The Brave Apprentice

by P. W. Catanese

  “What are they doing?” Patch asked.

  “Undermining,” Ludowick replied, looking grim. “They’ll dig tunnels directly under our stone walls, and use those timbers to prop up the foundation so the walls won’t collapse at first. When that torch goes out, they’ll set the timbers on fire. And when the timbers burn through, down come the walls.”

  Murok watched from a distance, smirking. When the two digging trolls disappeared into their hole, he stalked off and vanished in the mist.

  “I think it’s time to speak to the king,” Addison said.

  leaned against the wall, staring at the closed door to thereat hall. He had followed Addison and Ludowick. But when they arrived, Addison told him to wait outside—not unkindly, but firmly—while they spoke to the king and queen. He suddenly heard a familiar voice singing and looked around for a place to hide.

  “Listen to the cat

  As she prowls around the house

  Till she catches master mouse

  And she leaves him on the mat

  Mew, mew, mew mew mew

  Mew, mew, mew mew mew

  Listen to the bees

  Cause they must be—

  Patch!! Hoo ha, it’s Patch!”

  Too late; Simon had spotted him. The fool had his enormous wheel of cheese again, and he balanced it on his head as he wandered about alone, singing at the top of his lungs. He ran to Patch, taking careful, mincing steps to keep the cheese from falling. Then he plopped down in front of his friend with his long legs, so flexible that it was painful to watch, pointing in nearly opposite directions. “Have some cheese,” he said, holding the wheel under Patch’s nose.

  Patch looked to the ceiling and chuckled despite his dark mood. “I think I will,” he said. He hadn’t eaten in a long while, and his stomach was rumbling. He ripped a chunk away from a place that Simon had not yet gnawed and stuffed it in his mouth. “It’s delishish,” he said, still chewing.

  “A gift from the queen,” Simon said dreamily, squeezing the cheese against his chest and rocking it like a baby. Patch wished again that he could be as carefree as this simple man, Simon Oddfellow.

  “Simon,” he said, “is that really your name—I mean the Oddfellow part?”

  Simon turned to him with an earnest expression. “That’s an interesting story, Patch. For a long time, all I knew was Simon, never the second bit. So I went to this man who was said to be very wise and asked him what my last name was. And he says, ‘Well, what family are you from?’ And I say, ‘I haven’t the slightest idea!’ And he just looks at me and says, ‘You surely are an Oddfellow!’ And that’s how I learned my name.”

  Simon took another enormous bite from the wheel and rested contentedly against the wall. Patch struggled not to laugh aloud—but the urge to laugh disappeared quickly when he thought of those trolls digging their way under the walls, carving out in minutes what would take men days.

  “What’s wrong, Patch?” Simon said, tipping his head sideways.

  “I’m afraid of what’s going to happen.”

  “I know how to cheer you up!” Simon cried, putting the cheese aside.

  “I’m not squeezing your nose,” Patch grumbled.

  “No, no, no,” said Simon, wiping his hands on his shirt. “I’ll draw you pictures. Even the trolls liked this. For a while, anyway. Before they swatted me.” A pouch dangled from his belt. Simon untied it and turned it upside down, spilling dirt onto the floor.

  “You carry dirt with you?” Patch asked.

  “Don’t you?” Simon replied, with his brow furrowed. “Anyhow, watch this.” The fool spread the dirt in a thin layer across the wooden planks. A tiny stick was hidden in the dirt. He plucked it out and began to draw with its sharpened point.

  “First, I always draw a pig,” the fool said. And very quickly, he produced a fine picture of a pig.

  “You’re a good artist, Simon,” Patch said.

  Simon’s face shone, and somehow it made the sadness in Patch deepen. An unspeakable horror was lurking just outside the castle walls, poised to attack, and yet every small pleasure and every compliment gave Simon such joy. Who’s the real fool? Patch wondered.

  “Second, I always draw a cow….”

  The door to the great hall opened. Addison was there, and he beckoned Patch to come inside. “Stay here, Simon,” Patch said.

  “Come back and I’ll do more!” Simon called after him.

  “Join us,” Milo said, and Patch took a seat among the king, the queen, Addison, and Ludowick.

  “I thought you should be here, Patch,” Milo continued, “since it is you and me that Giles has invited to drink the wine—the poisoned wine. A lesson to all men, I suppose: Beware what tactics you employ, for they may surely be used against you in turn.”

  Milo leaned forward on the table, clasping and unclasping his hands as he spoke. “We have been arguing in here, my boy. I first proposed to go out and take that drink, if Giles would only allow the rest of you, including Cecilia, to go free.”

  “Milo, I thought we settled this,” Cecilia said sternly. “You will not.”

  Milo took her hand and held it between his. “Yes, we did settle it. You are right, of course; you often are. If I believed it would serve any purpose, I would take the poison. But that would only put off death and agony for our people, because that will certainly be the result should Giles rule this land. So we will fight them.”

  “We are not helpless, sire,” Addison said. “Not with two hundred men-at-arms, a hundred archers, and a dozen knights. Who can say—we may beat them yet.”

  “In fact we may,” Milo said. “But we must also prepare for the worst. And that is why, my queen, you will not be here when Giles comes for you.”

  “I am not leaving without you!” the queen cried.

  “And I thought we settled this,” Milo replied. “I have listened to your advice for all these years, but this time you will heed mine. I will not surrender you to Giles. And I will not leave this war for others to fight in my place. Ludowick, my friend. You will escort the queen through a little-known door in the eastern wall.”

  Cecilia closed her eyes and shook her head slowly. Ludowick began to protest, but Addison held up his palm to cut him off. “Ludowick, the queen must be saved,” Addison said.

  “Yes. The queen must be saved,” said Milo. “Ludowick, my friend, I know you would rather be here, fighting by our side. But I trust you and need you to do this for me. I pray the fog will keep you hidden from the trolls, and that you may find your way across the river to safety. Go south, to our fortress by the sea. If we are victorious here we will send word. If we are not, the survivors will meet you there. Go now and ready yourselves.”

  Ludowick stood and took Cecilia’s arm, gently pulling. As they left the room, the queen turned and stared at the king, her face a composite of anger, pain, and love.

  When the queen and Ludowick were gone, Milo extended a hand to Patch. “Young man, you have an excellent mind. I am glad that we have met.”

  “As I am, sire,” Patch said, taking the hand.

  “And it is my wish that you leave Dartham now, as well,” Milo said.

  “What! Why?”

  “Patch, there is no point in your staying here,” Milo said. “You’re not a warrior. I want you to go. Back to your tailor shop in your little village, far away from all of this. There’s no shame in that. Or to our fortress by the sea, if you wish. But you must go. Your swift legs will carry you to safety.”

  Patch shook his head and his eyes grew hot with tears.

  “Come, Patch, don’t take it badly. You’ve been a good friend to the kingdom. Here, I have something for you.” Milo produced a purple velvet pouch with a golden drawstring at its throat and laid it on the table before Patch. “Some gold. Some jewels. Not a king’s ransom, but it should make you a wealthy man by the standards of your village.”

  Patch stared at the little sack. “Nothing I tried really worked. There’s no reason to reward me,” he said q
uietly.

  “Take it anyway,” Milo said with a smile. “Less for Giles to plunder.” He grasped Patch’s wrist, turned the palm up, and put the pouch in Patch’s hand.

  After what Mannon had said to him in the chapel, it was of little comfort to Patch to find that he had not been hoping for a reward at all. The small fortune in his hand meant nothing to him, and he would have traded it in a moment if Milo would only let him stay.

  The king tousled Patch’s hair, then turned to Addison. “Goran, you will assume command of our defenses. For my part, I will gladly follow your orders. I will go now and say a proper good-bye to my wife. Meet me by the barracks when you are ready.”

  “Why don’t we all just run, my lord?” Patch said to Addison when the king was gone. “There are too many of them—why should anyone stay, when you know there’s no chance?”

  Addison smoothed one of his eyebrows. “A few people may be able to slip past them. But a mad rush by hundreds—there would be a slaughter. And besides, we would hand Giles exactly what he wants. Dartham and all the gold in its treasury. And worst of all, the crown. If he is king, I’d rather not live in this kingdom.”

  “So don’t! Live somewhere else.”

  Addison grunted and leaned back in his chair. “You don’t understand, Patch. I have to stay here and fight. If there’s even the smallest bit of hope, I have to fight.”

  “But there is no hope,” Patch said, his voice shaking.

  “How can you of all people say that! The tailor’s apprentice who killed two of these beasts by himself!” Addison shook his head. “If you can fight them, then we can fight them. But it’s all about battle and bloodshed now, Patch—there is no more time for tricks and clever plans. That is why it is time for you to leave.”

  Addison walked to the door through which Patch had entered. He swung it open and said, “Master Simon. Will you come in, please?”

  Simon uttered a delighted squeak, seized up his cheese, and marched proudly through the door, raising his knees waist-high with each step. He stopped in front of Patch, grinning happily.

  “Simon, you have served the kingdom well,” Addison said.

  The fool’s eyebrows shot up. “I have?”

  “Yes. And now the kingdom has one more thing to ask of you.”

  Simon thrust out his chest. “Anything, my liege.”

  “I know you are fond of Patch. You owe him your life, after all. Now I ask you to look after him. See that Patch gets safely away from the castle. Knock him silly and carry him if you must.”

  “I won’t go,” Patch said, his voice rising to a shout. “If you’re staying, so am I!”

  There was an odd look on Addison’s face as he turned and put his hands on Patch’s shoulders. All of the pretense and the lordly bearing was stripped away, and here at last Patch could see Addison the man, with an expression that was equal parts anguish and affection. And when Addison spoke, the voice too was different, softer than before. “Patch—very soon the trolls will attack. If you are here, it will not make a difference. But if you get out, it will make a difference. At least to me. Even if all else is lost, I’ll know that your clever mind is still out there, trying to figure this all out. You keep saying there is some weakness to these trolls, some answer that just manages to elude you. But you’ll never find it if you die here tonight.”

  Patch could not think of a single word to say. Simon watched with his bottom lip clamped between his teeth.

  “Remember,” said Addison. “The fields to the east seem less heavily guarded. Stay low and don’t be seen.”

  Patch suddenly felt weary. His head drooped and his chin touched his chest. “How do I find the fortress by the sea? I will join the queen there.”

  “Once you’ve left the castle, follow the river south, one day’s journey on foot. Turn west where the river enters the sea. The fortress is ten miles from there, on a piece of land a hundred feet away from the shore. It can be reached only by bridge or boat, and the bridge can be destroyed if necessary. It is a cold and forbidding place, without the comforts of Dartham. But the queen will be safe there—only we and the king know where Ludowick is taking her.”

  “I—I just want to get some of my things. My tailor’s kit.”

  “Of course. And if you stop by the kitchen, you will find provisions waiting for you. Then be on your way. The door you will use is just beyond the vineyards. I hope we meet again, young apprentice. Who knows? Perhaps my garments will need repair after this battle.” Patch had to smile—this was the closest Addison had ever come to making a joke.

  Simon cleared his throat loudly. “Lord Addison?” he said.

  “Yes, Simon.”

  “I think you’re a very brave man.”

  Addison stared back. “And I don’t think you’re such a fool after all.”

  Simon put an arm around Patch and guided him toward the door. “Fancy that,” he whispered into Patch’s ear. “You give a fellow a compliment, and he turns right around and insults you.”

  torch sagged to one side as the snow where it was planted softened in the warming air. Its light was dying. The two trolls who had dug the holes under the castle walls crept close to watch with an eager, hungry look in their quicksilver eyes.

  The flame sputtered, and then there was nothing but a thin line of smoke that rose like a serpent’s ghost and melded into the thick fog.

  The grinning trolls seized up burning logs from their fire and ran toward Dartham. Once again, futile arrows clanged off their armor as they dropped into the moat and crawled into the tunnel. The trolls vanished from sight, but the men above knew what they were doing: setting fire to the wooden beams that held up the walls.

  air was milder than ever, and the fog thicker. Patch and Simon came away from the kitchen with enough bread, cheese, and salted pork to last a week. The vineyards stood before them, and somewhere beyond was the tiny door in the thick wall that they would use to slip out into the fog-shrouded fields.

  “Hold on, Simon, I want to hear this,” Patch said.

  Addison had the knights and soldiers assembled in the courtyard, along with the most able of the villagers. The bowmen listened from the walls above. Their expressions were grim and uncertain; they shifted from foot to foot and looked at one another’s faces, trying to see if their anxiety was shared. Patch watched them as Addison continued to call out his instructions. “Knights, do not put on your armor; wear your padding only. Armor will not protect you if you fall into their grasp, and agility is our advantage over these stupid, lumbering beasts. Strike, retreat, and strike again; let us try to exhaust them.

  “Men-at-arms, we will use our longest pikes and spears, so you may stab at the trolls while staying out of reach. If you are cornered, brace the end of the shaft against a wall or stone, so that the troll might impale himself when he rushes you. If a troll has fallen, finish him off with axes, maces, and broadswords.

  “Archers, we shall direct all our arrows at a single troll at a time. Let us slay one, and see if the rest lose heart. Start with Murok, if he is within range. If not Murok, then choose the largest. Once that troll has fallen, move on to the next largest.

  “Tell the men in the winch room to raise the inner portcullis. That’s right, raise it. But only to let it fall and crush the first troll who breaks through and wanders beneath it.

  “You villagers—we are glad to have you. Your hands and arms are strong from your work in the fields of Dartham. And now your strength will serve in its defense. Take your place on the parapet beside the archers, where you will rain death upon the trolls. There are stones for you to hurl. And while fire does them little harm, our pots of quicklime and boiling oil might do the trick.

  “Your king will command the village folk. Marmon will direct the archers. And I will command the soldiers.”

  If Addison had any doubts that they could succeed, he’d hidden them someplace where no one could see. His voice and gaze were steady. Patch saw new confidence blossoming among the assembled men th
ey nodded, stood taller, clapped one another on the shoulder. A light was in their eyes now, and many were smiling. Patch wondered if it was possible that they could win this battle after all—but his mind kept returning to the towering, powerful trolls, now thirty or more strong.

  “Come, Patch,” Simon said, tugging at his sleeve. “I promised.”

  “Do you smell the fire?” Patch asked. He pointed to the smoke, billowing up darker than the fog, rising up outside the wall near the gatehouse. “They’re burning the timbers.”

  Simon sighed and frowned, and tugged again. This time Patch followed. They walked through the vineyard, past the rows of gnarled and leafless vines laced to wooden frames. The eastern wall loomed before them. At its base they saw a slim rectangular opening, six feet high. A soldier was stationed there, and he watched them approach. “Thought it might be you. Remember me?” the soldier asked when they stood before him.

  “Sure,” Patch said. It was the fellow who’d found him in the middle of the lake.

  “Never seen you before,” Simon said, rolling his eyes toward the sky and pursing his lips. Patch recalled how rudely the soldier had treated the fool when they met. Not that he blamed him.

  “Right through there,” the soldier said, pointing at the opening with his thumb. “Quickly now, I’m barring the door after you go.”

  “Has anyone else been through?” Patch asked.

  “Just Sir Ludowick, and a fellow I didn’t recognize.” Patch nodded. The queen, in disguise. He walked through the doorway. As Simon followed, the soldier stretched his arm out to stop him. Simon whimpered like a puppy.

  “It’s all right,” the soldier said. “I just wanted to tell you … I saw what you done. Running out there and saving that kid from the trolls. While us soldiers stood there too afraid to move.”

  “Oh,” said Simon, with a proud grin spreading on his face. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. “Well, my good fellow …”

  A low roar rose up from the distance, resonating in the ground under their feet. Through the mist Patch could only see the vague shape of the wall across the courtyard. A gap appeared in the middle, and he heard the rumble and thud of the great stones tumbling down.