Lothar had no idea his two attendants had already decided Prajna was a witch, and even if he had known, he would hardly have cared. This world had no witch hunts. A witch could openly serve as an emperor's advisor. Besides, the guess was not entirely wrong. He suspected a witch of ordinary ability would be no match for Prajna.

Of the five attributes the System tracked, Strength was the most straightforward: it covered attack power, speed, and carrying capacity. Agility meant speed and reflexes. Stamina governed combat endurance, recovery, and health. Endurance also governed endurance, but leaned toward defense. Spirit was equally simple: the mana bar.

Even setting her skills aside, Prajna's raw stats already placed her in the same league as a wizard. She was simply the muscle-wizard variety: a Gandalf who also lifted. And the shield in her hand, forged in the lore from fragments of the Demon Gate itself, was a genuine divine artifact. Neither physical blow nor witchcraft could penetrate it.

Across the broad, rolling plateau, a caravan under a red-and-white striped banner made its way forward. Knights and squires in motley heraldry rode at ease at the head of the column. Behind them came servants in rough cloth and a dozen or so men-at-arms in hauberks.

At the very front, a knight in a blue surcoat, a peacock plume nodding from his helm, barked out orders. "Stay sharp, all of you! This is the most dangerous stretch of the road to Tyrol. The bandits and runaway serfs up here have nothing to eat but cabbage and turnips: they'll charge down at us with pitchforks and axes the second we let our guard slip. If the esteemed Countess is so much as startled, every one of you will swing from a gibbet."

The men-at-arms answered without conviction. "Yes, my lord."

The Peacock Knight's expression remained taut. The Swiss backcountry was poor and mountainous. The western reaches, at least, belonged to the great region of Swabia, the core territory of the imperial House of Hohenstaufen, and were reasonably stable. But the farther east one traveled, the nearer one drew to the borders of the Prince-Bishopric of Trent, the poorer and more lawless the land became.

Destitute commoners ground down by ruthless lords produced a steady stream of runaway serfs who took to the hills as outlaws. And here, on the frontier between two jurisdictions, neither side was inclined to commit the men or money to root them out.

The Peacock Knight's instincts proved right. Dark specks appeared on a rise at the edge of the horizon, multiplied, and grew until their shapes became clear: more than thirty horsemen in chainmail and leather armor. These were no ragged hill bandits. They were a cavalry force.

They spread out in a line atop the slope and stared coldly down at the caravan.

The column ground to a halt. Panic rippled through the soldiers and servants. Everyone knew that on open ground, cavalry ruled. If it came to a rout, there would be no running.

From inside the wagon, a woman's sultry voice called out. "Fred? What's happening?"

"Enemies, my lady." The Peacock Knight leaned close to the wagon to murmur the news, then raised his voice. "All hands, to defense! Protect the Countess's carriage! Let no one through!"

He rode forward with two horsemen to hail the approaching riders. "Halt! This is a caravan of House Kalff of Augsburg! The woman you are threatening is a countess of noble blood! Withdraw at once, or my soldiers and I will slit your throats and leave your bones for the wild dogs that prowl these hills!"

The riders kept coming. There were perhaps thirty of them: some in patched gambesons, others in chainmail. Their gear was unremarkable, but the hard, wolfish air they projected made the Peacock Knight's stomach tighten.

Their leader's mouth curled in a mocking sneer. He drew a hunting bow. The arrow struck the Peacock Knight's kite shield with a sharp crack.

His stance was clear. There had never been any intention to parley.

"Knights, on me!" the Peacock Knight roared. "The rest of you, hold the wagons! No man strays from the line!"

On the opposite slope, Modell frowned. "My lord. Do we intervene?"

"I don't think we have a choice." Lothar pointed toward two enemy scouts prowling the flank, well away from the main attack. "They've already spotted us. Even if we abandoned all our baggage, we couldn't outrun light cavalry on these open flats. Not with Prajna, Laine, and you all riding packhorses."

He took a breath, then raised his voice. "Attendants! My lance. Make ready for battle."

He pulled the hood of his mail coif and surcoat over his head, then fitted the great helm down over it. The world went muffled. His own breathing echoed heavy and coarse inside the steel shell. Laine handed him the heavy lance. Lothar took it in his right hand, strapped the kite shield to his left, and hung his arming sword from the saddle within easy reach.

Prajna said quietly, "Should I come with you?"

Lothar shook his head. "That horse of yours won't do." She was riding the packhorse Father Soyo had gifted them. The gap between a packhorse and a true warhorse was vast. Packhorses were bred for endurance, without much care for bloodline. A warhorse stood taller, ran faster, struck harder, and had far more nerve for the chaos of battle.

Prajna frowned. "I don't need a horse to keep pace with you."

Lothar hesitated, then shook his head again. "No. That would be... difficult to explain. Stay here and be ready. I trust Joey's speed."

Joey was his Nisaean charger, fed on the finest grain, with a substantial portion of the three packhorses' load devoted exclusively to his fodder. In the county, Joey was among the fastest horses alive. Lothar was confident that even if he couldn't win the fight, he could outrun it.

Besides, he had faith in his own skill. Years of knightly training from childhood had forged him into a machine of war: untested, yes, but a machine nonetheless. Add his fine armor and the odds of disaster were slim.

Prajna nodded. "Good. We'll be ready to receive you here."

The two attendants had armed themselves as well: one with sword and shield, the other cranking his crossbow. But on open ground like this, their contribution would be limited. Lothar had chosen them with mountain fighting in mind. He had not expected his first battle to be fought on a high plateau.

He let out a long breath. Inside the helm, the visor's narrow slit seemed to mist over.

The two enemy scouts charged straight at him. Lothar pressed his heels into his horse's flanks. Hoofbeats filled his ears, and he tightened his grip on the lance.

Adrenaline surged. His heart was a war drum.

The couched lance charge was a tactic for knights in tight formation, riding knee to knee. Without comrades to screen his flanks, a couched charge would leave him dangerously exposed. So he held the lance in a freer grip instead: less shattering force, but far more flexibility.