The Brave Apprentice by P. W. Catanese Read Free Book Online Page B

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 himaflame. 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. Therewas 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