The Brave Apprentice (4 page)

“Of course. Patch, they will be so proud.”

Patch knotted the cord at the top of the bag, but his eyes were on the tailor, warming his hands before the fire again. “Master, you’re certain you’ll be all right without me?”

“Sure, Patchy. The hands are fine, it’s just this cold makes ’em stiff. But this winter has to end sometime, doesn’t it?”

Somewhere not far away a rooster crowed, and as if that were his cue, Addison stepped into the tailor’s shop. The nobleman was so tall he had to bend a little as he came
through the door. “Are you ready to go, young apprentice?”

“Yes, my lord. I don’t have much to bring. But there’s one thing I’d like to do, if I can have a moment….”

Addison tugged at the cuff of one glove. “If it won’t take long.”

“No, my lord,” Patch said. He turned to the tailor. “I’m just going to run over to say good-bye to Osbert.”

John’s eyes crinkled, and he smiled. “Of course you are. Then come back and give me your farewell.”

Patch dashed out, leaving Addison and the tailor behind in the little shop. John cleared his throat and said, “Pardon me, but I notice the end of your sleeve is frayed. Perhaps we can do something about that while you wait?”

Patch stood on the hill overlooking Crossfield, among the snow-covered gravestones. He had said good-bye to his friend, but Osbert of course did not answer.

Below him the town was waking. Still in the clutches of the longest winter in memory, it was a dormant place with just a few traces of activity: fragrant smoke curling from the baker’s chimney, a steady clanging from the blacksmith’s shop.

Outside Bernard’s inn, Patch saw Addison’s knights. Mannon, who seemed like a surly beast who would best be avoided, had thrown a rope over the high branch of a tree and was holding one end. At the other end, suspended a dozen feet above the ground, was a fat round sack. Gosling
was standing several paces away with his bow and arrow ready. While Mannon pulled on the rope to keep the sack bobbing and swinging, Gosling fired arrows at the target. When the first one struck, the sack spun around, and Patch saw the ugly face that had been painted there. The practice ended suddenly when Addison strode out of the tailor’s shop and began calling instructions. Mannon released the rope and gathered up the target, and Gosling ran to retrieve the arrows that had missed. The rest of the party from Dartham emerged from the inn and the stables. The wagon, with the troll bones already on board, rolled into view.

It was time to go. Patch hurried down the frozen hill, stepping in the same tracks he’d made on the way up to the cemetery.

Addison said they would ride all day to the town of Half, where they could eat and rest before the next day’s journey to Dartham. Patch hadn’t been on a horse for a long time, and it took an hour or two before he felt steady in the saddle. A bitter wind was blowing, sending flecks of ice into every gap in his clothing. Everyone in the party kept their heads down and their hoods drawn up against the cold.

Patch was stuck in the procession with the wagon and servants behind him and Mannon in front. “Will this winter never end?” Mannon growled. He shook his fist at the gray skies and went on muttering to himself.
Patch decided not to try to strike up a conversation with that ill-tempered knight, though his mind was full of questions.

In the afternoon the road widened, and Patch was glad to see Gosling spur his horse past the wagon to ride beside him. Gosling had a happy bearing about him and a face that seemed to naturally settle into a smile.

“Hello, Patch.”

“Hello, Sir Gosling.”

“Gosling will do,” the young knight replied. “This must be exciting for you. Have you been to Dartham before?”

“I’ve never even been to Half before,” Patch said.

“A grim and grimy little outpost. Big stone tower, wooden walls around the village. King keeps a small garrison there to maintain order in these parts. And speaking of the king, he must be eager to meet you, to send an important man like Addison all this way.”

And Addison doesn’t seem too happy about the chore,
Patch thought. “Do you know, sir, what the king wants with me?”

Gosling grinned. “Well, let’s just say that King Milo has a soft place in his heart for heroic peasants. You’ve heard of the Giant Killer, I presume? The Brave Little Tailor?”

“Yes, sir. Heard stories, anyway.”

“Sure you have. Will Sweeting, that’s his name. Slew a giant or two in his day. Though I imagine the stories have been, um,
embellished
after so many years. ‘Seven at one blow,’ all that stuff. Will was almost as young as
you. Became a real hero to the common folk, and earned himself a handsome reward from Milo’s father, who was the king back then. From what I hear, Milo grew up thinking that Will Sweeting was the cleverest, bravest man who ever lived.” Gosling’s horse suddenly jerked its head up and whinnied. The young knight bent down to whisper in its ear and pat its neck before turning back to Patch. “What was that all about? Anyway, all these years later, King Milo hears about this boy who knocked a troll off a bridge. And I suppose he thought, ‘Well, the Brave Little Tailor might not be slaying giants anymore, but now we have the Brave Little Apprentice. The Troll Killer!’”

Mannon turned to glance back at them with a sour look. He pressed a finger against one side of his nose and blew, sending a giant gray gob flying from the other nostril. He kicked the side of his horse to put some distance between them.

“I don’t think he likes me,” Patch said.

“Ha! Only you and the rest of humanity,” Gosling laughed. “Don’t worry about Mannon, Patch. I know he acts like a brute, but he’s truly a good fellow at heart, and the best friend I have. He’s just angry over this errand the king sent us on.”

“Oh.” Patch looked back beyond the wagon, where Addison rode. “Is that why Lord Addison doesn’t like me either—because he had to come all this way to get me?”

Gosling slapped Patch on the shoulder. “Don’t take it
to heart, little tailor. Addison doesn’t like or dislike anyone. He just does what he has to do, and does it better than anyone. He’s a good man, Patch. Maybe the best the kingdom has. And he has his reasons for being grim, I suppose.” Gosling scratched his horse’s mane. He seemed to be deciding whether or not to continue. “He was never the most carefree fellow to begin with. But he lost his brother not too long ago. Hasn’t been the same since.”

“Oh.” Patch took a deep breath. He and Gosling rode side by side in silence for an hour or more. The road entered a forest of pine that sheltered them from the bite and the roar of wind. The only sounds were the
clop-clop
of hooves and the creak of the wagon’s wheels, until Mannon’s horse reared up and stabbed the air with its front hooves. Mannon cursed it and pulled back on the reins until the horse calmed down.

When all was quiet again, Patch ventured, “How did Addison’s brother die?”

Gosling smiled sadly. “A troll killed him, Patch.”

“No…”

“Oh, yes. Giles Addison was a brave man. At the king’s request, he went to explore the Barren Gray—where the trolls come from. He never came back. All they found was the horse’s saddle and Giles’s bloody armor. Torn open and squashed flat.”

Patch glanced back at Addison again. The hood was drawn tight around the stern man’s face. All you could see within the shadows were the red-brown beard and
the straight, expressionless line of his mouth.

“Gosling, are you going to talk all the way to Half?” grumbled Mannon over his shoulder.

“It’s possible, my dear friend,” Gosling called back. “Since we’re nearly there.”

“Maybe there’s a barber there to cut that hair of yours,” Mannon snapped. “It’s getting a little too long and lovely, don’t you think? I could take you for a woman.”

“Why, Patch,” Gosling said. “I think Mannon just proposed to me!”

“Quiet!” Addison called out from behind, so suddenly that Patch had to stifle his giggle. The lord had thrown his hood back and was stretched high in his saddle. “Do you hear that?”

The procession came to a stop. At first Patch only heard the wind whistling across the tops of the trees. But then he could hear it too: a high voice calling from the forest and growing louder.

“My lords! Stay away, my lords!” A young man burst out of the evergreens and ran to them. His eyes were bulging and tears were streaming down his cheeks. “The v-village is in ruins! They attacked—stole our livestock, m-m-murdered the ones who fought! People f-f-fled, hiding in the woods!”

Addison dismounted and seized the man’s shoulders. “Who, man? Who attacked you?”

The stranger’s mouth was twisted with anguish, and they could just make out what he said. “T-t-trolls!”

Addison stared down the road in the direction of Half. Mannon scanned the woods, one eye squinting. Gosling looked at the stranger, while his hands went from the sword strapped to his horse to the quiver of arrows that was slung on his back.

“Did you say trolls? Was there more than one?” asked Addison. “Calm yourself, man, and answer me.”

The man straightened up in Addison’s grasp. He dragged his sleeve under his nose and sniffed. “More than one? M-more than a dozen!”

Mannon turned to Gosling. “So it’s true.”

“What is your name?” Addison asked the stranger.

“R-R-Roger,” the stranger replied.

“Roger, when did this happen?”

“J-just today—this aftern-n-noon.”

“Hold on,” said Mannon. “Half is surrounded by a wall. How did the trolls get in?”

Roger moaned. “The wall? They tore the wall apart, that’s how!”

“Are the trolls still there?” asked Addison.

“Not now—b-but what if they come back?”

“Come, we’ll take you home,” Addison said. “You may ride on the wagon.”

Roger’s eyes grew even wider. He stepped back, twisting out of Addison’s grasp. “No! I won’t go b-back! If you’d seen them, n-n-neither would you!” And he turned and charged back into the forest.

Addison watched him go, with an expression that never changed. “Well. Let us go without him, then,” he said, and mounted his horse.

“Are you sure this is wise, Addison?” Gosling called.

“Where else can we go? It will be dark soon. We need to rest, and we can’t camp out in this cold.”

“But what if they
do
come back?” Mannon said.

“Yes,” agreed Gosling. “And here we are with a box of troll bones—‘Excuse me, Brother Troll, I think we have what’s left of your uncle here.’”

“Why should we be afraid?” Addison said, jerking his head in Patch’s direction. “The Troll Killer is with us.” He spurred his horse and led the way down the road toward Half.

The horses grew more and more agitated the closer they got to the village. And when Half finally came into view, Patch realized what was frightening them: Down the wind came the faintest whiff of the rancid-sweet smell that he remembered from the troll on the bridge.

There was once a wall that completely surrounded the town, and a tall, strong gate that allowed visitors to enter. Now that gate had been torn away and hurled to the side, and much of the wall lay in ruins.

They rode through the wide gap into Half. The wagon could not get far—there was too much wreckage on the ground, scattered everywhere. Buildings were
trampled flat and others had their roofs torn off. Some were burning.

In the middle of the street was a sight that Patch knew would live in his memory forever, although he saw it for only an instant before turning his head the other way. It was a dead man. His arms and legs stuck out from under the blanket that covered him at angles that didn’t make sense to Patch’s eye.

People were just emerging from their hiding places and beginning to sort through the ruined buildings. They called for their mothers, fathers, siblings, and friends.

“Do you see any of the garrison?” Addison asked.

“How many soldiers did the king have here?” Patch whispered to Gosling.

“At least twenty.”

“Over there,” Mannon said, gesturing. A young soldier was coming toward them, limping. He was young, like Gosling. He had a scabbard at his side, but no sword. His tunic was stained with the signs of battle.

“Lord Addison, I don’t know if you remember me. Helias Swain. I trained under your sword a few years back,” he said.

Addison nodded at him. “I do remember. What happened here?”

Swain bowed his head. “We knew they were out there. Someone had seen them, coming across the hills. We had archers waiting for them on top of the wall. We
were excited—sure we could fight them off.” He paused, shaking his head.

“Please go on, Master Swain.”

“Three of them charged the gate. The others hurled stones at us from afar. Big stones—bigger than your head. It was like catapults, but worse—so much faster, so much more accurate. The first volley took three archers off the wall. Dead, just like that. And then the gate came crashing down, and they all charged in.”

“How many?”

Swain put a hand over his eyes. “Don’t know—it was madness, they were everywhere. Ten, maybe. No, more. Twelve? We kept fighting, but our arrows were like burrs in a bear’s hide. They didn’t trouble them at all.”

Gosling dismounted. He put an arm across Swain’s shoulder. “Where is the rest of the garrison now, friend?”

“Killed. Or still hiding. Some ran away.” Swain wiped at one eye with the back of a gloved hand. “I don’t understand—look what they did to the tower!”

Patch looked where Swain was pointing. If there had been a tower there once, it was nothing but a great heap of stones now.

Swain’s voice grew unsteady. “We weren’t fighting anymore. We’d given up. They’d taken our livestock. Then suddenly, two of them just set upon the tower—like they were pulling it down to amuse themselves. That tower’s stood for a hundred years, and it took
just two of them to bring it down!”

They all stood, staring at the rubble. “Didn’t know they were that strong,” Gosling said.

Nearby, a building that was leaning dangerously to one side collapsed entirely. Somewhere behind them an infant cried.

“Sorry we weren’t here to help,” Marnon said.

“Don’t be sorry,” Swain replied. “Be thankful.”