The Mad Wolf's Daughter

by Diane Magras

  He ripped off his hood, revealing the pale face of a boy her own age with black hair in tangles.

  “I told you I’d save you,” Drest said. She could not stop shaking.

  The boy’s gaze shifted over her face, down to her sword on the ground, then back up again. “Who are you?”

  Drest flushed. “A mighty warrior. Like my brothers. Are you hurt?”

  The boy’s eyes became evasive. “Why would I be hurt?”

  At first, she could not answer. “Do you not see what you hold in your hands, lad? It’s a hood. It was round your whole head not long ago. Do you not know what comes to people in hoods like that?”

  The boy stiffened. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m not hurt. It was just a game, and I wasn’t afraid. Except when I heard those screams. Was that your doing?” He twisted around to the field, and froze at the sight of the figure lying in the soil. “Colum?”

  Then the boy was on his feet, rushing to the fallen figure. He knelt beside him and murmured something, then rose swiftly.

  “We must fetch help.” The boy started back toward Drest at a run. “He’s not dead but he’s—he’s badly hurt.”

  Drest picked up her sword and sheathed it. “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

  “Is that so?” The boy stared fixedly at Borawyn. “What’s that for, then?”

  “Saving your life,” she retorted. “Do you need to fetch help? Go on; I need to fetch my captive.”

  Interest flickered in the boy’s face. “You have a captive?”

  “I just said that, did I not? He’s over there.” Drest nodded toward where she had left the young knight—but saw nothing.

  Your captive’s like a rabbit who just got loose from a snare, sniggered Uwen’s voice. You’ve just lost your way into the castle.

  Drest broke into a run and heard the boy fall in behind her.

  When she reached the spur that linked the field with the road, there was no sign of the wounded man—none except for an unmoving body on the path.

  * * *

  • • •

  Emerick lay with his eyes closed, his face clenched in pain, but alive.

  “I tried to help you,” he said between his teeth, “fool that I am.”

  “What, by taking a step and falling?”

  “I was attempting to join you.”

  “Aye, I can see. You very nearly made it a second step.” Drest knelt beside him. Two red stains shone newly wet on his tunic. “You squirrel-headed boar’s bladder. Do you want to die on the road?”

  “Does it please you to insult a man who can’t move?”

  “Forgive me,” the boy broke in, “but Colum needs help. I’m going to fetch our healer, and if your captive can’t move, you might want to drag him somewhere before Colum’s brother comes. He’s a blacksmith with arms like tree trunks.”

  “My arms are like tree trunks,” Drest muttered. “Little ones.”

  Emerick struggled to lift himself, then gave up and rested his cheek against the ground. “What did you do out there, Drest? I saw the boys running, and one fall. Don’t tell me you slew him.”

  Drest held in her shudder and nodded to the boy. “Lad, help me lift my captive. I can’t leave him here like this or he’ll trip over himself and open another wound.”

  The boy hesitated.

  “Don’t just stand there like a crushed grub,” Drest said.

  The boy went to Emerick’s side, and together they lifted the young knight. Drest took her place under his shoulder once again.

  * * *

  • • •

  The boy—his name was Tig and he was the foster son of the miller of Phearsham Ridge—led them down the road and into the woods to the healer’s small stone hut. He dashed inside to tell her about Colum, then led them on, through more woods, until they came to a river flanked on both sides by a grassy meadow. Drest was surprised to see a huge wooden wheel in the water with a house upon it; she had heard of mills before, but had never seen one.

  Tig led them through a door into the house. The small room into which they stepped smelled sweet, like firewood, and was filled with the creak and splash of the wheel. In the corner, a figure in a long brown tunic with a white head-cloth was staring at them.

  It’s your first maiden, Gobin’s voice said. That’s what an ordinary maiden looks like. Long hair, smooth face. She’s rather lovely, isn’t she?

  “What’s this, Tig?” the maiden asked in a high voice as the boy closed the door.

  Tig took a deep breath. “Colum’s hurt, and they—this warrior maiden and her captive—she just saved my life. So we must help her before—”

  “Oh, Tig, lad, what happened?” The maiden pulled the boy into an embrace.

  “Nothing. No, not nothing, but—but Colum challenged me, and so—”

  “Oh, Tig!”

  “—so we met on the fallow field, where I admit I had little advantage—”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “—and I might not have come home quite whole this time. I owe this warrior—and her sword—a tremendous debt.” Tig pulled away from the maiden. His face was suddenly somber. “No, he did not hurt me. Thanks to her.”

  The maiden bowed to Drest, holding her skirts. “I thank you with all my heart. Tig—my brother—he is not always wise in the conflicts he seeks.”

  “Not deliberately unwise, though,” the boy added.

  She shot him a stern look. “You know that Torold will come for you. Again.”

  “I know.” Tig glanced around the room. “So I’ll hide. And could we hide them?”

  “Better to have a quiet, peaceful life than this,” muttered the maiden, then offered Drest a smile. “Where do you imagine we’d put them, Tig? I beg your pardon, miss. I do not know your name.”

  “My name is Drest.”

  “And your captive?”

  “For God’s sake,” Emerick said. “My good maiden, I am Emerick, a wounded knight from Faintree Castle. That doesn’t make me a captive any more than—”

  “From Faintree Castle?” The maiden’s eyes narrowed. “I would not mention that here.”

  “Why not?” Emerick asked. “Is this not Lord Faintree’s town?”

  “Nay, not for years.” She glanced at Tig. “The rafters? But her captive won’t be able to climb.”

  “Not a captive,” muttered Emerick.

  The boy led them through the door in the back of the room into another space, a cavernous one. Wooden beams stretched beneath the roof from one wall to the next.

  It was a massive space, empty, yet it felt enclosed and tight to Drest.

  At the other end of the room, an outside door swung open and two men rushed in. Drest’s fingers closed on Borawyn’s grip, but she let go when she saw Tig stride across the floor.

  “Father, Wyneck, a fight’s coming. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “Your fault?” said the older, gray-bearded man. “We saw Wimarca by the wheat field and she bade us find you quick.” He set his hand on the boy’s shoulder as they drew together. “What have you done, lad?”

  “I—it was Colum and the other lads, and—well, I challenged them, and they went too far. But this warrior maiden rushed forth to save me.” The boy paused. “That’s the truth, not a story.”

  Frowning, the old man looked at Drest.

  The younger man, as tall as Wulfric with a curly beard as wide as Thorkill’s, shut the door and leaned against it. His cool gaze traveled down Drest’s face to rest on Borawyn.

  “You brought us dangerous visitors, my brother,” he said.

  Drest straightened. “Aye, we may be dangerous, but we are friends. That lad and the others—they weren’t fighting fair. My da—his name is Grimbol—he always taught me that you don’t fight like that and—” She stopped. “I didn’t mean to slay the lad.”


  “Grimbol, did you say?” The old man’s eyes were attentive. “So you’re the daughter of the Mad Wolf of the North. His youngest?”

  “Aye, I’m the youngest,” said Drest. “Is that what you call my da?”

  “Yes,” said the older man. “He’s known across the lowlands as the Mad Wolf, and feared by many.”

  Men’s voices sounded from just outside.

  “They’ve come!” Tig swung around and pointed at the rafters. “Climb up as fast as you can!”

  Thick wooden pegs protruded in the corners of the room where the walls met. Drest grabbed one and swung herself up. With Borawyn thumping against her leg, she scrambled up the next, then the next, until she had reached the highest post. She slid onto a beam below the roof and pulled her sword up beside her. Then she drew up her legs.

  Drest had found her spot only just in time: The front door of the big room flew open.

  Three broad-chested men rushed in. Wyneck and the old man turned to meet them. Drest waited to see Idony join him—then it would be three against three—but she had shrunk to the corner, standing close to Emerick. Tig stood on his other side.

  “Where is she, Arnulf?” roared the largest of the three intruders. “Where is the fiend?”

  “There’s no fiend here, Torold.” The old man’s voice was stern. “And there’s no girl but Idony. Someone’s told you a story.”

  “There’s the witch’s boy.” One of the other men pointed at Tig, who flinched but otherwise didn’t move.

  All three started toward him.

  What are you doing hiding like this when there’s a fight coming? said Uwen.

  “Don’t think you can touch my lad,” growled Arnulf as he blocked the way of the three men.

  Wyneck joined him and gave Torold a fierce shove.

  Do you think that old man and his son are a match for those three? You are.

  With Uwen’s voice ringing in her ears, Drest swung down her legs and started to inch back toward the protruding post.

  But before she reached it, the mill’s door opened, and the strangest figure Drest had ever seen stepped into the house.

  13

  THE HEALER

  The figure was as tall and thin as a heron with long white hair like folded wings. A sharp nose, high cheeks, and glittering eyes made the face seem wild. The animal-skin cloak—of gray wolf, red fox, and speckled boar—added to that effect, and the skins’ rank odors filled the room.

  “You don’t waste time, do you, Torold?” The voice, high and wrinkled, gave a bitter laugh.

  It was a woman. But unlike any woman Drest could have imagined.

  The men of the village cowered. Emerick and Tig did not. And neither did Drest, who met the strange woman’s eyes. But the woman glanced away and showed no sign of having noticed the girl in the rafters.

  “My brother lies dead upon the field,” Torold said in a shaking voice. “And that witch’s boy—”

  “Have the other boys taken up Tig’s talent for great tales?” said the woman. “Colum lies but wounded upon the field, hardly dead.”

  “A lass with a sword—”

  “I saw no lass and no sword, just a boy in pain.” The woman’s eyes narrowed. “And here you stand, thirsty for revenge. It was a story, Torold, nothing more, and your brother needs you. I’ve done what I can, but he should not lie out in the open like that for much longer.”

  The large man’s gaze upon the strange old woman was uneasy, but at last he strode to the door and broke into a run. His companions followed.

  The old woman closed the door and stepped back into the room with a feeble, unsteady gait.

  Arnulf went to her and offered his arm. “You came just in time, Wimarca.”

  “Yes, I figured Torold would rush to the mill. Tig, step from away from the man in blood. Come here.”

  The boy slipped away from Emerick and strode up to the old healer. With a twist of a smile, he waited.

  Wimarca reached out and held Tig’s cheek in one long-fingered hand, staring at him as intently as he stared back.

  “Resentment is not a plant we should wish to cultivate,” the old woman said. “Torold’s shall not be easy to cut down.”

  “I know. That was not my intention.” Tig bit his lip. “Thank you for coming.”

  Wimarca sniffed, but let him go and pointed at Emerick. “You look as if you could use some help.”

  “I would be most grateful for a healer’s aid, my good woman.”

  “Sit by the fire, then, so I can see you clearly. And you, sword-bearing fiend in the rafters. Come down so that I may see you clearly too.”

  Drest scampered over the rafters and down the pegs protruding from the walls. She came down too quickly, and almost caught her scabbard on the wood. The old woman watched her with a trace of a smile.

  “I never meant to slay the lad,” Drest said.

  “I know. You would have if you’d held to your sword’s path. But you spared him. Come closer, child.”

  Flushing, Drest went to her. The reek of animal skins was even stronger now that she was close. Between the folds of the cloak, long strings hung around the woman’s throat, beaded with sparkling bits of metal, dull gems, and one with what looked like tiny skulls.

  “Mouse skulls,” Wimarca said, noticing her glance. “They do wonders for a toothache.” The old healer put her hand on Drest’s cheek. Her fingers were dry and warm. “Thank you, child, for risking your life to save Tig’s. He could use a friend such as you.”

  Drest twitched. “I’d be glad to be his friend, but I can’t stay. I’m on a journey to save my family, see, and my cap—my man over there, he needs healing before we set off. But we need to set off soon; Lord Faintree has my da and brothers, and he’ll hang them in four days if I’m not at his castle in time.”

  “If you need to make haste to save the Mad Wolf and his sons, we’ll help,” Arnulf said.

  “Tig and I will fetch supplies,” Idony added.

  Arnulf and Wyneck carried Emerick to the fire, and Idony and Tig disappeared through the back door. Wimarca knelt beside Emerick and took a small bag from beneath her cloak. He winced as she lifted his bloody tunic. Drest looked away.

  The two men were watching her.

  “You’ve been very good to our Tig,” Arnulf said, “just as your father has been to this town.”

  Drest drifted over to them. “How do you mean?”

  Arnulf’s wrinkled face creased in a smile. “Saved our lives, he did. It was ten years ago, and this village’s crops had failed. The grain rotted in every row, including Lord Faintree’s demesne. I went to the castle to tell the steward, and what you do think he did? Followed me back here to take from the little we had. We’d have starved if it hadn’t been for your father.”

  “He brought you grain?”

  “No, lass: He made sure we kept our grain. He was passing by with his war-band—he passed by often to spend the night or have a meal—but this time he came when the castle men were here. He chased them off.”

  Warmth rose within Drest. “He kept them off too, did he not?”

  “Yes, he did. For a month, and that was enough. No castle man who tried to take our grain left Phearsham Ridge. So they stopped coming. That demesne wasn’t worth all those castle men.”

  Wyneck leaned close to her, his beard touching her bare arm. “Your companion speaks like a castle man,” he murmured. “Are you sure you can trust him?”

  “Nay, I can’t, but I know that. I’m keeping him alive so I can trade him for my family.”

  “Take care he doesn’t trick you,” Wyneck said. “Castle men are funny like that.”

  He was about to say something else when Tig rushed back into the room, Idony at his heels.

  “They’re coming back!” Tig shouted. “By the river, with torches!”

 
The miller rose. “You should go, lass. Wyneck and I will hold them as long as we can, but you and your man had best go swiftly.” He paused. “Go save your father. Every village in this land could use him.”

  Drest hastened to Emerick, who was pulling his tunic over the linen bandages that Wimarca had swiftly strapped around his chest. He clung to Drest’s shoulder and stood.

  “Go hide in the woods,” Wimarca said as they started toward the door, “but take great care: As I rushed here, I saw a man on the road. Men who stand in shadows to wait and watch are often men on hunts.”

  Drest’s mouth was dry. “That bandit. Emerick, he’s followed us.”

  All at once, Tig was at her side, his gaze shifting between her and the young knight. “You’re being followed?”

  “Aye, there’s a bandit after us. After me.” Drest reached for her sword, trembling. “I shall have to fight him.”

  “Don’t,” said Emerick. “We’ve been walking all day and you’re tired. He could harm you badly.”

  They exchanged a long, tense look, and Drest nodded. “Then we’ll hide. Let’s be off.”

  “Hold, just—just for a moment,” Tig said. “I can help you. My crow and I—we can outsmart your bandit.”

  “Tig!” bellowed Arnulf. “Go hide before it’s too late!”

  “Trust me,” Tig murmured. “I’ll be of use to you. I swear it.”

  “Tig, lad!” Arnulf had thrust a rush torch into the hearth and was crossing the room with the flaming brand held high. “Did you hear what I said?”

  Tig set his hands on his hips and looked up at the old man. “There is a greater purpose for me than that, Father. I must go with this maiden.”

  “Stop it, lad, and go hide.”

  “Not hide but serve,” Tig said. “Think of how the Mad Wolf would see this village if I were to help his youngest child, his only daughter. He’d owe us a favor.” The boy paused. “And it would keep me far from Torold. And—and this might be my quest.”

  Arnulf looked at Drest, then at Tig, his face stern. “Is this your quest? The one you always speak of?”

  “It could be.”