How a Second Life Knight Lives

18. Strong in Cavalry Combat Too.

Mihau’s question was valid.

The act of a territorial noble plundering and burying passing merchants is something that happens often enough to be forgotten. The known incidents are that many, so the assumption that the unknown incidents would add up to a considerable number is also valid.

In a world where public order is a mess, nobles commit such acts with the attitude of not caring who killed whom.

However, the deviations they commit eventually tighten their own noose.

There are no secrets in the world.

Even if you can hide it once or twice, you can’t hide it more than that. There are too many mouths that can speak, and the investigations to resolve the grudges of lost property and lives are persistent.

In the end, everything is revealed, and those who committed the crimes are punished.

That’s normal.

But these were not normal times.

Who would punish the guilty nobles?

The Emperor?

There is no Emperor.

So, the higher nobility?

Even among the nobility, there are differences in status and they are bound by contracts, but unless they are vassals, even higher nobles do not have the right to punish lower nobles.

In practice, punishment for nobles is supposed to be sought through the emperor’s judgment.

Let me emphasize once again, there is no emperor.

Then there is no punishment for nobles.

In the end, self-help is the only option left.

“Whether Baron Patterson has gone mad or has some ulterior motive, I don’t care. We need to get out of here first.”

“I want to do that too, but those guys with helmets over there, they must be knights, right?”

“Probably. And among the ones whose faces are visible, I see a familiar knight.”

“It’s not going to be easy. With that many knights, it’s really not going to be easy.”

As Bartek and Mihau feared, the enemies steadily did what they had to do.

First, some of the cavalrymen who were charging towards the barricade made of Powell’s caravan wagons turned their horses towards the mounted mercenaries.

The ones who broke away were not knights but cavalrymen, but almost half of them charged towards the mounted mercenaries.

And the rest charged towards the barricade made of wagons.

*

When I confirmed the newly appeared enemies, I immediately got on my horse.

Alan, with a half-dead face, felt the Grim Reaper standing behind him retreat and collapsed, lying down.

His arm still did not move.

With this, Alan’s battle was over.

Whoever wins will take Alan.

And I charged towards the approaching enemy cavalry to become the victor.

The number of enemy cavalry was twice that of our cavalry.

However, the numbers on both sides were not large.

When the numbers are small, skill determines everything.

So we can win, and we must win.

So I urged my horse to run faster.

We were already outnumbered, we couldn’t afford to be outpaced. If we were outpaced, we would be at a disadvantage. The cavalry could be overwhelmed unilaterally.

I didn’t even check who was following me.

I thrust my iron club forward like a spear.

It was a weapon no different from a 1.5-meter lance, but the mercenaries who had witnessed how I smashed bandits with it in front of their eyes shouted with renewed vigor.

“`

I was not alone.

The sound of roaring voices spreading from behind informed me that there were people with me.

I charged at the enemies faster than the roaring voices.

A long spear aimed at my chest and thrust forward.

It was a distance too far for my relatively short iron club to do anything.

However, the moment the spear was about to reach my chest, I clung to the side of the horse.

To the enemy’s eyes, it would have seemed as if I had suddenly disappeared.

The enemy’s spear stabbed futilely into empty air.

The enemy, who had braced for a great impact, staggered, having lost its target.

At that moment, I climbed back onto the horse and swung my iron club, holding it long.

The attack of the iron club, augmented by the speed of the run, splendidly unhorsed the knight holding the long spear.

The unhorsed knight was trampled by the horse of Zhukov, who was following behind me. Zhukov’s horse, trained as a warhorse, dealt with the enemy as needed.

As soon as I dealt with one enemy, the blade of a passing enemy cavalryman grazed my chest. I leaned back again, dodging the blade’s attack.

Of course, I didn’t just dodge.

Attack is the best defense.

While leaning back, I struck upward with my iron club.

The attack hit perfectly. The iron club I struck upward hit the enemy’s jaw. The chin strap tightening the helmet is not a guard.

The enemy fainted and fell off the horse.

The moment when the cavalrymen of both sides passed each other was very brief. However, in that fleeting moment, nearly half of the cavalrymen on both sides were unhorsed or injured, hanging onto their horses and retreating from the battlefield.

Still, those who remained glared at each other, positioning themselves for another charge.

As we started running, glaring at each other, I pulled out the crossbow that was stuck beside the saddle. Zhukov also aimed his crossbow forward.

We cannot stop the running horse.

No, we must not stop.

The moment we stop, the cavalryman dies.

That is the same even if a crossbow is thrust right in front of us.

Not just any infantry, but a seasoned mercenary cannot finish off a cavalryman who has become a sitting duck.

So the enemies had no choice but to charge, knowing that crossbow bolts would fly at them.

Instead, they increased their speed.

They crouched and hid their bodies behind their shields.

The enemies’ thoughts were obvious.

“`

The mercenaries pretending to be cavalry were blown away by half with a single collision. If they could succeed in one more attack, there would no longer be any cavalry units meaningful to merchants selling salt.

So, just one more time!

That must be what they were thinking.

So, they decided to strike the enemy before the enemy could strike them.

Not with a short mace, but with a crossbow.

The crossbow bolts were aimed at the horses, not the men.

There are crossbows that can pierce through iron plates if shot from a close distance, but that would be an unreasonable demand for this small crossbow carried on a saddle.

So, shooting the horses rather than the properly armored cavalrymen was a more certain way to reduce the enemy.

Indeed, the crossbow bolts fired while running did their job well.

Two horses fell and rolled over, and the riders on top were injured as they fell. One of them seemed to have broken its neck, as it lay motionless in a strangely twisted position.

Of the remaining two bolts, one was stuck in the armor and dangling, but it was obvious that it hadn’t even scratched the skin, and the other one was nowhere to be seen.

That was more than expected.

Although Baron Patterson’s cavalry still had a numerical advantage of 2:1, I didn’t feel disadvantaged.

The ones I had to face now were only eight, no matter how skilled they were. It wasn’t like facing dozens or hundreds, but less than ten. Moreover, behind me were three mercenaries burning with determination. It wasn’t a situation where we would be overwhelmed one-sidedly.

And the fewer the numbers in such a fight, the more meaningless the strength of numbers becomes. The strength of individuals has a greater impact.

Like this.

The mace I swung struck the helmet of the enemy rider who was sticking close. Although the helmet was meant to protect the head, the impact from the mace was too great for it to fulfill its role.

The enemy rider lost consciousness and fell from the horse.

Did he lose consciousness?

Judging by the dented shape, it didn’t seem like he just lost consciousness.

The cavalryman who was urgently approaching to protect his comrade realized he was too late as he saw his comrade falling. He swung his sword at me, hoping to exploit an opening. I also swung my mace at the approaching sword.

The sword clashed with the mace.

Comparing the impact of the sword and the mace, the sword wasn’t completely overpowered.

The sword was also made by hammering iron and had considerable weight.

But now, the weight of the sword wasn’t the issue.

The difference in the force of the swing was so great that blocking with the sword was meaningless.

The wrist bent under the unbearable force, and the sword flew away.

I felt almost no impact. The impact was all taken by my opponent.

I swung the mace again, intending to strike the enemy rider once more.

However, the frightened rider was desperately dodging, so I couldn’t get a satisfying distance to finish him off in one blow.

Is this guy stalling for time?

If he’s too scared to fight, he should just run away. Then I would have given him a smack on the back and he wouldn’t have had to fight anymore.

But instead of running away, he tries to maintain an ambiguous distance, not close enough to attack directly.

I had just overcome the impact of the second charge without difficulty and taken down two more enemies. However, the mercenaries who charged with me, except for Jukob, had all fallen off their horses or were injured and had left the front line.

We entered the melee after the charge as usual, but now the enemy was blatantly avoiding combat.

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Are they trying to buy time?

This is troublesome.

I needed to finish up here quickly and get to the mercenaries of the caravan who were losing their momentum.

I became anxious.

So I struck the horse.

I hit the horse’s head that had come within the striking range of my iron club.

The horse fell sideways without even a scream. It stretched out its four legs and trembled.

The rider on the horse lost consciousness as his leg was broken under the fallen horse.

All the remaining cavalrymen of Baron Patterson, who had come to deal with the caravan’s cavalry, saw that scene.

Their horses saw it too.

After that, it wasn’t the demoralized riders that were the problem, but their horses.

Every time I approached, the horses got scared and refused to obey their riders, trying to run away.

In the end, the remaining ones gave up the fight and fled.

It was a moment that once again proved that horses are smart but easily frightened.

I also returned to the caravan’s wagon defense line, following the fleeing enemies. The only one running with me was Jukob, the squad leader.

At the campsite, the caravan’s mercenaries were holding out, leaning against the wagons. The enemies who had attacked the campsite were much more skilled than those I had faced, but they still hadn’t broken through the wagon walls.

This was because, in addition to the mercenaries desperately fighting to survive, there were also the dual-sword Mihau and the wizard Piyotr.

The sound of swords clashing echoed like the sound of percussion instruments. The rhythmic metallic clashes captivated the soul. The sharpness of the sound, as if it would cut if touched, scratched through the flesh beyond the armor.

Those who were fascinated by the intensity jumped in, but the speed of the sword dance did not slow down. Instead, it exuded a dangerous momentum that seemed unbearable, luring the opponent in.

Mihau, the dual-sword wielder, had killed many knights. Most were killed on the battlefield, and the rest in duels. Occasionally, there were opponents who seemed a bit too much to handle, but as he increased the speed of his thrusts, they would eventually collapse and die in vain.

The current opponent is no different.

No, they must not be.

Otherwise, too many comrades would die.

Mihau, the dual-sword wielder, had to fulfill his role.