The spectators were beginning to worry now, not so much at the incredible spectacle of a troll holding off a man almost three times his size, but over the notion that a trick must be involved. Some shouted to look under the table, that the little man was bracing himself in some way, or being otherwise helped to cheat, but of course Morgan and the rest hadn’t moved from their own table, and Snenneq’s legs were still curved beneath him on the bench. The whole thing seemed a sort of magic, and more than a few of the drinkers looked around with superstitious alarm, as though the sequel might be a Norn raiding party or a dragon or some other legendary menace crashing through the door.
At last, and to the complete astonishment of everyone, Morgan and his friends most definitely included, Lomskur began to tire. Sweat coursed down his face and dripped from his beard, and his face turned the color of a baked Aedonmansa ham. Little Snenneq began to lean back, slowly pulling Lomskur’s hand toward him, increasing the angle of their mutual grasp until the big man’s entire arm was stretched only inches above the tabletop.
Then, with almost no warning, the troll twisted his wrist sharply to one side and Lomskur let out a bellow of pain; a split-instant later the back of the Rimmersman’s hand was pressed against the tabletop.
For a moment the room went silent. Lomskur was clutching his wrist, in too much pain to say anything; Morgan and his fellows were too startled even to cheer.
“By all that’s holy,” said Astrian wonderingly, “why did I neglect to wager on this?” As Lomskur squeezed and chafed his aching wrist, Little Snenneq dropped down from the bench and walked to an ale cask that stood beside the ostler. A couple of large stone tankards had just been filled for someone else and then left on the cask until their foamy exuberance subsided. The troll pulled a coin out of his hide jacket and dropped it on the barrel top, then took a tankard in each hand and walked back to Lomskur’s table. He held one out to the big man, who looked up at him with reddened eyes and an expression of utter bewilderment.
“I was promising to buy for you an ale,” said Little Snenneq.
Lomskur goggled at him for a moment, then his already red face became even more enflamed, as if he were a baby about to howl, and he lashed out, knocking both the ale tankards out of Snenneq’s hands. “Cheat!” he roared. “Little devil! I don’t know what trick you played, but . . .”
Without finishing his sentence, he swung a huge fist at Snenneq’s face. The troll dropped beneath the blow so neatly that for a moment Morgan thought the little man’s head had been knocked cleanly from his shoulders. Lomskur swore loudly and tried to drop on him. Morgan had no doubt that if he did, no trick in the world would save the troll from being crushed to death, but Snenneq had somehow already rolled out of the way, grabbing the handles of the two overturned tankards as he went. Lomskur, on his knees, seemed to have lost the use of words completely. He snarled and swung, but Snenneq kept dodging. Lomskur grabbed a heavy bowl from a table and flung it at him, but the troll simply ducked. Now the Rimmersman clambered to his feet once more, roaring like a wounded bear, but something glinted in his hand.
“ ‘Ware!” Morgan shouted. “He has a knife!”
Many of the customers nearest the door decided this would be a good time to leave, but the rest of the crowd seemed unable to move or look away as the huge man swiped at the troll with a long, crude-looking blade. None of Lomskur’s friends or fellow Rimmersmen made any move to stop him, although they could hardly be blamed.
At first Little Snenneq simply backed away, but he was beginning to run out of room. Lomskur, despite his lumbering, clumsy steps, was steadily backing the troll into one corner of the room. Even using the two heavy mugs as shields would not protect Snenneq when that happened, the prince knew, and for the first time he realized what kind of utter disgrace he would be in if something happened to one of his grandfather’s troll friends.
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.