Early the next morning, six carriages and eighteen wagons departed from the gates of Count Shermainin's domain.
Led by cavalrymen, the procession consisted of Victor's carriage first, followed by Sylvia's, then came coaches of servants and footknights.
Even before departure, Victor surveyed this convoy, which could easily pass for a military expedition. Approximately fifty soldiers and thirty servants traveled together.
Just provisions alone took up four wagons, while feed and firewood filled two more.
All this was necessary in case they couldn't replenish supplies in other lords' territories, and Victor didn't want to beg for provisions from other aristocrats.
Due to the sheer number of people, the convoy moved very slowly. A trip expected to take no more than two weeks would now stretch to at least three, if not a whole month.
Still, lacking alternative choices, he had to agree to this arrangement.
Traveling alongside Victor in his coach was Linea, who lately stuck close to him wherever he went.
Victor hoped Selitas would accompany them, but the latter left a day earlier, riding faster, leaving him no option but to make do.
For the next two days of travel, the convoy regularly halted to pitch camp, causing further delays. Ultimately, the vicomte banned mid-day stops.
Initially, these halts were requested by Sylvia's maidservant, who started making excessive demands, irritating him considerably. However, unwilling to provoke conflicts with his wife, he restrained himself and let things slide.
One day, Victor was awakened and informed that Sylvia's servants and soldiers had fallen behind and were preparing to set up camp despite orders.
Hearing this, Victor flew into a rage, leaped out of his carriage, seized a horse from a soldier, and galloped back to his wife's coach.
— Sylvia! — he yelled, reaching her vehicle.
The carriage door opened, and the maid peeped out.
— Her Grace wishes to rest, and do not address her using her Christian name, — the maid protested haughtily.
— SHUT UP! Bring my wife here, unless you want me to kill you! — Victor thundered, fed up with the insolence of this servant.
The girl paled at the sight of the man before her and the deadly intent evident in his expression. She disappeared into the coach, and shortly thereafter, Sylvia herself appeared.
Seeing her, he softened not a whit and delivered his ultimatum.
— If your knights and servants don't catch up immediately, I'll return with soldiers and slaughter everyone, removing obstacles to your compliance, — he threatened, turning his horse around and galloping back to his own carriage.
Sylvia was terrified. The man threatening her with death clearly did not fear her father, unlike other nobles in the capital. Even the prince dared not offend her directly, let alone threaten her life or men.
Victor was serious, and upon returning to his soldiers, he issued combat readiness orders.
Obeying without question, they promptly armed themselves and aligned in formation.
Observing this display, Sylvia's knight gently reminded her of their helplessness.
— Milady, we're no match for them. All his soldiers are bronze-level or higher, ours are mere novices, except for me, who's silver, — the man informed her soberly, obviously not wishing to die pointlessly.
Appointed by the duke, he was unusually frank about his magical inadequacy.
Recognizing the gravity of the situation, Sylvia directed her knight accordingly.
— O-o-order them to follow the convoy.
Victor didn't hear their conversation, busy monitoring the straggler contingent. Seeing movement, he finally relaxed. He hated violence but understood that tolerating defiance would worsen matters upon arrival at his domain. For a lord, ambiguity in authority was catastrophic.
With renewed resolve, the convoy resumed its journey, pressing onward without breaks till sunset.
Remainder of the trip proved smoother than anticipated. Most lords granted passage through their lands without objections, some even providing lodging. Several barons even offered their master bedroom for Victor and Sylvia, though he declined to share quarters with her, much to her relief.
After seventeen days, the convoy was again preparing to set camp for the night. Exhausted soldiers began erecting tents, while servants organized kitchens.
Among rare activities shared by Victor and Sylvia were breakfasts and dinners. He occasionally attempted conversing with her to build rapport, but progress was slow.
Sylvia remained withdrawn and avoided interaction, responding only to direct queries.
As usual, Victor stood beside his carriage, watching servants and soldiers bustle about on the field beside the roadway, when suddenly a rider named Krolla dashed up to him.
— Milord, mounted knights approach, — he alerted.
This soldier proved consistently reliable, executing orders efficiently, developing physically, and taking literacy lessons from Selisa.
— Form ranks, — Vicomte Baltas ordered, scanning the horizon for incoming riders.
Such encounters happened frequently during the journey. Other lords sent emissaries either to verify their peaceful intentions or extend hospitality. Still, caution dictated vigilance. In this unfamiliar world, Victor trusted nobody.
Soldiers, following orders, assumed defensive positions. Since they lacked suitable equipment to counter cavalry, they improvised by arranging carriages and wagons in a circular barrier, leaving narrow passages to funnel charging horsemen into vulnerable positions.
Each encounter triggered anxiety in Victor. This world resembled untamed wilderness, where defeat meant utter annihilation, with no witnesses remaining to report their demise.
Within five minutes, a group of thirty lightly armored cavalrymen appeared. Anxiety welled up in Viktor. They carried no flags or identifying marks, and their purpose seemed sinister.
— TO ARMS! — Vikomte Baltas cried, sensing malice.
Soldiers sprang into action, drawing blades and steeling themselves for combat.
Victor regretted not equipping his men properly and sorely missed the phalanx-style pikes he coveted.
He himself donned armor, preparing for battle, but something gnawed at him. Turning, he saw Sylvia's soldiers in disarray. Unlike his disciplined warriors, they were confused and leaderless.
This scenario alarmed him. Outnumbered by cavalry, infantry stood little chance. Combined with his fifty soldiers, they numbered eighty, theoretically sufficient for a stand-off, but lacking certainty about the opponent's strength, he feared this excursion might be his last.
Unexpectedly, the cavalry halted five hundred meters away. Among them rode a masked man, clearly an aristocrat hiding his identity. Such stealth suggested he harbored nefarious motives.
Victor advanced cautiously, stepping ten paces from his carriage, awaiting the envoy's approach.
Whatever the outcome, he had to exemplify leadership, worried that soldiers' morale might collapse under pressure from mounted forces. His troops had battled fort defenders, but facing cavalry was a different story.
Five minutes later, the messenger halted fifty meters away.
— Vicomte Baltas, I regret meeting you under these circumstances, and I cannot disclose my identity, but I have a proposition, — the man announced.
Victor strained to recognize the voice, but it remained alien to him.
— Skip formalities, what's your demand? — he challenged harshly, inspecting the windows.
— Hand over the Duchess, and, by my honor, we won't attack you, — the man declared.
"Honor? HA! How ironic. Men who mask their identities have no honor!" Victor thought, but his musings were interrupted by a burst of golden aura spreading outward, paralyzing some of Sylvia's soldiers and unnerving his own.
Generally, activating an aura drained considerable energy, and knights typically refrained from doing so unless intimidation was key. Before actual combat, no sensible warrior would squander such power.
The masked man's demonstration suggested either recklessness or exceptional confidence.
Understanding the stakes, Victor saw his own predicament: no one in his convoy could counteract a golden knight, including himself.
When the aura dissipated, panic gripped him. Knowing his limitations, he accepted his dilemma.
— Allow me time to deliberate, — he temporized.
— Take your time, but when I return to my men, if I don't see your flag lowered, we'll attack, — the man pronounced coldly, wheeling his mount toward his companions.
Victor retreated to the wagon circle, passing Sylvia's carriage, where everyone heard their exchange. The vicomte intended to probe his wife for hidden assets capable of salvation, unwilling to die fruitlessly but equally disinclined to yield her.
Mid-stride, he halted, reflecting on recent events while soldiers anxiously eyed him.
Oddly, he remembered being savaged by a dog in childhood, requiring thirty-two stitches. Panicked, he ran into a stranger's yard, where another dog lunged at him. Saved by a chained animal, he was hospitalized.
That trauma scarred him psychologically. Though fearless against stronger opponents, he still cringed at the sight of dogs.
"What if I hadn't fled and fought back then? Would I still carry this fear today? Or would the dog have killed me? Right now, running away would instill lifelong terror of every knight. Come on, Victor, remember where you came from. Your ancestors fought and died for beliefs spanning millennia!"
Teeth gritted, hands trembling, he channeled anger into preparation for battle. Emotions bubbled over, and he nearly invoked "Fanaticism" again, catching himself just in time.
Restoring composure, he glanced rightward, spotting Linea standing faithfully by his side.
— Get horses ready. When battle starts, grab Sylvia and ride to the nearest lord, — he ordered firmly, staring into her blue eyes. — We'll reunite afterwards.
— NO! — she protested vehemently. — I'll stay and fight!
"Funny, you're scared stiff, but this girl charges into battle without hesitation. Who are you, then?" Victor mused, impressed by her determination.
— We're clear: you're not a true knight yet, and you'll obey! — he snapped, pivoting toward his soldiers.
By then, the masked rider had almost rejoined his squadron. Options dwindling, he sized up his troops.
— Looks like we're dying today, — he mumbled to himself.
Beside him, Krolla, brandishing his sword, replied stoically.
— Milord, you've taught me more in one summer than I've learned in my lifetime. Death for you brings no sorrow.
Smiling faintly, the vicomte acknowledged the young man, camouflaging his smile beneath his helm.
Hoofbeats echoed, and the cavalry charged forward. Behind wagons, Baltas soldiers braced for impact, while Victor braced himself.
At that moment, his troops awaited inspiration, but mental fog obscured coherent thoughts.
— Seems we're all dying today, — he muttered faintly.
Krolla's calm acceptance struck him. At nineteen, he faced adversity bravely, whereas Victor wrestled inner turmoil.
Hooves thundered, swords rang, and horses neighed. Four cavalrymen streaked through gaps between wagons, knocking down two soldiers with their mounts.
— Close the gaps! — Victor bellowed, but before soldiers could adjust, five more cavalrymen squeezed through, circling the perimeter.
Panicked, Baltas soldiers hurled themselves at the attackers, stabbing horses and pulling riders to the ground. Despite casualties, Baltas troops fought valiantly.
Casualties mounted. Five cavalrymen perished, but fifteen Baltas soldiers and three of Sylvia's guards lay dead.
Watching impotently, Victor awaited his nemesis. As long as he could deter the golden knight, survival remained feasible.
Then, unexpectedly, a cart splintered apart, and through the debris strode the masked man.
Horror-stricken, Victor shuddered, but Linea acted spontaneously. She leapt from behind him, launching herself at the golden knight.
"Damn fool!" he thought, racing after her.
Airborne, she aimed a blow, but the knight casually parried, sending her flying backward twenty yards.
Breathing hard, Victor launched himself skyward, gripping his hammer with both hands and crashing down from five meters high.
Again, the knight raised his blade, absorbing the initial shock, but the hammer tore through, shattering his arm and skull, exploding like a melon.
Victor glimpsed horror and disbelief in the knight's eyes.
Astounded by his feat, he could not rationalize how he had dispatched a golden knight so effortlessly.
Instantly, the tide turned. Seeing their commander fall, surviving attackers scattered.
— Kill them ALL! — Krolla roared, blood-soaked and mesmerized by his lord's triumph.