The Troll
Erika drew her dagger.
Her armament was light; beyond the dagger she carried nothing but a crossbow. Even that she had left inside the carriage.
“…Erika! Don’t move on your own!”
Lit shouted toward her, but she paid him no mind. With a free motion of her hand she summoned spirits to snatch the troll’s attention, then flung the dagger so that it punched a clean hole through the creature’s throat.
Erika sprinted forward to keep its gaze from drifting toward the carriage. Reckless, even stupid—yet she trusted herself enough to commit the stupidity. She wondered, for a heartbeat, whether it was overconfidence. The thought lasted no longer than that; speed mattered more. She sank into the fight.
Erika could command spirits. Whether the gift was racial she did not know; her own family had never managed it, only she. Her art differed from ordinary spirit magic. Instead of the four great spirits she borrowed the power of the forest’s own spirit-gods.
She accepted the strength of the bear spirit. It was the power of a thunder-bearing bear, the power of a god stabbed a thousand times. Its greatest trait was overwhelming stamina and raw force—strength on a level with the troll’s own. Regeneration, however, still belonged to the troll.
The monster bellowed, ripped the dagger from its neck, and drove a fist at her through a spray of blood. Erika rolled clear and snatched the blade up again.
Trolls regenerate with terrifying speed. Fire is the usual answer: they burn while healing, until pain or smoke finally kills them. But they stood in a forest. Flame would be suicidal. The road itself was wide enough, yet trees pressed close on every side. The troll stood four meters tall; if it caught fire it would thrash, and the day was bone-dry. The woods would go up like tinder.
Burning it from within was one option, or killing it before regeneration could begin. No mage skilled enough for the first method would ever travel a road like this, so that path was closed. The second remained: sever the body entirely, or pierce and tear the vitals with ruthless speed. Hard, yes—but possible.
Erika raced back through dodged blows and reached the carriage. She had decided alone, yet the plan still had to be shared.
She dropped to one knee at the door and drew a single breath. The troll had been lured a short distance off; she had already sliced its ankle to the bone so pursuit would limp. Spirit-boars she had set to charge and batter it further. The spirits fed on her own vitality, a contract of sorts. Prolonged use would cost her dearly in the long run—but this would be a short, decisive clash. Acceptable.
She felt the drain already: arms and legs growing heavier by the second. Collapsing into the carriage and letting someone else finish the job would have been easy. It would also have been the coward’s escape after starting the mess herself. So she took only the briefest rest and prepared to go out again.
She exhaled, pressed her lips to the leather waterskin, and drank. Moving fast would cost less strength, so she swallowed too hastily and spilled half the water down her front. The damp cloth irritated her.
She sealed the skin, tossed it inside, and looked at Lit.
“My weapon.”
“Here.”
“You help too.”
The bearded dwarf eyed her as if she were a hopeless fool, yet he passed over the crossbow already loaded. She closed her fingers around the familiar weight and left the carriage at once, determined that the troll’s attention stay locked on her rather than the vehicle. Trolls followed scent; a carriage full of people might prove too tempting.
Luck held—the monster still watched her. Erika strapped the quiver tight across her back and leveled the crossbow at its eye.
—A little left.
She squeezed the trigger. The string snapped forward. The iron bolt punched through the left eye, through the brain, and painted a nearby branch with thick gray matter.
She dropped into cover and drew the string again. Rune magic kept the pull from feeling heavy. Hook, load, aim—she fired a second time. The bolt struck the same eye but failed to pierce clean through. Blinded, the troll roared and lunged.
It never completed the step. Its head simply toppled to the ground.
Lit landed atop the severed neck, flicking blood from his blade with an air of mild annoyance. The weapon was short and cleaver-thick, heavy with carved runes. He checked his beard for stains, stepped down, and looked at Erika.
“Fire.”
She gave a shallow nod, scored the corpse with her dagger, then struck a spark and set the body alight. Not from fear of undeath—simply to be certain. A poor cut might leave flesh still joined; regeneration would only create more work. Delayed commission meant less pay.
They watched the burning protein a moment longer, then climbed back into the carriage. The wheels rolled on.
The journey stretched. Erika had already fallen asleep against Ren’s shoulder; only he and Naudiz remained awake. The dwarf brothers snored with enough force to keep Ren from either thought or scenery.
Weight vanished from his shoulder. Careful not to wake her, he turned his head and found Naudiz laying Erika gently beside him. The older man smiled, mild and unreadable.
Naudiz wore a thin beard along the jaw and a denser growth above the lip, the look of a typical elder. Yet the short-cropped hair, the scar near one eye, and the jade-gleaming armor all marked him for what he was: a veteran. His eyes narrowed like a serpent’s, the outer corners sloping downward, lending him a sly cast.
He was the team’s leader—Naudiz Ewaz.
Ren wanted to ask why “Ewaz.” The brothers shared blood and thus the name, but why Erika Ewaz, why Lit Ewaz, why Naudiz himself?
“We are returning to headquarters.”
Naudiz covered Erika with his cloak as though it were a blanket. He watched her, yet Ren felt the weight of that gaze on himself as well.
“The place is both merciless and romantic in equal measure. Ren, was it? I wonder whether you will last…”
Naudiz laughed lightly. Ren could not. The kindness felt like a blade offered with a smile—the same smile that might say, I’ve poisoned your tea.
He had known from the start that this was no ordinary old man. The pressure now made the reason for his command crystal clear. Naudiz rested a hand on Ren’s shoulder, turned fully, and faced him. Ren mirrored the movement until they sat eye to eye.
“The Ewaz Merchant Group is no mere band of traders. We sell information openly even to nations.”
As he spoke, Naudiz drew a blade across his own finger. Ren stared. The older man only smiled and held out a lantern together with a sheet of paper so ancient that the name-line had been written and scraped away many times.
“Stamp it with your own hand if you mean to join the Ewaz Merchant Group. Erika recommended you, so I am accepting you. Remember that.”
He pushed the contract closer. The edges looked ready to tear or crumble at a careless touch. Heat, sting, and a thin bright pain told Ren his own finger had been cut as well.
Frowning, he read.
[If you die while on duty, the responsibility is yours alone.]
The sum of pay shall be decided by the team leader; the right to contest that sum and to claim contribution is retained.
The right to receive quality equipment is granted, together with the obligation not to squander it. Upon departure, all equipment must be returned unless lost in the field.
Mutual cooperation among comrades is required. Betrayal of a comrade is permitted only when three conditions are met and thereafter documented:
1. Does the act benefit the Merchant Group?
2. Is your own life in immediate danger of being discarded?
3. Do you acknowledge that the same fate may one day befall you?
Consent to every term above requires signature or seal.
That first clause leapt off the page—the clean cut of a scapegoat clause. Everything else, however, was fair enough. Thanks to the priest’s teaching, Ren read without difficulty.
He smeared the blood from his cut finger onto his thumb and pressed the print into the ancient paper.
Naudiz watched, then smiled softly and wrapped the wound with a strip of thin cloth.