The night was silent over Luntberg Castle as it had not been in a long, long time. No unearthly racket pierced the darkness, no funeral oration was held in a circle of torches. It was simply dark and quiet.
In the dark and the quiet, a figure slipped from one of the soldier's barracks and moved stealthily towards the outer gate. It didn't go straight across the courtyard. No, instead, it slipped from shadow to shadow in the manner of someone who had a powerful need to be silent. Nevertheless, now and again, a clinking noise betrayed the fact that it was there, and that it was wearing pieces of armor.
In the shadows of one of the outer buildings, the figure hesitated, looking around. Nobody was there. The guards at the gate were missing, just as he had known they would be, and nobody else seemed to have noticed his approach either. He noticed that even the doors to the towers on both sides of the gate stood slightly ajar. Had someone simply left them open? They had really left in a hurry to be at the grave.
The figure nodded. This was going to be easier than he had thought.
With his eyes, he measured the distance between his hiding place and the gate. Maybe thirty-five feet? He would have to be very quick, and very silent, so the guards on the inner wall wouldn't notice him. It had been a piece of luck that he had been able to open the inner gate without anybody noticing. If he now managed to open the outer gate, too, all of this would be finally over. The Margrave would win the feud and he would have his reward.
For a moment, he hesitated. Then three faces appeared in front of his mind's eye, and his jaw set in determination. For them! He was doing this for them!
Suddenly decided, he dashed from the shadows and across the yard, onto the path and into the shadow of the gatehouse. So eager to reach the safe shadows was he, that he nearly slammed head on into the solid stone wall. Panting, he pressed himself against the stone and stared back up at the inner wall to see if any guard had noticed him down here.
But no. There was only one, and he was walking away to the west, his back turned towards him. As the man in the shadows saw that, his breathing became easier. Now for his final task. He steeled himself for what was to come. It had to be done.
Cautiously, he looked left and right to check one final time if there wasn't anybody else in the outer courtyard by chance who had noticed him. Nobody. The only movement came from the half-open door of the tower that moved a bit in the wind with creaking hinges. Reassured, he entered the gatehouse and stood before the giant wooden mechanism that was used to pull up the metal portcullis. Once it was up and the gates were open, the way would be free for the Margrave.
He gripped the first lever.
It was then that he realized something. The door of the tower had been swinging in the wind? But... there was no wind.
Heavy footsteps sounded behind him.
“You! Stop right there!”
He whirled around, but too late. The two guards were already on him and grabbed his arms. He struggled, kicking and snarling ferociously. If he didn't shout, if he overpowered them, he could still do it! He could still earn his reward!
Then two more guards appeared in the door of the gatehouse, both in full armor and wide awake, and he realized he would not be able to overcome them. These weren't just random men out for a late night walk. They had been waiting for him.
“No!”
One of the men strode forward, an expression on his face that was as dark as the devil's heart, and raised a fist.
It's over was the last thought the man had before the fist hit him in the head and he stopped struggling abruptly.
*~*~**~*~*
“Check the gate mechanism!” the sergeant called to his men. “Are the pulleys still intact?”
Two of the guards went to the back of the gatehouse, and held up their torches to give everything a quick examination.
“Yes, Sir!”
“And the chains?”
“In perfect order, Sir!”
“Are the gates still closed?”
“Yes. And the portcullis is down, Sir. Everything is as it should be.”
“Good. You two, stay here.” Stepping outside, he gestured to the two guards, who immediately followed him out and took up positions on either side of the firmly closed gate. “The rest, follow me! And grab that piece of filth!”
The other two guards promptly seized the unconscious form on the floor. The traitor groaned, proving that he wasn't entirely unconscious after all. The guards didn't care. They didn't try to make him stand, just dragged him between them through the dirt.
The guards at the inner gate were already waiting, their eyes fierce in the torchlight, the gate standing wide. “You caught him?”
The sergeant nodded. “You bet we did.”
“And what’s going to happen to him now?”
“What do you think?” The sergeant half-turned to his two men, who were lagging a bit behind, hindered by their struggling burden. “Come on, you two! Milady is waiting!”
They did not choose the path to the main entrance of the keep, as one might perhaps have expected for a meeting with the mistress of the castle. Instead, they dragged their half-conscious captive to the rear of the keep, past the orchard and Sir Isenbard's grave, towards the entrance to a part of the keep that for a very long time had not been used: the dungeon.
“Stop!” the sergeant commanded. “We’re here!”
Right in front of the steel bar door that sealed the gloom of the dungeon from the outer world they dropped their prisoner on the ground. He made a movement, maybe wanting to escape—but one of the guards slammed his foot into the traitor’s back and pressed him firmly into the ground. Soon after, the other one had managed to unlock the door. It squeaked ominously as it swung open.
“All right, men. Down into hell with him, where he belongs!”
“Yes, Sir!”
Grabbing their prisoner by the arms again, they began to drag him down the narrow staircase, not caring particularly if his knees scraped over the floor or his head bumped against the wall. But they didn't just throw him down the stairs deliberately either, which, judging from their expressions, they were more than ready to do.
Finally, they reached their destination: one of the dungeon cells deep, deep underground, cut into the solid rock of the mountain. They unlocked one of the iron bar doors and dragged the moaning figure inside.
There, Ayla was waiting.
*~*~**~*~*
It was one of the larger dungeon cells. Yesterday, it had been dusty and unused, stacked full of odds and ends that had been lying around in the castle for years, just as the other cells. Today it was spotless, all the junk thrown out. Spiderwebs and dust had vanished. The floor was freshly scrubbed. A bowl of water and a chamberpot waited in the corner. Manacles hung from an iron ring in the wall.
Burchard, Sir Waldar, Sir Rudolphus, Captain Linhart and Reuben, together with a few of the most trusted guards, formed a sort of honor guard on both sides of the long room, holding torches aloft. But they were no honor guard, really. If anything, they were a guard of shame and betrayal.
The two soldiers who had the moaning man in their clutches marched between them, dragging him over the floor without being too careful about it. They marched right up to Lady Ayla, who stood waiting at the end of the two rows of men, and dumped him in front of her on the floor.
“We did as you said, Milady,” one of the guards reported, his voice cold with rage. “We lay in wait for him at the gate, and he came. He was going to fling that gate wide open and let these accursed mercenaries in!”
He spat on the floor beside the man he had dragged inside. Ayla was gripped by a terrible sense of foreboding as she stared down at the sorry figure, who hadn't made a single attempt to move, but just lay there, shivering.
“Get up,” she whispered. “I want to see the face of the man who betrayed me.”
When no reaction came from the figure on the floor, one of the guards drew back his foot and kicked the man in the side.
“Show the lady your treacherous mug, you hell-hated worm!”
He drew back his foot to kick out again, but Ayla quickly held up a hand. “Enough! I will not have a prisoner mistreated in my castle!”
“Are you sure?” Reuben growled from beside her. “I know some pretty nice methods of mistreatment. You wouldn't have to watch, you could leave it all to me.”
“As much as I hate to agree with him,” Burchard growled, “he's right. This... creature deserves everything a torture chamber has to offer.”
Ayla didn't pay any attention to them. She could be angry with them later—or thank them for the offer, depending on her mood. At the moment she really didn't know what to think or feel. This quivering mess in front of her was a traitor, a man who had willingly tried to sell her and all his friends to the Margrave. And yet, something in her held her back from letting the men around her vent their rage on him, as they obviously wanted to.
“Show me your face,” she ordered in a low voice. “You’re already a traitor, do you want to be a coward, too?”
Slowly, very slowly, the man on the floor did as she asked. He raised himself up on his hands and knees, and then raised his head until she could see his face clearly.
Ayla's mouth dropped open.
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Good Morrow, Milords and Ladies (or rather good night, since it is a dark, sinister night deep in the dungeon)
Now there is the question of punishment. What will be the fate of the traitor? Who will win out? Ayla with her principles, or Reuben with his plans of dark and bloody traitor-torture ;-)
Bets shall be accepted by the my herald, standing over there behind the castle, next to the stables. Currently, the odds stand two to one.
Your medieval scribe (sharpening Sir Reuben's implements of torture)
Sir Rob