The Brave Apprentice (5 page)

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.

“Hoo ha!” he shouted. “Simon Oddfellow at your service, my good people!”

There was a sudden cry from outside the circle, and another strange man burst in. His head was as hairless as an egg, and he was dressed in a filthy quilt of multicolored rags. He slapped at Simon with both hands, bellowing, “Get out, you! This is my town, my town! You’re not wanted here!”

The crowd laughed anew, as if this, too, was an act, but Patch didn’t laugh with them now. “Yeah, one fool’s enough,” said one of the older boys in the crowd, and he threw a stone at Simon. Other boys joined in, and Simon backed away. He threw his hands up around his face, shouted “Ooh! Ooh!” and ran back and forth to dodge the stones, and the roar of laughter grew.

Simon had been forced toward the lake, and he ran onto the ice. “Well! Maybe the folk are nicer on the other side,” he shouted back. Patch watched him turn and walk—no,
skip—
across the vast flat surface. The opposite shore was miles away. The bald fellow made rude gestures after Simon and broke into a madcap dance on the shore, while the people of Shorham laughed and clapped.

“You—apprentice! We’re leaving,” a gruff voice called. Patch turned to see Mannon staring down at him. The smirk was visible through his beard.

“Perhaps you’ll remember to tether your horse next time,” Mannon said. Patch saw his horse, a hundred yards away, heading in the wrong direction. He ran to retrieve it, wishing he were a grown man, strong enough to knock Mannon right out of his saddle.

The sun had slipped out of sight by the time they reached the south end of the lake, where the river Cald was reborn. A mile later, as the stars flickered on overhead, the river came to a rise in the land and divided around it.

“Almost there,” Gosling said, trotting up beside Patch again. “What do you know about Dartham Castle?”

“Nothing, really, sir. Except the king and queen live there.”

“Well. Did you see the river split in two? It will reconcile, not two miles downstream. In the meantime, there’s a space of land between the two, a lovely fertile diamond with a hill in the middle, and that’s where Dartham sits. We’re crossing to that river island now.”