The Brave Apprentice (14 page)

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 of 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.

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.