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Authors: P. W. Catanese
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Patch.
Hurgoth gestured toward the casks of wine. Simon looked at the casks, at Hurgoth, at the goblet in his hand, back at Hurgoth, and back at the casks again. Then his grin broadened into an enormous, open-mouthed smile. He shouted, “Hoo ha!” and pranced over to the casks.
“I don’t believe this,” Gosling said.
Patch felt a sickness in his stomach, a tightness in his throat. “They’re making him drink the wine—making him taste it before they do?”
Ludowick said, “Remember—the poison’s effects are delayed. It will not matter if the fool drinks first.”
“Patch,” Addison said. Patch turned to look into those dark, flinty eyes. Addison didn’t have to speak—Patch understood the message.
There must be sacrifices.
Patch shook his head. “But my lord … this … this isn’t like the ox. This is a
person!”
Below them, Simon stood in front of the casks. He held the goblet high and rubbed his belly in a broad circle, nodding gaily. The trolls gathered around him.
“He’s just a fool,” Mannon said. “Leading a wretched life,”
“This is our chance to kill the trolls, Patch,” Addison said. “You saw what they did at Half—what they’re capable of. The life of one fool is not too high a price to pay. We may save hundreds more.” He edged closer to Patch as he spoke. Now he was nearly arm’s reach away.
Simon opened a spigot and bloodred wine gushed out, splashing over the edges of the goblet and staining the snow. His tongue hung out of his mouth, and he panted like a dog. He filled the goblet to the brim before closing the spigot. The trolls drew closer, forming a thick, high wall of pebbly flesh.
Patch could feel Addison’s will pressing against him,like a lion’s paw on a mouse. He watched Simon raise the goblet toward the trolls, toasting them, and then bring it to his lips.
Suddenly it seemed to Patch that he’d stepped outside of his own mind somehow—because surely that couldn’t be his own self leaping up and screaming, “Don’t drink, Simon, it’s poison!” And surely Addison wouldn’t seize him by the collar and shake him and call him that awful word, and Gosling and Ludowick wouldn’t look at him with those horrified, thunderstruck expressions, and Mannon wouldn’t be reaching across Addison, trying to choke him.
The world seemed all wrong, like a forgery of the world he knew—the colors were blurred, the voices didn’t sound right, his head and arms and legs felt numb, and everything was happening too fast or too slow, he couldn’t tell which. There was a blur in the air over Addison’s head, like a large, swift bird, and a loud splintering crack as the limb of a tree exploded behind them.
“They’ve seen us. They’re coming!” someone shouted. Everyone broke into a run as the trolls stormed toward them. Patch looked back and saw their heads cresting the overlook, and their arms reaching up to clamber over the edge.
As Mannon ran he brought the horn to his lips and blew. Not the single long note that would have signaled, “Come finish them off,” but three sharp bursts: the warning cry. The trolls thundered after them, plucking rocksfrom the snow and slinging them as they advanced.
Patch felt his jumbled senses clear as he ran. He could have easily outraced the others, but he slowed so they would not fall behind. They rushed down the hill toward the road, and more stones soared over their heads and between them, some careening along the ground and shearing sheets of bark from the trees they struck. He heard the trolls behind them, grunting, roaring, and barking, and heavy Mannon puffing as he ran. Then Ludowick shouted, in a voice suddenly cracked with emotion, “Go! To the horses!
Don’t look back,
just go!”
They came to the road and turned toward Dartham. Five of the mounted soldiers were coming back for them, each leading another horse for them to ride. As they raced toward each other, Patch’s blood turned icy cold as he heard
Hurgoth gestured toward the casks of wine. Simon looked at the casks, at Hurgoth, at the goblet in his hand, back at Hurgoth, and back at the casks again. Then his grin broadened into an enormous, open-mouthed smile. He shouted, “Hoo ha!” and pranced over to the casks.
“I don’t believe this,” Gosling said.
Patch felt a sickness in his stomach, a tightness in his throat. “They’re making him drink the wine—making him taste it before they do?”
Ludowick said, “Remember—the poison’s effects are delayed. It will not matter if the fool drinks first.”
“Patch,” Addison said. Patch turned to look into those dark, flinty eyes. Addison didn’t have to speak—Patch understood the message.
There must be sacrifices.
Patch shook his head. “But my lord … this … this isn’t like the ox. This is a
person!”
Below them, Simon stood in front of the casks. He held the goblet high and rubbed his belly in a broad circle, nodding gaily. The trolls gathered around him.
“He’s just a fool,” Mannon said. “Leading a wretched life,”
“This is our chance to kill the trolls, Patch,” Addison said. “You saw what they did at Half—what they’re capable of. The life of one fool is not too high a price to pay. We may save hundreds more.” He edged closer to Patch as he spoke. Now he was nearly arm’s reach away.
Simon opened a spigot and bloodred wine gushed out, splashing over the edges of the goblet and staining the snow. His tongue hung out of his mouth, and he panted like a dog. He filled the goblet to the brim before closing the spigot. The trolls drew closer, forming a thick, high wall of pebbly flesh.
Patch could feel Addison’s will pressing against him,like a lion’s paw on a mouse. He watched Simon raise the goblet toward the trolls, toasting them, and then bring it to his lips.
Suddenly it seemed to Patch that he’d stepped outside of his own mind somehow—because surely that couldn’t be his own self leaping up and screaming, “Don’t drink, Simon, it’s poison!” And surely Addison wouldn’t seize him by the collar and shake him and call him that awful word, and Gosling and Ludowick wouldn’t look at him with those horrified, thunderstruck expressions, and Mannon wouldn’t be reaching across Addison, trying to choke him.
The world seemed all wrong, like a forgery of the world he knew—the colors were blurred, the voices didn’t sound right, his head and arms and legs felt numb, and everything was happening too fast or too slow, he couldn’t tell which. There was a blur in the air over Addison’s head, like a large, swift bird, and a loud splintering crack as the limb of a tree exploded behind them.
“They’ve seen us. They’re coming!” someone shouted. Everyone broke into a run as the trolls stormed toward them. Patch looked back and saw their heads cresting the overlook, and their arms reaching up to clamber over the edge.
As Mannon ran he brought the horn to his lips and blew. Not the single long note that would have signaled, “Come finish them off,” but three sharp bursts: the warning cry. The trolls thundered after them, plucking rocksfrom the snow and slinging them as they advanced.
Patch felt his jumbled senses clear as he ran. He could have easily outraced the others, but he slowed so they would not fall behind. They rushed down the hill toward the road, and more stones soared over their heads and between them, some careening along the ground and shearing sheets of bark from the trees they struck. He heard the trolls behind them, grunting, roaring, and barking, and heavy Mannon puffing as he ran. Then Ludowick shouted, in a voice suddenly cracked with emotion, “Go! To the horses!
Don’t look back,
just go!”
They came to the road and turned toward Dartham. Five of the mounted soldiers were coming back for them, each leading another horse for them to ride. As they raced toward each other, Patch’s blood turned icy cold as he heard
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