A soft ting! informed him that an arrow had struck one of the plates attached to the chest of his coat. In trying to drag him out of the way, she'd actually dragged him into the way. At least, Ulbarich consoled himself, she still would have been alive to avenge him. Part of the danger of having someone else trying to shove you around and instruct you on your movement. She might have been a soldier, and she was definitely good with a bow, but she clearly was not used to fighting in a unit. It was a thing you learned early on. Don't assume that you can save everyone and don't interrupt a man's movement to substitute your own unless you're damn sure.
She was merely damn lucky.
Somewhere a deep horn was blowing. It was not his own troop's rally - the horn he used for that was still hanging from his belt, undamaged despite all of his flailing and searching about in less than nothing. This was thin and high, a call from the bandits. He knew the idea of the thing well enough to identify its source. Or at least, he thought he did. The truth was that he'd been completely unable to recall ever hearing such a sound before. Yet he'd theorized once before that there was a hard military core to the conduct these bandits were exhibiting. A worry for another time. Ulbarich plunged ahead, despite snow that came up to his knees, and swung the Katzbalger with all his might.
Despite the fact that he'd pulled his short sword the bandit had no defense. The smaller, thinner blade was swept aside by a weapon used to pierce the hide of orcs. From forehead to stomach the bandit was split open by the wicked tip of the blade. Ulbarich was prepared for a more considered and measured follow-up, but the follow-up was not needed. The man was down on the ground, he was dead, and the horn was blowing again in the distance. There was that lady captain, preparing to flee, save for the fact that she'd been surrounded by men in Faustben's uniform. Specifically the men were in the yellow-and-black they preferred, some with goggles and headgear, others with armor, but all of them wearing the colors.
To the last they had their bows up, and pointed at the stranger, who was not known to them.
"Weapons down, you men," Ulbarich ordered firmly; his brogue was readily apparent despite the severity of his voice. "She's a friend. The colors are real."
This last was said as he touched the small gouge in the plate where he'd been struck by that arrow. A miscalculation, to be sure. Yet their arrows and bows were lowered. They even saluted her rank. And then their attention turned outward, this loose circle of men, watching the perimeter while the Captain and the Captain were introduced. Ulbarich dragged the Katzbalger in the snow behind him as he swung toward her with high, even steps.
"Well met," he said without formality. "Thank you for saving my life. I am Ulbarich, son of Gerbold, and captain of these - the king's men."