Chapter 21 : The Spiritcaller

At last, from where he had mostly stood as a silent witness, Terty stepped forward to confirm the troll’s demise.

He didn’t test for breath or pulse.
Instead, with a single clean motion, he severed its head from its monstrous torso, as if drawing a line beneath the tale.

Then, with grim precision, he carved off the troll’s left ear, grotesquely large and jagged, a grim token, and walked toward Curtis .

“Fearsome work,” he said. “No wonder you’ve always thirsted for water. That technique… it demands it.”

“You flatter me,” Curtis  replied with a wry smile.

But Terty’s voice grew serious, his tone like a weight in the cool morning air.

“I speak plainly. That final moment—watching the troll drown—there was something… chilling about it.”

“I’m not sure how practical it’ll be in most fights,” Curtis  shrugged.

“But you already used it to fine effect, didn’t you?”

“It’s not that it’s useless,” Curtis  said, “just that I doubt I’ll get to use it often. Trolls are built like stone and stubborn as time.”

“Ah, I see your meaning.”

If one could command water to strangle a foe’s head, it was easier still to simply strike them with a jet to the face. The troll had survived only because of its unnatural durability—had it been a man, his skull would have shattered like porcelain under a hammer.

In ordinary times, there was no need to kill with such drawn-out cruelty. Unless, of course, one intended it…
As a message. As torment.

“Still,” Terty said after a breath, “since fate has tangled us in this battle, perhaps we ought to linger a while longer and aid these poor souls. If we were to leave now and another attack came before their comrades return… they’d surely die. What say you? Shall we stay, just until the others are back?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you! Rulers bless you both!”

The mercenaries, too ashamed to ask for help outright, bowed deeply, relief washing over their bloodstained faces.

They retraced their steps, climbing back down the path they had once fled in terror—gathering the fallen comrades who had not made it.

The camp itself was largely untouched. The troll, it seemed, had no interest in the tents—only in flesh and movement. But the aftermath still reeked of carnage: shattered bodies strewn like discarded armor, the stench of death clinging to the wind.

Only three had survived.
Seven of ten were now cold upon the earth.

The woman who had earlier spoken with Terty lay among the dead. He recognized her only by her garments—her head was gone.

Her spear lay broken beside her. She had resisted. That much was clear.
But against a troll, a bronze-ranked warrior might as well strike a mountain with a twig.

Most likely, she fell with a single blow—weapon and life broken together.

Curtis  and Terty settled in the shade of a vacant tent, watching the mercenaries tend the dead. Their offer of help, it seemed, did not extend to labor.

“Now you see why the stream was marked as a boundary,” Terty murmured low, out of earshot.

“I do. Though trolls are rarely seen in these parts, leaving such matters to luck was their undoing.”

“A mercenary should never wager his life on chance,” Curtis  agreed. “One must know their limits. This place was not suited for those of bronze.”

“And yet, they came, thinking sheer numbers would shield them. Foolish. Death comes quick to those who forget its pace.”

Though he sounded scornful, there was a flicker of pity in Terty’s eyes—born of shared blood, perhaps, the unspoken bond of those who walk the blade’s edge.

Curtis , for his part, felt no such warmth. Only exasperation.

He stifled a yawn. The weariness of battle was beginning to settle in his bones.

“Rest your eyes awhile,” Terty offered, noticing.

“I ought to refuse out of courtesy… but I’m spent. Would you mind?”

“Not at all. You’ve earned it. None will begrudge you peace.”

The tent was crude, but it offered comfort enough.
Curtis  fell into sleep like a stone into deep water.

By the time he stirred, the sun had slid into afternoon’s embrace.

Now it was Terty’s turn to rest, though he seemed less fatigued. Just wise enough to take rest when it was offered.

“Would you care for something to eat?”

“Ah, thank you.”

The mercenaries had brought a variety of supplies—more than expected. Curtis  bit into a thick strip of jerky, expensive and well-cured, and let it soothe his hollow belly.

Some time later, one of the watchmen stirred. A whisper passed through the camp.

“They’re returning,” he said. “Not all… but some.”

“Fewer than went out, then,” Terty muttered. “Still, better than none.”

Twelve mercenaries emerged from the woods.

Fifteen had departed. Three had not returned.

Despite having been briefed by the scouts, the shock on their faces was unmistakable. Some stared at the corpses in silence, others muttered among themselves. Only their leader, a tall man with wearied eyes, approached the tent.

“We’ve heard what happened. Thank you, Terty. And you, mage—thank you as well.”

“We were here by fortune’s timing. We stayed only to rest—and to watch over the living.”

“Whatever the reason, you’ve saved lives. That’s what matters.”

This man, Curtis  guessed, had likely disliked Terty—just like the fallen woman had. But gratitude has a way of silencing pride.

Terty’s reply was curt, perhaps purposely cold.

“There’s no need for silvered words. What will you do now?”

“Pardon?”

“About the hunt. Ten of twenty-five now lie dead. Do you mean to press on?”

“I… suppose we’ll need to discuss it.”

“Discuss it?”

“I’m only something like a captain. We’re not a formal company, so I’ll have to hear the others.”

“As you wish.”

Terty nodded. His face gave no clue to his thoughts.

“Do what you must. We’ll be on our way.”

“Leaving?”

“We never meant to stay. We lingered only until your return.”

“Understood. All right, everyone! Terty’s leaving. Show your thanks!”

So they did—bows, words, murmured blessings. And with that, Terty and Curtis  turned from the camp and walked.

Only once they were far enough that no voice could reach them did Curtis  glance back and ask quietly,

“Do you think they’ll retreat?”

“What do you think?”

“I doubt it. Their captain didn’t seem too eager to leave.”

“I agree. My ears are sharp, you know. I caught some of their whispers.”

Terty chuckled dryly.

“What did they say?”

“They said it should be safe now. Because the troll is dead.”

“Safe?”

“As I said, trolls are rare in these parts. One showing up at all is unusual. So their logic goes: what are the odds a second appears?”