“Men of Luntberg!” Reuben roared. “To your arms! To victory!”
As one, the enemy soldiers down in the courtyard whirled around to stare up at his blood-red, metallic figure gleaming in the torchlight as he stood high above them on the inner castle wall. Thus it was that, when the first arrows from the outer wall started flying, they hit their targets squarely in the back.
“Ha!” Reuben uttered a roar of triumph.
Even Ayla couldn’t suppress a surge of fierce joy. Unlike the dying men down in the courtyard, she had seen where the arrows were coming from. Unlike the men in the courtyard, she wasn't looking at Reuben. She was looking at the outer wall, where Captain Linhart and about twenty of his men had appeared on the walkway. They were streaming from the towers left and right, out of concealment, into the open.
“Loose, men! Loose!” shouted the Captain.
And the men obeyed his order. Their faces were grim, their hands determined, and the bows in their hands more than ready. As quick and efficient as though the spirit of Isenbard guided their hands, they took up their positions on the wall in a long line, firing volley after volley of arrows into the confused enemy down below. Forty or fifty men were down before the mercenaries had even turned and realized they were under attack. Then another volley hit and took another dozen down.
“Yes!” Ayla sprang up and punched the air in celebration, and several of the enemy soldiers turned again at the sound of her shout. They paid their price for that reaction as arrows embedded themselves in their backs. “Yes! Yes!”
Burchard grabbed Ayla around the midriff and dragged her down again. “Have you gone mad, girl?” he hissed. “Stay down and be quiet.”
Suddenly, Ayla felt guilt wash over her. What was she thinking? “Of course! You're right. I shouldn't be celebrating the death of anybody, even if they're our enemies.”
“Codswallop! Celebrate away, but not anywhere in their line of fire. Some of them have bows themselves, if you remember!”
“Oh.”
Carefully, Ayla raised her head just above the crenels and peered down into the courtyard. Sir Luca had jumped down from his horse and was using the poor animal as a living shield against the arrows. The sight made Ayla sick to the stomach, and she was heartily glad that Reuben had rescued Eleanor from the clutches of that brute.
“Bring out the shields!” Sir Luca yelled. “Form a defensive line!”
The captains of his battalions threw each other desperate looks. It was clear nobody had thought to bring the large metal shields that provided most protection against arrows. This was supposed to have been a surprise stealth attack—not the kind of attack where you burden yourself with heavy, noisy, military equipment.
“A defensive line, I said, bastardi!”
It took Sir Luca a moment to realize why no one was following his orders—long enough for the next volley of arrows to cut down another ten or twenty men. Captain Linhart stood on the wall among his men, not giving commands, but shooting, just as the rest of them. They needed no commands. They knew they had to shoot as fast as they could.
Ayla heard Sir Luca curse in Italian.
“Against the wall,” he bellowed, pointing towards the outer wall of the castle. “Against the wall with you, you larva sporca, or do you all want to be skewered? Run! Sbrigatevi, forza muovetevi!”
They started running, and Ayla couldn't help it—she felt joy at the sight. She felt the fierce joy of her soldiers, as their arrows chased the very men that had threatened their lives and families for weeks and weeks over the courtyard like so many headless chickens. The joy of battle!
Volley after volley of arrows flew down from the outer wall. Cries of agony rose towards the night sky, mixing with the thunder into an eerie symphony. In the reoccurring flashes of lightning, Ayla saw the grim relish in the eyes of the liegemen of Luntberg as they shot soldier after soldier of the enemy army.
And then, suddenly, it was over. The enemy army stood huddled against the outer wall for protection. Most of them had made it. Still, they left the courtyard scattered with corpses. What was left of the Margrave's army cowered down, trying to find its spirit and find out how much of its body was still left alive.
Captain Linhart and his men tried to continue to shoot at their target, but the enemy soldiers were hidden under the small overhang of the wall. It was impossible to hit them at this angle.
“Treason!” Sir Luca shouted, looking wildly from right to left. Thunder rolled over the castle as if to emphasize his outcry. “We've been betrayed! Where is that rat of a castle guard that has sprung this trap on us?”
His men would have been only too eager to oblige their commander, but Hans was nowhere to be found. In his rage, Sir Luca turned to Reuben, who was still calmly standing on the walkway of the inner wall, watching the proceedings in the courtyard. Ayla couldn't see his face—he was still wearing his helmet—but she didn't really need to. The aura of grim satisfaction that radiated out from him was almost tangible. She knew the diabolical grin that would be on his face.
“Where is the rat?” Sir Luca screamed up at Reuben. “Where is he?”
Reuben waved a hand deprecatingly. “He is long gone. And in any case, it was not he who brought you into your current predicament. It was I. This is my trap.”
“Shoot him!” As his rage rose, the Italian's voice became higher, more and more like the screech of a wild bird. “Shoot the bastardo! Now!” He took a few steps towards Reuben, shaking his fist at him, but jumped back with a curse as one of Linhart's archers took the opportunity and shot an arrow at him. It buried itself into the dirt right next to where, a moment ago, Luca's foot had been.
“Shoot him,” he repeated, back in the relative safety of the wall. “Now!”
Several mercenaries pulled out bows and arrows from their backs and started aiming at Reuben. He laughed and just stood there.
“What is he doing?” Ayla whispered frantically. “Why isn't he moving out of the way?”
“Maybe he's decided to make my day?” Burchard suggested, then quickly ducked out of the way as Ayla aimed a slap at him.
“Burchard! You shouldn't even…shouldn't even…” Ayla's throat became too tight for speaking. The idea of losing Reuben…
No! No, don’t think about it! He’s going to survive this! You’re both going to survive this!
Burchard may have said something—maybe an apology. She didn't hear. All her attention was focused on the man she loved, the man who was still standing clearly in the line of fire.
Mary, Mother of God, why doesn’t he move?
“Reuben! Duck!” she shouted at him in desperation. Oh, if only he weren't so far away from her… “Duck! Now!”
He waved at her. He actually waved at her.
The mercenaries drew back their bows. They took aim.
At the very last moment, Reuben threw himself to the ground. The arrows zipped harmlessly far over his head. Ayla slumped against the crenels, relief washing over her, and made a mental note that, if she and Reuben both survived this, she was going to kill him.
Sir Luca obviously felt a similar, though more immediate, urge.
“Kill him! Kill the bastardo!” He screeched, waving his sword at the place where Reuben had just now stood.
One of his captains whispered something into his ear, and it seemed to cool the commander down somewhat. He looked up at the inner wall, then turned, and gazed up the outer wall. Ayla could see comprehension dawn on his face, and he paled.
“Retreat!” he shouted, his voice now slightly hoarse. “Retreat, everybody! To the gates!”
That was the moment they had been waiting for. Ayla watched as Linhart gave the Signal. Adelbart, the castle's best archer, put an arrow to the string, pulled it back, aimed…and let it fly!
The arrow hit the rope holding up the portcullis, just as the first of the enemy tried to pass under it, out of the castle. It came down with a crunch, smashing bones and tearing flesh in its way. Screams of frustration went up to the sky: The entire army of Falkenstein was trapped inside of Luntberg Castle.
Ayla punched the air again. “Yes! We have them!”
Beside her, Burchard didn't seem quite so enthusiastic. Between two of the crenels, he stared down into the courtyard, at the mass of ravenously angry soldiers milling about.
“Yes,” he murmured. “We’ve locked ourselves in with an army eight times the size of ours. That makes me so terribly happy.”
“Come on! We have a plan, haven't we?”
Down in the courtyard, Sir Luca turned, his eyes blazing. He ripped his helmet from where it had hung at his belt and placed it on his head. With a swing of his sword, he ordered his troops to silence and to form ranks under the protection of the outer wall. They did as he commanded and soon stood in a disciplined line, waiting for the order to attack.
“Yes, we have a plan.” Burchard nodded grudgingly. “The only question is…will it work?”
“Men!” Sir Luca raised his sword. “On my command…!”