For the Witcher Monster MAYhem 2023 prompt Silver Sword.
"You're good," Geralt says with an appreciative nod in Cahir's direction. He has secretly observed the erstwhile black knight training on the pendulum in the courtyard for a while and is not a little impressed. The Vicovarian has always been skilled at swordsmanship, a fierce fighter with excellent technique and reflexes - for a non-Witcher. But now his footwork, balance, precision and speed seem to have improved beyond what can be expected of a mere human. Is it simply due to the self-imposed hard training regime, or has the Witcher blood had some effect after all? Well, no matter what the cause, it is a welcome sight. And will come in handy.
"I could need your help, Cahir. With a monster. Care to join me on a hunt?"
"You want me to accompany you on a monster hunt?" Cahir asks surprised, pausing his exercise for a moment.
"A troll appears to have gone rouge. Ate half a dozen travellers plus a few villagers and then destroyed its own bridge not too far from here. Two days' ride at most.
"Strange." Cahir frowns. "Trolls are usually very protective of their bridges, aren't they? And the last case on record of a troll eating people happened more than forty years ago."
"Vesemir told me you spent loads of time in the library while recovering. I see it paid off. You know your trolls." Geralt smiles at his young friend. "Pack your things, we'll leave in an hour." Cahir nods curtly, jumps down from the pendulum and follows Geralt into the old castle.
Soon their horses are saddled, their most essential accoutrement stowed in their saddle bags, and the Witcher and the knight are ready to depart. Vesemir, their mentor and friend, comes out into the courtyard to see them off.
"I've got something for you, son," he says. "You'll need it to kill monsters." The old Witcher draws a sword from a leather sheath. The silver blade inscribed with magical runes gleams in the light of the summer sun. The hilt is artfully decorated with the wolf school emblem. "My monster hunting days are over for good. Looks like yours are just beginning. Here, it's yours." He holds out the invaluable weapon to Cahir who takes it from the old Witcher's hand with an expression of awed disbelief.
"This - this is marvellous." Cahir weighs the weapon in his hand and gives it a few practised swings. It is perfectly balanced and feels like an extension of his own arm. As if the sword was made for him, or he for it. "I don't know what to say, Vesemir."
"Then don't say anything. Just come back safely. The both of you." Despite Vesemir smiling at the two younger men, it is easy to tell that he is worried.
"It's just one troll," Geralt allays his unnecessary fears. "I've killed trolls before. You have, too, Vesemir. There are far more dangerous monsters. Between the two of us, it will be easy as pie. Good practise for Cahir to get into the game. We'll be back in four days, five at the most. With a nice sack of coin."
"Right, Wolf," Vesemir concedes, albeit a bit reluctantly. "Good luck, boys!" he then says. "And stay safe." The last words he only mutters into his grizzled beard. The two younger men cannot hear them as they have already ridden off, Geralt on his bay mare by the name of Roach and Cahir on Yennefer's black horse. The sorceress left the day before via portal and without her steed on some important political business.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
"What else do you know about trolls?" Geralt asks his companion after they have left the secret, narrow path down the mountain behind them. On the broader track through the valley the two friends can ride side by side which makes chatting a lot easier. Well, not really chatting as neither of the two is the chatty type, but talking, especially about business.
"They are huge and ugly as hell," Cahir starts, "but most are not hostile nor a danger to men. Being sentient creatures that can even be useful by building and maintaining bridges, they often coexist peacefully with the human population of the area nowadays. They demand a toll, of course, for their efforts, but that's cheaper than hiring human workers. There are three different kinds of trolls, the most common one being the rock troll. Magma trolls are rare and ice trolls even rarer. The one we're to slay is a rock troll, I suspect?"
"Right. A pretty common one. Male. No family," Geralt says.
"Any idea why it's gone off its rocker?"
"No, the notice did not say. It doesn't really matter anyway. We'll be paid for killing it, not for analysing its motives. So, what about how to fight and kill a troll? Those books gave you any ideas?"
"Sure. Those books were quite informative," Cahir confirms with a smile, "although inconsistent at times. What I gathered is that contrary to legend, trolls won't turn to stone in daylight, but their skin is as hard as stone. Rock trolls are the hardest, literally. Their backs are covered in rocky growths that not even a sword like yours - or mine - could hack through. Arrows are useless. So the Witcher has to attack it face to face and go for the belly. It's the most vulnerable part. You have to be swift though to avoid getting crushed by the rocks a troll will hurl at you with astounding precision, or by its giant fist. Throwing a Quen can to some extent protect a Witcher from the impact. Coating one's sword with ogroid oil might be a good idea, too. Or trying to avoid a fight by reasoning with the troll first. However, in this case, it sounds like the troll will hardly be open to reasoning. The families of the killed peasants will want its head, too."
"They do. One of the victims was the mayor's own son. Even if the troll swears never to kill again and to leave the place, the villagers won't be satisfied. They'll only pay us if we end the troll for good. So that's what we'll do."
"Any plan or strategy?"
"Hell yeah," Geralt grins. "You'll do the job and I'll enjoy the show. Excellent plan, isn't it? I'll be there as backup, of course, if the need should arise. But I'm pretty sure you can handle the troll just fine on your own."
"Sounds like a good plan to me," Cahir agrees, grinning from ear to ear at the implied praise. "Admittedly, I feared it would be the other way around, that you'd do the killing as a demonstration and I'd be the one watching."
"Nah, you need to try out that silver beauty of yours. I've packed the oil, too. But what about Witcher signs? Has Vesemir taught you any? Do you know how to cast Quen?"
"I do in theory, but it never worked. I'm not a Witcher. Vesemir was pretty disappointed."
"So, nothing happened?"
"Almost nothing. Kind of a faint ripple in the air. Wouldn't do any good at all. The troll would probably laugh its ugly head off."
"Might be a brand new way to kill a troll then," Geralt chuckles. "I'd even add it to the bestiary I'm planning to write when I retire."
"You are planning to retire?" Cahir asks, surprised. "Not anytime soon, though, I suspect.
"No, just joking. Witchers don't retire, and neither do they die from old age in their beds."
"Vesemir might."
"True. If he doesn't die from worrying about you first, whippersnapper."
"Or you, Wolf."
Geralt grunts in response. Cahir is not wrong. Even after decades on the path Vesemir is still ridiculously anxious about anything happening to him, or Lambert or Coen. He has seen many of 'his boys' die, too, so Geralt understands the sentiment, and especially so now after having a daughter of his own. It can be a bit annoying though. Well, Ciri probably thinks the same when he is being overprotective ...
They ride on in companionable silence. The day is sunny and warm, the birds are singing in the trees whose leaves are beginning to take on a light hue of orange as autumn approaches. When dusk is falling, they find a good place for the night by a small streamlet full of fish. They are easy to catch and soon, the two friends have a campfire going with fresh trout roasting on spits over it. It would be the perfect time and place to reminisce about their past adventures, the many campfires they sat around together with Regis, Milva, Angoulême and Jaskier, their Hansa. Only all of the others are dead except for Jaskier, and Cahir, having lost his memory after his almost fatal injury from his fight with Leo Bonhart at Stygga Castle, does not have any real recollection of any of it. So, instead, they eat their trout discussing the best ways how to kill the different species and subspecies of Ogroids, and of all kinds of other monsters Geralt has encountered on the path. Then they spread out their bedrolls. They will continue on their way at the break of dawn.
Geralt, taking first watch, can soon hear Cahir's soft snoring. Good. His young friend will want to be well rested for his first fight with a troll. Vesemir's silver sword is lying right next to him and in his sleep he is clutching at its hilt with one hand. Geralt smiles quietly to himself. Who would have thought just a year ago that, one day, the two of them would go on a monster hunt together, the White Wolf and the black knight of Ciri's nightmares, like brothers. Not he, Geralt, no, certainly not he.