The Robber Knight's Love (The Robber Knight Saga #2)(21)

Fritz studied the impressive form of his commander in the devilish red suit of armor. He really cut an impressive figure. Why, Fritz could have sworn that he was a foot taller than when he had last seen him. But it was probably just the light from the campfires that made everything seem taller by throwing long, dark shadows on the grass and tents. Or maybe it was the wine.

“Help! Damn you all, doesn't anybody in this godforsaken camp listen to me?” came sir Luca's enraged voice out of the tent. “Help me! Now!”

Fritz frowned, his befuddled brain trying to grasp the situation. If Sir Luca was inside the tent and needed help and Sir Luca was standing in front of the tent in his red armor…that made two Sir Lucas, which was one too many…

Good Lord! Did that mean that, in future, he would have to take orders from two commanders at once? Fritz didn't relish the thought at all. One commander was difficult enough, but two? What if they disagreed about a battle strategy? Or what if they wanted to use the commander's bathtub at the same time? Fritz could already see multitudes of problems arising.

“Help me, someone!” the Sir Luca inside the tent bellowed. The Sir Luca outside the tent motioned with a thumb for Fritz to enter the tent. Fritz thought that was an excellent idea. Maybe the Sir Luca inside the tent would be able to explain what the other one was doing outside. Or maybe, by the time Fritz left the tent again, the effects of the wine would have worn off and there would just be one commander again.

With that cheerful thought in mind, he stepped past the armored Sir Luca into the tent, not forgetting to bow respectfully, of course. The figure in red armor answered his greeting with a curt nod and strode off towards where the horses were tethered.

~~*~~*

At the back of the tent, Reuben found both his black stallion, Satan, and the mare, Eleanor, tied to a rope between two tent poles. With a swipe of his sword, he cut their bonds and then whistled once.

“Satan! Come here!”

Only when the black stallion didn't move away from Eleanor did Reuben look more closely and saw what the horses were doing. The black horse was standing closer to Ayla's mare than Reuben had originally thought. In fact, a lot closer. And they both appeared very busy.

“Satan! Now isn't the time for that!”

He smacked the horse’s rear end. The stallion whinnied in protest but left off his activities and trotted to his master. Eleanor followed quite willingly.

The knight took his time saddling his horse. Having checked the straps a final time, Sir Reuben Rachwild swung himself into the saddle and rode at a leisurely pace between the tents of the soldier's encampment. Behind him, he could hear the shouts of Sir Luca DeLombardi escalate, and soon after, the clamor of weapons joined the shouting. Reuben didn’t ride one iota faster.

In front of him appeared the camp's main gates: impressive constructions, considering they had only been put up yesterday. As he had anticipated, the guard by the gates were reduced by several men already. As was probably the case with other guard posts in the camp, several soldiers had gone off to inquire after the source of the shouting from the commander's tent.

Only about a dozen men were left now. Under his helmet, Reuben smiled. A dozen. What a pitiful challenge.

They all sprang to their feet and stood at attention as he approached. See how eagerly they greet death, Reuben thought to himself.

“Sir,” one of the men said, stepping forward and bowing. “What do you wish of us at this late hour?”

“I wish to leave the camp,” answered Reuben in a low, gravelly voice that nobody in the world could have mistaken for the affected tones of Sir Luca DeLombardi.

The soldier tensed. “What is wrong with your voice, Sir?”

“Nothing,” replied Reuben. “It sounds just as it always has.”

Slowly, the hand of the soldier crept towards his guisarme.[5]

“I wouldn't recommend that.” Reuben's tone was leisurely. His hand still rested on the neck of his stallion, nowhere near his sword hilt.

“Are you…” The soldier swallowed, and his comrades behind him slowly rose to their feet. “Are you Sir Luca DeLombardi?”

“Do you really want to have the answer to that question?” Reuben wanted to know, his deep voice like a black, bottomless pit. “You could say you believed I was him and let me out.”

The soldier’s hand crept a little closer to his weapon.

“But why would I do that?” he asked, hoarsely.

“Maybe because you'd like to stay alive.”

There was a moment of silence—and then the soldier grabbed his guisarme and stormed towards Reuben.

Like a flash, Reuben's sword was suddenly in his hand. He didn't even appear to have drawn it. It just suddenly was there. His arm delivered a quick, simple cut.

The soldier was about to raise his guisarme in triumph when his expression changed abruptly. His face contorted, then slackened—and then, slowly, his head toppled off his shoulders. Reuben jumped down from his horse. It hadn't rained last night, but, as he landed, he heard a wet splash beneath his feet.

Ah, well, he grinned to himself, my armor is red anyway.

With determined steps, he advanced towards the remaining men. All of them were ordinary men-at-arms—nothing but simpletons armed with clubs and pig-stickers. He snorted in disgust. Nevertheless, half of them had the good sense to turn and run. The other half grabbed their pole weapons and came at him, swinging their stupid makeshift arms as if he were a tree they wanted to fell.