The Brave Apprentice (7 page)

“The trolls have rarely ventured far from that homeland.
They are bolder in the winter than any other season. And the rare troll that wanders down during the summer prefers to stalk at night. Interestingly, only the male trolls are known to roam. Legend has it that somewhere deep in the Barren Gray is the Cradle of Trolls, a cavern where the she-trolls remain, caring for their broods.

“When the males leave the Gray, they most often follow the stony ridges that reach down into our kingdom like fingers.”

Chairs creaked as the men leaned forward to consider the map. Griswold put his finger on the exquisite chart and traced a prominent ridge. “As you see here, one of the largest of these ridges runs southward, near the village of Crossfield. Now, Crossfield is not a significant place. I only mention it because we have rumors of a boy, a tailor’s apprentice, who slew a troll here, and—oh!” Griswold’s eyes had been moving from person to person around the table, and now settled on Patch.

“Good heavens, are you that boy? How nice to meet you! So it’s true, then? Tell me, could your troll speak? He could? How interesting! I look forward to your story.” Griswold looked up to address the entire gathering again. “At any rate, the appearance of a troll in a place such as Crossfield is typical. This lone troll simply followed the stony ridge until he found a convenient hole to live in.

“Now remember what I have told you as we follow the largest ridge. This one ranges farther south, yet still
ends here, at least ten miles north of the town of Half.”

Some of the men began to shift in their seats, as if suddenly uncomfortable. Milo stared intently at the scholar. “Yes,” Griswold said. “Strange things are happening that, in all our learning, we have not witnessed before. First, the trolls are traveling together and even cooperating. Second, they have ventured many miles from the stony ground that they prefer.

“There is ample evidence that trolls are not comfortable for long away from such terrain. In fact, the historian Umber writes of one encounter where a troll emerged from its hole to chase a girl. He pursued her until she ran into a sunny meadow. Then he suddenly dashed off in the opposite direction, as if terrified. Incidents such as these have led some to believe that trolls are harmed by bright sunshine. And yet they have also been seen under the sun on mountainsides.

“These are powerful creatures, quick to anger and nearly impervious to attack. There is record of one troll being surrounded by a group of archers who emptied their quivers and put no less than fifty arrows in the beast, including three in the head. The troll plucked a tree out of the ground and began swatting the archers like flies.

“The use of fire is not recommended. It drives them into a murderous rage. Certainly it causes them pain, but it does not kill. Umber’s chronicles tell us of one troll that was preying on a village. The men of the village threw buckets of oil on the beast and set him
aflame. It is written that the troll’s roar was heard from miles away. The troll tore the entire village apart.

“And yet, though they seem invulnerable to our attack, there are also instances of trolls simply dropping dead for reasons that are not understood. One spring about twenty years ago, a troll that was secretly observed suddenly went berserk, running in circles and slapping at his head. Then he simply fell to the ground, dead as a stone.”

Milo sat, pursing his lips. He seemed about to speak when the doors to the hall opened and another knight came in, pulling off his gloves as he hurried across the floor.

“Ludowick,” Milo called, with a hint of discontent in his tone. “I wondered where you had been.”

“Forgive me, Your Highness,” Ludowick said, bowing and then slumping into the sole remaining chair. “I was detained—you see, something has happened. The trolls again.”

“Now what?” Mannon turned to Gosling and griped.

“I am afraid,” Ludowick said to Milo, “that one of your wagons was intercepted. With many casks of your wine.”

“Surely you’re not so downcast over a few gallons of wine,” Milo said. Then, looking closer at Ludowick’s ashen face, he asked, “What is it, Ludowick?”

“Constancius was on the wagon, sire. He was proud of the wine. He wanted to deliver it personally.”

“Constancius,” Milo repeated quietly. “A good, good man. Ludowick, you must tell us what happened.”

Basilus the steward appeared at Ludowick’s shoulder and with great care placed a goblet in front of him. Ludowick paused for a moment, staring mournfully at the wine. Then he raised the goblet high. “First, a toast. To Constancius. Winemaker to the king.”

“To Constancius,” voices echoed around the table, and goblets clashed.

Ludowick wiped a sleeve across his mouth. “I was on my way here along the western road when I caught up with old Constancius, driving the wagon himself with a dozen casks or more. I rode beside him awhile, while he went on about his grapes and what this awful winter will do to next year’s vintage. Finally, just when we were passing Lake Deop, I realized I was going to be late to Dartham, so I said good-bye and hurried ahead. But before I got far, I heard a fearsome noise behind me—horses screaming, and some grunts and howls that sent shivers down my sine. I turned around and went back—against my horse’s better instincts, I must say—and there were trolls, ten or more, swarming the wagon. I won’t tell you about Constancius or the horses. Perhaps if I never speak of what I saw, it will not forever haunt my dreams. The filthy beasts just ate, and laughed, and cracked open every cask and guzzled down every drop of your wine, my king.” Ludowick bowed his head. “Sire, I am so sorry I was unable to prevent this from happening. I beg your forgiveness.”

“You don’t need to be forgiven, Ludowick. There
was nothing you could do;” Milo replied.

“There was one thing I could do, sire,” Ludowick said, lifting his head. There was fire in his eyes. “I tied my horse to a tree and followed the devils. I know where they live. In a hole in a hillside, not far from where the road passes Lake Deop.”

“I know that place!” Basilus exclaimed. The knights turned to look at the steward. “I beg your pardon, sire,” he said, staring at the floor. “But I grew up on the shore of the lake. That hole leads into a cavern, which is quite large. Even twenty trolls could live there.”

“Yes,” Ludowick said. “I got as close as I dared and spied on them for a while, to learn what I could. But soon two of them came out, sniffing the air and looking about. I cursed my carelessness—the wind was at my back, carrying my scent toward the trolls. They began to creep toward me, searching. I could either stay in hiding, or run and show myself before they got too close. I chose to flee. I could hear their steps thumping behind me, and every time I dared to turn around, they were getting closer. I ran for my horse—but I had doomed the poor beast to an awful death when I tied him to that tree, for another troll was there feasting on him. And when that troll saw me, he too began to chase me.”

“Good heavens, man! How did you escape?” Milo cried.

“The lake, sire. I ran through the trees, past a little fisherman’s house, and out onto the ice. The trolls would not follow me there. Too bad they did not, because Lake
Deop is well named—it drops off to a great depth only a few steps from shore, and the devils might have broken through the ice and drowned. But they stayed on the shore by that house, laughing and taunting and waving at me to come back. I cursed them and walked to Dartham, arriving just now with this unhappy story.”

When Ludowick finished, Patch heard the men around the table inhaling deeply. Like him, many had forgotten to breathe as Ludowick told his tale.

Mannon growled and slammed his fist on the table. “Is there anything we can do to such creatures? They kill our people, feast on our livestock, tear our villages apart. We can’t burn them. We can’t pierce them with arrows. How do we fight them?”

“Could we roll stones into the opening of that cave and trap them inside?” Gosling offered.

Griswold shook his head. “They are cave dwellers, great diggers and tunnelers. They would be out in a moment.”

“Our catapults—could they launch something large enough to crush them?” someone asked.

“You presume the trolls will stand still for us to target them. And even if we hit one, that would leave ten or more to slay,” said Addison.

“This is a plight,” the king said, shaking his head. “One troll wandering down to hunt is a dangerous pest. But a dozen, banded together—how can we deny such a force? Is there no weakness, Griswold?”

“They are not very clever. And their eyesight is said to
be weak, my king. But apart from that …,” Griswold replied, shrugging.

The king turned to look at the old white-bearded man sitting by the fire. “If only our friend was having one of his moments of clarity. He would have an idea for us, the clever one.” Milo called out, “Can you hear me, Will? Are you listening?” But the old man did not stir.

Patch suddenly understood who it was in that chair by the fire: Will Sweeting, the Giant Killer. The Brave Little Tailor. A commoner like himself, a tailor even, who had risen up to become the greatest hero the kingdom had known.
And look at you now,
Patch thought sadly,
so frail and gray.
He barely heard the next thing the king said, or even realized that it was directed at him.

“But wait—I have almost forgotten. One among us has killed a troll. Perhaps he knows a way to slay a dozen. What do you say, young Patch?”

Every head turned Patch’s way. In truth, an idea had been taking shape inside his mind while listening to Griswold. He hadn’t thought it through or considered its drawbacks. But the king was asking for his opinion—why not offer it? As he started to speak, he saw Addison’s eyes darken and narrow.

“Well, Your Majesty. I wondered—that is, I thought—we might poison them.”

“Poison?” Mannon snorted. “And how do you plan to get them to take it?”

“What good would it do to poison one or two of
them?” someone at the far end of the table said.

“We would poison them all,” said Patch.

“Ridiculous,” said another knight, while others murmured.

“Quiet, all of you,” said the king. “Young tailor, how could we poison them all?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Mannon grumbled under his breath.

Patch looked around at the staring faces. Even the steward was hovering close, listening curiously. Addison raised one eyebrow, as if to say,
I warned you not to speak.

Patch cleared his throat, which had gone dry. “Well, I was thinking about how the trolls attacked the wagon with the king’s wine. And how they all broke open the casks and drank it on the spot. We could send another wagon down the same road. But this time, the wine would be poisoned.”

The men around the table looked at one another and turned to see how the king would respond. Milo leaned back slowly in his chair and scratched at his temple with one finger. Ludowick nodded and gently rapped the table with the knuckles of one fist. Addison had a distant look in his eyes.

“What if poison doesn’t work on trolls?” asked Mannon.

Ludowick responded before Patch could speak. “Then the devils will never be the wiser.”

“Fine, but what if it just makes them sick?”

“If they were all sick at once, they might be vulnerable to an attack,” Ludowick said, his voice quickening.

“Yes,” the king said. “Yes.”

There was a long moment of silence, until Gosling spoke.

“It’s not a
noble
plan, is it?”

“It’s a nasty trick,” agreed Mannon. “Should we stoop so low?”

Milo stood up slowly, pushing against the plush arms of his chair. He looked left and right, meeting the eye of everyone at the table. “Gentlemen. Stay in your seats, all of you. Allow me a moment alone to consider this.” The king clasped his hands behind his back and walked, with his head bowed, around the curtain that was hung behind the great table.

The knights muttered quietly to one another. Gosling leaned close to Patch and whispered. “Seen this before. Takes a walk to clear his thoughts when there is a great decision to ponder. He’ll have his mind made up in a moment.”

Sure enough, Milo emerged a few minutes later. He stood in front of his chair, made fists of his hands, and pressed them against the tabletop.

“Desperate days call for dark deeds,” the king said at last. The troll skull had been set on the table before him; he reached out and spun it to look into the face, all gaping eye sockets and thorny teeth. “I would never consider this way against a human enemy. But we poison mad
dogs and rats, don’t we? If we can find or brew the quantity of poison this plan requires, we will try it.”

“I’ll gladly drive that wagon,” said Ludowick.

“Then I have a bit of advice for you, Ludowick,” Griswold said. “Take a dog with you. Dogs make excellent sentries; they sniff out the presence of trolls before we can.”

Patch tried to smile at Mannon, but the knight simply glared at the ceiling. He looked to Addison instead, and when he saw the cold stare that the nobleman had fixed on him, he shrank down in his seat.

When the meeting ended, the knights walked out of the great hall, discussing what they had heard. Patch stayed alone at the table, admiring the arching space over his head, so high he wouldn’t have been surprised to see clouds drifting along.

“Clues,” said a weak, rasping voice behind him. Patch turned. Will Sweeting, still sitting in his chair by the fire, was looking at him with clear, sharp eyes.

“What—what do you mean, sir?” Patch said, walking over to him.

The ancient man held out a trembling hand, and Patch took it. It was colder than it ought to have been, so near to the fire. “I heard clues,” Sweeting said.

“You
were
listening!” Patch said. “But I don’t understand….”

Sweeting brought Patch’s hand close to his face. “Good hands, nimble fingers,” he said hoarsely, laboring
to bring forth every word. “But nimble minds are needed more. Remember what Griswold said. Don’t ask why they’re here … ask why they never came before. What kept them away?”

Patch looked back where Griswold had stood. Sweeting was right. Just before Ludowick arrived with his sorry tale, Patch had been getting the feeling that there was a riddle to be solved.