The Brave Apprentice by P. W. Catanese

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 LakeDeop 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 tobe 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