The Brave Apprentice

by P. W. Catanese

  It was a man. Mannon dropped the mace and hauled him out onto the ice. The stranger drew his knees up beneath him and coughed up water. Addison strode over, waited until the choking stopped, then put his boot to the man’s side so that he flopped onto his back, shivering.

  The knights looked down at the man. Then they turned their gaze toward Addison. There was no sound except the chattering of the man’s teeth. “Tell me I’m not seeing this,” said Ludowick. Simon had arrived, and his eyes goggled and his chin drooped as he stared at the wet man. Then he began capering around, singing, “Rotten fish! Rotten fish! Caught ourselves a rotten fish!”

  Patch was thinking about how Hurgoth always wore that pack on his back—the only troll to do so. He remembered the muffled voice he’d heard at the end of the chase. And how Hurgoth would pause before answering. Suddenly, all of these things made sense. “This man was inside Hurgoth’s pack,” he said, hardly believing it himself. “Whispering in Hurgoth’s ear! Telling him what to say. Telling them all what to do.”

  Everyone was still staring uncomfortably at Addison. Patch didn’t understand why until he looked again at the stranger. This time he saw the rust-colored hair. The narrow face. The sharp hooking nose. “Lord Addison, who is this?” Patch said. But in his heart he already knew.

  “This rotten fish,” Addison said, “is my brother Giles.”

  “But I thought your brother was dead,” said Patch. “Killed by the trolls.”

  “Just as I did,” Addison said.

  “Addison,” Ludowick said quietly. “I have to ask …”

  Giles Addison raised his head from the ice and laughed. His lips had turned blue from the cold, and his voice quavered as his body shook. “Ask w-w-what, Ludowick, if he’s mixed up in this? My forthright, upright, do-no-evil brother? The k-king’s faithful servant? You give him too much credit. He lacks the imagination. Or the c-c-courage to seize what he wants.”

  Addison turned his back on his brother. He walked off to stand at a distance, leaning on his spear like an old man.

  Mannon picked up his mace again. He put a boot on Giles’s chest and pushed him flat on the ice. He held his weapon high. “Let me do it, Addison! Right here! I’ll fillet this fish for you!”

  “Then it will be you who brings ultimate d-d-doom to your k-k-king and kingdom, Mannon,” Giles Addison said. “Are you sure you w-w-want all that royal blood on your hands?”

  “What are you talking about? Your game is over, Giles.”

  “Look over there and tell me that again, Mannon.”

  Mannon looked—they all looked—and saw a second troll standing by the true shore of the lake. This one was not as tall as Hurgoth, but wider and thicker; his skin was white with veins of gray and black, like a living chunk of marble.

  “Murok, you know what to do!” Giles shouted. The creature turned and stomped back through the forest, heading for the cave.

  “What now, Giles?” Addison was coming back toward them, his hands balled into tight fists.

  “Why don’t you t-t-take me to your wise k-k-king, and see what he will do with me,” Giles said. “After all, you have h-h-him to thank for this m-m-mess.”

  “Signal for the horses,” Addison called. “We will cross the lake to get back to Dartham, so my brother’s new friends cannot help him.”

  The men spurred their horses for the first half mile across the lake, leaving the giddy fool far behind.

  Giles had his hands bound behind his back, and a rope was lashed between his horse and Mannon’s to prevent his escape. He was still dripping wet and shivering, but no one offered him a blanket or cloak. Patch looked back at him, trying to make sense of this startling turn of events. How could a man like Giles get these monsters to do his bidding? One possibility occurred to him. And the more he pondered it, the more plausible it seemed. He pulled back on his horse’s reins and allowed Giles to catch up. Giles gave him a dismissive glance, as if Patch were some kind of stray animal.

  “I think I know why the trolls obey you,” Patch said, as casually as he could. “You learned something about them when you went to the Barren Gray. You know what kills them. So they’ll do whatever you say, to keep their secret.”

  Giles flinched. It was the subtlest, tiniest gesture, and it was gone an instant after it happened. But Patch was certain he’d seen it, and it made him sure his guess was right. Then Giles yawned and called ahead to his brother. “Goran, have you taught this boy no respect? I would normally whip a peasant who dared address me directly.”

  Addison spoke without turning. “That peasant was clever enough to slay Hurgoth and flush you out of your pathetic hiding place. Perhaps it is you who is not showing the proper courtesy.”

  “Interesting,” Giles said, appraising Patch more closely. “Was that hole in the ice your plan, boy? The king’s new pet, the tailor’s apprentice? Oh, don’t look so surprised. I’m well aware of you.”

  Mannon glared at Giles. “Of course you’re aware. That snake Basilus kept you informed.”

  “I can’t imagine what you mean,” Giles replied, smiling.

  Mannon reached over, grabbed Giles’s collar, and pulled him within an inch of his own face. “What did you offer Basilus? To spy for you and guard your secret?”

  If Giles was intimidated, he did not show it. He shrugged. “What we all want. A little barony to call his own. A little gold to ease his worries. Now let me go, you hairy toad, before I am slain by your breath.” Mannon twisted the collar in his fist, pulling it taut around Giles’s neck. Patch saw Mannon’s chest heaving, and he knew the knight wanted to strangle Giles right there, or hurl him headfirst onto the frozen lake. But finally Mannon shoved Giles upright in his saddle again.

  Giles stretched his neck and rolled his head from left to right. “You know, Mannon, the day may come when you beg me to spare your life. I wonder if I will forgive your?”

  last light of day had slipped from the sky, and the great hall of Dartham was filled with shadows.

  Giles sat, bound to a chair. Milo was there, and Ludowick and Mannon. Addison paced back and forth behind his brother. Patch looked at the brothers’ faces so similar in many ways. Both had rust-colored hair and arrowhead beards, dark eyes, thick brows, and narrow hawkish features. But the sum of those elements was so different on each brother. Addison exuded confidence, Giles arrogance.

  “So, Giles,” the king said, standing in front of the prisoner. “I sent you to the Barren Gray to learn about the trolls. Instead you enlisted them for your own devilish plans.”

  Giles stared coolly back. “Let us speak openly, Milo. You sent me to the Barren Gray hoping I’d be killed by the trolls.”

  “Don’t be insolent, Giles,” Addison said. “This is our king you’re speaking to.”

  Milo leaned on the arms of the chair, close to Giles. “Is that what this is about, Giles? Petty revenge, because you felt slighted, threatened?”

  “I don’t think it was I who felt threatened,” Giles said. Then the smirk faded from his lips, and his eyes locked onto some target beyond Milo’s shoulder. Patch saw Cecilia standing at the far end of the great hall, framed like a portrait by an archway and illuminated by candles that her handmaiden Emilie was holding. He looked back at Giles and saw in those ink-dark eyes a chilling, ravenous expression. It was the way a wolf might stare at a helpless fawn. Patch had the strong urge to step between them and break the line of sight. Cecilia turned, her gown swishing, and moved past the archway and out of sight.

  Milo had seen the look in Giles’s eyes. “That was always your problem, Giles. Wanting things that weren’t yours. But you’re not getting what you want, not any of it. So you might as well tell us: Why did you lead those trolls here?”

  Giles leaned back in his chair and resurrected his smirk. “I’m not ready to talk about that yet, Milo. I mean, Your Majesty.”

  “Then why did you attack Half?” the king demanded. “What could you possibly gain from that?”

  “It was time to feed my
trolls. You would be astonished at how hungry those creatures get, Your Majesty. And to be honest, I was curious.”

  “Curious? About what, Giles?” Addison said from behind his brother’s shoulder.

  “About how strong they were, what they could accomplish. Do you know that it took only two of them to bring down that tower? Imagine what all of them could do to a bigger place. A place like Dartham, for example. The walls are much greater here, but still …”

  Mannon stepped up beside Milo. He clasped the hilt of his sword and drew a third of it out of the scabbard. “Have we not heard enough, Your Highness? Let’s end this now. Send his head to the trolls in a basket.”

  “That,” Giles said, “would be a terrible mistake.”

  “What are you up to, Giles?” Milo said. “We know you were planning an attack on Dartham; the fool that you captured told us so. What were you waiting for?”

  For a moment Patch thought Giles was opening his mouth to answer the question, but instead he yawned, and then smacked his lips and stared smugly back at the king. Patch could only imagine how angry Milo was, and how ashamed Addison felt.

  A page entered the great hall and rushed to the king. He had to squeeze his message in between the gulps of air he was taking to catch his breath: “Beg pardon … Majesty … must come … now … trolls … at the gate … calling … for you …

  “Watch him,” Milo snapped to a group of soldiers, pointing at Giles. He strode off after the page. Addison and the knights followed. Patch paused, wondering if he should go too. He glanced back at Giles and a prickly sensation shot up his spine when he saw the wicked man staring back at him. “By all means, join them, apprentice. Don’t miss the show.”

  Patch pursued Milo and Addison and the knights as they left the great hall and ran toward the gatehouse. The courtyard was suddenly crowded with people; not soldiers or knights but ordinary folk, and many of them were weeping. More streamed in from outside the walls; not through the main gate, where the great wooden doors were barred tight, but through some of the smaller entrances on the other sides of the courtyard, where kings men waved them through.

  Above the gatehouse Patch saw dozens of men lining the top of the wall. Some held torches, most of them had their bows ready to fire, and all of them stared at something outside the walls of Dartham.

  There were rounded towers on either side of the gatehouse, and within them were stairs that circled up to the top of the wall. Patch followed the knights, keeping a few paces behind in case he was not welcome. When he was halfway to the top, the stairs opened into the winch room on the right, and there he caught a glimpse of mighty chains wrapped around three large drums—one each for the drawbridge and the inner and outer portcullises.

  Patch climbed on and paused at the threshold at the top of the stairs. He could not yet see what they were looking at, but he heard Ludowick gasp and Mannon grunt in dismay. He edged out carefully onto the parapet and crept a little farther down, ducking between two soldiers and peering through one of the regular gaps in the wall where archers would fire their arrows.

  The trolls were there, not a hundred feet away. They had built a fire, and it was growing rapidly, the flames soaring higher than the thirty-foot walls of Dartham.

  “Watch for flying stones,” Mannon’s gruff voice warned anyone who would listen.

  Outside the walls, hard to see in the darkness, were sprawling fields and pastures and the village where hundreds lived, farmers and craftsmen and merchants and laborers. By the light of the fire, reflected on the white carpet of snow, Patch saw people still racing out of their homes and running for the safety of the castle walls.

  The trolls made no move to attack. Half of them were facing the gatehouse, while the other six had their backs turned. Watching for an attack from behind, Patch thought. But then he saw how their arms were out of sight, as if the monsters were cradling something they didn’t want the king and his men to see. He wondered what it might be, and supposed that he really did not want to know. Don’t miss the show, Giles had said with a wicked glint in his eye.

  The constable pushed through the crowd of soldiers and bowed to Milo. “They said they wanted to see the king, Your Highness.”

  Milo walked to the edge of the wall. “You asked for the king. Here I am.”

  Murok, the marble-skinned troll that Giles had spoken to, stepped forward. He raised a thick finger and pointed at the king. “Let him go,” he called up, in a rasping voice.

  “Who—Giles Addison?” Milo answered. “He must pay for his crimes. And you and your horde should return to your home.”

  Murok growled something over his shoulder, and the trolls that had kept their backs to them turned around. Yes, they were holding something, and it was worse than Patch could have imagined. Each held a child around the waist with a monstrous hand.

  The children wailed as the trolls lowered them to the ground. The hideous creatures each lifted a foot and lowered it again, with their heels in the dirt and their long clawed toes pinning the children down. Murok stared fiercely up at the king. “Let him go,” he repeated, “or we stomp.”

  Milo put his hands to his face and bowed his head. Cecilia appeared behind him from the gloom of the staircase. She walked to Milo’s side and hugged his arm. He looked at her, and his face seemed to have gone gray. “My queen,” he said, “we both know what must be done.” He called to the constable. “Get the prisoner. Bring him to the gate.”

  Patch heard Mannon nearby, nearly overcome with anguish. “Let Giles go? After what he’s done? We can’t!”

  Mannon stepped toward the king, but Ludowick threw an arm across his chest. “What else can we do, Mannon? Will you stand here and watch this?”

  Milo leaned over the wall and shouted down to the trolls. “He is coming. Don’t hurt those children, or I swear your fate will be a thousand times worse than Hurgoth’s!”

  The trolls roared with laughter and jeered at the king. “Who cares about Hurgoth?” called Murok, in a voice like rusted iron cogs gnashing together. “Your stupid tricks won’t work again. Give us your prisoner!” Murok reared his head back and howled, and the rest of the trolls howled with him, drowning out the cries of the children.

  The king went into the tower again. Patch ran to the inner edge of the wall and saw Milo reappear in the courtyard. The king waited there as a smirking Giles Addison was led out of the castle, surrounded by guards. Giles’s hands were manacled behind his back, and irons were around each ankle with just enough chain between them to allow him to walk.

  Someone stepped up behind Patch. It was the queen. She crouched low, so the wall would keep her mostly hidden in case Giles should look up.

  Patch could just overhear the conversation in the courtyard below. “I should have executed you the minute they brought you to me,” Milo said.

  “Oh, but the children, the children,” Giles replied, smirking. He turned his back to the king and shook the irons that bound his hands. “Take these off me.”

  Milo nodded to the constable, who produced a set of keys to free Giles’s hands and feet. The king gave a signal to the men at the gatehouse. The rumble of the great drums turning and chains rolling came from the winch room, and the twin portcullises groaned upward. Four soldiers entered the passage, unbarred the front gate, and swung it open.

  “You have your freedom again. I suggest you and your new friends enjoy it far, far away from here,” Milo said.

  “Hmmm,” Giles said, rubbing his wrists. “I’ll have to think about that. I must tell you, though, I’m not pleased about the cold bathyour little apprentice arranged for me.” He looked around the courtyard. “What—doesn’t the queen wish to say farewell?” Patch felt Cecilia’s hand grip his shoulder as Giles mentioned her name.

  “The queen is sickened by the sight and sound of you,” Milo replied. “As are the rest of us.”

  Giles laughed. “Perhaps I will see her again soon, anyway. Until then, Patch watched Giles disappear under the wall, and he went to
the other side to watch him emerge outside the castle. Behind him he heard Milo shouting, “Leave the doors open for the children!”

  Mannon was still on the wall. He clutched his head and moaned. “Murderer. Fiend. I can’t believe we’re letting him walk away.”

  Giles strutted away in no hurry. He stopped halfway across the drawbridge and peered down, examining the ditch full of frozen mud that surrounded the castle walls. He nodded and smiled as if something there pleased him. Then he walked out of the light of the gatehouse torches, through a pool of darkness, and emerged into the glow of the bonfire. When he reached the trolls, he turned to look back toward Dartham. He said something to Murok that Patch couldn’t hear from this distance, and the troll chuckled cruelly. Then Giles walked off, and the trolls released the children and followed him.

  One by one the children got to their feet and came weeping toward the gatehouse. A handful of soldiers had come out as far as the drawbridge. They held their torches high and waved the children on, urging them to hurry. Some were injured and limped badly. A young girl hopped bravely on one foot.

  A murmur passed through the crowd gathered atop the wall, and men began to point.

  One of the children, the smallest of them, was not moving. From where he stood, Patch could not tell if it was a boy or a girl. The child was lying in the snow, dressed in a simple long shirt that was not warm enough for this cold night. One of the trolls passing by noticed the child and stopped to look closer. And then two more came back. “What you got there, Gursh?” one said to the first troll. They loomed over the child, bending closer and sniffing.

  The child stirred and lifted up its head, and now Patch could see that it was a boy, fair-skinned with curls of golden hair. The boy saw the three trolls hovering over him and cried out.

  The rest of the trolls were far away now. Giles either did not know or did not care what the three stragglers were up to.

  The one called Gursh was the most savage-looking of the trolls. He was not as large as the others, only eleven feet tall or so. His dark gray skin was splattered with green blotches that resembled lichen. A white froth bubbled perpetually out of the sides of his wide mouth, giving him the appearance of a mad dog. He squatted beside the child and prodded with his finger. The boy screamed up at the troll, and Gursh bared his fangs.