The Brave Apprentice

by P. W. Catanese

  “Oh.” Patch took a deep breath. He and Gosling rode side by side in silence for an hour or more. The road entered a forest of pine that sheltered them from the bite and the roar of wind. The only sounds were the clop-clop of hooves and the creak of the wagon’s wheels, until Mannon’s horse reared up and stabbed the air with its front hooves. Mannon cursed it and pulled back on the reins until the horse calmed down.

  When all was quiet again, Patch ventured, “How did Addison’s brother die?”

  Gosling smiled sadly. “A troll killed him, Patch.”

  “No…”

  “Oh, yes. Giles Addison was a brave man. At the king’s request, he went to explore the Barren Gray—where the trolls come from. He never came back. All they found was the horse’s saddle and Giles’s bloody armor. Torn open and squashed flat.”

  Patch glanced back at Addison again. The hood was drawn tight around the stern man’s face. All you could see within the shadows were the red-brown beard and the straight, expressionless line of his mouth.

  “Gosling, are you going to talk all the way to Half?” grumbled Mannon over his shoulder.

  “It’s possible, my dear friend,” Gosling called back. “Since we’re nearly there.”

  “Maybe there’s a barber there to cut that hair of yours,” Mannon snapped. “It’s getting a little too long and lovely, don’t you think? I could take you for a woman.”

  “Why, Patch,” Gosling said. “I think Mannon just proposed to me!”

  “Quiet!” Addison called out from behind, so suddenly that Patch had to stifle his giggle. The lord had thrown his hood back and was stretched high in his saddle. “Do you hear that?”

  The procession came to a stop. At first Patch only heard the wind whistling across the tops of the trees. But then he could hear it too: a high voice calling from the forest and growing louder.

  “My lords! Stay away, my lords!” A young man burst out of the evergreens and ran to them. His eyes were bulging and tears were streaming down his cheeks. “The v-village is in ruins! They attacked—stole our livestock, m-m-murdered the ones who fought! People f-f-fled, hiding in the woods!”

  Addison dismounted and seized the man’s shoulders. “Who, man? Who attacked you?”

  The stranger’s mouth was twisted with anguish, and they could just make out what he said. “T-t-trolls!”

  Addison stared down the road in the direction of Half. Mannon scanned the woods, one eye squinting. Gosling looked at the stranger, while his hands went from the sword strapped to his horse to the quiver of arrows that was slung on his back.

  “Did you say trolls? Was there more than one?” asked Addison. “Calm yourself, man, and answer me.”

  The man straightened up in Addison’s grasp. He dragged his sleeve under his nose and sniffed. “More than one? M-more than a dozen!”

  Mannon turned to Gosling. “So it’s true.”

  “What is your name?” Addison asked the stranger.

  “R-R-Roger,” the stranger replied.

  “Roger, when did this happen?”

  “J-just today—this aftern-n-noon.”

  “Hold on,” said Mannon. “Half is surrounded by a wall. How did the trolls get in?”

  Roger moaned. “The wall? They tore the wall apart, that’s how!”

  “Are the trolls still there?” asked Addison.

  “Not now—b-but what if they come back?”

  “Come, we’ll take you home,” Addison said. “You may ride on the wagon.”

  Roger’s eyes grew even wider. He stepped back, twisting out of Addison’s grasp. “No! I won’t go b-back! If you’d seen them, n-n-neither would you!” And he turned and charged back into the forest.

  Addison watched him go, with an expression that never changed. “Well. Let us go without him, then,” he said, and mounted his horse.

  “Are you sure this is wise, Addison?” Gosling called.

  “Where else can we go? It will be dark soon. We need to rest, and we can’t camp out in this cold.”

  “But what if they do come back?” Mannon said.

  “Yes,” agreed Gosling. “And here we are with a box of troll bones—‘Excuse me, Brother Troll, I think we have what’s left of your uncle here.’”

  “Why should we be afraid?” Addison said, jerking his head in Patch’s direction. “The Troll Killer is with us.” He spurred his horse and led the way down the road toward Half.

  The horses grew more and more agitated the closer they got to the village. And when Half finally came into view, Patch realized what was frightening them: Down the wind came the faintest whiff of the rancid-sweet smell that he remembered from the troll on the bridge.

  There was once a wall that completely surrounded the town, and a tall, strong gate that allowed visitors to enter. Now that gate had been torn away and hurled to the side, and much of the wall lay in ruins.

  They rode through the wide gap into Half. The wagon could not get far—there was too much wreckage on the ground, scattered everywhere. Buildings were trampled flat and others had their roofs torn off. Some were burning.

  In the middle of the street was a sight that Patch knew would live in his memory forever, although he saw it for only an instant before turning his head the other way. It was a dead man. His arms and legs stuck out from under the blanket that covered him at angles that didn’t make sense to Patch’s eye.

  People were just emerging from their hiding places and beginning to sort through the ruined buildings. They called for their mothers, fathers, siblings, and friends.

  “Do you see any of the garrison?” Addison asked.

  “How many soldiers did the king have here?” Patch whispered to Gosling.

  “At least twenty.”

  “Over there,” Mannon said, gesturing. A young soldier was coming toward them, limping. He was young, like Gosling. He had a scabbard at his side, but no sword. His tunic was stained with the signs of battle.

  “Lord Addison, I don’t know if you remember me. Helias Swain. I trained under your sword a few years back,” he said.

  Addison nodded at him. “I do remember. What happened here?”

  Swain bowed his head. “We knew they were out there. Someone had seen them, coming across the hills. We had archers waiting for them on top of the wall. We were excited—sure we could fight them off.” He paused, shaking his head.

  “Please go on, Master Swain.”

  “Three of them charged the gate. The others hurled stones at us from afar. Big stones—bigger than your head. It was like catapults, but worse—so much faster, so much more accurate. The first volley took three archers off the wall. Dead, just like that. And then the gate came crashing down, and they all charged in.”

  “How many?”

  Swain put a hand over his eyes. “Don’t know—it was madness, they were everywhere. Ten, maybe. No, more. Twelve? We kept fighting, but our arrows were like burrs in a bear’s hide. They didn’t trouble them at all.”

  Gosling dismounted. He put an arm across Swain’s shoulder. “Where is the rest of the garrison now, friend?”

  “Killed. Or still hiding. Some ran away.” Swain wiped at one eye with the back of a gloved hand. “I don’t understand—look what they did to the tower!”

  Patch looked where Swain was pointing. If there had been a tower there once, it was nothing but a great heap of stones now.

  Swain’s voice grew unsteady. “We weren’t fighting anymore. We’d given up. They’d taken our livestock. Then suddenly, two of them just set upon the tower—like they were pulling it down to amuse themselves. That tower’s stood for a hundred years, and it took just two of them to bring it down!”

  They all stood, staring at the rubble. “Didn’t know they were that strong,” Gosling said.

  Nearby, a building that was leaning dangerously to one side collapsed entirely. Somewhere behind them an infant cried.

  “Sorry we weren’t here to help,” Marnon said.

  “Don’t be sorry,” Swain replied. “Be th
ankful.”

  rode out from Half early the next morning.

  “A fine restful evening that was,” Gosling said through a yawn. They had slept only a few hours in what was left of the soldiers’ barracks. Deep into the night, Lord Addison and the knights and their servants had worked with the people of Half to keep the flames from consuming the rest of the town. Even as they left, some ruins smoldered still, and the smell of burnt embers haunted the air.

  Patch felt thickheaded and drained. Only the chill in the air and his saddle-sore body kept him awake.

  Just beyond Half, they crossed a bridge that spanned the Cald River. The Cald was wide and black and cluttered with broken slabs of gray ice, for it ran too swift to freeze over completely. The road along the east bank would take them to Dartham. “Before evening, if we make haste,” Addison said.

  They rode straight on for hours, until Addison reined his horse in suddenly and held his hand up, signaling them all to stop.

  “Finally,” Mannon growled, “because I really have to p—”

  “Quiet!” Addison snapped. He was looking at something across the river. Then Patch saw it too.

  A troll was standing on the opposite riverbank, staring at them without moving. Probably watching us since we trotted into view, Patch thought, shivering. This one was bigger than the Crossfield troll, by a full head at least. And there was nothing skeletal or sickly about this beast. His brawny arms were as thick as the wooden barrel he was holding.

  The creature was stone gray, and the primitive leather garment that covered him from shoulders to knees was the same color as his skin. They might have passed right by, mistaking him for a boulder jutting out of the snow, if Addison’s eyes had not been so keen.

  When the troll realized he’d been seen, he lowered his head and hissed at them.

  “Greetings to you, too, Brother Troll!” Gosling shouted.

  “What’s he doing?” Patch asked.

  “Getting water for the rest,” Addison said. “They are feasting. Look behind him.” He pointed to the stream of smoke rising above the treetops.

  “Feasting on what?” Gosling wondered.

  “The livestock of Half,” Mannon grumbled. “And worse, I’ll wager.” He turned to Patch. “Well, apprentice—care to do battle with this one? Or did you forget your shepherd’s crook?”

  “No, thanks,” Patch said, feeling the redness blossom in his cheeks. He glanced at Gosling, who half smiled and rolled his eyes. But the smile abruptly left Gosling’s face when he looked back across the river.

  A second troll had stepped out of the forest. This was a hulking monster, larger and broader than the first, with a white hide like limestone or chalk. He had a large pack strapped to his back, and he held a wooden club studded with iron spikes.

  “That’s a twelve-footer,” Gosling said.

  “Fifteen,” said Mannon.

  A tapering, coal black tongue slid across the chalky troll’s upper lip. His strange silver eyes glanced at the river, where broken slabs of ice drifted among the deep waters. Looking for a way to cross, Patch thought. He too looked up and down the river to reassure himself that no crossing was possible.

  Addison turned his horse to face the creatures. “Can you understand me?” he shouted.

  The chalky troll cocked his head for a long moment. Then he finally replied, in a deep, coarse voice that sounded like it was rumbling up from some bottomless pit, “Yes. But come across, so I can hear you better. And bring your horse.”

  Addison seemed startled by the reply. He looked at Patch, who nodded. “The Crossfield troll could talk too, my lord,” he said.

  Addison called back to the troll. “I’m afraid the water is too deep and swift for my horse, so I will raise my voice instead. Is there a leader among you? I wish to speak with him.”

  The troll paused again before answering. “They all answer to me.”

  “What name shall I call you?”

  “Hurgoth.”

  “Well then, Hurgoth. I must ask you: Why have you and your kin left the Barren Gray? Why have you attacked our town and killed our people?”

  Hurgoth leered at them. “We were only defending ourselves—it was they who attacked us, when we simply stopped by to say hello.” The troll’s head turned toward the wagon. “Tell me, what is in that box?”

  The fellow driving the cart glanced back at his cargo and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Mannon cleared his throat loudly.

  Addison replied evenly, “That is our business, not yours. You have entered the domain of King Milo. By his authority, I order you to return to your home.”

  Hurgoth stared for a while before spitting back his answer. “We don’t recognize that authority! And as long as you’re asking questions, ask your Milo why he sends his spies into our lands!”

  Addison wavered in his saddle and he tightened his grip on the reins. Patch whispered to Gosling, “Is he talking about Lord Addison’s brother—the one they killed?”

  “I—I think so,” Gosling said hoarsely.

  Addison’s voice was loud and stern. “Why are you here, Hurgoth? Declare your intentions!”

  Hurgoth snickered. “Only to enjoy a fine meal. Come join us wed love to have you.” He shouldered his club and walked into the forest, toward the rising smoke. The other monster dipped his barrel into the river, hissed a farewell, and disappeared in the trees as well.

  The horses’ hooves crunched in the thin crust of snow, and the wagon wheels groaned as they continued toward Dartham.

  “You know, Mannon,” Gosling remarked, “I once declared that you were the ugliest creature that ever walked the earth. Now I find I must apologize.”

  Mannon chuckled. “Yes, and I can imagine what you’ll say when we battle these things: ‘Not the face, Brother Troll, anything but my pretty face!’”

  Just ahead was the first of many villages they would pass on the rest of the trip to Dartham. Word of the attack had spread quickly, and a group of villagers ran to them, calling out questions.

  “Is it true about the trolls?”

  “Are they coming this way?”

  “What about our children?”

  “Will the king protect us?”

  Lord Addison held up one hand to quiet them. He told them what he knew of the attack on Half. “As for where they are now, or what they want, I am not certain. So do not panic, but be watchful. Keep your children close. Post sentries, particularly around your livestock. And if the trolls come, don’t try to fight them. Just hide yourselves and send word to Dartham.”

  “And the dogs—watch your dogs,” Patch called out. He was thinking of Osbert’s dog, Pip, and how he’d behaved at the bridge that awful day.

  “Dogs?” Addison asked, turning slowly toward Patch with one eyebrow raised.

  Patch winced. There you go again, running your mouth. His voice squeaked as he replied: “Well—yes, my lord. I think the dogs might know the trolls are around before we do. They smell them … or something …” When Patch looked around and saw everyone staring at him, his voice trailed off. Behind his back, he heard Mannon snort.

  Later, when they were back on the road, Mannon trotted up beside him. “You know, apprentice, if Lord Addison wanted you to wag your tongue, I’m sure he would have asked you. Dogs—ha!” He spurred his horse and moved ahead.

  Patch didn’t speak again for hours. He let himself fall back in line and rode behind the wagon with the servants, who kept their distance from him, perhaps to avoid earning a share of Mannon’s foul temper.

  Late that afternoon the river that had been their companion all this way poured into a wide lake covered in thick black ice. “Lake Deop,” the wagon driver replied when Patch asked its name.

  They passed by other villages and farms along the way and met other travelers. This slowed their journey, as Addison was obliged to offer the same advice and explanations to each group of anxious people.

  At a town called Shorham, when the usual group swarmed around Addison, Patch guided
his horse away to put some distance between himself and Mannon. He found a trough of water where the horse could drink and dismounted to stretch his aching legs. Not far down the road, he heard a sudden burst of laughter and saw a small crowd of women and children gathered in a circle, looking down at something. Patch walked over to see what was amusing them.

  A man was lying there on the ground, and he had twisted himself into the strangest position. He was rocking on his back, and both of his ankles were tucked behind his neck. His long arms were wrapped around the knees, and his chin rested on his interlaced fingers, just above his own buttocks.

  Patch broke into a grin, though the sight reminded him how much his own muscles ached from the hours on horseback. The women were staring with widened eyes and giggling behind their hands, and the children jumped and clapped.

  “Now, my good folk,” the contorted man said in an odd, high voice that quavered and cracked. “I need a bit of help. You, my good lady, would you lend a fool a hand?”

  “Who, me?” said a plump woman in the crowd. The woman next to her pushed her forward, shouting, “Go on, Millicent, help the fool!”

  “Yes, the lovely Millicent! Would you kindly give my nose a squeeze? I would do it myself, but I have tied this knot too tight. That’s right, go ahead…”

  “You’re a strange one,” Millicent said, chuckling. She approached cautiously, coming no closer than was necessary, then reached down toward the smiling face and squeezed the nose. And when she did, the fool unleashed an explosive, thunderous fart. Millicent yipped and fell back on her behind. The crowd gasped, and an instant later they roared with laughter. Patch couldn’t help but laugh along with them, especially when the contorted man waved at the air before his nose with a ludicrous expression of mock disgust.

  The crowd applauded, and the fool at last unfolded himself and stood up. He was tall and gangly, with thin arms and legs that moved as if there were no bones inside. His neck was exceptionally long, and his tongue lolled outside his open, happy mouth. His head was shaped like a gourd, round at the cheeks and narrow on top, where yellow hair jutted in every direction, like a haystack where children had played.