The Hostage Prince (13 page)

T
he cave entrance was partially concealed by vines and brambles, and Aspen realized how lucky they were to have spotted it.

If we hadn't looked up at just the right time, we would have walked right past it,
he thought,
even though we could smell it. He wondered idly if the cave had been under some kind of hiding spell. Or if they both had been blinded by hunger and fear.

“It smells like roasted nuts and honey!” He hadn't had roasted nuts and honey since before he had been a hostage. He could barely remember what they tasted like. But he remembered the smell.

“No it doesn't,” Snail said, sniffing the air with a dreamy look on her face. “It smells like cabbage soup. Lovely cabbage soup.”

The cave was right before them now, and Aspen had his sword out to push the bushes aside so they could enter.

“No one likes cabbage soup,” he told her, but laughed when he said it so she wouldn't take offense. There was no reason for either one of them to be angry when they soon would have such a wonderful meal.

And Aspen was
sooooo
hungry. He couldn't remember being this hungry since . . . well, since ever.

He stepped into the cave first and was surprised and greatly disappointed when he didn't immediately see a fire or a pan filled with roasting nuts and a pot full of honey nearby.

Checking around in the grey light, he saw that there were a few uncomfortable-looking rough wooden chairs, a table with a broken leg leaning against a wall, a great number of hooks hanging from the ceiling, and one very large, very fat, incredibly ugly troll. Its head scraped the rough stone ceiling, and its eyes were asquint. Two tusks stuck out of either side of its massive jaw. A piece of material covered most of its massive body, but there were holes in various places. Enough, he thought in a befuddled way, to throw a drow through.

However, “Uh . . .” was all he managed to say before the troll pulled back a fist the size of a full-grown pig's head and punched him on the temple. The world went black and he crumpled to the floor.

*  *  *

J
UDGING BY HOW MUCH
his head throbbed, Aspen didn't think too much time had passed before he regained his senses. But what time had passed had been enough for him to be gagged and tied into one of the oversized chairs. He heard a low moan from his right and turned to see Snail similarly trussed up and coming slowly awake.

Oh, what a fool I've been,
he thought.
Of course, the food smells were an enchantment.
He couldn't have expected Snail to know that. But surely
he
should have.

He wondered if he had grown so used to life in King Obs's castle, with its ward spells against Seelie magic, countermagic that had been layered on for millennia, that he had practically forgotten he had any magic at all. He shook his head—which made his headache all the worse. And now here he and the young woman he should have been protecting had been brought down, sacked, battered, bagged, and captured by that lowest of enchantments—hedge magic. Cast by a troll no less!

He hoped he'd live long enough to be embarrassed.

I should have known when Snail and I smelled different meals. I should have listened when she warned about going into the cave. I should have . . .
He knew he was not finished shoulding on himself.

He realized that a squirrel coming into the cave would smell an acorn; a rabbit would smell a carrot; a fox, a hen. He had smelled a favorite meal from his childhood. And Snail, no more than a peasant, really, had smelled cabbage soup.

But seriously
, he told himself
, no one actually
likes
cabbage soup.

If he had had his wits about him then, he could have dispelled the glamour easily. But now, with his hands tied and his mouth gagged, there was very little he could do.

Except get eaten.

There was a scuffling behind him and then the troll came into view. It was truly, truly fat, its belly protruding far in front of it, pushing the stained cloth it was wearing to the limits of the fabric. He realized it was not just a cloth. It was an apron. There was an embroidered motto on the front he had not noticed before.
FEED THE TROLL.

Honestly
, he thought,
who knew trolls could write? Or that they had a sense of humor.

The troll's belly stuck out farther than its giant nose, which was now sniffing Aspen from trussed-up head to trembling toes.

“Which first?” rumbled the troll, licking its surprisingly thin lips with a gargantuan tongue. “The sweet, sweet sugar of Seelie Serenity, or the earthy dough of the Fee Fi Foe?” The troll sniffed at Snail before wiping its nose on its apron, which only added to the many stains already there.

At that point, the troll wrinkled its nose as if it had just smelled something it did not like. “The Fee Fi Foe, I think,” it said, rubbing its imposing stomach. “The time's coming soon and I need the sustenance. Ohhhhhh!” Grimacing, it pressed a gigantic hand to its belly.

I think it's in pain,
Aspen thought, a tiny bit of hope growing in his chest like the first thrust of a curled fern in the spring.

The troll stumbled to the far wall where a number of knives and cleavers were hanging. Grabbing the nearest one, it spun back around, its face now clearly showing great pain. By the way it was clutching its belly, the pain was in there somewhere.

May you fall down and die
, Aspen thought.
May you expire in great pain. May the little hobs eat your innards and crows peck out your eyes.

He was really getting into the silent curse, which was just as well because mostly he was in a panic and struggling against his bonds. But the rope was strong and the troll's knots held, and he could only watch terrified as the clearly agonized troll stumbled toward Snail, holding its belly gingerly with one hand and a knife almost as big as the girl in the other.

“Snail!” Aspen shouted, only it came out as “Fffffaaaaiiih” because of the filthy cloth stuffed in his mouth.

Snail was fully awake now and was looking at the troll strangely as it approached. She must have been afraid, of course, but mostly she looked . . .

Concerned?

Aspen had no time to interpret that look, because he knew she was about to be butchered. Even in the grey light of the cave, the knife gleamed. And the knife wasn't just large, it was huge.

I have to do something!
Aspen thought.

But struggle as hard as he might there was nothing he
could
do except watch as the troll stumbled up to Snail, drew back its knife . . .

. . . and collapsed in a heap onto the cave floor.

“Mrrrph?”

“Hurry,” Snail said.

Aspen looked over at her again. Somehow, she had worked the gag out of her mouth.

“We've got to get out of these ropes!”

“Mrmm, mrmm,” Aspen agreed. He still could not free himself. But the knife had fallen from the troll's hand and was right there in front of him. And if he rocked his chair . . .

It took longer than he had hoped—nine or maybe ten seconds that seemed like an eternity—but he finally managed to rock the chair up onto two legs and then over sideways.

“Owrrrmph!” he grunted as the fall and abrupt stop reminded his head to start pounding again. Ignoring the pain, he wiggled like a one-legged salamander and managed to maneuver himself so his hands were near the knife.

“Yes,” Snail said, “just a little more to the left  . . . and . . . yes!”

Despite moving only a few feet, Aspen was exhausted by the effort. But he had the knife! It was actually more the size of a Border Lord's great sword, but with his long fingers, he was able to turn it till he had the sharpest edge against the rope. He used his body more than his hands to set up a sawing motion, praying the whole time that the rope would part before the troll woke, or before he sliced off a part of his anatomy. Simultaneously he gave thanks to the green gods for how sharp the troll had kept its knife.

Moments later, the ropes gave way and his hands were free. He cut the rest of his ropes away, and snatching the gag from his mouth—dirty, foul thing!—he turned to the troll. Raising the knife high over his head, he aimed a huge killing stroke at the base of its neck. He knew that trolls were famous for their powers of self-healing, so he'd have to cast a fire spell to seal the troll's death immediately after the deed was done.

“Stop!” Snail shouted at him.

He froze, the giant knife getting heavy over his head. “Um, can it wait?”

“No,” Snail said. “We may have only minutes.”

“I think we'll have plenty of time once I dispatch this big, ugly thing.”

“You can't!”

Aspen looked over his shoulder at Snail, who was still tied into her chair. Then he looked pointedly at the knife. “
You
killed that carnivorous mer. I am reasonably certain that I can kill
this
thing.”

She shook her head. “I mean you mustn't.” She frowned. “And it's not a thing. It's a
she
. And
she's
pregnant.”

Aspen lowered the knife and looked down at the troll. If he had been a true Unseelie prince, he would have just slaughtered her as she lay there, pregnant or not. If he'd had a drop of Border Lord in him, he would have taken pleasure in each cut. But he was a
Seelie
prince, and a Seelie prince does not slaughter females. Especially
pregnant
females.

“Are you certain?” he asked.

“Absolutely positive,” she answered.

“Oh, nuts.”

The troll moaned and clutched her stomach with both hands.

Aspen leapt back, raising the knife. Since the troll did not move again, Aspen hurried over to Snail and quickly cut her free. He turned to leave, but Snail scampered over to the wall of knives and began examining them.

“Come, Snail!” he hissed. “We must be away now!”

“No, Serenity, we can't. Er . . . mustn't.” She seemed to find a knife to her liking, smaller than the rest and maybe cleaner, too.

“I will not kill the awful creature, Snail. That's not what Seelie princes do. But remember—it tried to
eat
us! And if we do not leave soon, it may still succeed.”

Snail walked back with the knife and looked down at the troll. “If we leave her, she will certainly die.”

“Not our fault,” Aspen said.

“It would be mine,” she said.

“Why?”

“I'm a midwife's apprentice, Your Serenity. I have taken an oath.”

“What oath?”

She put her hand over her heart. As she was holding the knife in that hand, Aspen could not help thinking it odd.

“I swear to help all creatures great and small to give birth in painless peace, by Mab's good heart.”

He knew by the way she phrased it that it was a strong and unbreakable oath.

Snail pointed her knife down at the troll. “The baby's clearly breached. See the head up there where it should be down here.”

There
was
a peculiar bump in the troll's belly. It might have been a head. Or a foot. Or just a large bump. It might have been something undigested that the troll had eaten the day before. Aspen shook his head.

The troll wife moaned.

“If she doesn't get help soon—very soon—she
will
die.” Snail looked up at Aspen and in the grey light of the cave, her bicolored eyes were unreadable. “And the baby, too.”

“Nuts,” Aspen said again. “Great roasted nuts.” Then he sighed. “What do you need me to do?”

She showed him a quick smile then, but as quickly put her lips in a thin line, thinking for a second. “Why, boil water, of course!”

“Of course,” he agreed, as if boiling water was the easiest thing in the world in a cave with only an enormous caldron twice his size, no fire, and no water source. “Of course.”

S
nail sent Aspen outside to find water. “Remember how odd the land here around is. Let the water come to you.” Then she turned back to the pregnant troll.

“I am a midwife,” she said to the huge creature, loudly and clearly. “Please remember the law.” She meant the one against eating midwives.

The troll nodded.

“Now, let's get you sitting up,” Snail said, placing a chair against the near wall, and then helping the moaning troll to sit with her back against the chair's legs.

Snail worried it might be a hard birth. She worried that it might be a cutting birth. She worried the baby might not make it through the canal. But she no longer worried about being eaten. That was the good thing.

And so she set to work.

*  *  *

I
T SEEMED LIKE
only seconds later that the prince was back, though it was clearly much longer. She'd already gotten the troll into the right position, had counted the minutes between the contractions, had taught the creature how to push.

Prince Aspen returned with a clay pot lined with river reeds and mud. It was a coarse first attempt but he seemed proud of his handiwork. The pot was brimming over with water.

Snail thanked him profusely even though she worried about how dirty the water was.

“Not sure how we will start the fire,” she said, but he quickly did a piece of princely fire magic, and soon there were flames in the great hearth snapping out what sounded like smart remarks. The pot of water held, and in no time, the filthy water was merrily bubbling away.

She set the knife in the pot in the vain hope that she could cleanse her only cutting implement of any impurities and—she tried not to think of this—any blood from previous troll dinners.

The troll wife groaned.

Prince Aspen turned white, practically glowing in the grey cave.

“Go get me a torch of some kind in case there has to be fine work done,” Snail said, thinking all the while that there was nothing fine about delivering a baby troll, nothing at all.

The prince ran from the cave, clearly happy to be out of there, and Snail turned back to the laboring troll wife. She held the knife in one hand.

“Only if we need it to get the baby out in time,” she assured the troll. “So close your eyes, my dear, and push.” She sounded a bit like Mistress Softhands and suddenly found herself hoping that the old midwife had fared well and was now herself safely delivered from the dungeon.

Then one hand holding the knife, the other on the troll's massive belly, she began to sing the birthing song over and over. It didn't matter, as Mistress Softhands always said, whether the mother-to-be was an ogre or a queen, the song soothed. Snail tried to lower her voice to match the troll's stentorian tones.

 

Arooo, arooo, little mother, and hush.

Take a big breath and give a big push,

Child that's within you will soon be without.

Another big push and then give a great shout!

Arooo.

 

Each time she said the word
push
, Snail put pressure on the troll's belly. Each time she sang “little mother,” she grinned at the inappropriateness of calling a troll female little.

She sang the song a full ten times and could feel the baby in the troll's belly kicking. And, this being a troll baby, it was a very hard kick.

 

Arooo, arooo, now toe to head,

Little one, spin around this way instead.

Aroooo, arooo, now head to toe,

Little one, now you are ready to go.

Aroooo.

 

She could see the outline of the child beneath the skin moving under her direction. Breathing in deeply, she held her breath until the baby was fully turned and no longer breach. The magic—so often practiced but never actually used by her before—had worked.

She let the breath go.

“Soon, soon,” she said encouragingly.

The troll wife rolled her great black eyes, and pushed when directed. And on the last push, at the end of the tenth repetition of the song, with a huge shout that rattled the walls of the cave and turned over the pot still bubbling on the fire so the fire itself was put out, a baby troll came hurtling down the birth canal and into Snail's waiting hands. She was so surprised at the speed and the weight of it, she almost dropped it, but for once sense and competence overrode her tendency for accidents, and she clung on to the baby for dear life—his and hers.

“Good girl,” she told the troll wife. “Nicely done.” Then she cut the umbilical and tied the end in a knot as she had been taught, and slapped the baby on the back.

With that the infant squalled, a sound somewhat between a stallion's whinny and a pig's snort but as loud as an avalanche hurtling down a mountainside.

“It's a boy!” she told the troll wife.

“A boy,” the troll said and grinned broadly. The sharpness of her teeth and tusks was not comforting.

I wish
, Snail thought,
that motherhood had improved her looks, but at least she understands the law.

Just then, the prince came back. He held out the flaming torch. “See! I have it.”

That's when he noticed Snail standing there with the giant baby in her arms, still slippery with birth fluids.

“Give me your shirt, Serenity, so I can cleanse the child.”

He shuddered, managing to croak, “Not my shirt!”

Shrugging, she said, “Then take my petticoat and rip it into three pieces.”

He set the torch in a holder than had been hammered into the wall, before helping Snail—still holding the baby—step out of her petticoat. Quickly, he ripped it into the strips she needed.

One she used for wiping the child. One for diapering him. And one for covering him up. Then she handed the baby to the troll wife.

“Can we get out of here now?” Prince Aspen said.

“How?” Snail asked, pointing toward the cave opening. It was already dark outside. Or at least as much of the outside as they could see. The rest was blocked by a huge male troll who was holding up a small rabbit, hardly more than a nibble for such a one.

“Am I late for dinner?” the troll rumbled as he came inside.