The Robber Knight's Secret

55. Night of Mighty Knights

The castle gates gave way with an almighty crash, the doors flying open, the portcullis ripped from its stone curb and hurled to the side, far out of the way. For a moment, Hartung was blinded by the light flooding out through the archway. It wasn't that the archway itself was lit—no, it was pitch black. But beyond the arch, at the other end of the courtyard, half a dozen torches burned in brackets on the inner wall. And in front of the torches, only visible as a dark red silhouette in front of the flickering flames, a gigantic man sat on a beast of a black stallion, waiting.

Hartung's heart jumped.

"Forward!" he heard himself shout, and all around him, horses started to move. He urged his mount forward, too, and they started to proceed up the mountain, faster and faster.

Halfway to the gate, the first arrow zipped passed Hartung's face.

"Raise your shields!" he bellowed. Most of the knights didn't need to be told. These men weren't mindless arrowfudder, like the simple men at arms. They were born warriors, able to think for themselves and decide over life and death.

"Canter!" At his command, everyone increased their speed. They were approaching the gate now, a hailstorm of arrows and pebbles raining down on them. Hartung ignored the annoying flies, instead focusing on the dark red figure in front of the torchlight which was all he could see beyond the archway.

The fool actually has the arrogance to believe that he can face all of us alone!

This was too good a chance to miss. They were nearly there, already!

"Knights of the Margrave, charge!"

Spurring on his stallion, Hartung drove the beast under the archway, towards the courtyard, shielding his eyes against the blinding light ahead. The other knights followed close behind, the thunder of their horse's hooves against the cobblestones rising towards the sky, a deadly threat to all who heard it.

The red knight didn't seem overly concerned by that threat, however. Casually, he raised his lance—a knight's equivalent to a raised middle finger.

"You..." Hartung growled into his beard. "I'll gut you and hand your head over to the Margrave, you devil!"

Pressing his heels even harder into the sides of his stallion, he spurred the animal on to still greater speed. Horse and rider came shooting out from under the archway like a thunderbolt: deadly and unstoppable.

Hartung lowered his lance, aiming at the red knight's chest.

"Prepare to die!" he roared over the clatter of hooves.

Too late he saw the metallic glint on the dark ground in front of him. Too late he heard his horse's painridden whinny. Too late he realized what a terrible mistake he had made.

"Good's tee—"

Before he could even finish his curse, the stallion's legs buckled. The animal fell sideways, smashing onto the ground and making a sound that sounded more like a human scream than any sound a horse could make. Hartung caught a brief glimpse of the objects that, hidden by the shadows, littered the ground—small metal tripods with wicked spikes and sharp edges—before his own head hit the ground with a thud, and his world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of colors.

Through the haze of dancing rainbows around him, he could hear screams, and thuds, and shouted orders that nobody listened to. Something slammed against the prone body of his horse, hurling him from the saddle. Another rider from behind him colliding with him, he realized just a moment before his head slammed into the cobblestones again.

"Argh!"

Dazedly, Hartung realized that the cry of pain had come from his own throat. What was happening to him? He never cried out in pain. He never showed weakness.