To Kill a Troll
"Understood. And what did the knights say they would do?"
"They said they would interrogate the men first, then decide."
"Very well. Tell them I will arrive as quickly as possible."
Suettelg gave him a look that said, see for yourself. Forest or no forest, a few dozen mercenaries would never stand a chance against knights. That was simply how it was.
The garrison centurion barked orders and summoned the mercenary captains one by one. As long as the knights were already riding ahead and raising hell, his own men had to hurry too.
Frankly, the knights were no fools — they'd manage fine on their own. But if his men arrived late, he'd never hear the end of it.
"It would be convenient if the knights simply swept the lot of them away."
"And that's exactly the kind of talk that gets you chewed out, so I'd rather not. Are the men still not ready?"
"They report they're nearly done."
At his aide's report, the centurion nodded.
The suppression plan was simple.
Sweep the viable campsites in the surrounding forests one by one, and kill every mercenary and bandit in sight, wherever they showed themselves.
Crude, but effective — a straight-down-the-middle approach. Their side had the numbers and the better troops, so there was no reason to bother with anything clever.
It was only the vastness of the forest that let these bandits hold out at all. Destroy their supplies and their campsites, and the mercenaries were finished. Men who had gathered for profit would hardly retreat and regroup. They'd simply scatter to the four winds.
"Do you think they'll run, or stand and fight?"
"They'll fight at least once, I'd expect. Men who've done what they've done don't just quietly disband."
Having betrayed the city and turned bandit, the mercenary captain had to show results. Otherwise the enraged mercenaries would hang him by his own neck.
"Is it wise to be drinking like that?"
"Wine, you mean? Good wine is medicine."
Suettelg looked at Johan with sheer disbelief. The elf knights and Johan had been drinking like madmen. Once Johan proved he could hold his liquor, the elves had perked up and poured for him all the more eagerly.
Knightly types, honestly.
Suettelg washed the taste down with cold water. Johan, busy preparing for the march, spoke up.
"What conditions does one need to see the future?"
"Why? Don't tell me you want your fortune told as well."
"Haha. Hardly my place. I only asked because I thought that someone of your standing, Lord Suettelg, might glimpse an unlucky future early enough to avoid it."
"A few conditions are needed, yes. The water tells me the future only when it wishes to, when my life hangs in grave danger, and — above all — when I haven't drunk too heavily the night before."
"Very plausible."
"And why this sudden talk of the future? You didn't bring it up for nothing."
"The mercenaries who betrayed the city and turned bandit wouldn't have done it without thinking, would they? I can't help feeling there's something more to it."
"Something to it, nothing. Don't overrate the mongrels. Like I said, they're beasts. Hungry, they eat; thirsty, they drink; out of coin, they turn to banditry. They'd already been paid in advance, and I suppose they figured they could squeeze out more. The Empire's side is unsettled, so if they wander off there, Marcel can't lay a finger on them."
Block the road into the city, and the city had no choice but to negotiate. The payoff would be several times richer than whatever they'd earned from the contract itself.
If the Oakheart mercenary company and the bandits had misjudged anything, it was this: the magistrate of Marcel was not a man to be trifled with.
"Those mercenaries picked the wrong mark. In any other city, perhaps — but this magistrate isn't soft enough for such a clumsy racket to work on him."
"Hmm."
They had expected the magistrate to cave and negotiate the moment they blocked the road; instead, he had hired a punitive force at double strength and come at them. That choice was undeniably menacing.
And yet Johan felt oddly uneasy.
What if the other side had plans of their own?
The burning campsite was a scene of utter desolation. The mercenaries who hadn't escaped in time were slaughtered where they stood. The unlucky merchants who had come to the camp hoping to turn a profit, along with the camp followers and the prostitutes, were put to the sword alongside them.
When the knights charged with a cry of "For glory!", the mercenaries in the camp split neatly into thirds. One third panicked and fled, throwing down their weapons; one third screamed "We surrender! We yield!"; the last third grabbed for their weapons, determined to fight however they could.
The elf knights swept them all away with perfect impartiality. The enemy were not nobles — there was no reason to accept their surrender.
"S-s-s-sir..."
A servant pressed a blade to the throat of a mercenary woman who had survived.
"You're not the only nest, are you? Where are the others?"
"Th-there — east — there's a camp by the stream past the ridge... waiting in ambush for anyone passing through to Gadoro..."
Before she could finish, the servant drew the dagger across her throat. It was a skill honed from long practice, trailing after knights. A servant or slave who attended a knight had no choice but to become a seasoned soldier.
"Did you learn anything?"
"Yes, my lord. They appear to be lying in wait at the camp by the eastern stream."
"Vermin, scattered everywhere to pester us."
One of the knights furrowed his brow.
"The horses are getting winded. Switch mounts. We must strike before they hear the commotion and flee."
Not one of the party of thirty had been wounded. However badly the mercenaries had been caught by surprise, the gap had been overwhelming.
At the sight of the campsite — smashed to pieces without a single thing spared, then thriftily set ablaze on the way out — Johan clicked his tongue. The same men who had been so chummy with him, a fellow knight, had left all this carnage behind them.
Worse, they had already pushed on in search of their next target.
"Sir Johan. Might you, together with the Knight Monastery of Saint Iena, lend aid to Sir Gwalter's knights?"
With the knights refusing to wait and pressing ever further ahead, the centurion had finally changed his mind. Better to send a few swift men as support — and better still to take credit for it, lest things grow troublesome for no reason.
Johan judged it a fine opportunity and nodded. He had joined the punitive force under the trading company's banner; even if he couldn't rampage like those mad elf knights, it was better to earn merit when the chance presented itself.
"Gladly."
Johan decided to leave Goidun with the main party. It hardly looked dangerous enough to drag one more man along. Goidun wore a complicated expression, caught between relief at his own safety and dread at being sold off like a worn-out nag.
"Then, Lord Suettelg — I leave the rest to you."
"Nothing to leave. The dwarves will do the fighting. Go and come back in one piece."
Though the monks of the Knight Monastery of Saint Iena carried iron shields and packs on their backs and weapons in their hands, they did not fall behind Johan, who rode at speed. They were elite soldiers several times over anything the mercenaries could field.
Their leader was the priestess Valien.
She stood tall enough that her face nearly brushed Johan's nose, her well-conditioned frame evident even through the loose habit she wore. By contrast, her silver hair and youthful, girlish face were strikingly incongruous.
The first words out of her mouth after the greeting were these:
"Sir Johan. What are your thoughts on God?"
"......"
The unexpected question threw Johan off balance.
The churches of this world resembled those of Earth, but they were not identical. He had learned a fair amount from Father Valberga, yet hardly enough to hold forth on theology.
"I think it is not my place to speak on such matters."
"A humble answer."
"?"
Valien's face was expressionless, but Johan could feel her satisfaction at his reply. He was taken slightly aback. Had he stumbled onto the right answer?
"The knights of House Batok have been committing sin. Gluttony may please the tongue, but it is an act that stains the soul — and it leads, in turn, to pride."
Johan, who had just spent the previous evening eating and drinking merrily alongside the elf knights, felt a faint sting of guilt. He changed the subject at once.
"In that respect, men and women of the cloth truly live devout lives. I have admired them for a long time."
"Would you perhaps consider entering the monastery?"
"Family obligations, I'm afraid..."
Valien nodded. If that was the reason, then so be it — her nod seemed to say.
Having no desire to spend the entire march discussing theology and austerity, Johan threw out another question.
"I've heard the Knight Monastery of Saint Iena has hunted trolls before. I'd love to hear how you managed it."
"Sir Johan. I would ask that you not speak of trolls."
"?"
"It is said that to speak of a troll is to summon one."
This world makes it so hard to tell superstition from sense.
In a world where magic was real, dismissing every superstition outright felt reckless. If speaking of trolls could summon them, Johan resolved to keep his mouth shut.
Instead, he asked the monks how they lived — what their daily routine was, whether they lacked for anything.
At such questions, the monks wore looks of wonder.
Johan was certainly unlike other knights. To begin with, these were questions no ordinary knight would ever ask. The usual fare ran more along the lines of: Did you hear of the feat I accomplished last month? Is my new commission sword not beautiful? Do you know how greatly God loves me?
Thanks to which, the monks answered freely and in detail.
"There is a sword art handed down within the monastery. In our spare hours we drill it and spar with one another."
Retired knights sometimes entered the monastery as well, so the monastery's swordplay was by no means a weak discipline. Hours otherwise spent reading and memorizing scripture were poured instead into the blade.
Among those arts were secret techniques never taught outside the walls — much like the skills Johan had learned from Kaegal. His interest was suddenly piqued.
How, exactly, did these holy sisters fight?
Just then, the frantic drumming of hooves reached them from the distance. Someone was riding a horse at nearly full gallop. Johan and the monks froze at once, hands going to their weapons.
"Help! Please, help!"
"!"
The figure who burst through the underbrush was the servant attending one of the elf knights. He clung to his saddle, half out of his wits. Anyone could see he had taken a terrible blow.
"What happened?"
"Sir! SIR! My master — my master was attacked by a troll!"
"......"
You can't be serious.
For an instant, Johan glanced at Valien. Fortunately, she did not appear to blame him for it.
"Help us! Please!"
"Understood. You ride to the main force and call for aid. I will go ahead and assist them myself."
"Thank you... thank you!"
After getting a detailed account of the location and the situation from the servant, Johan looked to Valien. Now that a troll had actually appeared, there was no point in sparing words. He had to ask the people who had actually hunted one.
"Is a troll faster than a horse, or slower?"
"Slower than a horse, but... SIR! Please, wait!"
When Johan made to spur his horse forward, Valien cried out in alarm. Hunting a troll was not like hunting game — you did not simply ride it down. The beast's hide was tough as boiled leather and its regeneration even more stubborn; it demanded thorough preparation.
"Why?"
"Killing a troll requires preparation. Please wait until we have readied the Fire of Saint Iena."
One of the creature's weaknesses was fire — and not just any fire, but a vicious, stubborn blaze that would not easily be put out. At Valien's words, Johan thought to himself:
'I was hardly planning to take it that seriously...'