?”
A frown crept on Sir Luca's face. Had he heard right? Horses?
The blade pressed a little harder against his Adam's apple.
“The horses!” the voice demanded, getting a little sharper, though not nearly as sharp as the blade against his throat. “Or, I swear by Satan's hairy ass, I will cut off your ears and feed them to the crows!”
That was definitely something to avoid. Sir Luca liked his ears just like they were: firmly attached to both sides of his head. He opened his mouth and tried to speak, but couldn't squeeze a single syllable past the blade of the knife. So instead, he raised his hand and pointed in the direction of the stables.
“Having difficulties speaking, are you?”
He raised his right hand.
“Well, I'm sure we can alleviate that. Be so good as to not make a sound, or I would have to cut out your tongue. I don't wish to get blood on my tunic. I have to see a lady later on.”
Lady? Sir Luca's mind seized the word and clutched it like a trophy. There was only one “lady” in the vicinity. In the soldier's camp there might be a few women, but none of them could be called ladies. The only lady he knew of sat not far away, behind thick stone walls, waiting for the first symptoms of starvation to set in.
She couldn't have anything to do with this man, could she? She didn't have warriors like that—warriors who could sneak into a heavily guarded and fortified camp in the middle of the night, warriors who could talk about cutting off ears and tongues without so much as blinking.
Who was this man?
“You're probably wondering who I am,” the man said.
A shiver ran down Sir Luca's back—something that hadn't happened to his back in years. Not since he had taken his last cold bath.
“Well, keep wondering,” the voice growled. “You're here to answer my questions, not the other way around. Now, I am slowly going to remove the knife from your throat. Do not scream for help. If you do, I will kill you immediately.”
The Italian mercenary believed every word. He knew a merciless tone of voice. He had used it too often himself not to know it.
Slowly, the knife came away from his throat. Sir Luca reached up, equally slowly, to rub his throat. The red line where the blade had had contact with his skin stung.
“What do you want?” he rasped.
“A great many things. Untold riches, a good drink, your head on a spike…the list is endless. But unfortunately, I'm not going to get all of them tonight. I'll settle for two horses and a suit of armor.”
“And for that, you broke into a heavily guarded army camp? You might have stolen those things at any town.”
“Yes, I might have. But, you see, I want two specific horses and a specific suit of armor. And I also wanted the pleasure of my blade at your throat. Listen to me closely, now. Not too long ago, your men had an unfortunate encounter with a certain stranger in the forest. They took things from him. Things that weren't theirs to take. Specifically, a brown mare, a black stallion the likes of which you won't find anywhere, and a magnificent suit of red armor. Am I correct?”
“Yes.”
“The latter two of which you appropriated for yourself?”
“I did.”
“That, my friend, was not a very wise thing to do.”
Sir Luca and the voice were back to agreeing. At that moment he wished he had never seen or heard of, much less donned, that particular suit of armor. Red had never been his color, anyway.
“Where are the horses?” the voice demanded.
“They are picketed at the back of my tent.”
“Both? What would you want with the mare?”
“I use her as a pack animal.”
The stranger clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Hm…I'll better not tell her that. I doubt she would like it.”
“Her?”
The knife was at his throat so quickly Sir Luca wasn't even sure how it had gotten there.
“You speak when spoken to, understood?” the stranger growled.
“Yes.”
“Now, where is the suit of armor?”
Slowly, Sir Luca pointed to his right. “Here in the tent, behind that partition.”
“Excellent.”
Without any warning, the stranger grabbed hold of Sir Luca and tossed him onto the floor. Before the Italian could turn, the stranger had grabbed his arms and pulled them painfully behind his back. Within seconds, the long sleeves of his nightshirt were tied together. His legs received a kick and reflexively jerked upward, only to be caught and bent back. Before Sir Luca knew what had happened, his arms were tied to his legs, and he was lying on the floor, bent like a sausage on a hanger, and totally helpless.
“If you would excuse me…” The shadowy form of the stranger above him made a slight bow. “I have to change.”
There were a few minutes of silence, during which Sir Luca was wondering what in God's name the man could be up to. Only occasionally did he hear a clink or a scrape, but other than that, nothing.
Then, suddenly, footsteps approached the tied-up mercenary commander. But they were not normal footsteps. There was a clinking of metal with every step. An ominous sound.
A shadow fell across Sir Luca.
“Are you comfortable?” the stranger asked.
“Um…not really, no.”
“Excellent.” The stranger knelt and patted Sir Luca on the head. “You have behaved yourself very well throughout our little encounter, I must say. I give you leave to scream for help, now, should you wish to do so.”
He rose again.
“What?” Sir Luca wasn't quite sure if his ears had deceived him.
“Scream for help. Bellow. Yell. Call your guards.” The stranger shrugged. “Otherwise, getting out of this camp would be far too boring.”
Sir Luca twisted his head and now, for the first time, could see the stranger in full, towering above him. The sight almost took his breath away. The stranger was wearing the blood-red armor of which Sir Luca had been so proud. But not only that: he wore it like a second skin. Where Sir Luca had had to give his page orders to tighten the straps of the armor so it wouldn't rattle on him like a collection of cook pots, the armor fit this man as if it had been made for him. He looked like the devil prepared for war against the heavens.
At his side hung a huge sword—the sword that had been retrieved along with the armor and that Sir Luca had never been able to lift higher than a few inches. The stranger grabbed the hilt, now, and drew it easily with one hand.
“Go on,” he growled at Sir Luca. “Scream for help.”
“Err…help?” said the mercenary commander.
“Come on, you can do better than that.”
“Help!”
“Louder, man, louder!”
“HELP! HELP! HELP ME!!”
From outside, the sound of trampling feet could be heard. The stranger turned, without a word, towards the approaching soldiers and strode out of the tent, sword in hand.