Since ancient times, an enormous gulf had existed between infantry on two legs and cavalry on four. To draw a comparison, it was like a fight between someone with no legs below the knees, walking on their thighs, and someone walking on two sound feet. The latter could not only move faster, but survey their surroundings from higher up with a broader field of vision, always forcing the battle onto ground favorable to themselves.

Add a bow to the equation, and it became a literal nightmare. Archers were already a branch of troops that could ravage sword- and spear-wielding infantry from afar without retaliation. Give those bastards mobility as well, and they could keep inflicting casualties without ever taking a hit.

Despite those overwhelming advantages, mounted archers were rare for one simple reason: mounted archery was fiendishly difficult. It required a high degree of mastery in two entirely unrelated skills, archery and riding. In an ordinary agrarian society, only a privileged few could learn to ride from childhood and devote their time to practicing with a bow.

Perhaps it was different for the people of Horace to the west, who were said to ride horses from birth, but here in Libert, were there even a hundred people altogether who could shoot skillfully from horseback? Even most of those could probably do no more than hit an enemy within twenty meters.

Thus, when Shan displayed his splendid mounted archery by picking off an enemy some fifty meters away, the mercenaries who had rushed out felt something beyond bewilderment, bordering on terror.

"A horse archer...!"

"Go get the riders! Archers, keep him busy until then!"

The mercenary commander hurried behind a large shield. For someone who had never faced a proper horse archer, his orders were remarkably sound.

The natural enemies of mounted archers were the two halves of their own specialty: archers and cavalry. An archer with both feet planted on the ground could shoot faster and more accurately than one on horseback, while cavalry, unlike infantry, had the speed to catch fleeing horse archers and kill them.

Unfortunately, Shan was on an entirely different level from an ordinary horse archer.

He drew arrows from his saddlebag and loosed them in succession, killing the three archers among the mercenaries who had rushed out. Unlike his first shot, every arrow struck precisely where he aimed.

Fortunately for them, while two toppled with arrows through an eye and a throat, the third managed to return fire. Shan, however, casually swung his bow and knocked the incoming arrow aside. For someone who could bat away an ordinary arrow from less than ten meters away, one coming from forty or fifty meters was no different from playing ball.

"What..."

"Is that bastard insane?"

The sight sapped much of the mercenaries' will to fight, bringing them to a halt. Shan urged his horse onward again, circling them as he shot. Some arrows struck hastily raised shields, but naturally, not everyone could have brought a large shield. Those carrying two-handed weapons trembled behind the shield-bearers, only to die screaming as arrows struck them.

"Hold on! Reinforcements are coming!"

Just as he said, two riders who had seen their plight soon came galloping from the main camp. They were not skilled enough to fight freely from horseback like knights, but the mere ability to ride earned them several times the pay of the others.

"Captain!"

"You all right?"

"Do I look all right? Forget about me and get that bastard! Leave him alone and he'll be a nightmare to deal with!"

The mercenary captain roared as he wiped blood from the cheek the arrow had grazed. He had a foul temper at the best of times, and being singled out for concentrated fire had left him even more on edge.

"Don't you worry. We'll catch that scrawny nag in no time! Let's go!"

With that confident shout, the rider and his companion spurred their mounts into a charge after the enemy, who had drawn some distance away. True to his word, the two riders were far faster than Shan. Their mounts might not have been particularly good ones, but they were warhorses, while Shan's was merely an ordinary riding horse. It was only natural.

That, however, did not decide the outcome.

"Urgh!"

NEIGH!

With a mournful scream from his horse, one rider toppled from the saddle. Shan had turned his mount to flee from the two pursuers, then twisted around at the waist and shot the horse squarely in the head. Unlike knights, these men could not afford expensive armor for their mounts.

"What kind of madman..."

Watching from behind, the mercenary captain muttered in stunned disbelief. Turning backward to shoot from a horse at full gallop—what was he, one of Horace's half-horse archers?

Of course, Shan paid no heed to his enemies' astonishment. Without hesitation, he shot again, bringing down the second rider's horse as well. Then he reached into the bag to nock another arrow, only to find nothing.

"Oh."

Apparently, he had already used up the dozen or so arrows he had taken from the corpse earlier.

He was reminded once again that, talent aside, archery did not really suit his tastes. There was no satisfying impact, for a start. It was difficult to deal with heavily armored enemies, and he had to keep track of his arrows.

Still, if he lacked a weapon, he could simply replenish his supply from the enemy.

Shan turned his horse back and rode toward the fallen riders as they tried to rise. One had broken his neck in the fall and died. The other managed to stagger upright, limping as though his leg was broken. Shan's target was the long spear the man was using as a crutch.

"D-don't come any closer...!"

Terrified, the rider thrust out his spear in resistance, but Shan turned his horse's head slightly aside to protect it and knocked the spearhead away with a precise stroke of his sword. Then he caught the shaft below the deflected head in his free left hand and sliced downward with his sword, severing the man's wrist.

With practiced ease, he shook off the dangling hand and took hold of the spear. In an instant, he had become a fine lancer. He finished off the rider, who was screaming over the loss of his weapon and hand, by punching an airhole through his neck with the spear.

'A spear really is much better on horseback.'

With his targets farther away, a relatively short one-handed sword was awkward to use.

As Shan charged again with his new weapon, the mercenaries tried to meet him by forming ranks of their own. At least they had faced lancers far more often than horse archers. They thought this was an enemy they could handle.

As if to demonstrate their mistake, Shan ravaged them without retaliation, maddeningly refusing to let them close the distance. Now growing accustomed to riding, he controlled his horse's movements with his legs and used both hands to drive his spear down at his enemies from beyond the reach of their weapons.

"Guh—"

"Your spears! Thrust your spears!"

"Stab the horse, not the man, you morons!"

"He keeps blocking us!"

Those mercenaries armed with long spears tried to stab his mount, but Shan deflected every attack and countered each time. Though his spear was plainly made of straight, solid wood, it seemed to bend this way and that like a snake, slipping past shields and weapons to rip apart the mercenaries' exposed flesh.

The only real inconvenience was that his horse reacted skittishly whenever metal clashed nearby. Considering it was not a trained warhorse in the first place, though, even this much was impressive.

Just as he pulled his spear out of his fifth enemy's face, Shan drew his horse back a little and turned his gaze. He had felt a strange chill, like the one that had woken him when goblins attacked him in his sleep.

'That's...'

Every soldier in the camp had now mustered and was advancing toward him. Judging by their equipment, most seemed to be mercenaries, but there were also two fairly heavily armored riders who looked to be a knight's squires.

At their head was a knight clad in full plate armor. Unlike the others, who moved at a relatively leisurely pace, he alone was galloping straight toward Shan at full speed.

'He's fast!'

Despite carrying a knight in plate armor and wearing barding itself, the knight's horse moved far more nimbly than the riders' warhorses had moments before. Given the difference in speed, evasion was utterly impossible.

"Hyah!"

Completing his calculations in an instant, Shan instead rode toward his opponent. He had instinctively realized that if he could not escape, he was better off gathering speed and meeting the charge. In mounted combat, the second-worst situation was having a faster enemy behind you. The worst was losing your speed and standing still as an enemy charged.

'His lance is longer and heavier, so I can't meet it head-on... I'll have to deflect it with the inner part of my shaft and counterattack.'

Of course, that would require absurd reflexes, but Shan had never found himself lacking in that regard.

As he watched his opponent's weapon with that thought in mind, he realized that the jet-black lance in the knight's hand looked familiar for some reason.

'Oh.'

During the battle he had witnessed yesterday, two of the four red-plumed knights had blocked the enemy's attacks and fled, while one had been struck by a lance, unhorsed, and captured by the infantry. Only the last had died in the initial clash, pierced straight through the chest. The lance that did it had certainly been black, just like that one.

In other words, this was the only blue-plumed knight skilled enough to kill his opponent in a single exchange—

As realization dawned, he saw the knight draw back his lance to thrust, the motion unfolding slowly before his eyes. From the back and shoulder muscles powering his arm to the pivoting joints, the elbow, and the wrist, every muscle and joint in his body worked in perfect coordination, generating force and transmitting it to the lance's tip.

This was true, proper movement, unlike the limp puppets Shan had always seen... It was such an ideal thrust that he thought he would have moved exactly that way himself if he had possessed the same build.

Shan barely managed to intercept the attack, which came faster than he had anticipated. Yet despite catching the enemy's lance precisely from underneath and lifting, he realized that, somehow, it did not budge. Instead, it effortlessly snapped the spear shaft he gripped tightly in both hands and drove toward his chest.

The farther from the grip, the weaker the force one could exert through a weapon, and a thrust was vulnerable to force pushing it aside. Given those facts, this should have been impossible even for someone of monstrous strength. It was the result of the knight's tremendous will to pierce his opponent becoming spirit and warping reality.

"Ugh...!"

At the critical instant, Shan relaxed the legs clamped around his horse's middle. The recoil from his breaking spear flung his body aside, and the lance narrowly scraped a long line from his chest to his shoulder. Just before he fell, he barely managed to cling to the horse's flank with one arm and one leg, then climb back into the saddle.

Fortunately, his opponent's momentum had carried him in the opposite direction, preventing an immediate pursuit.

'I almost died...!'

Had he been wrong to privately dismiss knights after merely seeing one surrounded by soldiers and knocked flat like a fool the day before? For the first time since taking up a weapon, he had felt his life in danger. Fear and excitement seemed to melt his brain.

Even so, he did not think this was an opponent he could never defeat. At the moment of impact, the knight had clearly failed to react to either Shan's defensive technique or his evasion. He had merely overwhelmed Shan with superior equipment and unexpected strength.

Now that Shan knew the force behind that lance was too much to withstand, he could devise a plan that accounted for it.

For some reason, however, instead of charging again, his opponent raised a hand to halt his troops and approached alone at a slow pace. At around thirty meters away, the knight rested his lance on the saddle and removed his helmet, revealing a sharp-tempered face that looked to be in its mid-thirties. His narrow, slanting eyes swept over Shan appraisingly.

"... You're young. I thought you were merely small of stature."

The knight's voice was low and gloomy as he muttered, almost to himself. Apparently expecting no particular reply, he went straight on to introduce himself.

"I am Feonil of House Alten, a knight dubbed by His Excellency Count Valik. And you are?"

"Shan."

That was still the only word Shan had to define himself. Unlike the bandit captain who had once taken offense at his brief answer, the knight named Feonil merely gave a light snort.

"Whether you will not name your house or cannot... either way, it is no concern of mine. Have you, by chance, pledged your lance to Duke Morayen's banner?"

Shan gathered that he was being asked whether he served this duke and shook his head. Without his many conversations with Roden, he would probably have asked what that meant.

"No."

"Has the city of Vito hired you?"

"No, not that either."

"Then why did you attack my troops while we were conducting a blockade under His Excellency the Count's orders?"

"Because your men were trying to hurt my friend."

At Shan's blunt answer, the knight glanced behind him and clicked his tongue. Shan faintly heard him mutter, "Those lowborn mercenary bastards are utterly useless."

"I see. I understand the gist of it."

Shan had expected him to rage at his audacity in attacking over such a trifling matter. Instead, his reaction was unexpectedly mild. What he said next was even more surprising.

"In that case, what say we end this fight here? We may have given you cause, but considerable blood has already been spilled. I believe that is sufficient payment."

Could this be a ploy to put Shan at ease before a surprise attack? Objectively, the knight's side held a far greater advantage at present. There should have been no reason to stop fighting.

Yet however Shan looked at him, the man's gaze was entirely earnest. As Shan looked suspiciously between him and the army behind him, Feonil added:

"There is one condition, however. You must not take employment with Vito and oppose His Excellency's army. Agree to that, and we shall consider this fight as never having happened."

"I was on my way to Pendia anyway."

"Good. Then we have an agreement. I swear in the Goddess's name that I will not prevent you and yours from leaving."

Feonil put his helmet back on, turned his horse, and ordered a withdrawal. The soldiers who had poured out began returning to camp. Shan could read bewilderment and dissatisfaction on their faces, but not one dared demand that the knight continue fighting.

Before leaving, Feonil offered one last remark that Shan found difficult to understand.

"I hope we can meet with smiles next time. Better still, if we might ride side by side."

For a moment, Shan sat dazed, unable to believe the fight had ended so easily. Then he immediately rode back to the foot of the city wall. To his surprise, he found Roden facing off against a group of people, his war flail clenched tightly in his hands. Behind him, the Altoan circus troupe huddled with anxious faces.

"What's going on?"

At Shan's question, the people glaring at Roden started and hurried far away, almost as if fleeing. Only then did Roden turn, and he stared at Shan in horror.

"Gods, you're badly hurt! Get down, quickly!"

At those words, Shan looked down and found his chest stained crimson with blood. Apparently, the scrape from the lance had bled quite a lot.

"Oh. No wonder I felt a bit tired."

Shan let Roden pull him down from the horse. Perhaps because his tension had finally eased, his head suddenly spun and his vision blurred.

"I'll put some medicine on it. Bear with the pain. I couldn't see properly from halfway through—who on earth did you fight to end up like this?"

"He said his name was Feonil..."

At his feeble murmur, Roden made a choking sound.

"Not Feonil the Black Lance? Damn it, if I'd known someone that formidable was here, I'd never have let you go fight."

"You know him?"

"He's won more jousting tournaments in Libert than anyone else. The fact that his name is known even in Pendia says it all. He's probably among the top three mounted lancers in this country. I didn't know he was Count Valik's vassal."

Hearing that, Shan could smile despite the pain of the medicine on his wound. It would have been truly horrifying if someone that skilled had been a nobody. At that level, he was an obstacle well worth trying to surmount.

* * *

"Sir Feonil."

Feonil Alten, Count Valik's chief knight, had been enjoying a little wine in his tent. He turned at his squire's voice. The man's expression alone told him what he wanted to say.

"Are you displeased that I did not kill the boy?"

"I would not presume to be displeased, sir... but the mercenaries are talking among themselves about taking revenge on their own."

"Desertion during an operation is punishable by death. Tell them there will be no exceptions. I gave them their freedom once, and they caused this much trouble. They must bear the consequences."

In truth, the squire thought the incident had been more an unfortunate accident than a mistake on the mercenaries' part, but he dared not contradict his lord. Watching him quietly, Feonil murmured:

"Had we fought to the end, all we would have gained was one child's corpse."

"By letting him live, we gain not even that."

Letting that brat go had only increased the mercenaries' dissatisfaction. They would never dare dream of mutiny under Feonil, but given the importance of morale in an army, the squire believed it would have been better to kill the boy and hang up his body.

After a brief silence, Feonil offered an uncharacteristically feeble excuse.

"My honor was preserved. I spared a boy in worn leather armor, carrying a stolen spear and riding a mangy horse, rather than cruelly killing him."

If he cared about that sort of honor, why had he attacked in the first place? The squire harbored that grievance inwardly, but bowed in obedience without arguing further.

Feonil dismissed him with a small wave, then ran a hand along the flank of his plate armor. Something sharp had gouged deeply into it.

'That settles it. I wasn't merely imagining it.'

At the moment of their clash, Feonil had felt a heavy pain in his side as the opponent he had been certain he had skewered passed him with only a minor wound. Astonishingly, even as the mounted charge flung the boy from his saddle, he had thrust his broken spear at Feonil.

Had the spear not broken and thus been longer, and had there been greater strength and spirit behind it, it would likely have pierced his armor.

It was the product of terrifying reflexes, quickness, and combat intelligence unlike anything Feonil had seen, even after facing countless enemies in his fifteen years as a knight. Judging that another clash might leave him injured, he had immediately ascertained the boy's allegiance and brought the battle to a clean end.

Had the boy served Duke Morayen, he would have killed him by whatever means necessary, even enlisting the mercenaries. Otherwise, there was no reason to risk dishonor and injury—especially when the armies of the two great powers were still clashing throughout the kingdom.

'Still, it is a pity.'

Opportunities to face an evenly matched opponent one-on-one were rare, particularly for those who had reached Feonil's level. Both as a knight loyal to his lord and as a warrior in his own right, he could not help looking forward to crossing lances with that boy once he had grown.