The Witcher: Astartes Of The Bear School

Chapter 44: Cavalry's First Strike

"Ha! The bumpkin took the bait!" The young man who called himself Willis laughed heartily, urging his horse forward to cut off Lan's head. His smile no longer held any semblance of friendliness, only a cruel and eager anticipation for bloodshed.

There was no caution, no care. He couldn't fathom how his opponents could possibly harm him. With two hidden crossbowmen and himself as a cavalryman, what chance did a lone individual have against them?

In the age of cold weapons, no matter how strong an infantryman was, he was like a rabbit under the talons of an eagle when faced with cavalry. Modern people might not fully grasp this, but those who are fans of bullfighting might have some understanding. Rejoneo, as the Spanish call it, or Portuguese style bullfighting.

The knights, dressed in bright colors, rode braided horses. They dared to stand face-to-face with an enraged bull, and at the moment of the bull's charge, they would start their horses, deliberately maintaining a distance of just one step, playing with the bull.

A knight with good horse control could even greet the audience while stabbing the bull's back. A bull that a dozen strong men couldn't bring down became a mere target under the coordination of man and horse.

The advantage was even more terrifying when it came to humans. Infantry had only a fleeting opportunity to harm cavalry, but cavalry had opportunities at every moment.

So, Willis's arrogance and relaxation seemed entirely justified to him. This perception only changed when Lan turned around. A pair of amber cat eyes, returning from the mud-covered figure, looked at Willis. The pupils of those cat eyes had shrunk to mere slits!

Willis couldn't describe his feelings, but it was as if a predatory big cat had breathed on his heart from within his chest.

The moment Willis began his cavalry charge, Lan had already formed his sign. Infantry couldn't touch cavalry, but witchers had signs.

"Aard."

Boom! The air was compressed by the sudden force, and Willis's horse's hooves were knocked askew just as they were about to land. Thus, the full weight of the horse's landing was borne by the misaligned hoof.

"Crack!" A pale bone protruded from the horse's shin. The horse let out a painful neigh and began to roll its hundreds of kilograms of flesh on the mudflat.

When it stopped, the human knight entangled in the roll could no longer feel his lower body. Willis's spine was broken. In fact, if this had not been a mudflat but hard ground, he would have been dead.

Lan, expressionless, stepped through the mud to the mixture of bones and flesh.

"Wait, wait! Sir, this is a misunderstanding—" The spiked leather glove encased Lan's fist as he punched Willis's cheek. The once dignified young man tried to explain, but after that punch, half of his face was scraped off by the three-edged iron spikes on Lan's glove. The intense pain prompted his body to secrete a large amount of hormones to lessen the pain, which, while not long-lasting, were enough to make Willis dizzy.

After the punch, two more crossbow bolts sliced through the air, but Lan easily dodged them. With his guard up, nothing could hinder his movements, and these bolts couldn't hurt him.

A cavalryman and two crossbowmen—this should have been a more troublesome situation than the ambush at Bordon. But Bordon had no escape route and had to fight head-on. And then he was killed. Now, Lan took advantage of Willis's carelessness to disable him first, turning the battle from its peak to its end in an instant.

An ordinary witcher wouldn't have the ability to seize the moment when a horse's hoof lands and release an Aard strong enough to knock it askew. Their Aard signs were too dispersed; hitting a cavalryman might not even make the horse stumble. This was a first-strike kill that only Lan, with Mentos's enhanced observation and control, could accomplish.

The witcher gave a deep look towards the distant road, where the crossbow bolts had come from. But he didn't have time to eliminate them all, as Bernie had already started bleeding heavily. Before Lan could finish entangling with the two crossbowmen over a hundred meters away, Bernie might lose consciousness.

"Mentos, establish the emergency skill [Boating], analyze Bernie's rowing actions from memory, and directly instill it into me."

Grabbing Willis by the neck, Lan pulled him out of the entangled flesh of the horse and threw him onto the boat. Lan's eyes were stained with blood, but he didn't bother to wipe them. He lifted Bernie, supporting him as they walked towards the small boat.

A third round of crossbow bolts whizzed past his ears. After this round, the crossbowmen on the other side dared not shoot anymore.

"This will be very uncomfortable, sir. We've known Bernie for too long; the estimated proficiency of the [Boating] skill should be above 70%!"

"Just do it."

Early in the morning, even after a night's rest, Lan had rubbed his head for a while after a 20% proficiency infusion. But now, facing at least a 70% proficiency infusion, he didn't even blink.

Mentos didn't have the authority to stop its master, and it knew that with Lan's will, there was no point in trying to persuade him now. It was just a bottom-line logical command that it had to make a reminder.

"Proficiency infusion begins." Countless action analyses flooded Lan's mind, forcing his brain cells to remember and understand.

The sheer amount of information caused his brain cells to become highly active, raising his forehead temperature to 39°C. Without the witcher's physical endurance, this could have been fatal. But Lan only paused for a moment while supporting Bernie, then continued walking.

Cold sweat dripped down, and the muscles in his face twitched uncontrollably from pain. He felt like his brain was about to explode!

"Lan... did I get shot?" Everything happened so quickly that Bernie only realized he had been shot and fallen to the ground. He tried to muster strength, but the arrow's location felt like a breach in a dam, draining all his strength.

"Shut the fuck up, Bernie. I'm saving your life, and I'm in a lot of pain right now, so spare me the nonsense!"

"Ha, you can curse too. This is the second time I've been injured. Tsk... witchers are really jinxed."

Bernie had never heard Lan curse before; in fact, Lan had always shown more restraint than nobles. The villagers had even created a somewhat dramatic backstory for him because of this.

Bernie's teasing didn't affect Lan. In pain, time seemed to slow down. Lan finally placed Bernie on the boat, taking Bernie's hand and pressing it to his abdomen, gritting his teeth.

"Press hard; it will stop the bleeding. Whether you live or die depends on this."

Then he turned and pushed the boat into the lake. His mind was a mess, and for the first two minutes of steering, the small boat even spun in place. But even with such a painful head, the skill's proficiency was genuine. After two minutes, the boat's navigation became somewhat competent.

But this didn't put Lan in a good mood. His head still hurt, and Bernie's condition was not looking good.

The man, who had initially seemed fearless, saying, "Yesterday I was thinking about disappearing for a while, and today I have to. I really am a jinx," was now becoming colder and weaker due to the increasing blood loss.

The initial teasing was to comfort Lan, to comfort his friend, and to comfort himself. He had always been a tough guy and didn't want to worry his friends too much.

But now, an unavoidable fear struck him. His hands and feet began to scratch and slap inside the boat, just to feel a little bit of reality. His mouth started to mumble the names of his family members incoherently.

Lan had no choice but to pull him close, holding the wound himself. On the other hand, he hurried to master the [Boating] skill and return to Oreton as quickly as possible. The journey back wasn't far, and Lan quickly became familiar with it. Twenty minutes after Bernie was shot, the witcher brought his friend back to the village.

But his eyes, blurred from the pain, were too weak to notice that the village dock was already crowded with people.

Mrs. Donna, holding a small cloth, sat dazed and powerless in the middle of the crowd.

***

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