“The flock would disperse,” said Milo.
“You’re suggesting we destroy Hurgoth?” Addison said. “But how?”
“We have an idea,” said Cecilia. “That is, the apprentice has an idea. Tell them, Patch.”
Patch gulped as every head in the room turned his way.
The shirt that Basilus had torn was still stained with blood but the rip was healing under Patch’s nimble fingers as he sat beside the hearth in the great hall after the council was adjourned. His needle pierced the fabric, crossed under the tear, and came up on the other side. He pulled the needle, tugging the thread and drawing the sundered edges together. It felt good to be sewing again. The rhythm of it, as familiar as breathing, kept his mind off the peril he would soon be walking into.
Patch was so absorbed that he was caught off guard when a shadow fell over him. He flinched like a cat, half expecting to see Mannon looming overhead with sword drawn. But it was Ludowick.
“Sorry to startle you,” Ludowick said.
“It’s all right, sir,” Patch replied. He put his needle down and stared up at Ludowick.
The knight shifted on his feet and cleared his throat. He paused for a moment and then sat beside Patch on the floor, with his back against the stone wall of the hearth. Patch glanced around the hall and saw that they were not entirely alone in the room. Cecilia stood at the far end, along with Emilie and two other handmaidens. And Simon was there entertaining them—he had picked up a chair and balanced it on his chin.
Ludowick said, “Well. You’ve had your share of adventures since you arrived, eh?”
“Misadventures, sir,” Patch replied.
Ludowick gave him a wry smile. “I spoke to Mannon. Pointed out that Gosling’s death was not your fault. If anyone was to blame, it was the villain Basilus, who surely warned the trolls about the poison. That’s why everything went wrong.”
“What did Mannon say?”
Ludowick shrugged. “Not much, frankly. You have to understand that Mannon and Gosling were the best of friends. Mannon’s in a rage and itching to make someone pay for his loss. Until we meet the trolls in battle, you are the easiest thing to blame. Now, Mannon will be with us tomorrow; we may need his strength. Until then I would steer clear of him if I were you. Same goes for your friend,” he said, rolling his eyes toward Simon. The fool was losing control of the chair and running back and forth beneath it to regain its balance, to the handmaidens’ alarm.
“I wish Gosling was here,” Patch said quietly.
“As do I. As do we all.” Ludowick sniffed and rubbed his sleeve under his nose. “Do you remember a particular troll, the red-brown monster?”
Patch remembered that troll all too well, one of the tallest after Hurgoth. “His skin looks like red clay—and he’s got a long fang sticking up on one side of his mouth.”
Ludowick nodded, his expression grim. “That’s the one that did it. Gosling and I were running together. Then the stone came through the trees, and that was the end. There was nothing I could do. But I turned back once as I ran, and saw that red devil heading right for Goslings body. And he was smiling. Smiling.”
They sat side by side for a time. At the other end of the hall Simon was trying something new. His mouth was gaping wide, and he was rapping at his teeth with his fingernails, shaping his lips to produce different musical notes. The queen and her handmaidens exchanged bemused glances.
“Sir, I was wondering … what do you think of my plan” Patch asked.
Ludowick raised his eyebrows. “For a boy with no apparent luck, you’re counting on plenty if you expect this to work.”
“Do you know how Lord Addison feels about it?”
“Apprentice, if you ever find out how Lord Addison feels about anything, be sure to let me know. He is a muted man. You wonder if a heart truly beats under that stern flesh. But as for your plan, he is out there himself, supervising the preparations. Consider that an endorsement.”
Ludowick yawned and rose to his feet. “Time to get what little rest I can, I suppose.” He crossed to the far end of the great hall, stopping to bow to the queen before leaving. The queen nodded and smiled at him, then turned her attention back to Simon.
When Patch saw that Simon was lying on the floor at the queen’s feet, he shot to his feet and began to walk briskly to the other end of the hall. Oh no, please no, he thought, and he began to run.
Simon had contorted himself into a knot, like the first time Patch had seen him in Shorham, that village by the lake. The fool was on his back, tucking his ankles up behind his neck. His long arms reached around his knees and back again, so that his chin rested on his interlaced fingers, just above his buttocks.
And now, horror of horrors, the queen was reaching down to squeeze the fool’s nose. “Your Highness, no!” Patch cried, but it was too late. Simon farted again, a barbaric blast of improbable volume that echoed between the wide walls of the great hall.
Cecilia staggered backward, and her hands fluttered up before her mouth. All she said was, “Oh! Oh!” before her handmaidens, recovered from the shock, seized her arms and bustled her through the nearest door.
“Simon, are you mad?” Patch said, almost moaning. “What have you done?”
As Simon sat up on the floor, propping himself with his arms behind him, his ridiculous smile withered. His mouth curved down and his bottom lip began to tremble. And then, from just around the corner where the queen and her ladies had disappeared, an unusual noise came, a kind of sputtering. After a moment, Patch realized what it was: the sound of a woman trying desperately not to laugh. Then she surrendered, and a merry, merry laughter rolled down the corridor, high and musical and lovely, with a sudden uncouth snort in the middle of it all, and then endless giggling as the handmaidens joined their queen.
The familiar, foolish grin returned to Simon’s face, and he waggled his shoulders. “What I do best,” he replied.
weather favors you, Patch,” Addison said, brushing snow from his shoulders.
“It ought to help, my lord,” Patch said. He looked at the countless flakes drifting down from the heavens in a slow, dreamy chaos. “Covers things nicely.”
Addison nodded. He watched as the men he’d supervised, all bearing saws and hatchets, trudged out of sight down the road. He glanced up at the hillside, where the trolls’ cavern lay. “You don’t have to be the one, you know. I had volunteers.”
“I don’t want anyone else hurt because of my crazy ideas, my lord. Besides, I’m the fastest.”
“Is that sot” Addison nearly smiled, and then his face became its usual stony self. He handed Patch the heavy lantern. “Then we might as well begin. Before it grows too dark. Be careful. If you stumble once …”
“I know. I won’t. See you soon.” I hope, Patch added inwardly. He stepped out onto the road.
Almost immediately, he heard a familiar voice in the distance. “Hoo ha! Hallooo, Patch!”
“Not now, Simon,” Patch groaned. The fool skipped toward him, waving his arms. Patch motioned for him to go back and raised a finger to his lips. It seemed like a miracle when one of the king’s soldiers darted out from the trees, clapped a hand over Simon’s mouth, and pulled him off the road.
Patch rolled his eyes and took a deep breath. He crossed the road and began to climb up through the forest. Whenever the wind gusted, snow would tumble off the high branches of the trees and cascade down. The new snowfall was several inches thick, deep enough to slow him down—but not too much, he hoped—when it was time to run.
He headed for the same ledge that they had used to spy on the trolls on their previous, tragic visit. As before, he crawled up on his stomach and peered over the side.
The trolls had been busy. They’d built a fence around the mouth of the cave, and dozens of sheep and pigs huddled in the enclosure, as far as possible from the three trolls squatting at the cave’s entrance. Hurgoth was not among them. Patch began to panic. Hurgoth had to be there; everything depended on him. After a m
inute, Patch saw him emerge and stretch his arms in the last rays of the afternoon sun. He was easy to spot—taller than the rest, with chalky gray skin, wearing that small pack on his back.
Patch’s mouth went dry, and his heart was leaping inside his chest. He had been sure he could do this, but now every part of him felt suddenly weak, and it seemed impossible to take the next step. But he thought about Gosling, and a hot rage welled up inside him. He got to his feet, lifted the lantern, and shouted, “I have a message for Hurgoth!”
The trolls turned toward the sound of his voice. The three sentries hissed and began to run toward the ledge where Patch stood.
“A message from Basilus—he sent me in his place!” cried Patch.
The creatures were just a few strides away when Hurgoth called out to them. “Leave him to me!”
The ceatures stopped. One of them reared his head back and spat at Patch. A dreadful blob arced through the air and splattered on the face of the ledge just below his feet. The troll snickered at him, a black pointed tongue flickering out between his teeth.
Hurgoth was coming. His legs were longer than most of the other trolls’, and his powerful arms swung as he strode over, covering the ground with worrisome speed.
Hurgoth’s chin was at the same level as the ledge. Patch took a step back, worried that those long arms and clutching fingers might come up for him. “Keep your distance,” he said. He had not stood so close to a troll since he’d faced the old blind creature on the bridge at Crossfield, and he was reminded of how strange and small the eyes were: tiny quicksilver orbs with black dots in the center, nestled in deep shadowy sockets. Out from their corners trickled a thick yellow liquid, like a constant stream of tears. “The weeping trolls,” old Griswold had called them. Patch caught a whiff of the sickly sweet smell, the scent that revived memories of Osbert and the bridge and the ruined town of Half, and he wondered if that yellow stuff was the source.
“What do you mean, a message from Basilus? I don’t know any Basilus,” Hurgoth said.
“Don’t play games, Hurgoth. I bring a message from your friend, the kings steward. But it’s meant for your ears, not theirs.” Patch jerked his head toward the three trolls lurking behind Hurgoth.
Hurgoth cocked his head to one side for a long moment. “Back in the hole,” he growled over his shoulder. The three trolls turned and walked grumbling toward the cave.
“Well?” Hurgoth said. “What is this message?”
Patch patted his pocket. “I have it here somewhere. Oh—what’s this?” He pulled out a yellowed object that looked like a thorn from a giant rose stem. It was as long as his hand was wide. He held it up for Hurgoth to see. “Look familiar?”
Hurgoth squinted at the thing. Then his gaping nostrils flared wide, and his lip curled high on one side.
“I remember now,” said Patch. “It’s a tooth from that miserable old troll I killed.” A low growl rumbled up from Hurgoth’s throat like distant thunder. The massive troll edged a little closer to the ledge. Patch saw the beast’s elbows and knees bending and his back arching, and he knew Hurgoth was getting ready to pounce. That’s fine, he thought, both encouraged and terrified. The madder the better.
“I thought you had a message,” Hurgoth said, still coiling.
“I do. But it’s not from your pet, Basilus, after all. That traitor is dead. The message is from the king. And he says to haul your ugly carcasses back home, or he’ll—” Hurgoth sprang for the ledge, bellowing, heaving his bulk into the air with surprising agility. Even though Patch was expecting it, he nearly didn’t get away in time. He felt the vibrations as Hurgoth’s claws raked across the stony ledge with a sound like screeching falcons.
Hurgoth’s leap had carried him waist-high to the ledge, and his legs hung awkwardly below him. He was perfectly vulnerable to what Patch planned to do next. “And here’s a gift from King Milo too!” Patch cried, and he flung the lantern just as the troll pushed himself up. It struck his broad chest and shattered, and the oil burst into flame.
Hurgoth howled. It wasn’t the low guttural yell that Patch could feel in his ribs, but a high piercing screech that made him clap his hands over his ears. The troll pounded at the flames that covered his chest. He crawled the rest of the way onto the ledge and flopped into the snow, and a sizzle of steam rose out from under him. Then his head came up, and his silver eyes, which seemed to have doubled in size, found Patch. He scrambled to his feet and smashed his fist into a nearby tree. The tree splintered, and the snow on its branches flew a hundred feet in every direction. Hurgoth threw his head back and screamed again, clawing madly at the air over his head. Then he came for Patch.
Perhaps Patch was imagining it, but he could swear that he heard a distant voice shouting, “Stop! You’ll be killed!” There was no time to ponder it, though. He ran downhill, along the tracks he’d made on the way up, hopping over stones and winding through trees. He looked back to see how close Hurgoth was, and caught a glimpse of the monster, insane with rage, wrenching a huge limb off another tree as he ran by and carrying it for a club.
Patch had been certain that he could outrun Hurgoth. He thought he’d have to slow down, even pretend to stumble and fall, to keep the chase close. But the snow clung to his feet, making him work harder for every step, and the distance between them began to shrink.
The sun was behind him as he ran east down the slope, toward the road. Hurgoth’s long shadow crept closer. Patch hurdled a fallen tree, and Hurgoth took it in stride, closing the gap a little more. Patch looked over his shoulder and caught a fleeting glimpse of the troll, grinning and scowling, spouting steam from his nostrils, swinging the club over his head.
Perhaps it was the blood he’d lost from his wound, or the extra effort from churning through the snow, but Patch was tiring. There was a lightness in his brain, and the cold air burned his lungs.
They came out of the forest and onto the road. Patch dashed straight across and into the trees on the other side, heading for the safety of the snow-covered lake.
“You won’t reach the lake in time, tiny one!” Hurgoth roared. Patch saw the dark shadow under his feet, the elongated shape of the troll’s powerful arm wielding the club. Suddenly the silhouette of the club parted from the shadow of the hand, and Patch darted left just before the enormous branch that the troll had thrown crashed beside him.
He was through the trees and onto the wide flat ground that led to the lake. Far ahead still were the landmarks that had stood at the water’s edge—the tiny fisherman’s shack and the boat hauled up on the shore.
Now under his feet he saw the dark shadow of Hurgoth’s head, and he knew the troll must be just a stride behind. Hurgoth’s churning, stomping feet struck a low evergreen tree. It broke off clean and flew spinning over Patch’s head. He hoped the troll didn’t notice just how easily the tree had lifted out of the snow, or that its trunk had been neatly sliced with a saw.
Again Patch heard that voice shouting, “Stop, stop!” But it wasn’t a distant voice, he realized. It was near, but curiously muffled.
The shack was still fifty feet away, but the chase was nearly over. Half of the troll’s shadow was in front of Patch, and he watched as the black forms of the arms came toward him from both sides. He felt something nudge his shoulder, and he knew it was one of those thick nails at the end of Hurgoth’s fingers. Panic coursed through him, and with a final surge of energy, the last that could possibly remain, he raced onward just a little faster.
The shack was steps away. Patch ran straight for its open door. “That miserable hut won’t save you!” Hurgoth cried, panting. In those final steps Patch once again heard that odd voice calling, “Stop! Stop! You’ll be killed!”
Patch dove into the shack, sliding on his belly all the way to the far wall. If the plan was to work, it would happen now. Even as he turned to look, he heard a shattering crack as the ice broke under Hurgoth’s feet. The troll dropped into the black water, his dense bulk pulling him down as if he were made o
f iron. Hurgoth opened his mouth to howl, and icy water surged down his throat as the head slipped under the surface. Jagged sheets of ice bobbed where the troll had stood only a second before.
Patch rolled onto his back with his arms spread wide, gasping for air. Men ran out from the corners of the shack—Addison, Mannon, Ludowick, and more—carrying battleaxes and maces and spears, shouting and laughing. They surrounded the hole, eager to beat at any large gray hand that came up groping for purchase. “Come on,” Mannon shouted into the icy waters. High over one shoulder he waved his mace, a bladed club heavy enough to crush armor. “You ugly demon! Just try coming up!”
Patch joined them at the edge, clasping his hands behind his neck to open his aching lungs wider. He peered into the dark water, trying to see through the jumble of broken ice. Great quantities of air bubbled to the surface. For a moment, that was the only sound, until Patch heard a familiar laugh and saw Simon skipping toward them from the shore, clapping his hands over his head. “Hoo ha! A remarkable ruse!”
“The fool speaks true,” Ludowick said, looking around to admire the trap that Patch had conceived. The little house that stood by the edge of the lake had been lifted up by the king’s men and hauled out over the depths, and the boat was carried there as well. Trees and bushes were sawed down and stuck upright in the snow-covered surface, so that the troll might believe he was still on the shore and venture out over the lake. Just in front of the house, the thick ice was weakened with axes in a broad circle, so the troll would fall through. They had plumbed the depths: The bottom of the lake was over thirty feet below.
“Ho! Look here!” Mannon shouted. Near the edge of the hole, the water bubbled anew, and a shape struggled toward the surface. “What the devil?” Addison said, as a figure, too small to be a troll, came sputtering up.
The Brave Apprentice Page 9