In an instant, Lothar had closed to within two hundred meters. He could see the enemy clearly now: dirt-caked skin and matted, grease-thick beards.

Black eyes. Black hair and beards. Hungarians?

He drove his spurs in hard, and the Nisaean surged from a canter into a full, thundering charge. Wind screamed past his ears. Hooves hammered the earth. At the last possible instant, the moment the two riders crossed, Lothar thrust.

The lance tip punched clean through the chest of the horseman on his left and ripped him from the saddle. The shock of impact numbed Lothar's arm.

Relief ran through him. This light cavalryman, wearing nothing but a padded jacket, was outmatched in equipment and skill. These were not formidable opponents.

Blood ran warm down the shaft of the lance. Lothar let the weapon drop, horse and corpse together, and drew the arming sword from his saddle.

Clang. The second rider's saber banged off his shield, leaving nothing but a shallow scratch. The two horses parted. Lothar wheeled around for another pass, but the surviving scout, having just watched his comrade die in a single exchange, had terror written plain across his face. He circled at a wary distance, not daring to close.

Lothar let him be. Even with a heavier load, his Nisaean was faster than the enemy's pony, but running him down would still drain precious stamina from the horse. And with Prajna guarding his rear, he had no fear of an ambush. He retrieved his lance from the fallen rider, ignored the circling scout, and cantered toward the main body of raiders attacking the caravan.

The enemy's blood did not unnerve him. Nor did he feel the sickness and revulsion novels always described after a first kill. What he felt was pure, sharp exhilaration.

Maybe I'm a little messed up inside.

Before he reached the fight, two more riders peeled off and charged toward him. Lothar locked his eyes on the oncoming enemy. His horse shifted from trot to gallop.

Contact.

Crunch. The lance drove through the man's shield with a sound like splintering timber. The impact hurled the rider backward off his horse, but the ash-wood shaft snapped in the same instant. Lothar threw the broken lance aside and switched to his arming sword.

The second horseman was already on him, swinging a two-handed cavalry spear. Lothar caught it on his shield, the blow jarring his wrist. He answered with a backhand cut that slammed into the man's leather-faced round shield. The two of them reined in, horses stamping, locked in close combat. Lothar was stronger and hardier than his foe by a clear margin.

He soon spotted an opening, drove his point through the man's sword wrist, forcing him to drop his shield, then reversed and slashed his opponent's belly open. Blood and viscera spilled, steaming, across his mount's brown coat.

A savage exhilaration flooded through him. He wanted to throw back his head and roar.

For the first time in his life, he understood: I am dangerous.

From the distance, the enemy captain watched coldly. He muttered something, and four more riders peeled off, advancing in overlapping mutual support. Lothar met them without fear, sword and shield ready.

…

The caravan's resistance was fierce. The six knights and squires at the head of the column, led by the Peacock Knight, had launched an effective counterattack. But the attackers outnumbered the knights several times over. On this open ground, the foot soldiers could only offer limited fire support from the wagon line; none dared venture out to engage.

A bearded knight shouted, "Look! That stranger who came to our aid; he's like a black bolt of lightning! He's cutting right through them! Those four bastards can't stop him!"

Another knight's voice was thick with admiration. "He's good. I'd wager his skill could have taken first place at the last Vienna Knight's Tournament."

The Peacock Knight's face lit with fierce hope. "Brothers! Now is our turn. Let's show these horsemen the difference between a knight and a mere rider!"

The six knights and squires formed up and drove into the enemy like a steel wedge, three heavy-armored knights at the center, three lighter squires screening the flanks, lances tucked and couched, the textbook charge. The cavalry before them crumpled like dry grass before a scythe. Even the squires were professional soldiers with years of training, and each pair of knight and squire fought with the wordless coordination of long partnership.

The enemy captain stole a glance back at Lothar. Of the four men sent to pin him down, two more were already dead. Where in God's name had this Robin Hood come from? He made his calculation. Then he gave the signal to withdraw.

The raiders melted away as suddenly as they had come, leaving behind a dozen corpses and riderless horses wandering aimlessly across the grassland.

The System chimed:

Milestone completed: First Blood.

You have received: One Common Card Draw.

Lothar drew a deep breath. He did not pursue. These riders resembled steppe nomads: shabby equipment, crude tactics, and no match for a knight forged by years of disciplined training. But enough ants could devour an elephant.

A bearded knight crouched over one of the dead raiders, studying the body. "Magyars," he said grimly. "Another name for the Hungarians. Most likely they rode in from the March."

The Peacock Knight's voice boiled with rage. "That damned Daschmeier; he hired Magyars to attack the Countess! I'll take this to the Emperor himself! I'll see him answer for this crime!"

Plots among nobles were unremarkable. The motives were endless, though most traced back to inheritance. If Lothar murdered Otto, for example, he would become the first heir to the County of Aargau. It was difficult not to consider the prospect.

Lothar shook his head. "Without proof, accusing an enfeoffed count is a hard road, especially when he's the vassal of a duke." He knew the name Daschmeier: a vassal of Henry the Lion, the Duke of Saxony in the north.

Not every duke commanded counts beneath him. Though a duke outranked a count, most counts in Greater Germania answered directly to the Emperor. The rule was simple: the vassal of my vassal is not my vassal. A count who swore to a duke was released from his duties to the Emperor; the Emperor could command the duke, but he could not reach past him to the duke's sworn men.

The Peacock Knight approached with a smile and removed his helm, revealing a long mane of golden curls. "Our thanks, brave knight. You are of House Habsburg, yes? I recognize the crest."

Lothar returned the smile. "Correct. I am Lothar of Aargau, son of Count Werner. I'm bound for the Holy Land to join the present Crusade: east through the Austrian March, then south to the Adriatic to take ship."

"Ah… a crusader!" The knights and squires straightened with visible respect.

A servant ran up from the wagons. "Brave knight! The Countess summons you. She would thank you in person for your valor."

Lothar swung down from the saddle and told the Peacock Knight, "My attendants are coming up from the rear. When they arrive, have them wait for me here."

He was led to the center of the wagon train. There stood a noblewoman in a white linen dress, her hair falling loose past her shoulders. She smiled at his approach. "I know that crest. I have enjoyed good relations with Count Werner. Which of his sons are you? Otto? Lothar?"

"You are correct, my lady. I am Count Werner's second son, Lothar von Habsburg."

The Countess's voice was all honey, and her face was handsome enough, though a closer look revealed fine lines at her eyes and the dense freckles across her skin.

"I am Mariana of Augsburg. A widow. Daschmeier wants my late husband's lands. This attack; I have no doubt he planned it. He is the only man with close ties to the Hungarian princes.

"Come back with me, Lothar. Aargau is a poor land, but its warriors are bold. Augsburg is rich, but it has no warriors as brave as you. Our two houses should form an alliance. We would each supply what the other lacks."

Lothar frowned. "Forgive me, my lady, but an alliance is a matter you should discuss with my father."

The Countess's smile widened. "Perhaps I have been unclear. I want you to be my husband. To become the Count of Augsburg.

"Frankly, this is a political marriage. I need your family's strength to stand against Daschmeier."

Lothar's expression froze.

"What is there to hesitate about? For a second son like you, marrying a wealthy widow like me means an immediate dowry, my lands, my title. Isn't this exactly what men in your position dream of?"

In Christendom, noble widows were indeed highly sought after. But…

Lothar let out a soft laugh. "Forgive me, my lady. I am not inclined. If I wanted to live as a kept man, I might as well sail straight to Constantinople and try my luck with the Empress."

When Emperor Alexios of the Eastern Empire had died, his widow, Empress Lagaya, had seized the reins of power, vowing to relinquish them when the crown prince came of age. This had made her the most coveted prize on the chessboard of nations. Any man who caught the Empress's eye would rise to unimaginable heights overnight.

"Pah! Delusions!" The Countess practically spat. "The princes, mercenary captains, and military governors tripping over themselves to court that rich woman are beyond counting. What makes you think…"

Lothar grinned. "My stomach's strong, my lady. I was never built to live off someone else's table."

"Hmph. Think carefully. I have good relations with several Electors. The Emperor has no heir. If you want, I could even help you press a claim to the imperial throne."

The Countess's voice had grown sharp. She had no shortage of suitors. She had chosen Lothar, in part, for his martial prowess and striking looks, but the greater draw was still the strength of House Habsburg.

Count Werner might be tucked away in the Swiss mountains, but he was no obscure name within the Empire. When the Emperor had waged his wars against the Slavs, Werner had been the man he personally named to command the imperial host.

"A claim to the throne?" Lothar was silent for a moment.

The Greater Germanic Empire was this world's counterpart to the Holy Roman Empire he remembered. Voltaire's quip, "neither holy, nor Roman, nor an empire," was unfair, but not without its grains of truth. Emperor Heinrich of House Hohenstaufen held crown lands that were hardly larger than those of the realm's great princes. The empire was vast in territory, yet the Emperor's personal revenues were likely a tenth of what the Eastern Empress commanded.

And the Eastern Empire, mind you, was in steep decline: the interior of Asia Minor all but lost, the Bulgarians rising or raiding as they pleased, the Peloponnese pillaged regularly by Normans and North African corsairs. Even in that diminished state, the Eastern Empire still far outshone Greater Germania in wealth. A weak stem and strong branches, that had always been the Germanic affliction.

At least the Empire had not yet sunk to the point, as it would in later centuries, of issuing a Golden Bull to formalize election by seven Electors. The principle of election was an old tribal custom, but it had not yet hardened into unshakable law. There was still time to mend things.

So the question remained: should he take the soft road or not?