Chapter 7: Bandits
Lothar had no idea that his two squires had already imagined Banu to be a witch—or rather, even if he did know, he wouldn't care.
After all, witch hunts didn't exist in this world. Witches could even openly serve as advisors to emperors.
And truthfully, their guess wasn't far off. In fact, Lothar believed that an average witch wouldn't stand a chance against Banu.
Among the five stats provided by the system:
Strength was the most straightforward—it encompassed attack power, carrying capacity, and more.
Agility represented speed and reflexes.
Constitution referred to a combatant's stamina, regeneration, and health.
Endurance also somewhat related to stamina, but it was more about defense.
Spirit was basically about magic damage, mana and such.
Even without considering her skills, Banu's stats alone placed her in the same tier as high-level witches.
And then there was her shield—a legendary artifact. Whether against physical attacks or magic, it was virtually impenetrable.
***
On the boundless plateau, a caravan flying red-and-white striped banners slowly advanced.
Knights and retainers—dressed in a mix of styles and bearing different crests—rode casually at the front of the column.
Behind them followed servants and squires in plain clothes, as well as over a dozen soldiers clad in chainmail shirts.
At the very front, a knight with a peacock feather plume in his helmet and a blue surcoat barked orders with a commanding tone.
"Stay alert! This is the most dangerous stretch of the trade route to Tyrol. Those starving runaway serfs and bandits, who survive on cabbages and turnips, might come charging down from the hills with pitchforks and axes at any moment!"
"If you frighten the noble Countess, every one of you will end up hanging from the gallows!"
The soldiers replied weakly, "Yes, my lord."
The Peacock Knight's expression turned grim.
This part of Switzerland was wild and mountainous.
The western regions still belonged to Swabia, the heartland of the Hohenstaufen dynasty that ruled the empire, and were relatively stable.
But the further east one went—toward the borderlands governed by the Bishopric of Trento—the poorer and more chaotic it became.
Desperate commoners and exploitative lords meant countless serfs fled into the mountains to become outlaws. Add to that the fact that this was a border zone, and neither side's lords were willing to invest the manpower or resources to root them out.
As if to prove the Peacock Knight's fears correct, a cluster of black dots appeared on a distant hill on the horizon. They grew larger and more numerous until their full shapes could be seen.
More than thirty horsemen, clad in chainmail and leather armor, emerged.
They were clearly not the ragged peasants or bandits the Peacock Knight had warned about—but an organized cavalry unit.
They spread out in a line atop the slope, watching the caravan coldly from a distance.
The caravan came to a halt immediately.
Panic spread among the soldiers and servants. Everyone knew that in such open terrain, cavalry reigned supreme. If they lost, they wouldn't even have a chance to flee.
From one of the carriages, the alluring voice of the Countess called out.
"Fred, what's happening?"
"Countess, we have enemies approaching,"
the Peacock Knight said quietly at her side, before raising his voice,
"Everyone, prepare for battle! Protect the Countess's carriage—no one is allowed to approach it!"
With that, he and two mounted knights advanced to confront the approaching cavalry.
"Halt! This caravan belongs to the Karl family of Augsburg. You are offending a noble Countess. Step aside immediately—or my men and I will cut your throats and feed your bones to the wild dogs on the mountain."
The horsemen drew closer.
There were over thirty of them. Some wore tattered jackets, others chainmail. Their gear looked mediocre, but their savage presence made the Peacock Knight feel uneasy.
The leading rider sneered and raised a hunting bow. With a sharp twang, the arrow struck the kite shield held by the Peacock Knight.
Their intentions were clear—they had never come to negotiate.
The knight flew into a rage and shouted,
"Knights, follow me forward! The rest of you, defend from behind the wagons! No one is to leave the formation!"
Meanwhile, on the opposite hillside, Moder frowned.
"My lord, are we going to intervene?"
"We don't have a choice anymore."
Lothar pointed to two scouting riders circling the battlefield.
"They've already spotted us."
"Even if we abandoned all our supplies, we still wouldn't be able to outrun light cavalry. Not with Banu, Ryan, and you all riding packhorses."
He sighed lightly, then called out,
"Squires! Fetch my lance—we're going into battle."
He pulled on the hood of his chainmail coif and surcoat, then lowered the barrel-shaped helmet over his head, leaving only a slit for his eyes. The world instantly became quiet. His breathing echoed inside the helmet, sounding deeper and heavier.
Ryan handed him his heavy lance. Lothar gripped it in his right hand, strapped a kite shield to his left, and slung his arming sword over his saddle.
"Should I go with you?" Banu asked softly.
Lothar shook his head.
"Your horse probably isn't up to the task."
Banu's mount was the packhorse gifted by Father Sawyer from the town. And packhorses were a far cry from true warhorses. Packhorses prioritized endurance and didn't require noble breeds. Warhorses, on the other hand, were taller, faster, stronger, and even braver than packhorses.
Banu frowned.
"I can catch up to you even without a mount."
Lothar paused in surprise, then shook his head again.
"Forget it. That'd be a bit too shocking. Just be ready here. I trust Joy's speed."
Joy was his warhorse, fed daily with premium feed. A significant portion of the supplies carried by the three packhorses was reserved just for it. In the Count's domain, Joy was considered one of the best horses available.
Lothar was confident that even if he couldn't win, he could still retreat safely.
More importantly, he had faith in his own strength. Trained in the ways of knighthood since childhood, he was practically a war machine—albeit one yet untested in real combat.
And with his fine armor, the chances of being defeated were slim.
Banu nodded.
"Very well. We'll be ready to back you up."
The two squires had also geared up—one with a sword and shield, the other winding the crank on a crossbow. But in such open terrain, their effectiveness would be limited.
Lothar had chosen them for their potential in mountain warfare. He hadn't expected his first battle to take place on an open plateau.
Lothar let out a long breath. Through the narrow slit, he saw the two scout riders veering toward them, charging at full speed.
Lothar nudged his heels into his horse's flanks. The pounding of hooves roared in his ears.
Gripping his lance tightly, he felt adrenaline flood his veins. His heart pounded like a war drum, deafening and urgent.
couched lance technique was charging formation typically used when knights advanced in unison. Without comrades flanking him, this tactic left a rider too exposed.
So, Lothar chose a standard grip instead—less powerful, but more agile and better suited for solo combat.