The Knight Slayer
From what Johan could see, the Knight Monastery of Saint Iena fully intended to stake their lives in a duel to the death with the troll. It was only natural for people who viewed monster-hunting as the will of God.
Johan, however, had no such intentions.
Granted, he'd eaten well off the elf knights and taken part in the expedition, so he would go rescue them. But fight to the death? Not a chance.
If the situation's still salvageable, I pull them out and leave. If we're too late, I just fall back.
His horse was faster than any troll. All he had to do was turn around and ride. That was the whole reason he'd asked the questions he had.
The elf knights would, of course, charge the moment they laid eyes on the monster—no retreat, capture it no matter what. Johan entertained no such thoughts.
If you can catch it, catch it. If you can't, too bad.
The flexible knight!
The best outcome here was to rescue the elf knights and slip away without fighting the troll at all. Which meant speed was everything. If the knights died, there'd be no glory to claim and no favors to bank.
"No. That would take too long. I'm going ahead—follow when you're ready."
"Sir!"
Johan spurred his horse forward, pretending not to hear. Karamap rumbled and matched his pace at his side.
Meanwhile, the main force was steadily pushing deeper into the forest.
Apart from a few brief skirmishes with bandits who seemed to have been out scouting, there had been no real fighting.
So when the outriders returned with their report, the centurion of the guard could only stare in disbelief.
"They're waiting for us?"
"Yes, sir. They've gathered and finished their preparations for battle."
A few hundred mercenaries and bandits had formed up in ranks—ranks being a generous word for a loose line of men—and stood ready to fight. The centurion was genuinely astonished.
Frankly, he'd expected them to dissolve and scatter by now.
"What did I tell you? I said they'd fight at least once. Their mercenary captain's neck is on the line."
"Shut up. Tell the mercenaries to prepare for battle."
After booting his smugly triumphant lieutenant in the rear, the centurion readied his forces for combat.
A few hundred men, sure—but their numbers had already thinned through repeated clashes. The punitive expedition held the advantage in both quality and quantity.
"Captain. The mage is here."
"!"
Suetleg's sudden arrival caught the centurion off guard. He snapped to attention and bowed.
"To what do we owe the honor, my lord?"
"I hear the bandits are lying in wait. Did I hear correctly?"
"Yes. You did."
"Could you perhaps hold a reserve force in the rear?"
"I... beg your pardon?"
"Even without the Red Iron Mercenary Company and the Knight Monastery of Saint Galanto, you'd still have more than enough strength to win, wouldn't you?"
The unexpected proposal flustered the centurion. Looking at the enemy's condition, the dwarf and the battle-brethren certainly could afford to wait in reserve.
These weren't men holed up in a fortress or a keep—they were brazenly preparing to fight in the open field. The punitive force could crush them head-on with room to spare.
"That's true, but... might I ask why? Gah— surely you haven't seen the future?"
"...You could call it something like that. Think of it as an old man's worry."
The centurion couldn't refuse. Suetleg was being courteous now, but if he chose to throw his authority around, the centurion would simply have to bend.
"Understood. I'll place both in the reserve at the rear. The mercenaries who were hoping to coast through this one will grumble, I expect."
"My apologies."
"Not at all. It's hardly a difficult request."
A reserve force could be committed to the fight at any moment. It wasn't an unreasonable demand.
"Crossbowmen, to the front! Special rewards for any man who distinguishes himself! Forward!"
"Any man who runs gets his head taken! Don't even think about malingering!"
murderous shouts erupted among the mercenaries. These were the cries of men about to be driven onto a battlefield. Not all mercenaries were cut from the same cloth—among them were green recruits and outright cowards, and it fell to the veterans to seize such men by the scruff and shove them into the fray.
"Magus—why did you ask for those two to be held in the rear?"
"Worrying over nothing. Pay it no mind."
Goiden asked cautiously. Thankfully, Suetleg did not turn him into a frog in irritation.
"Something your master said has been nagging at me... Don't concern yourself. He'll manage fine on his own."
With all that racket announcing their approach, there was no way either side could miss the other. As the war drums beat, a battle cry rose in answer from the enemy lines.
-Did the consul at least give you a reacharound, you bastards!
-You took advance payment and ran, and now you've got something to say? Did the bandits get scared and surrender or something?!
The moment they closed to within sight of each other's faces, the arrows began to fly. Mostly crossbow bolts, with only a handful of mercenaries using bows. With shrill shrieks, the shafts slammed into both lines.
-Urgh!
-Ghk!
A few unlucky souls took bolts slipping between the shields and went down. But the mercenaries did not stop. They pressed forward in grim silence.
It was plain to see that this side had the greater numbers and the longer line, and the punitive force's morale soared accordingly. Jokes even began circulating among the relaxed veterans.
-Anyone want to bet on whether I can hit that bastard?
With the bandits looking set to be smashed in short order, the centurion let himself relax. And at that very moment, a knight's servant arrived, filthy and frantic.
"A troll?!"
"Send reinforcements at once! My master is in danger!"
"Impossible right now! Look—this is a fight where whoever pulls back first loses. How am I supposed to pull mercenaries out of this?!"
The centurion snapped sharply. The servant couldn't argue the point either, and faltered.
"Didn't Sir Johan and the paladins of Saint Iena ride ahead?"
"They did. They said they were going to help, but..."
"That many should be plenty! Sending half-hearted mercenaries against a troll changes nothing."
"But—"
When his knight was present, the servant could lord himself around like a noble, but without his master he was nothing. And the centurion was in no position to back down now. They were on the verge of battle—who cared about some troll?
Knight, of course. Of course it's a knight. He probably saw the troll and charged in, thinking about all the fame and glory!
It was obvious the man had attacked thinking only of his own reputation and achievements. The thought made his blood boil.
"...Fine. We'll wait until the battle is finished."
"A wise decision."
Suetleg, listening nearby, let out an "Ah" of realization. Goiden asked, puzzled.
"What is it, my lord?"
"Your master truly does have fortune on his side. It's clear the gods watch over the bold."
"...?"
"The troll is called the Knight-Slayer, true enough—but as it happens, your master carries a poison particularly well suited to dealing with trolls."
Suetleg wore a satisfied expression. Who could have imagined that a casually given gift would come back around like this? Was this too a revelation?
"Karamap. You're a monster yourself, one way or another. Can you handle a troll?"
-Grrr.
Karamap made his feelings known, simply and briefly. It meant no.
"You could draw its attention, at least?"
-Grr.
At that, Karamap nodded with evident confidence. Johan put on a look of satisfaction.
"Go distract it, but don't commit too hard. If it gets dangerous, pull out immediately. I never planned to fight for my life anyway."
Karamap had scented the knights and was guiding them through the forest with uncanny accuracy. The servant had pointed the way, true, but without the wolf they would have wandered lost a dozen more times.
Drawing the troll's attention is fine, but is there any way to deal it real damage?
From what he'd gathered, the troll's hide was far tougher than he'd expected. And it wasn't just a single layer of skin defending the body—the leathery hide, dense muscle, and thick fat beneath were all interwoven into a heavy natural armor.
Even swinging a keenly honed longsword and slicing into the hide would barely bite into the muscle before stopping. No wonder the knights' swordsmanship struggled against it.
And besides, such wounds healed over almost immediately...
Would cutting with the Seal Retriever make a difference?
"This is no place to grease a blade and set it alight, that's for sure. So in the end... I'll just have to brute force it."
-Grr?
"If I throw it hard enough it'll bite in to some degree. A spear rather than a sword."
-Grrr...
It had regeneration, certainly—but unlike a sword, a spear buried in its torso would not come out so easily.
Of course, it was a plan only Johan, with his monstrous strength, could execute.
The wolf growled, as if to say he found the whole idea suffocating.
The elf knights stared at the troll with hollow, haunted eyes.
Knight-Slayer, the troll!
Vividly they remembered sneering—a monster, with a title like that?—the first time they'd heard the name...
-The beast is alone. To let such a quarry slip past would shame us as knights. We encircle it and take it. Keep the crossbows firing without pause—drive it into a panic!
The knights were no fools. They had never taken a troll before, but they had taken other monsters.
They sent their men to ring the creature in a wide circle, then poured bolts in from every direction. Monster or not, nothing could keep its composure under that kind of harassment—it would flinch, scatter, break.
And then it would be the knights' turn.
They knew the troll's regeneration was formidable, but sever its head and all that became meaningless. The moment it panicked, the knights would lunge in fast, blades poised for the neck.
Except—
-It— it's coming this way! It's coming this way!!
The bolts were far too weak to panic a troll. Without so much as a scratch, the troll snorted in contempt and charged straight into the crossbowmen. The encirclement collapsed in an instant, in a chorus of screams.
From then on, it wasn't a fight. It was endurance.
The troll seemed to have grasped that the elf knights were the ones in charge, and it ignored everyone else to hound the three of them relentlessly. It meant never to give them a chance to mount the tethered horses and flee.
The elf knights were reduced to sprinting one way and rolling another, cursing with every breath. When a troll one and a half times the size of a big soldier swung that enormous club, there was no defense—there was nothing but getting out of the way.
It was only thanks to one of the three never falling back, never stopping, always keeping the troll's attention, that this razor's-edge balance held at all.
All three of them knew it.
If even one of them dropped out, the remaining knights would die to that troll!
It was a shameful thing for a knight to admit, but support was all they had left to hope for.
And then, Johan arrived.
Riding his warhorse, boldly crashing through the underbrush onto the field, Johan looked the very picture of an honorable knight.
...The situation looks worse than I expected.
Though privately, of course, he was still debating whether to simply run, or take the knights with him.