The Brave Apprentice

by P. W. Catanese

  Simon waved his hands at the trolls that surrounded him. “Hullo, boys!”

  Hurgoth dropped something into the snow in front of the fool. Simon picked it up. It was a goblet.

  “No …,” Patch moaned. He looked at the others. They were watching the trolls with bewildered expressions, except for Addison, who stared gravely back at Patch.

  Hurgoth gestured toward the casks of wine. Simon looked at the casks, at Hurgoth, at the goblet in his hand, back at Hurgoth, and back at the casks again. Then his grin broadened into an enormous, open-mouthed smile. He shouted, “Hoo ha!” and pranced over to the casks.

  “I don’t believe this,” Gosling said.

  Patch felt a sickness in his stomach, a tightness in his throat. “They’re making him drink the wine—making him taste it before they do?”

  Ludowick said, “Remember—the poison’s effects are delayed. It will not matter if the fool drinks first.”

  “Patch,” Addison said. Patch turned to look into those dark, flinty eyes. Addison didn’t have to speak—Patch understood the message. There must be sacrifices.

  Patch shook his head. “But my lord … this … this isn’t like the ox. This is a person!”

  Below them, Simon stood in front of the casks. He held the goblet high and rubbed his belly in a broad circle, nodding gaily. The trolls gathered around him.

  “He’s just a fool,” Mannon said. “Leading a wretched life,”

  “This is our chance to kill the trolls, Patch,” Addison said. “You saw what they did at Half—what they’re capable of. The life of one fool is not too high a price to pay. We may save hundreds more.” He edged closer to Patch as he spoke. Now he was nearly arm’s reach away.

  Simon opened a spigot and bloodred wine gushed out, splashing over the edges of the goblet and staining the snow. His tongue hung out of his mouth, and he panted like a dog. He filled the goblet to the brim before closing the spigot. The trolls drew closer, forming a thick, high wall of pebbly flesh.

  Patch could feel Addison’s will pressing against him, like a lion’s paw on a mouse. He watched Simon raise the goblet toward the trolls, toasting them, and then bring it to his lips.

  Suddenly it seemed to Patch that he’d stepped outside of his own mind somehow—because surely that couldn’t be his own self leaping up and screaming, “Don’t drink, Simon, it’s poison!” And surely Addison wouldn’t seize him by the collar and shake him and call him that awful word, and Gosling and Ludowick wouldn’t look at him with those horrified, thunderstruck expressions, and Mannon wouldn’t be reaching across Addison, trying to choke him.

  The world seemed all wrong, like a forgery of the world he knew—the colors were blurred, the voices didn’t sound right, his head and arms and legs felt numb, and everything was happening too fast or too slow, he couldn’t tell which. There was a blur in the air over Addison’s head, like a large, swift bird, and a loud splintering crack as the limb of a tree exploded behind them.

  “They’ve seen us. They’re coming!” someone shouted. Everyone broke into a run as the trolls stormed toward them. Patch looked back and saw their heads cresting the overlook, and their arms reaching up to clamber over the edge.

  As Mannon ran he brought the horn to his lips and blew. Not the single long note that would have signaled, “Come finish them off,” but three sharp bursts: the warning cry. The trolls thundered after them, plucking rocks from the snow and slinging them as they advanced.

  Patch felt his jumbled senses clear as he ran. He could have easily outraced the others, but he slowed so they would not fall behind. They rushed down the hill toward the road, and more stones soared over their heads and between them, some careening along the ground and shearing sheets of bark from the trees they struck. He heard the trolls behind them, grunting, roaring, and barking, and heavy Mannon puffing as he ran. Then Ludowick shouted, in a voice suddenly cracked with emotion, “Go! To the horses! Don’t look back, just go!”

  They came to the road and turned toward Dartham. Five of the mounted soldiers were coming back for them, each leading another horse for them to ride. As they raced toward each other, Patch’s blood turned icy cold as he heard Mannon cry, “Where’s Gosling?”

  Patch and Addison turned to look. Only Mannon and Ludowick were behind them. Mannon stopped and took a step back toward the hill. Ludowick seized his arm as he ran by and pulled him toward the horses. “Keep running! Run!” he screamed, and Patch saw tears streaming down Ludowick’s face.

  Mannon resisted, pulling his arm free from Ludowick’s grip. The trolls came out of the forest and onto the road, just a hundred feet away. Some lumbered toward them, while others searched for more stones to hurl.

  “He’s gone, Mannon. He was next to me, and then a stone came, and he was gone,” Ludowick shouted, and Mannon staggered like a drunkard. Ludowick steadied him, then tugged his arm, and Mannon stumbled to his horse, his face slack. They mounted and raced away, leaving the bellowing trolls behind. The horses ran for a mile before Addison threw up his hand and they stopped. Addison whirled his horse around to face Patch, who bowed his head and stared at his hands.

  “Milo insisted we bring you along, against my advice,” Addison said, his voice shaking only a little. “So I trust you’ll tell him what happened here today—and how we lost our chance to destroy the trolls. Or perhaps you’d rather take the road back to Crossfield.” He spurred his horse and rode alone toward Dartham.

  Patch closed his eyes, and his shoulders hitched. He heard another horse come near, and Mannon’s voice, shattered by grief, came to his ear. “Gosling’s life, thrown away to save a fool. I’ll get you for this, apprentice. If I see you again, I swear I will.” Patch heard Mannon’s horse move on, the others following behind.

  Patch waited. When he opened his eyes again, he was alone on the road.

  the thump of the hooves could no longer be heard, Patch slid off his horse and vomited in the snow. He flopped on his back and drew his sleeve across his mouth. He cried out to Gosling, “I’m sorry!”

  A sound caught his ear, and he looked up to see his horse trotting away without him, following the others down the road toward Dartham, already disappearing around a far bend in the road. Oh, Mannon would have loved that, he thought, and the mocking voice echoed in his brain: Perhaps you’ll remember to tether your horse next time! He rolled over and pounded the frozen ground with his fists until it hurt too much to go on. He got to his hands and knees, then stood on wobbling legs.

  Which way? he wondered. To the north were the trolls. To the south was Dartham, a shame he couldn’t bear to face, and a knight who’d sworn to murder him. Neither way would do. Home, he thought. I’m going home. Wish they’d never found me. Wish I’d never left. He walked through the trees and onto the frozen lake.

  Patch trudged across a dead landscape that an artist could have rendered by mixing only black and white paints. Gauzy sheets of snow curled and swept across the surface of the lake, revealing here and there the cracked gray ice below. The sky was an ugly leaden bowl clapped down over the world, spilling tiny flakes that were just now reaching the ground. The only visible color was on the cloak that Patch wore, a beautiful garment embroidered with purple. But the purple reminded him of the king and Dartham and Gosling, and he would have thrown the cloak aside if he didn’t need it to keep him warm. The same went for the boots, the gloves, and the other fine gifts he’d received.

  The town of Shorham was somewhere on the other side. From there Patch could pick up the same road they’d come down. He’d follow it all the way back, up the river, past Half, and on to Crossfield and the little tailor’s shop.

  He stopped, listening to a sound that was cutting through the whining breeze. He lowered his hood to hear it better.

  “Hallooooo!”

  Patch turned to see a tall, thin figure coming toward him, lifting his knees absurdly high as he ran and waving madly. When Patch recognized the fellow, he rolled his eyes and groaned.

  “Hallooo!
Oh, it’s him, it’s really him! What luck! Hoo ha!” Simon still had the troll’s rope knotted around his waist, and it trailed thirty feet behind him. When he reached Patch, he lifted him off the ground, hugging him, and began to twirl. “My hero, my prince, my savior!” He planted a wet, loud kiss on Patch’s cheek.

  Patch slapped at the fool’s shoulders and snarled, “Simon—stop it! Put me down—no, we’re going to fall—” And they did fall, because the rope had wound around their legs as Simon spun.

  Simon sat up, looking at the rope and scratching his head. “Where’d that come from?”

  Patch kicked the loops from his legs and stood up. “The trolls tied you up, you half-wit! You dragged that rope a mile across the lake.”

  Simon snapped his fingers. “I think you’re right! Wait—what did you call me?”

  Patch grimaced. “I’m sorry, that was an awful thing to—”

  “You called me Simon!” Simon gasped and clapped his hands to his head. “The hero knows my name! How can this be?”

  “I’m not a hero,” Patch said.

  Simon kept his hands on his head, but his face grew serious. “Are you saying the wine wasn’t poisoned?”

  Patch winced. “No, it was poisoned all right, but—”

  Simon dropped to his knees and seized Patch’s hands. “Then I would be dead if not for you.” Patch wrestled his hands out of the fool’s grip and stepped back, out of reach. Simon grinned up at him like a puppy.

  “Well,” Patch said, “how’d you get away from the trolls?”

  “They forgot all about me when they charged after you. What tempers they have! Why, once they—hold on! Halloooo there, halloooo!” Simon jumped to his feet and waved gaily at another approaching figure, a man on a horse.

  “I’m in the middle of a lake,” Patch muttered. “What is everyone doing here?” He just wanted to be left alone on his way back to Crossfield.

  A soldier of Dartham approached, a thick-necked young man who peered down at Patch with a satisfied look on his face. “You’re the apprentice, aren’t you? Patch Ridling? I have orders to bring you to Dartham.”

  “Sorry, that’s not me,” said Patch.

  “It isn’t?” said Simon, utterly confused.

  The soldier eyed Patch doubtfully. “Come on, you must be him. How’d you get that cloak then? That’s royal purple, a gift from the king. I was told you’d be wearing it.”

  “Found it,” said Patch through gritted teeth.

  “I never find anything,” Simon said, with his lower lip thrust out.

  The soldier looked behind Patch, toward the shore. “Looks to me like you came from the very spot where this Patch was last seen.” Patch turned and saw the incriminating tracks in the snow.

  Simon put his hand to Patch’s ear and whispered, “Are you sure you’re not Patch?”

  Patch stared back at the soldier with red-rimmed eyes. “I’m not going back,” he said.

  The soldier jumped nimbly off his horse and loomed over Patch. “Son, our orders were clear: ‘Track down the apprentice and bring him back.’ And I don’t mind saying that there’s a generous reward for the man who finds you. So you’re coming with me, even if I have to tie a rope around you and drag you through the snow.” He cracked his knuckles.

  “What fun!” shouted Simon, leaping up. “Can you tow the both of us? You can use my rope!”

  The soldier looked at Simon from the corner of his eye, and back at Patch. Patch shrugged. “Don’t ask,” he said.

  The soldier led his horse and walked with Patch, down the lake toward Dartham. Simon skipped alongside them. He whistled and laughed and told the soldier how Patch had saved his life. “Yes, heard all about that,” the soldier said, looking at Patch and shaking his head.

  Simon began to sing, loudly and badly, some nonsense song that Patch had never heard, nor wanted to hear again:

  “Listen to the hound

  ’Cause he smells the fox’s blood

  When he’s running through the mud

  And he makes his happy sound

  Bark, bark, bark bark bark,

  Bark, bark, bark bark bark!”

  As Simon’s song grew in volume and strayed further and further from any detectable melody, Patch noticed the soldier’s jaw working from side to side and a thick vein emerging on the side of his neck.

  “Listen to the cat

  As she prowls around the house

  Till she catches master mouse

  And she leaves him on the mat

  Mew, mew, mew mew mew

  Mew, mew, mew mew—”

  Suddenly Simon snapped his mouth shut like a trap door. The soldier was holding a gloved fist an inch away from the fool’s long nose. Simon’s eyes crossed as he stared at it.

  The soldier curled his lip high on one side. “Listen, friend. That’s an awful song. And nobody asked you to come along, anyway. So why don’t you just shut up and leave us alone?”

  Simon threw his long arms straight up in the air. When the soldier backed away, he remained in that position, as if frozen.

  The soldier and Patch walked on. The tiny flecks of snow blossomed into broad, complicated flakes, and a soft new carpet of white collected under their feet.

  “Look, can’t you let me go? Why does the king want me back, anyway?” Patch said.

  “The king? Who said anything about the king?”

  stood in front of the gatehouse in the cold afternoon light. The outer portcullis was up, poised above them like fangs ready to strike, and the heavy doors stood open. “Found him, constable,” the soldier called up.

  A man with a round red face and a mustache that drooped past his chin looked down from the parapet above the gatehouse. “Be right down.”

  The constable appeared on the other side of the open gate, holding a small leather pouch and a bundle of brown material under his arm. He gave the pouch to the soldier, who shook it to hear the metallic jingle, grinned, and strode away with a happy bounce in his step.

  The constable turned to Patch and unfolded the cloth. It was a hooded cape. “Put this on, young fellow. And draw the hood close around your face. Someone around here has pledged to kill you on sight.”

  Patch followed the constable into the courtyard. He breathed easier when they turned right, away from the Knights’ barracks and past the main entrance that led to the great hall. They walked around the frozen fishpond and circled a low stone building that sat next to the keep, with smoke puffing from a chimney in the tiled roof. Someone was waiting at the door. It was a small figure, also hooded, and as they drew close Patch saw the face of a girl. He turned to look at the constable, but the man was already ambling back across the courtyard to the gatehouse, looking casually to his left and right to see if he’d been watched.

  “What … who …,” Patch blathered, but the girl shushed him and pulled him behind her into the building.

  This was the kitchen of Dartham, as warm as a summer day and filled with smells that made Patch’s mouth water. A baker was thrusting bread into a wide-mouthed brick oven with an inferno deep inside, a cook tossed vegetables into a cauldron hanging over an open fire, and another woman was plucking the feathers off a fat headless goose. They stole a glance at Patch and the girl and quickly looked away, as if they’d been instructed not to notice any strange visitors who passed by. The girl led Patch briskly through the room. When they reached the door at the far end, she turned to give him a closer look, her eyes flickering from his face to his feet and back. Then she pushed the door open, and they were out in the cold air again, under a covered walkway that led to a door in the side of the keep. Now Patch could see why he’d been taken this way: It was the most concealed approach.

  Directly before them was an archway that led into the great hall. The girl turned down a parallel corridor instead. She took a torch from a bracket in the wall. Patch followed her up a tightly spiraling windowless staircase, where frost clung to the stone walls and twinkled in the light of the flame.

 
They emerged into a new corridor above the great hall and stopped when they came to a tall door. The girl rapped on the door three times, pushed it open, and gestured for Patch to go inside.

  Patch stepped into the room and pushed back the hood of his brown cape. The room was small, comfortably furnished, and warm. There was a window filled with real glass, in hazy colors that warped the afternoon light. There was a canopied bed, unoccupied, thick with quilts and blankets. A small fire cast an orange glow on the walls, and there were three chairs in front of the fire. A familiar white-haired figure sat in one, bathing in the warmth, sunken and hunched. His shallow breathing was the only sound in the room.

  “Will Sweeting?” Patch asked quietly, stepping closer. “You sent for me?”

  “Not him, Patch.” A woman stepped out from the corner of the room behind Patch. “I sent the soldiers to bring you here.”

  Patch saw the long raven hair and the slim band of gold around her forehead. “I saw you. After the council.”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  Patch cleared his throat. “The …queen?”

  She nodded. “Cecilia.”

  Patch opened his mouth, realized he didn’t know what to say, and closed it again. Cecilia smiled. “I heard what happened. I worried what became of you. Especially when your horse came back without its rider.”

  Patch lowered his head. “I just thought I should go home. After the trouble I caused …and Gosling …”

  The queen took his hand. “Come and sit by the fire.” She took the seat beside Will Sweeting, and Patch took the third chair. “This is his room,” she said, patting the old man’s arm. Sweeting stared into the flames, his head bobbing gently. His breathing fell silent for a moment, then resumed, a little weaker than before. “Be strong for me,” Cecilia whispered to him, squeezing his arm. “Stay with us a little longer, old friend.”

  Patch said, “He was a real hero, wasn’t he?”

  “Oh, yes.” The queen pointed to the wall beside the hearth. A wide strip of heavy white cloth hung there, yellowed with age and frayed along the sides, hanging from a buckle that was looped over a nail. A belt, Patch realized. Words had been written in red thread along its length, in uneven stitches that betrayed the exhilaration of the young man who wielded the needle. Patch tilted his head to read the words aloud: “Seven at one blow.”