The Prodigal Troll (43 page)

Maggot was digging a hole. Inside their den, Bran carefully gathered the bones of the two people just as Maggot had gathered those of the infant troll. He was scraping a shallow trench in the dirt with a sharpedged stone when he saw the gleam of metal. Brushing away the thin layer of leaves and dirt, he found a long knife like the one Bran had carried in the battle. His fingernails picked at the rust-flaked blade; the leather or fabric that clung to the hilt fell off in his grip.

"Here," he said, offering it to Bran.

"I can't take it," said Bran. Maggot thrust it at him, but he didn't take it. "Three times I tell you, I cannot take it."

"Take it," Maggot said.

"I am unworthy of the honor," Bran answered. "But since you asked three times, I will not insult you."

He received it on the palms of his ruined hands, holding the blade toward himself until Maggot released it. After considering the missing fingers on his right hand, he gripped the hilt of the sword and swung it lightly. The weapon toppled from his grasp, and both men jumped out of its way.

Maggot bent to retrieve the weapon, but Bran snatched it up in his left hand first, wincing as his fingers closed around it. He swung it more confidently, bending his knees to make a short stab. "It's not a bad weapon. I can clean the blade and restore it somewhat."

"You call that-?"

"A sword."

"Ass-hoard?"

"Sword."

"Sword. You will show me how to sword?"

"How to wield a sword. Yes, it will be my pleasure."

Maggot loved the way that Bran constantly corrected his language until he could sense the improvement. He did the same with the new weapon. Weeks passed in which Bran taught Maggot, sometimes with the sword, sometimes with branches. "No, no," he'd say. "Use your height, your reach. Every parry must be followed by a blow. Attack, always attack, at least until you are better."

While Maggot's skills improved, Bran's health did the same. Nails grew back in his remaining fingertips, frail, thin things that cracked and flaked, but nails. Where the fingertips were missing, he developed blisters, let them burst, and began the long slow process of developing calluses.

"How did you kill that lion?" Bran asked one evening, as they ate meat that Maggot had caught and Bran cooked. He mimed the daggerteeth.

Maggot pointed over the ridge, where it curved away north into the higher mountains. "The lion over there? I found the lion, I killed the lion. With this knife." He drew it from the sheath at his neck and handed it to Bran.

"It was sharper then, I hope."

"Yes," Maggot said. "Sinnglas show me how to"-he made a whetting motion-"stone to sharp knife. Maybe he not a good show-er. I think is time to find new knife."

"I will teach you how to keep it sharp," Bran said.

"Good," Maggot said, but he was not thinking about the knife. He rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth, sighing. "The woman, with the lion?"

"In the tent?" Bran asked. His eyes took on a distant look, as if he were seeing something beyond his reach. Maggot wasn't sure what it meant. "You mean Portia, Lady Eleuate."

"Huh?" Maggot said, not understanding. "Hair, long. Nose like-" He made a shape with his fingers.

"Portia."

Maggot repeated the name. "Speak me her."

"Speak to you of her?" Bran said, and smiled, and then he too sighed. "Do you know the story of Talandra, the daughter of Sceatha, the god of war, and a mortal woman, Lynceme, Queen of Terce? Ashamed that she had been seduced by war, Lynceme delivered her daughter Talandra in the forest and abandoned her there. But a mother bear found Talandra, suckling her-"

"No." Maggot fidgeted. "Speak me Portia-the-lady-Eleuate."

"I'm trying to say that Portia is like Talandra."

Maggot sat upright. "She was mothered by a bear?"

"No, no," Bran said. "But when Talandra grew up and returned to her mother's country, no man was good enough for her. She was stronger than any man, could run faster, hunt better, and she spurned all arrangements her mother made for her to marry."

"Slow," Maggot said, not understanding one word in three.

Bran tried to shape the words with his hands so Maggot could comprehend them. "Lady Culufre has no daughters, but she has a son, Acrysy, and she has betrothed Acrysy to Portia, so that Portia becomes her heir. Acrysy is young, and they are not yet joined, so many men have vied for Portia's attention." His voice dropped and he licked his lips. "Including a few much older than her, and altogether unsuitable."

When Bran glanced up, Maggot shook his head. "Portia-?"

"Portia's mother died when she was a small girl. So she was raised by her father and his soldiers. Like Talandra, she spurns all suitors, even though she runs and hunts with them."

"She runs and hunts?"

"Yes."

"Good!" Maggot also liked to run and hunt. He understood that much at least.

"She was the first to spear the boar when we hunted him last fall. She would have hunted the lion once we flushed him. Those of us who know her better think she will make a good Baroness, though. If you could see the way she hunts, you'd know that she approaches every task with a purpose. She knows her duty and would never shirk from it."

"It is good," Maggot repeated, feeling a happiness within. "You speak me her. We go to find her."

"Not yet," Bran said, staring at his hands and feet.

"Yet!" Maggot snapped. "I want we go find her."

"Not yet, Claye, my friend, not this soon." Bran's head hung low, and his voice dropped. "I would not have them see me this way. If I return too crippled to walk, too crippled to defend myself, they will see me always as a cripple and never as a whole man."

Maggot rose, stretching his legs. "Yet, soon." Cool weather came, and the two men roamed the abandoned valley like lords of the harvest. Apples and pears piled up in huge brown mounds beneath untended trees, accompanied by the constant buzz of bees drunk on the sweet nectar of rot. And still they had all they could eat fresh from the branches. With the lion dead, Sinnglas and his hunters gone, and the wolves gone off to chase the Baron's army, there was meat as well. The deer were in rut, aggressive and careless, giddy with freedom from their usual foes, and Maggot had little problem chasing them down. Bran grew stronger; Maggot grew restless.

They were foraging far from their den when Maggot saw the smoke from campfires over the horizon. He pulled Bran in that direction. "Your people. We will go to them."

"No," Bran said.

"Why? Is good, your people. Is Portia."

"No Portia," Bran said. "That'll be the army, marching on Custalo's village to destroy their winter supplies. They're going opposite the direction that we wish to travel. There will be no women with them."

"It is time for us to go soon," Maggot said.

"Soon," Bran said, but he hurried them back to their den.

The next morning the dew crisped into frost. When they crawled out of their den, the wind was shaking the red and yellow leaves from the trees.

"It is time for us to go," Maggot said. "Today."

"Not yet," Bran said. "I cannot let them see me wearing only these rough clothes fashioned from the hides of deer. If I go down into the city as a beggar, they will always see me-"

Maggot barked out his disgust. With the dead leaves drifting in the air around him, he walked down the hillside alone, toward the valley, in search of the woman, Portia.

s he sprinted over the hills toward the river, Maggot thought the wind was running ahead of a storm like a herd of deer before a bigtooth cat. He sniffed the air, trying to catch the scent of it, and watched the sky out of the south to see if it carried any clouds. He didn't want it sneaking up on him. By the time he reached the river, his temper had cooled.

Bran was his friend. Bran knew Portia. Bran had needed time to heal, and he had healed. Now he wanted people clothes, the same way a troll would want to wear his own scent when returning to his band.

So Maggot would find him people clothes.

Retracing their steps from the day before, Maggot spotted the trail of the army and followed them south. He caught up with them before nightfall and, climbing the trees on the hillsides above their route, tried to count them. He thought there were maybe a fistful, times two fists, times four. Many men, more than lived in both of Custalo's villages.

They didn't pause until twilight, when they put up a few quick tents or threw down blankets. After many quiet indistinct conversations, a few peals of laughter, and some labored grunts, the whole camp settled down to sleep. Maggot was crouching around the perimeter, picking out the locations of the guards, when he saw a solitary figure scurry away from the camp.

Maggot followed the figure cautiously until he disappeared in the shadows under some trees. Crawling cautiously on his belly, a lump in the darkness beneath a tree resolved into a man curled up in a blanket.

Checking twice to see that no one else came out from the camp, Maggot crept closer and pounced-straddling the man and clapping a hand over his mouth in one quick motion.

When the man began to struggle, Maggot pressed the knife to his throat and he stopped.

"Take off clothes," Maggot said in Bran's language. When the man tried to move, Maggot squeezed his legs, pinning the man's arms more tightly. He found a knife around the man's neck and took it. "If you speak, I kill you."