The bearded man’s blade lashed out and cut through the troll’s jacket. Morgan thought he saw blood. “Enough!” he shouted. “Put up, man! The heir of the High Throne commands you to lay down your weapon!”

But Lomskur, if he even heard, was too far gone in rage now to care about princes. Someone ran outside and began calling for the city guard, but Morgan felt certain no soldiers would arrive to end this before someone was hurt or killed. “Astrian! Olveris!” he shouted. “Help the little fellow!”

“It is his fight,” Astrian said. “He challenged the man.”

“But the man has a knife!”

“Even so.” Astrian had not even taken his eyes off the fight. “It is you we are meant to protect, my prince, not any troll who wanders down out of the mountains.”

Frustrated and frightened, Morgan was about to draw his own blade and try to even the odds, but he never had the chance. The next time the big man jabbed the knife at him, Little Snenneq did not duck or dodge again, but instead brought the two mugs together and hammered Lomskur’s hand from either side. The big man dropped the blade, cursing loudly, blood suddenly welling from his knuckles. A moment later the troll flung himself down at Lomskur’s feet and crashed one of the heavy stone mugs against the Rimmersman’s kneecap. With a howl of agony, Lomskur collapsed. He did not try to rise again, but rolled back and forth, screeching and holding his leg.

“I was only at buying him an ale because I made a promise,” said Little Snenneq with a distinct tone of irritation, then brought the other tankard around in a wide arc and slammed it against Lomskur’s temple. The big man dropped on the floor like a sack of grain and lay silent.

Suddenly Rimmersmen were rising all over the room, but Morgan didn’t think they looked as if they were coming to congratulate the victor. Snenneq calmly backed toward Morgan’s table, a move that the prince did not approve of much, because the angry crowd was following him. Morgan wondered whether these unhappy people remembered that he, Morgan of Erkynland, was the heir to the High Throne. He hoped so.

“Enough! Stand back!” Astrian sprang up, and his sword rang as it slid from his scabbard. “Back, you northern scum. I will gut the first one of you who takes another step toward the prince.” However drunk he had been earlier, the knight gripped his sword as steadily as a jeweler would hold his chisel over a large, uncut gem. The people in the alehouse stopped short and watched him, silent and sullen. Astrian nodded at them, like a teacher pleased with his clever students. “Highness,” he said in a pointed tone, “I suggest we take our leave of this establishment.”

“I agree with your suggestion.” But as Morgan backed toward the door he noticed that Little Snenneq still stood between their table and the disgruntled patrons. “You! Troll! You’d better come with us.”

“I am being owed my copper back for those two ales,” the little man said, frowning at the empty tankards he still held. “And I was not even given the courtesy of drinking mine.”

“Let it go.” Morgan beckoned. “We’re leaving. You should leave with us.”

Little Snenneq shook his head in frustration, but set the tankards on the table and joined the prince and his friends. Porto and Olveris had their blades out now too. Nobody opposed them as they backed out into the narrow street and slammed the door behind them.

“Goodness,” said Sir Porto. “They have not changed much since I was a young man, these Rimmersgarders.”

“When you were a young man,” said Astrian, sheathing his blade, “the Rimmersmen were still in the lost West.”

“But how did you do that?” Morgan asked the troll. “How did you beat that big lout?”

The little man shrugged. “No tricks. It is like stick-fighting—balance, that is the story to tell. And another word that I am not knowing, but it means changing the strength of the pulling, and the direction. Feeling what the other man is doing. No tricks, no secret. With only a small effort, I can be teaching it to you. I have much to teach you, Prince Morgan. We will be famous friends.”

Morgan stared at him. “You keep saying things like that. What on the wide, green earth are you talking about? We have only just met.”

“I am fated to be your companion, Morgan Prince.” The troll nodded vigorously. “This I feel certain to be true, and I have the blood of a Singing Man in me. That is what I will be one day, and because of it, I have knowing of things.” He bobbed his head again, as if this stream of nonsense proved something.

“Dear God, no,” said Astrian, amused. “If you’re his companion, the prince wouldn’t need us any more. What would Olveris and I do for entertainment? But we will allow you a temporary apprenticeship in our noble guild, Sir Ogresbane, as long as you have enough of those coppers to keep us in drink. Do you approve, Olveris? Porto?”

“What?” said Sir Porto. “I beg pardon, Your Highness, but there are some men coming out of the tavern behind you. Several of them. And is that the city guard they are waving to . . . ?”

“Sadly, there are urgent matters that require our attention elsewhere,” Astrian declared, and led them off into the dark streets.

They had a long walk back to Elvritshalla Castle. As he grew more sober, Morgan began to feel sickly certain his grandparents would hear about this latest fuss. Of course, by the time they did, he had no doubt it would all have somehow become his fault. But what did I do wrong? Nothing. I tried to help Grandfather’s friend, the famous troll Binny-whatsit. Is it my fault he saddled me with a tiny madman?

The unexpected sight of the tiny madman lifting a skin bag and squirting himself a mouthful of some liquid chased Morgan’s gloomy thoughts away. “What is that you’re drinking?”

Little Snenneq held out the bag. “Try if you wish, Morgan Prince. I am of course preferring this to the weak ale the croohok drink,” the troll said. “Little more than weasel-piss, that is being.”

Morgan lifted the bag and squeezed a long draught into his mouth.

A short time later Olveris and Porto helped him back onto his feet, to the hooting sound of Astrian’s laughter. Morgan could not speak for a while because he was still wheezing and coughing, but when he finally could, he asked—still with a certain breathlessness—“What is that?”

“Kangkang,” said Little Snenneq. “It has real goodness, eh? And when the burruk is coming, the . . . bilch? Belch?” He laughed. “Oh! but it is burning like fire, like the breath of a dragon. A fine drink for a man’s life, it is.” The troll reached up and patted Morgan on the elbow. “Did you know that my grandfather was fighting beside yours at Sesuad’ra, as Sithi call it—the famous Battle of the Frozen Lake? My grandfather was killed there. But I am not blaming you for that, Morgan Prince.” The troll patted him again, reassuring him. “Despite that sadness, we can be to each other friends. And now you are to be spending more time with me, you will be learning oh so many useful things.”

“Just remember always to bring your purse,” said Sir Astrian, reaching out to try some kangkang for himself. “Thirst is an expensive mistress.”

12 The Bloody Sand

The morning sky seemed so bright between the branches, and the world so full of new sights and smells and sounds, that Nezeru found it hard to keep her attention on what was before her. The mountainside forest was shrill with birdsong. The colors, more shades of green than she had imagined existed in the world, seemed to crash against her eyes like the sea flinging itself onto the rocks of the shore.