The Brave Apprentice

by P. W. Catanese

  The large doors to the great hall opened, and two of the king’s soldiers escorted a long-haired, bearded man into the room. A hunter, Patch thought. His outer cloak and leggings were made of deer hide. An empty sheath for a long hunter’s knife was at his belt, and a quiver with no arrows was strapped to his back; his weapons would have been taken from him before he was allowed before the king. A scar, long since healed, ran down the side of his face. It began at his temple and passed all the way down to his chin, leaving tracks where no whiskers grew. When the hunter drew close to the king, he dropped to his knees and bowed his head.

  “What is your name, sir?” Milo said sternly.

  “Clovis, Your Majesty.”

  “Well, Clovis. I am told that you have information concerning the trolls. And that you will tell it only to me.”

  Clovis kept his gaze on the floor. “Well, Your Majesty … when a man learns something as important as this, he hopes for some reward. For bringing it to your attention, that is.”

  Milo put one elbow on the table and leaned forward. “But you would be helping your kingdom and your neighbors, who are in danger. That would be reward enough for most men.”

  “There would be some satisfaction in that, to be sure, Your Highness,” said Clovis, shifting his weight from knee to knee. “Pardon me for saying, but you can’t blame a fellow for wanting to get something for himself in the bargain, a little silver in his pouch for when times get lean.”

  Addison gave the hunter a reptilian stare. “Perhaps,” he said, “you should think less about the reward you will earn for your information, and more about the price you will pay for your greed.”

  Marmon began to push himself up from his chair. “And perhaps I can be the man to exact that price,” he growled.

  “Sit, Mannon, sit,” the king said, rapping his knuckles on the table. “Master Clovis, I’m told that I am a patient man—too patient, even. But now I have reached my limit. Tell us what you came to say.”

  “Well,” said Clovis, his glance darting around at the hostile faces around him, “two days ago I was hunting in the forest, north of the lake. I was on my way home, following my own tracks through the snow. Along the way I heard some unearthly sounds. Low talking and laughing, but not by people, you understand? I crept up to see what it was, and there’s a pack of trolls before me, ten or more. But among them was something else I didn’t expect to see.”

  “Which was …?” said Milo.

  Clovis cleared his throat and wiped his palms on his leggings. “I’ve come such a long way, Your Highness. Could’ve stayed in my woods, never left at all.”

  Basilus, the kings steward, appeared at the kneeling man’s side, holding a goblet on a silver tray. He said, “Wine for the kings honored guest?”

  “Thankee,” Clovis said. He wrapped his fist around the long stem of the goblet and brought it, shaking, to his mouth. “Your Highness,” he said, drawing his sleeve across his lips after a deep gulp, “forgive me if I’m just a good-for-naught scoundrel. But do you know, I’ve never owned anything of value in my life until I possessed this bit of intelligence. Is it so wrong I should profit from it?”

  Milo rolled his eyes and gestured toward the two soldiers. Each of them reached down and clamped a hand on the hunter’s shoulders.

  “Wait, I’ll tell!” Clovis cried. A pained expression came to his face, and Patch thought the rascal might be feeling remorse for his blackmailing ways. Clovis opened his mouth again, but no words came out, only a strangled croak. His eyes bulged, and he doubled over, as if a knife had been plunged into his belly. He rolled onto his side as the soldiers looked down in alarm. The silver goblet rolled out of his hand, making a graceful arc across the stone floor.

  Addison was the first to reach him. He kneeled beside the fallen man, lifted him by the shoulders, and turned him to look into his eyes. “What’s the matter? What is it?” Clovis was barely aware of him. Then his neck went slack, and his head rolled to one side. A drop of reddish liquid trickled out of the corner of his mouth.

  Addison looked at the goblet, still rocking back and forth on the floor. “Basilus?” he said, raising his head.

  Patch looked up and down the room. Basilus was gone.

  “Poison,” Ludowick said.

  “Poison? My steward, a murderer? What on earth is happening here?” cried Milo.

  “Your Highness, we must find Basilus. Learn why he’s done this,” said Addison.

  “Yes—everyone, search the castle! Alert the gatehouse! Find Basilus!”

  There was a great thumping of boots and the screech of chairs shoved aside. A moment later everyone was gone—soldiers, guards, knights, and nobles. Only Patch and Will Sweeting were left in the room, with the corpse of the hunter lying on the floor growing as cold as the stone. Patch stared at the dead man, aching to know what poor Clovis had seen, what he could have told them.

  Poisoned wine, thought Patch, shuddering. My suggestion.

  He remembered the queen, and her hidden place at the back of the great hall. He walked there and went behind the curtain. The chair was empty. Of course, she would have left to avoid being discovered when the knights began running in every direction. He stood for a moment, wishing he could talk to her, wondering how he could find her.

  Or maybe, Patch thought, he should join the search for Basilus. It might redeem him in the eyes of the king, Addison, Ludowick, even Mannon. But the castle was large, the corridors were many, and the hiding places were countless. He stepped back out from the curtain. Where would I run if I were Basilus?

  A hint of motion across the room caught his eye. A tapestry hung on the wall, stretching from floor to ceiling to keep the cold and damp of the stone walls at bay. But it was swaying, almost too subtly to see, as if it had been given a gentle push. Patch watched, and the motion came to a stop.

  You hid there, Patch thought. Until the knights left. Then I stepped behind the curtain, leaving only Will Sweeting in the room. And then where did you go?

  There was an archway to the right of the tapestry. Had any of the knights even gone that way? Patch dashed across the room and through the opening, where the corridor ended in a staircase. How far down the stairs went, Patch could not tell; darkness swallowed everything beyond the fourth step. He ran back to the great hall, grabbed a candlestick from the table, and came back to the top of the steps.

  He sniffed the air. There was a familiar scent rising from the darkness. Cheese, he thought. And other smells—like barley or oats, and the yeasty aroma of ale.

  “Patch,” a voice said behind him, and he almost shrieked in surprise. It was Cecilia. “What are you doing?”

  “My queen! Did you hear what happened?”

  “Yes. The poison. That poor fellow. What could he have been about to say, to make Basilus kill him?”

  “I can’t imagine,” Patch said. “But I suppose we know who warned the trolls about the wine.”

  The queen nodded, then saw Patch looking down the stairs. “That leads to the storeroom for our provisions. You don’t think he’s down there, do you, Patch? He would be trapped—there is no way out except these stairs.”

  “But he could never get out of Dartham with all the gates patrolled. So maybe he found a place to hide awhile—with food and drink. Until it’s safe to sneak out.” Patch started down the first two steps.

  “Wait! You can’t go alone!” the queen said, tugging at him. “I’ll find help.” She gathered up her long gown and raised it above her ankles so she would not fall as she ran.

  Patch watched her until she was out of sight. He moved cautiously down the stairs again. Can’t wait, he thought. It’s my chance to make good.

  There was a door at the bottom of the stairs. Under the handle was a keyhole. He pulled at the handle, and the door swung open with a loud creak. Shouldn’t the provisions be locked up? he wondered. But of course, the king’s steward would have a key. He held the candle before him and stepped into the room.

  His heart was poundi
ng and a sprinkling of sweat had erupted on his forehead, but even through his fear he could appreciate the wonderful smell of this room, the scent of basil and pepper and salt and dozens of other herbs and spices. The room was twenty paces wide and at least forty deep, as far as the light of his candle informed him. It was crowded with sacks of grain, casks of wine and ale, jars of honey, bushels of beans and barley, barrels of salted fish, meats hanging from hooks, and a great many wide wheels of cheese.

  “I know you’re here, Basilus,” Patch called out, his voice ringing against the stone walls and low ceiling. He peered through the gloom. Something shone out brighter than the rest of the objects there, an incongruous thing. It was a staff of polished white wood. Patch remembered it—from the night he first arrived at Dartham, when Basilus met them at the door.

  The faintest sound came from behind him—it might have been a sharp intake of breath or the rustle of a robe—but it was enough to make Patch leap forward. He heard the whoosh of something sharp and narrow slice through the air. The back of his linen shirt tore, and he felt a line of pain, blazing hot, just below his shoulders.

  Patch whirled about. Basilus was there, holding a gleaming meat hook. The steward’s calm demeanor and regal posture were gone. Now he crouched with his teeth bared, his nostrils flared, and sweat trickling down his temples. “Don’t move—I won’t hurt you,” he said, stepping toward Patch. It was such an absurd thing to say, as he raised the hook to strike again, that Patch almost laughed.

  “Help is coming,” Patch said, sliding backward.

  “I don’t believe you,” Basilus whispered, creeping closer. He stabbed at the air to the right and left, forcing Patch straight back until he bumped against the sacks of grain piled against the wall. There was no more room to retreat. He opened his mouth and took a deep breath.

  “Don’t scream,” Basilus warned. Patch did not; he blew the lungful of air at his candle, putting out the flame. Everything fell into blackness. Patch dropped to his haunches, hearing another whoosh in the space he had left, and sprang like a frog to one side.

  Basilus grunted and cursed. Patch could hear him stabbing at the air in every direction. “If I don’t kill you, I’ll make sure the trolls do,” the steward hissed. There was a crash as he blundered into a stack of something that fell to the ground, and he cried out in pain. Patch heard him whimpering and moving again, toward the door. He followed the sounds, keeping a safe distance between them. I’m not losing you now, he thought.

  Patch heard the steward’s feet on the steps. As Basilus mounted the stairs and moved closer to the light, Patch followed. Then came the thump of heavy boots in the main hall and the sound of shouting:“Where’s the boy?” “Through there—down the steps!”“Bring torches!”

  Too late Patch realized that Basilus had turned and was rushing back down the stairs. He pressed himself against the wall, but the steward’s feet caught on his as he passed. Patch heard Basilus yelp as he fell, an ugly thud of something hard striking stone, a sound like a tree branch snapping under the weight of snow, and the harsh music of the meat hook clattering down the rest of the steps.

  A flickering orange light filled the stairway. Addison came first, with a torch in one hand and his sword in the other. Three soldiers followed, peering over his shoulder.

  “I found Basilus, my lord,” Patch said. For a moment he’d forgotten the pain where the hook had sliced his back. Now it blossomed again, much greater, and he felt a spreading warmth and dampness.

  Addison walked past him, to the foot of the stairs where Basilus was crumpled in a heap. He knelt by the steward and brought the torch close.

  “It would have been well had you kept him alive for us to question,” Addison said.

  a thousand enemies at my gate than one hidden in my house,” said Milo, shaking his head. He stood by the roaring fire, with a hand on old Will Sweeting’s shoulder and his back to the rest of the people in the great hall.

  Patch hovered by the door. Many of the knights were gathered here again. They sorted themselves into groups and spoke in hushed tones. Addison sat away from the others. His sword was still drawn, and he leaned on it, brooding, with the hilt propping up his chin and the tip slowly turning, grinding on the floor.

  The men began to notice Patch. Faces turned his way, curious or suspicious or resentful. There was Mannon, but trying to meet his eye was like staring into the sun.

  It seemed to Patch like he couldn’t get anything right. Yes, he’d found the traitor. But now the traitor was dead and could answer no questions. What did Basilus have to do with the trolls? What was the hunter about to say, that he had to be so cruelly silenced? Was only Basilus involved, or were there others?

  An hour before, the queen had brought Patch a physician who washed the cut on his back, smeared it with an ointment that naturally made the pain ten times worse, and wound a cloth around him. She hovered nearby while the physician worked, but Patch was afraid to look her way. If he’d only listened to her and not gone down the stairs by himself, Basilus might have been captured alive. Would have been captured alive. But he was too anxious to help, too eager for redemption.

  Cecilia did not scold him, though. When the physician was done, she only patted his hand and said, “Go and tell them now, Patch. This cannot wait. I will be listening.”

  Now Patch looked around the room at the important men. He glanced at the long curtain behind the table and pictured the queen in her hidden chair. It made what he was about to do a little easier.

  He walked toward the king. The conversations withered, and heads swiveled to track him as he approached the hearth. “Your Majesty,” he said. Milo turned and stared at him. The friendly glint in the king’s eye was gone; his youthful face looked ten years older.

  The king’s eyebrows crinkled together as he seemed to remember something. He patted his pocket and reached in to pull out a small folded parchment. He opened it and read it. Patch recognized the note that the page had delivered just before the hunter was poisoned, before Basilus broke his neck on the stairs. It was Cecilia’s note, the one Patch had watched her write:“Let the apprentice speak, my love. And listen well.” Milo sniffed, smiled briefly, and tossed the note into the fire.

  “Well,” the king said. “What do you have to say?”

  Without mentioning the queen, Patch told the court what they had learned from Simon Oddfellow: that the trolls were planning to tear Dartham to pieces, that Hurgoth seemed to be in charge, and that they were waiting for something to happen before the attack would begin.

  As he spoke, the men gathered around to listen, forming a half-circle in front of the fire. Except for Addison, who was still perched on his chair, leaning on his sword.

  Ludowick spoke first when Patch was done. “Are you certain about this, apprentice?”

  “I am, my lord,” Patch said.

  Mannon crossed his arms and scowled. “Hold on—are we really going to take the word of a boy and an imbecile?”

  “What if he’s right, though?” another knight said.

  Other men began to cry out, shouting to be heard over one another.

  “Even if he is, what can we do to stop it?”

  “I heard about what they did at Half!”

  “What did Basilus have to do with all this?”

  “We need more soldiers!”

  “Now that the traitor’s dead, perhaps they’ll go away!”

  Milo raised his hands. “Quiet!” he shouted, and the clamor died at once. The king rubbed his closed eyes with the tips of his fingers. He turned his back to the men once more and stared into the flames. “Addison,” he called loudly, without turning around.

  Addison looked up, roused out of some weighty thoughts. “Yes, my king?”

  “Have you ever known our kingdom to face a greater threat?”

  The question surprised Addison. “Not like this. Not ever.”

  “Not ever,” Milo repeated, turning around. “So we can’t play games anymore. We can’t and we wo
n’t.” He pushed through the half-circle of men, strode past the table, seized the curtain, and gave it a mighty pull. It tore away from its long wooden rod and fell to the floor. The men in the great hall gasped as the queen was revealed, sitting in the hidden chair.

  Cecilia was halfway out of the seat and poised to run, but froze when she realized that she’d certainly been seen. She lowered herself deliberately into the chair again and looked out at the men, her eyes wide and glistening. Milo went to her and held out his hand. “No more hiding, Cecilia. No more notes. No more secret meetings. This is all too important. I need you by my side. My wisest, most trusted adviser.”

  Cecilia stood and allowed the king to lead her to a seat at the table. The rest of the men stood about, clearing their throats and glancing at one another. They turned to watch as Addison stood up, walked to the table, and sat next to the king. Ludowick sat down next, and Mannon lumbered over and sank onto a chair. And then the rest followed. There was no sound except the wooden feet of chairs scraping against stone.

  Patch was still standing by the fire. He glanced down at Will Sweeting and could swear he saw a hint of a smile on the old man’s mouth as he sat there, gently rocking.

  All eyes were on Cecilia, and she began to speak. “Good men of the court. We know that there will be an attack on Dartham. We know not when, but we must assume that it will come before long. So whatever we do, it should be done soon.”

  As she spoke, the queen looked at each of the men in turn. “Like you, I am deeply troubled by the treachery of Basilus. And I yearn to know what the hunter would have told us. But we have learned something that may be our salvation.

  “Do you remember what Griswold taught us? He said that trolls are solitary creatures. For them to invade as a group is not merely unusual—it is unprecedented in all our chronicles. Something is holding this ugly horde together. And from the fool Simon, who was once their prisoner, we may have learned what it is: Hurgoth, the wisest and strongest of them. He herds the rest like sheep. And perhaps, without the shepherd…”