Sir Hartung stood in the dark, listening to the dull, distant thudding noise that drifted down the mountain on the wings of the night wind. Slowly, the noise changed. Grinding and cracking began to be mixed in with the thuds of iron against wood. Then unearthly groans and screeches joined the cacophony, as the battered doors began to push against the metal of the portcullis with every slam of the battering ram, bending it inwards.

"How long, do you think?" Sir Hartung asked the captain beside him.

"Half an hour, maximum," was the Captain's reply.

"Then give the signal for the knights to ready themselves. I want helmets on and weapons checked by the time that gate comes down, do you understand?"

"Yes, Milord!"

*~*~**~*~*

"They are getting in. There is no changing that."

Reuben's face lay half in shadows. Even so, Ayla could see his expression, and she didn't like it. Never before had she seen him look this grim.

"Surely there's something we can do," she said hesitantly, looking around at all the others gathered in the tower chamber—not the same tower chamber she had been in before, though. Reuben had dragged her from that one, not giving half an ear to her screams of protest. Now, she was hauled up in a tower chamber of the inner wall, far away from the gate shuddering under the onslaught of the battering ram. And she wasn't alone: aside from Reuben, her three other knights, as well as Burchard, Linhart and Theoderich were all present, their faces just as grim as Reuben's.

"There must be something!" she repeated. "Something we can do!"

"There is," Sir Waldar growled. "Retreat!"

"What? No!"

Ayla looked around from one face to the next, horrified. None offered her any comfort. "We can't just do that!" she appealed to Captain Linhart. "We can't just hand them the outer castle on a silver platter!"

"We're not handing it to them, Milady. They're taking it."

"Yes, but still..." She turned to Burchard.

The old steward shrugged. "Don't look at me. I don't know a flea's fart about fighting."

"Sir Rudolphus?" The young knight might be inexperienced, but sometimes was surprisingly smart. However, to Ayla's dismay, he shook his head.

"I'm afraid I agree with the others, Milady. There's no way to keep them from getting in."

Finally, Ayla's gaze turned to the last person in the room. The person on whom not just her hopes, but all their hopes ested.

"Reuben?"

His gray eyes met her blue ones. He managed to keep up the grim expression for about two second before his devil's grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"You blaggard! You do have a plan!"

"I never said I didn't, now, did I?"

"You said we couldn't stop them from getting in!"

"Well, we can't. That doesn't mean we have to make it easy. Don't you remember the last time an enemy set foot into this castle?"

Ayla's eyes narrowed. "You mean the time you opened the gates for them and let them in intentionally?"

"Yes, that time," he agreed, jovially.

"Actually, I do remember. It's kind of hard to forget something like that."

"You flatter me, Milady. I hope you haven't forgotten about me laying a trap for the enemy forces and obliterating to a man?"

Ayla felt her face relax, and she shared a moment with Reuben, exchanging something through their eyes that could not be expressed in words or gestures. "No," she said, softly. "I haven't forgotten that, either."

The she pursed her lips. "Are you planning on doing that again?"

He shook his head. "No. It wouldn't work now. Last time the enemy came in without any siege equipment—so we could put soldiers on the outer wall as well as the inner, barricade the doors to the towers and catch them with our archers in a pincer movement. But this time, they have the battering ram. They'd simply knock down the doors and obliterate the men we left behind on the outer wall. That's not a sacrifice I'm willing to make."

Ayla shuddered. "No," she whispered. "Neither am I."

"What then?" Linhart asked. "Will we face them with our swords and spears once they've beaten the door down? Will we try to hold the gate, even when it's open?"

Reuben snorted. "That's what they'll expect. That's what most commanders would do in this situation." He fixed Linhart with an iron gray gaze. "I am not most commanders."

Linhart stiffened. "Yessir! Of course not, Sir!"

"They'll be expecting infantry defense," Reuben continued as if Linhart's interruption hadn't happened. "And from what I've seen of the Margrave von Falkenstein, I don't think he'll be content to slowly wear it down. No, he wants to smash us! To obliterate anyone in his path!"

Leaning forward, Reuben rested both hands on the small table in the center of the room. Under his weight, the wood squeaked, ominously.

"And there's only one thing that can obliterate footsoldiers utterly when it comes rushing through an open gate," he told them, looking significantly between Waldar and Rudolphus. "Only one kind of warrior."

Ayla got it first. "Knights!" she exclaimed, her breath catching. "He's going to send the knight's charging in!"

Reuben nodded, and Ayla saw a flash of pride in his eyes. "Lances lowered, shields raised high, and at full gallop," he confirmed. "They'll flatten everything and everyone in their path. Our crossbowmen and archers won't be able to stop them—not at this range, and with the kind of heavy armor the knights will be wearing. I've seen it before: knights fighting on, even though the back of their armor is riddled with arrows like a porcupine."

"Then what can we do to stop them?" Ayla asked, looking around at her vassals.

"There's only one thing that can stop knights," Linhart said, grimly. "And that is other knights."

Everyone's gaze turned to Rudolphus, Gregor and Waldar, apart from Reuben the only knights Luntberg had to offer.

Sir Rudolphus cleared his throat. "H-how many knights does the Margrave von Falkenstein have under his command?"

"Six dozen, at least," Sir Gregor said.

"Oh."

"Milady." Sir Gregor bowed to her, his face serene and earnest. "We will fight for you to the death, of course."

"Will we?" Sir Waldar asked.

Sir Gregor through him a look. "Certainly. If there is no other way to face the threat, it is our duty and honor as Lady Ayla's vassals to defend her with our last breath. Who else should meet a host of mounted knights on the battlefield but us?"

"Even if the 'us' consists of four measly knights, and the enemy host of over seventy?"

"True knights show their worth by facing overwhelming odds!"

"Well, in that case you'll soon be very, very, very worthy. And dead."

"Please! Please, my friends." Deeply touched, Ayla raised her hands to cut off Sir Gregor who was just about to make a heated reply. "No! I will not allow something like that. It is noble of you to offer, Sir Gregor, but I would dishonor myself and my father if I allowed my vassals to sacrifice themselves for no good reason."

"But Milady," Sir Gregor protested, "there is every reason. Our honor as knights demands that we—"

"Oh, shut your trap you beef-witted giglet," Reuben growled.

Gregor stiffened. "I beg your pardon, Sir?"

"I said shut your trap. Your face. Your mouth. That thing you make irritating noises with."

"Reuben!" Ayla hissed, feeling color rising to her cheek. "Mind your manners! What Sir Gregor suggested is incredibly brave, and noble, and—"

"...stupid as a pig's fart."

"Reuben!"

The blaggard honestly had the nerve to smirk!

"Milady," he asked her in an infuriatingly reasonable voice, "would you call a plan that results in all our military commanders, myself included, killing themselves on a useless attempt to demonstrate how honorable we are a smart plan?"

"Well... maybe not. But it's very honorable!"

Reuben rolled his eyes. "Satan, save me from honorable people. They'll be the death of me, some day."

"I presume," Ayla shot back at him, her eyes narrowed, "that you, being so thoroughly dishonorable yourself, have a better plan?"

"Certainly I do."

"Would you be so kind as to share it with us?"

Reuben did a little bow, in mockery of Sir Gregor's show of respect. Ayla cursed herself for the fact that the gesture warmed her heart ten times as much as when Sir Gregor had done it.

"Of course, Milady. My plan is this: Once the gates are forced open, we let the Margrave's knight's ride in. We wait until all of them are in the courtyard, and then we kill them. All of them, without mercy."

"And how, if I may ask," Ayla inquired honey-sweet, "are we going to do that with just four knights?"

"I don't need knights."

"You don't?"

"No." Reuben shook his head, his eyes shining with dark fire. "I've got something much better. I've got crow's feet."

*~*~**~*~*

"We're nearly there!"

The groaning and clanking from the gatehouse had reached the volume of a whole chorus of the damned by now. Even Hartung, who was a hardened warrior, couldn't suppress a bout of excitement. It was nearly time! Soon, the gates would be forced open and...

And what?

Would the red knight await them on the inside? Ferocious, monstrous, invulnerable?

Angrily, Hartung shook off the thought. His army would storm the castle. That was what was going to happen! His knights were going to flatten everything in their path. No one man could stand against them!

So...

If he was so sure of that, why was sweat running down his forehead?

"Only minutes left now, Milord," the sergeant's rough voice came from beside him out of the dark. "Only a few minutes!"

*~*~**~*~*

Silence fell over the room. Ayla wasn't quite sure whether she had heard right. Cautiously, she glanced at the other people in the room. They were staring at Reuben too, the expressions on their faces just as baffled as hers had to be. So she hadn't misheard.

"Reuben," she said, carefully taking a step around the table, closer towards him. How could he be thinking about something like that at a time like this? "No, you don't."

Reaching up to his face, she stroked the skin around his eyes. "Trust me," she continued, speaking as she would to a wounded animal. Maybe the stress of the attack had been too much for him, and he had cracked under the strain? "Your face looks perfectly fine. No wrinkles at all, I promise, not even around the eyes. You definitely don't have crow's feet. Why don't you come and lie down here in the corner for a while? There's a cot here for patching up wounded soldiers, and no one is on it at the moment. You can lie down and relax, and you'll soon feel better, I promise. Come, let me—"

She was cut off by a finger being placed over her lips.

"Not that kind of crow's feet," he growled. "I'm not that old yet, for hell's sake!"

"I ne'er 'aid you 'ere," Ayla mumbled against his lips. Hurriedly, she pushed his finger away. "But really, Reuben, even if you had them, it's no problem. Some kind of wrinkles actually suit a man. They give him a mature look that—"

"Ayla!"

"Yes?"

"I am not talking about wrinkles around my eyes! Satan's hairy ass, has no one here ever fought in a serious war before?"

His question was met with silence.

"Stinking hell!" Reuben rolled his eyes. "No one at all?"

"No!" Burchard growled. "Why do you think we've kept you around? For your charming personality?"

"All right." Taking a deep breath, Reuben slid his hand into his pocket. When it came out again a second later, it was holding something that shone with a wicked metallic gleam. He dropped it onto the table, and after turning once or twice it came to rest with a plink.

Ayla, along with everyone else stared at the wickedly sharp metal object, pointing one sharp spike towards the ceiling.

"Now listen up," Reuben growled. "Here's what we're going to do..."