Troll Slayer
Catching a troll with fire was a rare thing in these parts. Trolls had a reputation for being dim-witted, but the creatures were actually sharp-eyed and cunning monsters. The moment they spotted a flame, they would dodge it like ghosts or try to snuff it out.
To bypass that wariness and land a real blow with fire required some special arcane art or technique.
"...No. Hmm. So, you see, the thing is..."
"What is it? Tell us how you caught it, Sir Knight. Rest assured — we are not fools who would insult you for failing to take it in a fair one-on-one duel."
At Aclada's words, the other warriors chuckled and nodded along. None of them had the faintest idea what Johan was about to say next.
I'm not lying, and yet it feels like I'm telling one.
Johan explained what had happened as persuasively as he could. The warriors who had listened with sparkling interest at first wore progressively stranger expressions as he went on.
He grabbed the troll's arm, tore it off, and cut its throat?
"Is that even a man?"
"That knight may have been born with an ogre's soul in him. I must tell our tribe's shaman about this."
"He, he looks like such a proper knight, yet he does things beyond imagination...? Even the maddest hunter in our tribe wouldn't take down a troll like that."
"...If you want to say that loudly and still have it go unheard, why not just speak in the Eastern tongue?"
Johan said with an irritated look. Here he'd gone to all the trouble of explaining, and these barbarians...
"Oh, forgive me, Sir Knight."
"We do not mean to call you an ogre, Sir Knight."
"To be honest, being an ogre would be a compliment."
"■ ■■ ■."
"Lady Euclia. That's a bit... saying that to Imperial folk might cause a misunderstanding, no?"
"...In any case, Sir Knight! We will take our prey with poison."
Aclada declared, shaking off his embarrassment. Brave warriors of the East though they were, Johan's methods were simply beyond them.
"I had no intention of insisting on my way. You asked, so I answered."
"Wait a moment. You said you killed werewolves before, did you not? How did you take them down back then?"
"I shot one with an arrow, and the other two..."
"The two?"
"...I fought them blade to blade."
The warriors stared at Johan with expressions that said figures. This time they muttered among themselves in the Eastern tongue. Even with Johan's limited grasp of the language, he could make out the words even nine lives wouldn't be enough for him.
"But arrows don't work well on monsters, do they?"
Even among men there were those who dodged or parried arrows; monsters were all the more so.
"The archery of the centaurs is a bit special."
One of the other warriors answered in his stead. Aclada, beaming with pride, showed Johan his bow and arrows. The arrow was shorter than the others — and there was a second, hollow shaft into which it was fitted before loosing.
"Sir Knight. Do you know how this is used?"
"...You slot the arrow into the guide, then launch the dart alone?"
"Huh?"
Aclada was flustered. Called Solenarion, this archery had been handed down among the centaur tribes since time immemorial.
It was a tradition stretching back to the days of the Ancient Empire — a tradition so feared that the enemies of the centaur tribes called it a blade without sound.
But Johan knew exactly what it was, too.
It's an arrow guide, isn't it?
A method of archery that shrank the arrow itself to gain range and velocity. The way the small dart rode the guide shaft and shot out made it certain.
When Johan guessed it on the spot, Aclada marveled at him. He had never once met an Imperial who could recognize it...
"Can you use it as well?"
"No, not that."
"Anyone who can recognize it has a talent for it. Why not learn it?"
"■■ ■■■■."
"...You can't shoot a bow to save your life."
"■■ ■ ■■■!"
"No — you're the one who chose the spear over the bow, so how is that my fault? Keep it up and I'll translate every word you're saying. Anyway, Sir Knight. This is how we've been hunting the werewolves."
Both Aclada and the other warriors were brimming with confidence; clearly they had hunted with it more than once or twice.
Then again, when an arrow far smaller than any other came shrieking out of the dark faster than sight, reacting to it would be no easy feat.
"I understand the hunting part, but first we'd need to find where the beasts are, wouldn't we?"
"Sir Knight. Do you know what centaur means in the Ancient Imperial tongue?"
"Born hunters?"
"...No, Sir Knight, why is it that you already know everything I'm about to say?"
Aclada said, looking slightly deflated.
"We have hunters from our tribe, Sir Knight. We told them to find the werewolf pack, so they'll be tracking its trail by now. Let's go to the nearby camp, rest well, and set out the moment word comes in."
"R-right, of course."
The knight's trial the Duke had spoken of — wandering the frontier alone in silent pursuit of glory — had never existed in the first place. The Duke himself surely hadn't believed it.
The warriors of the nomadic tribes used every means and method at their disposal, and so did the knights of the Empire.
Only the gathered crowds remained ignorant of it, cheering all the same.
Aclada's prediction had proven accurate. The warriors who had joined hands with the Imperial knights mostly had their own schemes in mind.
— What! There should be a troll right here, but it looks like the thing moved off for its winter sleep.
— Then find some other beast!
— That one there is a white rabbit. A sacred omen of good fortune. Bring that back, and the Duke will be mightily impressed, my lord.
— ...Are you mocking me right now? If you value your life...
They had been paid a handsome sum, but the tribal warriors had never intended to honor the bargain. To them, Imperial knights were easy marks, ripe for fleecing.
Besides, a warrior distinguished enough to receive a knighthood from the Duke would belong to a tribe of no small size.
The moment they set out, they had summoned the tribe's warriors and turned the threat right back on the knights.
— If I value my life? And if I do? You Imperial hick. Say that again. I'll peel the skin off your head and hang it as an ornament.
Quite a few knights crumbled under the warm hospitality of the nomadic tribes.
But not every knight gave in.
This wretch — and he still has the nerve to call himself a knight?
the warrior thought. He was the one who had taken Boriska of House Peteo's coin and ridden out with him. Of course, he had no intention of keeping his promise either.
But Sir Boriska was truly...
"You're late."
"Ah. My apologies, my lord. It took extra time to return without being seen."
Boriska was audacious enough to impress even the warriors beyond the Empire's borders.
He had gone so far as to hire mercenaries separately and summon them!
Even granting that the Duke would overlook a certain amount, this was a flagrant flouting of the Duke's orders. If it came to light, he could face more than disgrace — his knighthood itself could be revoked.
Yet Boriska didn't so much as blink. He burned with nothing but rage and the desire to reclaim his lost reputation.
He had fallen from his horse absurdly early in a tournament where even a strong showing wouldn't have sufficed. Luceus had at least fought with honor; having toppled in the opening rounds, Boriska had earned no such consolation.
If he couldn't redeem himself in this hunt, his name would never recover.
"The thing I asked for?"
"Of course I brought them. Hunters of the Eastern Rangers, no less. You can trust their skill."
The mercenaries of the Arrowhead Company showed not the slightest timidity even before the knights.
Eastern mercenaries, a mix of Imperials and barbarians, were known to be exceptionally rough — but this lot were violent in their temperament to a remarkable degree.
The knights behind Boriska eyed the mercenaries with complicated expressions.
They had followed because they were Boriska's men to begin with, but not all of them approved of this hire. A few, considering the employment of such mercenaries beneath a knight's honor, wore scowls plain enough to see.
Had it been his normal temper, Boriska would have drawn his sword. He let it pass — for now, he needed the help of knights and mercenaries alike.
"Galambos, my lord. At your service."
"Right. Eastern Rangers, you say?"
"Yes. A decurion, formerly."
"I heard a wyvern could be found in these parts. You think that's true?"
At Boriska's words, Galambos gave a dry snort of a laugh.
"How could it be, my lord? In a flat plain like this, where all you see are low hills and mounds? The mountain range it might range through is days away yet."
"Is that so? So he lied to me after all."
"You son of a—!"
Realizing he'd been caught out, the warrior drew his weapon. So that was why he'd hired mercenaries — to compare notes against him.
But the mercenaries had been ready first. The moment the warrior's hand touched his blade, a crossbow bolt came flying. With an agony of punctured flesh in several places, the warrior sprawled backward into the dirt.
"Clear that barbarian's corpse out of here! Galambos, was it? You'd best be carrying good news. Any monsters nearby worth taking?"
Galambos grinned and nodded. Naturally, he had come to this knight because he had something worth believing in.
"I heard a rumor the centaurs were buzzing about. I think it will interest you as well, my lord."
The war camps of the nomadic tribes never stayed in one place forever. When the time came, they drove their herds and moved on.
The human tribe called ■■■■ in the Eastern tongue welcomed Johan and Aclada's party with open arms.
"Troll■ ■■ ■■■■? ■■ ■■?"
"■■■■■! Troll■!"
"Can't you at least tell them to stop going on about the troll?"
"They're having far too much fun. Impossible, Sir Knight. Now — have a drink! Word from the hunters says they'll be back in two or three days. Rest up until then."
Euclia stuck to Johan's side and kept refilling his cup with liquor made from the milk of their livestock. The sweet, honeyed drink went down dangerously easy.
The tribespeople clapped and marveled at the sight of Johan drinking cup after cup without showing the least hint of drunkenness.
"Troll slayer! Troll slayer!"
Having definitively learned how to pronounce troll slayer in the Eastern tongue, Johan basked in their hospitality.
"■ ■ ■■■?"
"Get him drunk to do what, exactly?"
Midway through the feast, Johan stepped outside the tent. The air inside had grown hot, and he was desperate for a cool breeze.
The wind swept through the grass, and he heard it rustle against itself. At the rhythmic sound, Johan nodded along, feeling pleasantly drowsy.
Rustle. Rustle. Rustle...
"?"
Something felt off, and he turned his head. Come to think of it, with the season what it was, the grass wouldn't be tall enough to brush against itself.
Suddenly Kaegal came to mind — Kaegal, who used to ramble on about every conceivable method for infiltrating enemy lines as an assassin.
— You call that a plan? Why not just kill everyone and walk in? Of course, that's one way, but right now we're talking about what to do when that won't work.
Camouflage using the terrain, camouflage using people — Kaegal had held forth eagerly on every method there was. He had clearly thought that unless he pushed hard, Johan would never actually use any of it.
...Though Johan had used it so rarely that all that pushing had gone to waste...
It's not as though I've often had occasion to assassinate anyone in the first place.
Crimes that vicious didn't come up every day. Not that Johan had ever lived a quiet, peaceful life either.
Johan moved toward the source of the sound. And there he met the eyes of a man who looked like one of the tribespeople.
The man flinched visibly at the sight of him.
His expression didn't change, but Johan could feel that he'd been startled.
"Who are you?"
"Ahaha. You'd be the new knight, would you? I've had a bit too much to drink..."
"......"
The man swayed as if drunk. There was dirt on his hands and legs, as though he'd fallen over in his cups.
Suspicious, sure, but calling it outright feels like splitting hairs.
Any man might startle at running into someone in the dark. Besides, Johan looked nothing like the tribespeople here.
Then a thought struck him. Johan opened his mouth and spoke in the Eastern tongue.
"...■■■■."
"?"
Johan smiled pleasantly. Then he seized the man by the throat.
"What kind of tribesman can't even understand an insult to his own face?"
The man panicked and fumbled for a dagger, but Johan lashed out with his free hand and cracked him across the cheek. One blow, and the man went limp.
"Intruder! Intruder!"
Johan's shout woke the camp. The tribespeople abandoned their drinks mid-swallow and came running with weapons in hand.
"Where's this intruder?!"
"Got him right here. One of yours?"
Those who looked at the man Johan had caught thrust torches close and glared. There was something familiar about his face.
"Western filth, plain as day..."
"No, Sir Knight! This man is one of the knights who fought in the tournament!"
One of the warriors recognized the man's face. Johan cried out in genuine surprise.
"What?"
"I'm shocked myself! What in the world is he doing here..."
"Isn't he too weak to be a knight, though? He couldn't win a single bout before he went down."
"...Th-that's beside the point! Aren't you curious why he's here at all?"
"Fair point. Wake him up."