The End of Time by P. W. Catanese, David Ho Page A

throat. Hap thought the sound came from behind one of them. And then he saw something move at the edge of one column. It was thick and round, and part of something much larger. “I see it,” he whispered.
    “What is it?” Lady Truden hissed back.
    Hap looked at her and shrugged. He stepped sideways, into the open, to find a better angle. There are strong bars between us, he reminded himself, but that didn’t stop his knees from twitching. When he glanced back at Sophie, he saw that she was with him, edging sideways with her bow raised halfway up.
    The part of the thing that he could see was level with his eyes. It moved, subtly and slowly, in time to the breathing. As Hap eased to his left, more of it came into view. It looked like a shoulder. “I think—,” he whispered, but then he cut himself off with a gasp as the creature leaned out, and an enormous head turned to peer back at him.
    Hap saw a small, silvery eye and a wide, brutal mouth with lips pulled back to bare jagged, broken teeth. The cry escaped Hap’s mouth before he could snuff it with his hand. “Oh!”
    The thing grunted and ducked out of sight. Hap grabbed Sophie’s arm and tugged her back into hiding next to Lady Truden. His heart pounded like a fist on a door.
    “Did you see? What was it?” Lady Truden asked with her back pressed tight against the rock.
    “It was a . . . I think it was a . . .” Hap panted. Then their heads all turned at a new sound: scraping, and the thump of heavy feet. Hap peered out again just in time to watch a hulking gray mass rush down the tunnel and disappear.
    “I think it was a troll,” he said, not whispering anymore.
    “As soon as Lord Umber recovers, I will tell him,” Lady Truden said. Her jaw tensed. “There are horrid things deep in those caverns, but none has approached the gate for years. Why now?”
     
    Umber was still sleeping hours later—peacefully, Balfour reported after checking on him—and eventually the others found their own ways to occupy their time. Sophie worked on her paintings in her studio upstairs, and Oates went to the gatehouse for a game of cards with the guardsmen. Balfour popped into the kitchen to bake something, while Hap wandered down to the archives. He expected a harsh, unpleasant reply when he knocked on the door, and Umber’s archivist did not disappoint him.
    “Go away! Or at least say why you’re bothering me.”
    Hap peeked through the small window in the door. He saw Smudge, wild-haired and dirty-faced as always, sitting at a large oak table with scrolls spread out before him. “It’s me, Smudge. Happenstance. I was wondering if you wanted any help with translations.”
    Smudge’s fierce expression softened a bit. Once he’d learned about Hap’s uncanny understanding of all languages—another gift of the Meddlers—he’d come to value Hap’s ability to decode ancient documents. “Fine,” he grumbled. “Come in.” He didn’t look up from his scroll as Hap approached the table, but he pointed at a dusty leather-bound book. “That’s a Dwergh book that somebody just sent us.”
    Hap picked it up. “Do you mind if I take it to the grand hall to read it?”
    Smudge looked up with his shaggy eyebrows gathered in a scowl. “Don’t spill anything on it.”
    “Also,” Hap ventured, “if you have anything about trolls, or the caverns under the Aerie, I’d like to read those, too.”
    Smudge shook his head and said something distasteful under his breath, but he plunged into the rows of shelves and returned with an armful of volumes. Hap scooped them up and headed to the door, eager to leave, but Smudge cleared his throat and said something to him from behind. “Boy . . . tell me again how Brother Caspar died.”
    With a gulp, Hap turned back. He saw Smudge with his head tilted down and his eyes peering up, tugging at the mess of his beard with both hands. Hap bit his lip. “Didn’t Balfour explain?”
    Smudge nodded. His voice was quiet and ragged.