by Diane Magras
“Not even one. I warned you.”
But he leaned on her as they stumbled together into the woods.
* * *
• • •
It was dark by the time they had gone deep enough to escape the cold sea air. Drest would have plodded farther, but the young knight, despite his bluster, could barely walk. She listened to his ragged breath against her hair and knew that if they kept going, he’d soon collapse.
Though her brothers had always provided for her—bringing ale and smoked meat home from war, cooking hearth bread on the bonfire—Drest had also always known how to find food, heat, and water no matter where she was on the headland. Wulfric had shown her how to rip shreds of bark from living trees as tinder for a fire. Thorkill had helped her sharpen a stick with a dagger and then trained her to throw that stick powerfully and quickly enough to take down a squirrel in mid-jump. Gobin had taught her how to follow animal and bird footprints to catch prey; Nutkin how to find fresh water by signs on bark, grass, or leaves. On days when they had been tired of eating the fish they caught in the shallow water or the grain their father brought home from war, Uwen and Drest had hunted together in the ravine, joined through excitement, need, and fear in equal measures.
Drest set Emerick into a pile of leaves and gathered a handful of bark to make a fire. The stone in her pouch was wet, so she had to scrabble about for a dry one. None she found on the forest floor were all that dry.
A spark rose, then went out. Another blow of steel to stone, another dying spark. It took four tries, but at last, the bark ignited. She fed the flame slowly with slivers of wood and imagined her eldest brother’s stern, strong face.
A little higher, Drest, or you’ll have it fade before you can grow warm. In her mind, Wulfric stroked his corded brown beard. And you’ll want to be warm. First rule of battle: Prepare yourself with weapons. Second: Control your anger as its own fine blade. Third: Get your rest, and stay warm, for the field will be cold and you will often need to draw on the memory of that warmth.
From the pile of leaves where she’d left him, Emerick shifted. “I can’t move,” he said, his voice tight with panic. “Come help me. I’m cold. I can’t move to be near the fire.”
“Stop complaining, you crab-legged gull’s bottom,” Drest muttered under her breath. “You can move enough to talk, can you not?” She slid another stick into the fire—too hard, spraying sparks over the dirt circle she had mounded to keep the flames in place—and approached the wounded man.
All her work at the camp had been for naught: His bandages had come undone and were loose wet clumps beneath his tunic. Drest stood helpless.
“The fire,” Emerick moaned. “Please. I’m so cold.” A series of rapid shudders ran down his body like fever.
Drest closed her eyes. Her father would have told her to trust in the talisman and find the castle on her own. She had wasted enough time.
As if he could hear what she was thinking, the wounded man spoke. “A trade,” he whispered. “One man.”
“You’ve said that before and taken it back.” But Drest stood uncertain. His breath caught as he inhaled. Her brothers had never been so injured.
She hoisted him up on her shoulder again. Taking on all his weight now, Drest staggered with the young knight toward the fire. The flames were crackling and warm. As she tried to set him down gently, her sleeve caught on his dagger’s crossguard and ripped.
Drest freed the cloth, but didn’t let the fabric go at once. She didn’t want to give up her tunic, but the sleeves might serve as bandages. She pulled at one, and the frayed spots around the elbow tore easily. She tore the other.
The sleeves were still wet with salt water, which made Emerick moan as Drest held them against his wounds. But they staunched the blood when she tied them on with the thin ropes she had used before. Afterward, Emerick lay with his face against the ground, breathing hard.
“Are you hungry?” Drest said. “Give me a moment and I’ll fetch us something to eat.”
The wounded man didn’t answer.
Drest went off to hunt.
She listened for sounds and tried not to think about the bandits of her father’s stories. Crouching in the dark, following the quiet shuffle of what she hoped was a hare, Drest imagined Uwen beside her.
Movement flashed near the ground. She crept nearer, then nearer. It was a hare, hunched over and still; she could just make out its shape. Drest waited, then pounced, seizing it with her strong fingers.
Emerick was asleep when Drest returned with their meal. She reached for her dagger—then remembered it was gone, forgotten by the fire at the camp.
But Emerick had one.
Drest knelt beside the young knight’s sleeping form and lifted the corner of his tunic to reveal his dagger’s sheath. Without a sound, she slipped his knife free.
It didn’t feel like her dagger; it was heavier. When she had it in the firelight, she saw why: Glittering blue gems were stamped into the pommel, and the blade was thick and strong.
It cut well. Drest skinned and cleaned the hare and soon had it on a spit above the fire. She wiped the dagger against the leaves and began to slip it back into its sheath on Emerick’s belt.
Are you as blind as a rotting fish? Uwen’s voice seemed to explode in her head. That’s your enemy’s dagger! Where’s your dagger? Back at the camp. Do you really want to give that one up?
Emerick was still asleep, his eyelids trembling faintly.
Drest stepped away, taking care to make no sound. She began to slide the dagger into her own empty sheath, but stopped: That would be too obvious. Drest thought, then loosened her belt, slid it up under her tunic, and tightened it by her ribs. The dagger fit neatly in its sheath against her stomach.
He’s never going to find it there. Uwen laughed.
Drest settled by the fire while the hare cooked. She was following Wulfric’s advice—weapons, a fire, controlling her anger—as if there really were a battle ahead.
Fatigue from her swim rushed over her, and Drest closed her eyes.
Five days.
She saw her family in ropes, her father’s fierce stare, the worried gazes of her brothers. Were they off the ship yet? Was Uwen frightened?
The forest sounds seemed loud around her: leaves whispering in the wind, trunks creaking as they swayed; the hare dripping juices that made the fire spit and crackle; and the wounded knight drawing in his breath as if pulling a burden over a dry, rocky beach.
A branch snapped.
Drest’s eyes flew open.
A shape was moving at the edge of the forest past the fire, a flicker of darkness, then nothing.
Drest bolted to her feet, fumbling for Borawyn’s grip.
Everything was still.
Except for something breathing in the distance.
A very large bandit or a very small sea. Uwen’s voice, scoffing.
Drest tried to scoff too, but her throat caught. I need you, Uwen. I need you here right now.
Then Nutkin’s voice was in her mind: gentle and soothing. Nay, you don’t need him, lass. Not when you have your sword and your courage.
Not when you have us, Gobin’s voice added.
Drest straightened. If she had closed her eyes, she could have sworn that the twins were there, one on either side of her, their swords drawn, their black hair dangling in their faces as they leaned close.
This is what we’ll do, lass: I’ll go off to the left as if I’ve something to do in the bushes. Nutkin will tell you that he’s going to give me a scare and will get up and leave on the other side. You sit here looking wide-eyed and innocent, and pretend that your sword is too heavy to lift—
Another stick broke. Drest tugged Borawyn out of its scabbard. The massive blade wobbled in the firelight.
There you are, lass. But stand as if you can’t hold it. Then when he c
omes at you, thinking you’re helpless, bring it up.
When who comes at me, Gobin? Tension crept into her shoulders.
The bandit, of course.
But—but can’t you and Nutkin—can you not circle in on him?
Her brother’s laugh was faint. I wish we could, lass, but we’re in ropes, and nearly at the castle. You need to get to the castle too, you know. And soon.
It was as if a knife had pricked her. Drest almost dropped the sword.
She’s struggling. Nutkin’s voice. You’ve asked too much. Drest, lass, listen to me: Sheathe your sword and run. You’re faster than any of us. Take that bandit on a chase he won’t forget.
Aye, said Gobin’s voice, he’s right. You’ll manage that sword soon enough, but for now, use your natural talent: those swift feet.
He’s just behind the bushes.
Quick, lass.
Drest slipped her brother’s sword back into its scabbard.
Emerick stirred.
She looked at him.
He’s your enemy, whispered Gobin’s voice. And you haven’t time. Go.
With a final glance at the wounded man, Drest dashed into the woods.
8
THE BANDIT
The trees came fast at Drest as she ran. She whipped between them, darkness shrouding everything before her. Twigs scraped her arms and roots tripped her feet, yet she kept her balance with her speed and her fear, which, like a torch, led her on through the endless pattern of branches and trunks.
Then a moss-covered tree on the forest floor seemed to reach up. Drest leaped, but badly. The old wood caught her ankle, pulling her down into an embrace of branches soft with decay.
Drest lay still, her heartbeat thumping in her ears like footsteps, her breath burning in her chest. She closed her eyes and tried to force her body to calm, just as she had when Uwen was chasing her and she needed to hide without making a sound. She thought of the sea and how it breathed: slowly in, slowly out, over and over.
When Drest opened her eyes, she heard real waves slapping against the shore. The sea was nearby.
She rose and started toward that sound. The presence at the edge of the woods had been but a nightmare, a trick of her exhaustion. There was no bandit, only the woods, only the night and the sea.
Fallen branches slippery with moss littered her path. Shells glowed white among them. The scent of the muddy brine was pungent.
As the watery sound became louder, Wulfric’s voice flashed through Drest’s mind:
Careful.
Drest stopped. She was standing on a grassy bank with the sea just beyond. She was about to turn back, but her eye caught a movement in the trees.
On the bank’s other side, in the shadows, stood a man.
The sea sent a rush of waves toward the shore, its sound nearly swallowing a voice: soft and slippery like a fish’s belly.
“Are you alone, girl?”
The figure disappeared into the trees.
Drest drew her sword, her heart pounding anew.
Don’t try it. Gobin’s voice was urgent. Remember what we said before? What can you do best? Run. So run like a hare!
Drest sheathed her sword and broke into a sprint.
A crash sounded behind her, followed by cracking twigs. The bandit wasn’t as fast as she was, but the noise of his pursuit was coming closer. There was no doubt now that he was real.
* * *
• • •
Drest ran with new strength. Twice she had to grab trees when she lost her footing, but she kept on her feet.
She wanted to imagine she was running with Uwen. They had often made up stories of being hunted by cruel foes to urge each other to run ever faster.
Drest swallowed a sob. If only Uwen were there! Together, they would have taken but seconds to devise a plan to trap the bandit. Or Gobin and Nutkin, who would have circled him and then gone in. Or Thorkill, who would have stood with her, and let loose an arrow. Or Wulfric, who would have marched into the woods and felled the bandit with one blow.
Or Grimbol, who would have torn that bandit to pieces.
Drest slowed to duck under a low branch, then changed her mind and scrambled over it, Borawyn’s scabbard slapping against her leg. The bandit’s panting came from behind. He’d had less trouble on Drest’s path than she, which could only mean that he knew these woods well.
“Wait, girl,” the slippery voice called from behind.
Drest did not stop running.
“Are you alone, I asked. I don’t think your brothers are here. Only you and me. Don’t you want to talk to another lonely soul?”
Sticks crashed behind her. The bandit was drawing close again.
Drest veered between trees, launching in a new direction. She flew through branches and over thick moss, ducking and weaving.
And then a different voice called in the distance, not very far away: “Drest? Drest, where are you?”
She broke into the tiny clearing where the fire was almost out. In the dark, she could barely see Emerick, leaning against a tree.
“There’s a bandit. He’s on my heels. We’ve got to hide.”
Drest put her shoulder under the wounded man’s arm and drew him into the woods, away from the sea, on the faint trail she had followed when hunting the hare, then beyond. Behind her, the slippery voice swore, then was quiet.
“Here,” Drest whispered, lowering Emerick into a clutch of ferns. She curled up against him. “Don’t move.”
Emerick stifled a groan as he leaned back. “I wish I had my sword.”
“Stop talking. And shut your eyes so the whites don’t show.”
Drest shut her own eyes, and tensed.
A foot stepped over a branch near her head. Drest, whose games with Uwen had trained her to listen, heard the faint rustle that the bandit made as he drifted into the woods, and heard when he was gone.
But his soft, slippery voice spoke again, even closer. “Where are you, girl? I’ve seen you grow up, but I don’t know your name.”
Drest lay as if frozen.
The bandit drifted near several times. Once he almost stepped on Emerick’s wounded shoulder.
Drest huddled close to the young knight and tried to slow her pounding heart. Everything was strange: the shadowy woods, the man who was not her brother sleeping beside her, and hiding like that, not being out in the open, not being free. She readied herself for a night of wakefulness, yet her exhaustion and terror were so great that she sank into a dreamless sleep instead.
the second day
9
THE TRADE
Drest woke early, just past dawn, and for an instant didn’t recognize the ferns surrounding her. Then she remembered where she was and why she had been sleeping in the woods. Forcing herself to breathe slowly, she began to stretch.
And poked the young knight in the ribs with her elbow.
Emerick recoiled, sitting up, his face yellow and sick.
“Sorry,” said Drest.
He frowned and set his hand to his wound, then to his hip. “May I have my dagger back? You stole it, didn’t you.”
A lie came to Drest’s lips. “Nay. It must have slipped out in the sea.”
He seemed to weigh the likelihood. “Perhaps you’ll see fit to return it when we reach the castle.”
Drest struggled to her knees, careful to avoid touching him. “Can you get up on your own? We have to keep running; the bandit’s here somewhere close.”
Emerick sighed. “A great deal of use I am. A knight should be able to defend a lass in need, even if she’s the daughter of his enemy.”
Drest stared. “Is that me? Am I in need? I think you’re the one in need.”
“You’re the one being hunted by a bandit. A bandit who ate our hare, I might add. I saw him do it. He thought me little enough trouble
to bother with.”
“That’s not a bad thing. He could have slain you.”
“It’s all right,” said Emerick. “He didn’t. You’ll still have your trade.” The young knight’s lips twitched. “I might have thought you were concerned about my welfare just then.”
“Nay, I’m concerned about finding the castle.” Drest rose. “Can you get up? We should go.”
He couldn’t, not without help. Drest drew him to his feet.
“Come on,” she muttered. “You’ve had a good sleep, haven’t you?”
“Not as good as you; you snore like a horse.”
Drest pushed down the laugh in her throat. “Uwen snores more than I do, but Wulfric—you should hear him, he sounds like a cave when the sea—”
“With any luck, I’ll never have to.”
Her laugh disappeared. Without another word, Drest grabbed the young knight and dragged him out of the ferns.
* * *
• • •
Drest lasted for hours before her mind became fuzzy. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could stagger on with her wounded enemy through the tangle of trees and patches of sun-dappled ferns. Her last meal had been by the bonfire, nearly a day ago, and her throat and mouth were dry. At the headland, she’d have slaked her thirst by one of the forest brooks that emptied out over the stones. These woods had to have such brooks as well.
Within minutes, Drest spotted one: a shallow, muddy rush of water that flowed toward the sea. Her eyes followed the trickle and saw where it grew thick.
“We’ll stop here. I need something to drink.” She leaned Emerick against a tree and wandered to where the trickle had pooled.
The young knight patted his way down the trunk until he could sit. His movements were jerky, like a fish taken from the sea and set out on the beach to die. Despite herself, a swift stab of pity rushed into Drest.
“We can’t argue,” she said.
“Why not? That’s one thing we seem to be doing well together.”
