For the Witcher Monster MAYhem 2023 prompt Towering Trolls.
After a quiet night and an uneventful day of riding, Geralt and Cahir reach the village shortly before nightfall. Too late to go searching for the troll right away but early enough to look for a room for the night and speak to the villagers and the mayor. Knowing as much as possible about their intended target will make their task easier come next morning. A hearty meal and a pint of ale is nothing to be scoffed at, either, after the long day in the saddle.
There is only one inn in the village. An ominous, long wooden pike has been rammed into the ground next to its door. The name in big letters above the entrance reads: Troll's Bridge Inn. How ironic.
The taproom is packed and, of course, the topic of pretty much any conversation is the man-eating monster. However, when Geralt and Cahir enter, every single head turns around toward the door and the sound of animated talking dies down within the second. The two tall men, all clad in black leather armour, each with two swords strapped to their backs, look impressive, too. Witchers. Exactly who they have been waiting for for more than a fortnight. The crowd parts in silent awe.
A big, bald man is standing by the bar, a huge beer stein in his raised hand. His fatish neck is adorned with an impressive golden chain that hangs down his broad chest over a brown velvet doublet. The mayor, no doubt. He sets the richly decorated stein down onto the bar with a thud and rises to his full height.
"Welcome, Witchers, welcome," he proclaims with a slight slur, beckoning the two new arrivals over to the bar. "You've come to the right place. And to the very man you need to see. The man with the coin!" With drink-clumsy fingers he fumbles around in the pouch attached to his broad leather belt. Soon he produces a brown moneybag from it and holds it out toward the Witchers who are approaching the bar.
"A beer for the two gentlemen!" he then shouts to the bar-keeper, throwing a handful of hard cash from his trouser pockets onto the counter. "And one for everybody! Let's drink a toast to the troll's impending doom!" The crowd roars and cheers enthusiastically.
"Not so hasty, good man," Geralt cautions when the din has died down a little. "My comrade and I thank you for the warm welcome and," he nods to the brimful tankards that have appeared in front of them, "for the ale. However, we haven't agreed to killing the troll yet. That moneybag of yours looks nicely filled, but is it golden Ducats or just copper coin? How much do you intend to pay for our troubles? After all, it is a mortally dangerous beast." He takes a swig of beer and casually wipes the froth from his mouth with the back of his hand. "We'll need a room for the night, too," Geralt adds. "You don't kill a troll in the dark. And something to eat to go with the beer."
"That troll killed and ate my only son. I want its head on a spike, and I don't care about the money. Here, take the lot, you won't be disappointed." The mayor throws the moneybag at Geralt. "I'll double it if you get me the monster before midnight. You can have your room then, and a feast. What do you say, Witcher?"
Geralt has a look at the contents of the bag. Golden Ducats, and plenty of them. A lot more than what he would normally charge for a troll. Well, this troll seems to be a particularly nasty one, so it is probably alright to accept a little more than usual. Hunting the beast in the dark, though, will add an additional risk. Is it worth taking it for another sack of gold? Well, this time there are two of them which will easily counterbalance the added danger, Geralt reasons. The extra coin will come in handy, too. Cahir needs a good steed of his own if he decides to join him on more hunts in the future. Or go on the path by himself.
"I say, it's a deal." Geralt lifts the tankard to his mouth again, takes a long draught and puts it back down on the bar with a bang. "To the troll's imminent death!" Then he turns to Cahir. "Let's go get those good people a troll's head for their pike, comrade, shall we?"
The crowd breaks into another round of cheers as the two Witchers knock back their beers and get ready to leave.
"Anybody who can show us to the bridge?" Geralt then asks. However, none of the patrons is willing to do so for fear of the troll. Only the waitress, a sturdy young girl with curly red hair and dimples who, from the looks of her, must be the bar-keeper's daughter, agrees to at least accompany them to the other end of the village and point them in the right direction.
As the village is not a big one, they soon reach the last house and the wagon track leading toward the infamous troll bridge, or rather its ruins.
"Thanks for the help," Geralt says to the waitress when their ways part, "and have our dinner ready. Killing trolls makes me ravenously hungry. My comrade, too."
"I will, I promise. And good luck!" the girl says, flashing a coy smile at Cahir. Then she dashes off in the direction of the inn. Hopefully to help prepare their feast.
"That girl seems to like you," Geralt teases, when she has disappeared in the twilight of the approaching dusk.
"She wouldn't if she had heard me say anything," Cahir huffs, mounting his - or rather Yennefer's - horse.
"I doubt anyone would notice that you're from the south, not anymore," Geralt responds while getting on Roach and spurring her into an easy trot. "Anyhow, the war is over. The villagers have more urgent things on their minds than to listen to a stranger's accent. A murderous troll, for instance." He pauses for a moment. "You're okay with my decision to go for it today instead of tomorrow morning, aren't you, Cahir?" Geralt then asks.
"Are you kidding me? Of course, I am. Can't wait to stick my sword into the beast's belly. I might need a torch though. I don't have a Witcher's night vision."
"I'll keep that in mind. But first we'll have to locate the troll. Cross your fingers that it's still guarding its bridge."
While Geralt and Cahir ride on, the sun slowly disappears behind the mountains in the west, painting the sky a brilliant orange red. However, they cannot enjoy the colourful spectacle for long as the track leads them into a dense forest of old oak trees. The bark of the oaks is gnarled and knotty and, in the near darkness of the ancient forest, their thick trunks look like towering trolls themselves. It would be easy for the real troll to hide between the trees and ambush the two monster hunters. Lucky for them, the only living being they encounter is a black squirrel that swiftly darts across the path and disappears into a tree top when they ride by. Before they leave the forest behind, Geralt and Cahir dismount to find suitable sticks to fashion torches from with pieces of cloth and some of the ogroid oil. Then they lavishly coat their silver swords in the viscous fluid made of bear fat and Ginatia petals. Well prepared, they head for the bridge whose silhouette Cahir can just so make out in the distance. Geralt with his keen Witcher night vision, of course, has no difficulty spotting it, and the sorry state it is in.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
"Ready for your first troll?" Geralt asks after they have dismounted in shouting range of the bridge.
"Are you ever ready for your first, whatever it is?"
"Right, I guess not," Geralt concedes, the memory of his very first face-off with a monster coming to mind for a split second. He was scared as hell, so scared that his silver sword was shaking in his hands. But he was a lot younger than Cahir then, and not an experienced soldier. His friend will be fine. Feeling a bit nervous is natural and even helps get the adrenaline going. "Just remember to move as fast as possible, no matter what happens," he advises. "Here, let me light your torch." Geralt casts a quick Igni. The oil-soaked cloth catches fire immediately. "And holler if you need help. There's no shame in it. Not even I have fought a troll in the dark before."
"You sound like old Papa Vesemir," Cahir says with a wink at the slightly taller man. "Don't you worry, Geralt. I'll be careful. I don't have a death wish."
"Good luck then, little brother." Geralt gives Cahir a quick hug before his friend can voice any objections to this newest moniker. Or the hug. Well, 'little brother' is not that bad, a lot better than 'whippersnapper', 'kid' or 'Nilfgaardian', right? And, somehow, it sounds familiar, too, although Cahir cannot say why.
The last orange hues are vanishing from the horizon when, holding his torch high up into the darkening sky, Cahir strides toward the ruined bridge, nervous and confident at the same time. Much like the last seconds before a battle. Only now he will not face an enemy army but a monster. If the creature is there at all.
"Troll, you awake? Want some human meat?" he shouts when he has covered about half the distance. No response.
"Anybody home? Or are you afraid of a Witcher?" Cahir tries again. Still, there is no reaction. Is the troll not hiding here but somewhere else? What if it has moved on, leaving the rubble of its bridge and the vengeful villagers behind? That would be quite the anticlimax and not at all what Cahir is hoping for.
"Hey, troll, are you a bloody chicken, or what? Come, show yourself!" Cahir waits for a few more moments, listening into the dark, but - nothing. He shrugs his shoulders, lowers the torch and is just about to turn on his heels when suddenly he can hear a low rumbling. Something is moving on the river bank under the half caved in arch of the bridge. Then a deep, menacing growl that shakes the very ground Cahir is standing on. The troll. It is here after all. It sounds angry and - enormous.
With a big bottle of some unidentifiable dark liquid in one and a huge boulder in the other hand, the monster finally appears on the riverbank. The troll draws itself up to its full height and gives a loud, rumbling roar. The flickering light of Cahir's torch casts shifting shadows onto its ugly visage that is towering high above the tall man. The small, glowing eyes are set lower in the face than the gaping holes of the nostrils, the skull is flat with a low forehead, hinting at an underdeveloped frontal lobe of the brain, and merges into the bald rock-like pate. The wide open mouth with the big and pointed, brown and rotting teeth has no lips. The disproportionally large hands and feet are adorned with cruel, disgustingly yellow-purplish claws. Utterly at variance with the regular troll, this one here is not wearing any pieces of clothing, not even a loin cloth. It is not hard to notice even in the dark that it is a male specimen. The stink of putrefaction and cheap alcohol wafts over from the ghastly, giant creature, almost taking Cahir's breath away. Fuck, reading about the monsters and actually standing face to face with one is a hell of a different story. Maybe by day the troll would look more ridiculous than frightening as it is standing there, swaying a little from intoxication and dangling its grotesquely large dick, but at night it is a horrendous sight. And even more so when the troll raises its arm to throw the boulder at the monster hunter who has so brazenly disturbed its drunken sleep.
Despite the troll's inebriated state, its aim is shockingly precise. Cahir has to hurl himself to the side to not get squashed by the massive missile. Agile as a feline predator, he gets back onto his feet, both torch and sword still in his hands. Quick and repeated attacks, that's the way how to slay trolls, the only chance a human has against those beasts. Use their sluggishness against them, and their vulnerability to toxins. Like to the ogroid oil. Without hesitation, Cahir charges at the colossal creature, his sword raised and ready to strike. By the time he has closed the distance, though, the troll is ready, too. His heavy fist comes down at the monster hunter with vicious vehemence. In the very last moment, Cahir manages to dodge the blow by rolling to the side and out of harm's way. The powerful impact of the troll's fist on the ground where just a fraction of a second before the human was standing, makes the earth vibrate.
Darn, that was fucking close. Hidden behind the big, solitary oak tree he has tethered the horses to, Geralt watches the fight with bated breath. As long as Cahir does not want him to interfere, he is not planning on doing so, however, it is hard to just stand by while his friend is in danger for his life. Vesemir must have felt exactly like this when Geralt fought his first couple of monsters, supervised by his mentor. No, perhaps this here is even worse as Vesemir did interfere several times. It was frustrating, but he was only a teenager then. It felt normal that the adult would get involved whenever things looked like they might go south. Cahir, although still young, is as different from a teenager as a poodle is from a wolf. Geralt can hardly treat the former Commander General of Nilfgaard as if he were nothing but a snot-nosed kid. And this in spite of him not being a real Witcher. This is fucking harder than he expected. Almost as hard as when he let Ciri slay her first monster all on her own. Damn it, what if Cahir was right and he is turning into old Papa Vesemir? Well, his friend cannot really object to him doing his watching and worrying from somewhat closer, can he? Cautiously, Geralt moves nearer to the river bank. Would be good to at least be in range for casting an extended protective shield if the need should arise. It is quite advanced magic for a Witcher, but Geralt has done it before and is sure he can sustain a Quen like this for a minute or two. Long enough, for example, to get somebody who is injured to safely.
In the meantime Cahir has jumped back onto his feet and launched several quick attacks on the troll who, irritated by the fast moving human, is thrashing about, dealing out blows with clenched fists right and left or trying to slash at its adversary with its deadly claws. Luckily, swift as a panther, Cahir has been able to dodge every single one of the heavy blows. Now he is leaping at the troll again, lunges and, quick as lightning, strikes at the beast's belly with his silver sword. The sword inserts itself in the relatively soft flesh of the troll's abdomen, not deep, but deep enough to enrage the monster even more. Its angry roars reverberate through the night as it throws the bottle at its attacker who has already jumped backward and out of reach of the murderous fists. Cahir ducks and just so manages to evade the unusual missile. The bottle smashes against a rock and shatters into a thousand pieces, the dark fluid seeping into the soil. Only now it seems to register with the rather dumb creature that it has lost its beloved booze. It heaves an ear-shattering howl of fury, then bears down on Cahir, hissing and fuming with murderous rage. With astonishing swiftness, it brings down both its fists like a pair of perfectly synchronised gigantic warhammers. Ducking and leaping forward instead of backward this time, Cahir avoids the lethal blow. Then, with the momentum of the leap, he embeds his silver sword in the troll's guts up to the hilt. The creature staggers, staring at the sword's hilt sticking out of its belly. The silver wolf emblem gleams orange in the light of Cahir's torch. Blood begins to trickle from the deep stab wound. The troll howls, this time from agony. Then it starts to fall. Yanking at his sword with all his might, Cahir manages to pull it out of the beast's body and to jump to the side just before the huge creature topples over and lands face down in the dirt. It twitches several times, then it lies still.
Panting heavily, Cahir stares at the motionless monster, not quite believing that it is truly dead, that he has killed it. Then he hears the sound of clapping. He turns around. And freezes. His white-haired friend is coming toward him, a big grin on his face and applauding his young comrade's success. But behind him—
"Geralt!" Cahir shouts and throws his arm out with all his might, forming the sign of Quen. The huge boulder bounces off the shimmering shield around the Witcher and falls to the ground with a horrible thud.
Quick as lightning, Geralt spins around, drawing his silver sword. Damn it, the dead troll did not indulge in booze and human flesh all alone. It had a booze buddy. A troll that looks even more menacing than the first one. And it is coming right at him. The troll hurls another rock, but this time, Geralt is prepared. He ducks and, in one fluid movement, leaps at the attacker. Another deadly dance ensues. The experienced Witcher performs three quick, successive attacks while the troll tries to throw deadly punches at him. Geralt nimbly dodges the blows, then strikes at the troll again. And again. Swiftly he sidesteps backward as the furious troll launches a counter-attack, only to lunge at the beast's belly with a vengeance as soon as the opportunity appears. It does not take long, and Geralt's sword hits home. A stream of dark blood shoots from the hole in the troll's abdomen. The creature roars and slashes about, but soon it slows down and falls to its knees as the toxic ogroid venom takes effect. Geralt inhales deeply. The troll will be dead within a few minutes. He can simply stand by and wait.
The Witcher straightens and looks around. There, only a few metres away, lies the big boulder that almost dropped right onto him. Damn it, if Cahir had not cast the protective shield, he would be lying buried and dead under it now, flat as a pancake. How did his friend do it? And, more importantly, where is he? When last he saw him, he was standing next to the first troll's body, right? Geralt scans the vicinity with his sensitive Witcher eyes. Fuck, there is a much smaller body lying prone on the ground next to the troll. Cahir. He does not move.