Kneeling Demons (5)
Around the north gate, trolls lay sprawled in death. At a glance, they looked like massive snowdrifts, thanks to the thick white fur blanketing their bodies. Northern trolls—the biggest and fiercest breed—had evolved that fur to endure the cold and hide in the snow. The skull hanging on our inn's wall was from one of these beasts, adults averaging over three meters tall.
Thin, elongated steel bolts—almost a meter long, like iron rods—were embedded in each troll corpse, at least three or four per body. Frost clung to the protruding tips, while the wounds oozed blood that froze the ground into crimson ice. Dozens had died like this, but not a single one had intact limbs. Guards and armed citizens were sawing the trolls apart with axes and saws, slitting bellies open and dragging out the innards with long hooks.
Steam rose from the slippery guts spilling out, carrying a nauseating stench, while severed arms twitched faintly. It might look like desecration born of rage, but it was necessary—the trolls' insane regenerative powers meant a severed limb could regrow in weeks. That's why they tore them to shreds, ensuring no revival. The sight of rough men, splattered in gore, dismantling those gigantic carcasses was brutally grim.
On the other side, they were gathering human corpses too. Heads missing above the shoulders, limbs ripped off by brute force, sides torn clean away. In Apenzel, troll fights followed a pattern: steel bolts to slow them down, then close in to decapitate. Leave a bolted troll too long, and it'd yank the bolt free and heal. So you rushed in before that—right into striking range—which explained the casualties.
Steaming entrails, writhing limbs, mangled humans, blood everywhere, and northern carrion birds circling overhead, drawn by the reek. I got why the official had warned me to steel myself. I'd seen worse a thousand times, so it didn't faze me, but for a normal person, the brutality and grotesquery would hit hard.
"You okay, Pelle?"
"Yeah."
Pelle glanced at the carnage, unfazed.
"These folks have fought things like that for decades. But the capital never helps. They've guarded what's theirs with their own blood and sweat. Naturally, they've turned aggressive and insular."
"I see. Doesn't explain why they're rude to everyone, though."
"Well... we haven't walked in their shoes, so we'll never truly get it."
I unfolded the map to check our route. Before leaving, I'd marked likely Asenaris habitats based on terrain, excluding impassable areas. That narrowed it to a few spots—mostly overlapping with mines, as expected. As far as I knew, Asenaris were weaklings without much self-defense, so they favored deep caves.
I explained that to Pelle, and she muttered,
"Ammugar knows monsters inside out."
"Can't drag the old man here now. Terrain points to mine areas anyway, so we'll ask the miners. No one knows this region like them."
I patted the Hell Horse and galloped toward the nearest marked candidate.
We climbed a narrow, winding mountain path hemmed by snow-shrouded rocks. Deep wagon ruts confirmed it was the main route to the mines. Soon, a sudden plateau opened up, revealing the mine entrance across the way—a jagged crack in a sheer rock face, wide enough for five men abreast, narrowing upward along the fissure to about ten meters high.
Wooden beams framed the natural cleft like supports, braced against collapse. That formed the official gateway, buzzing with miners and ore-laden carts. On the flat before it, sturdy, long-maned draft horses hitched to wagons loaded minerals bound for Apenzel down the path I'd come.
Opposite the loading yard, a cabin backed against the cliff—likely the office, judging by the smokers flipping through papers out front. Next to it, a long shack belched white smoke from its chimney: the mess hall, no doubt.
We tethered the Hell Horse at the base of the slope and walked up.
"Where the hell are Anton and Emon?"
"Trolls smashed their skulls last night."
"What? Those weak-ass punks... Can't even swing a pickaxe right, and they go picking fights?"
"Hell if I know. Probably hated mining that bad."
The office loafers cackled.
"Fucking kids... Good, now we can rest easy."
That was their way of mourning in this frozen hell—joking it off casually. Grieve every daily death notice, and you'd crack soon enough.
"Excuse me, miners."
My greeting cut the laughter short; suspicious glares flew my way.
"Who're you?"
"Adventurer. On a commission, ended up here."
"Adventurer?"
They sized me up, then zeroed in on Pelle and snorted.
"Adventurers these days carry portable pussy to beat the lonely nights?"
The crude joke exploded into roars of laughter.
"Hey, better than huddling in some dark mine corner, comforting each other man-to-man, right?"
"The fuck?!"
One looked ready to blow, but it dissolved into even bigger laughs.
"Mouthing off right at the mine entrance? You've got balls, stranger!"
Show men who fancy themselves tough that you're tougher, and walls drop. Seeing themselves in me, their faces softened.
"What commission drags you to this frozen ass-end?"
"Hunting a few Asenaris."
"Asenaris? Those cold-spewing monsters?"
"Yeah, exactly. Tracked likely spots here. Seen any nearby or inside?"
They exchanged looks—didn't seem promising.
"Heard of 'em, sure. Never seen one. Trolls, now..."
"Yeah, trolls everywhere. This mine was their cave once—we killed 'em all and took it."
No help, just brags about past battles. Then one said,
"Not here. Try the abandoned mine over there—they're restarting digs. Might be some. Nothing past the end wall here."
He sketched the spot on my map—matched one I'd marked.
"Thanks."
We slipped away unnoticed amid their heated argument over old tales.
Descending the slope, Pelle spoke up.
"Just do what you did in Kerno."
In Kerno, I'd stabbed the Holy Sword into the ground, sending ripples that lit up every monster and demon in range with beams of light. Handy, but not here—too shallow for deep mines, and too many trolls muddied the signals. No checking each one manually.
"Doesn't work. Would've used it already."
"Oh."
I pulled out the map.
"Hmm... Gotta circle these before sunset..."
Four marks total; one down, three to go. Northern days were short, paths all uphill. Hell Horse ignored some terrain, but not sheer cliffs—we'd splatter. Maximize today; if no luck, stay another day. Should've brought more coin.
We rode to the next.
By late lunch, the second mine buzzed with activity. Carts hauled dirt and gravel, not ore; supports piled at the entrance. Too busy for us—miners ignored us flat.
We collared a passerby.
"Try the office."
Gruff pointer to the cabin; we went.
Heat from the hearth blasted our faces. The clerk glanced up from his desk.
"What?"
"Adventurers. Hunting Asenaris—deep-dwellers. Mind if we go in?"
"Ase-what? Bullshit...?"
He eyed us blankly.
"Digging new shafts. Go or don't, just don't fuck it up. Die, not my problem."
Northern men: tough, stringy, savage, rude.
"Lend us a lantern?"
"Whatever."
Lantern light cut the gloom as we entered. Dust choked the beam's reach; carts rumbled past with clatter. Soot-faced miners stared blankly; ceiling dust pattered from reinforcements.
"Move! Don't block!"
Narrow tunnel—shoulder bumps galore.
"Stick right behind me, Pelle."
"On it."
She coughed through the haze.
Doubtful for Asenaris amid this chaos, but restarting old workings gave hope. Deeper than expected; we pressed on.
Pelle finally cracked.
"How far?"
"If they're here, they'd hole up deepest, away from humans at the entrance. Keep going."
Shook a hammer-swinging miner's shoulder.
"Hey, mister. Dead end that way?"
"Who the hell're you?"
Irritated jab toward a fork.
Stepping that way, a weird noise echoed from the other branch.
"Pelle, hear that?"
"No."
She peeled off my back as I stopped.
"Hm. Imagination?"
Turning again—there it was, clear. My hearing's sharp; twice wasn't chance.
"Mister, what's down there?"
"Not gone yet? New shaft! Fuck off!"
Grumpy, but answered. New tunnel... yeah, sound from there, twice.
"Where you going?"
"Wait here."
Left her and headed into the fresh-dug fork.