Rakudai Kishi No Cavalry Novels & Stories

It was just that… the circumstances at hand made some of them feel inevitably hopeless. Was there really no hope? Was today really going to mark the end of a legendary household? It was so unfair. "Don't hurt my family." Yet just then, a loud cry sounded from the distance. All at once, everyone turned to look and could not help but gasp at the sight. All that could be seen were tens of thousands of Raksasa tribe army riders charging towards them with gusto. They were all clad in black armor, long swords fastened to their belts and radiating a murderous aura.

It had been tough, yes, but when you were a soldier in the army of the kingdom of Astaroth, even the seemingly impossible becomes possible. The only one, or more accurately, the only living things allowed to sleep with both eyes closed were the horses. The soldier who was to keep watch had fallen asleep beside the horses, they were all exhausted. They had ridden from the heart of Kilead to the outskirts and for the fact that they had not started out early enough or even planned to come on this journey, they had gotten farther than he had thought they would, and that was because Ryder had made them ride all the way without stopping to rest.

The well had collapsed in on itself, and puddles of blood turned brown and stiff under the heat. A child’s toy lay half-melted in the dirt. One of the riders dismounted first—the tallest, with a curved sword strapped to his back and a golden insignia stitched into the hem of his cloak. He walked his horse forward slowly, eyes scanning the corpses. The second—shorter, broader, with a spear across his back—whistled low. “I haven’t seen destruction this much since the time of the Ravaging.” The third—slender, sharp-featured behind his mask—shook his head. “Even the Ravaging wasn’t this catastrophic.”

Whatever his daughter thought of him, whatever her wounded pride screamed, he knew what he had to do. --- By midmorning, the estate courtyard bustled with preparations. Rowland’s warriors gathered in formation, each dressed in black leather armor reinforced with steel at the shoulders and forearms. The horses had been saddled, strong beasts bred for endurance and speed. The banners of Rowland’s pack, dark blue trimmed with silver, fluttered in the wind. Rowland descended the stone steps, his Beta, Caldwell, trailing behind him. Caldwell was a broad-shouldered wolf with scars that mapped his arms and face—each one a testament to battles survived. He adjusted his gauntlets and leaned closer to