The Mad Wolf's Daughter

by Diane Magras

Wimarca swept in front of the miller. “A good quest for him, particularly for this time,” she said, “and it would be good, Arnulf, for him to be gone just now.”

  The miller nodded, though his eyes abruptly filled with tears. “Be careful, Tig.”

  The boy bowed his head, then dashed forward and slipped under Emerick’s free arm. Drest readjusted her grip, and together they dragged the wincing wounded man to the door. Tig did not look back, but Drest did. The miller was standing in the middle of the room, his brow furrowed, a single tear shining against his cheek in the light from his brand.

  * * *

  • • •

  In the darkness, Tig led Drest and Emerick across Phearsham Ridge’s empty square to a path that joined the road. As they stepped onto the dirt, the town at their backs, Emerick stumbled and almost fell, but Drest shoved her shoulder beneath him, catching him in time.

  “Wait,” the young knight panted. “I can’t walk this quickly. My rib wound—the healer didn’t have time to tend to it, and its ache is immense.”

  Drest tried to listen for the bandit but heard nothing past Emerick’s ragged breathing.

  “We can’t stop,” Drest said.

  A crack sounded in the woods nearby, a fallen branch breaking as if beneath a heavy step.

  Tig slipped out from under Emerick’s arm and stood in the middle of the road. He clicked with his tongue, and a black shape rose above him from the trees: a crow. It circled the road, cawed once, then landed heavily on the boy’s outstretched arm.

  “The bandit’s near,” Tig murmured, “around that bend. I’ll trick him now. If you’ll hide and keep silent, I’ll lead him astray.” He pointed into the woods.

  “Come,” Drest whispered in the young knight’s ear. She was doubtful of this boy’s ability to trick a bandit, but she also knew that she was too tired to battle anyone, just as Emerick had said. And if the bandit came around the bend before they disappeared in the woods, she would have no choice but to fight.

  She led Emerick between the trees, walking carefully, though the young knight shuffled beside her. With each of his steps, sticks broke and leaves rustled.

  “Quiet,” Drest muttered.

  “I’m doing my best.”

  Drest couldn’t see clearly in the dark, yet she could smell familiar scents, and she drew Emerick toward one of rotten wood; it would be soft and would sink, not snap, at his step.

  The wood gave way to a hollow where fallen leaves were thick. Drest dropped to her knees, pulling Emerick down with her.

  “You were very brave rescuing Tig like that,” he whispered, “but reckless. Those boys could have slain you.”

  “No talking,” Drest whispered back, “and shut your eyes to hide them, remember?”

  “Very well. Yet Drest—”

  “Hush!”

  Her head against Emerick’s arm, Drest tried to stay alert and wait for Tig, but as the moon rose above the trees, she drifted into sleep: With her eyes shut and with Emerick’s warmth beside her, as comforting as if he were one of her brothers, she couldn’t help it.

  the third day

  14

  THE FATE OF THE LADY CELESTRIA

  A poke on her shoulder woke Drest early the next morning. She thought first that it was Uwen and he was dangling something revolting above her face—a split-open crab or a dead bird—and she rolled over, pretending to be asleep. That motion pushed her against Emerick’s side, which brought her back to the woods, and her mind flew instantly to the bandit.

  She bolted up.

  A black beak and a pair of black eyes set deep in black feathers was a finger’s distance from her face.

  Drest recoiled, and nearly knocked over Emerick, who had propped himself up behind her.

  “Good morning to you, Tig,” the young knight said.

  The boy was sitting on a decaying log surrounded by creeping brambles. Spots of sunlight from between the leaves above him scattered at his feet. He held a sack in his lap, from which he drew three flat, round hearth breads. The crow gave a chunk of Drest’s hair a tweak; then hopped twice to land on the boy’s shoulder.

  “So you don’t lash out with your sword upon waking.” Tig tore a strip from one of the breads. “I wasn’t sure. I sent Mordag to wake you just in case.” He held the piece near his crow, who snapped it up in one bite.

  “Nay, I don’t lash out unless I need to.” Drest yawned, and reached for a bread. It was thick and soft, much finer than the ones Drest’s brothers made over the headland’s bonfire. “Where’s my bandit?”

  Tig grinned. “Sleeping. I led him across the forest all night. He’s going to wonder where he is when he wakes.”

  “How did you do that?”

  “By listening to how you and your captive thumped about in the woods. Then I made those sounds in the opposite direction.” He nodded at his crow. “We took your bandit on his own journey. Tired him out, for he fell asleep like a bairn when he stopped.”

  Drest took a bite from her bread. It was clean, without grit or stones, and sweet. “Did you steal this from him?”

  “No, I went back to Phearsham Ridge for the supplies we’d been packing for you. Why let those go to waste?” The boy paused. “And to say a proper good-bye to Wimarca. She kindly gave me this.” He fingered the warm black cloak on his shoulders, then abruptly leaned forward and set the last bread in Emerick’s hand. “I beg your pardon. Here’s one for you.”

  Emerick dropped the bread in his lap and closed his fingers on Drest’s arm. With a grunt, he shifted himself back into a sitting position, facing Tig across a patch of shallow grass.

  Drest looked up at the young knight beside her. “You’re moving better. Do you think you can walk on your own now?”

  “It’s unlikely. My ribs still hurt like the devil.”

  Drest grinned. “My da says people call him the devil, but did you hear Tig’s father talk about him? The Mad Wolf. I’ve never heard that name before.”

  Emerick’s face clouded. “I heard that story, about Lord Faintree’s men taking their grain. Phearsham Ridge doesn’t need to worry about him now. The old lord has died and his son is a better man. He’d never take their grain when they needed it.”

  “Would he not, even if his demesne had gone bad?” said Tig. “I wasn’t aware that lords could be so generous.”

  “They can,” Emerick retorted, “if one gives them the chance.”

  Drest lowered her half-eaten bread. “Is the young lord the master of Faintree Castle? He’s the one who set all his knights after my da, then.”

  “Perhaps he had a reason,” Emerick said.

  “He’s a fish-headed swine. That’s the reason.”

  Emerick reddened. “Would you like me to tell you a reason or two? Not long ago, I was chronicling the tales of your family’s brutality for the castle’s records.”

  “Da says that a man must be brutal on the battlefield if he wants to win the battle.”

  “Have you heard of Yettsmoor? It’s a hamlet south of here, and not a battlefield.” Emerick folded his hands in his lap. “Your brothers set fire to the huts and chased the villagers away. All because the villagers had deemed the price of your father’s protection too high and refused it.”

  Drest’s face was hot. “Someone’s been telling you stories.”

  “Yes, the handful of people from Yettsmoor who came to the castle for help.” Emerick paused. “What about Weemsdale? Have you heard that name? It’s a manor hall many days west of here. A house with a farm and huts, Drest, also not a battlefield. Your brothers stole the weavings by which those villagers are known. Do you call those tributes? Was it a tribute to drag the weavers’ daughters into the woods—”

  “You didn’t see it! My family never—”

  “I never saw it, but many did, and they came to the castle to tell us!”

  Dre
st was on her feet. “That’s against my da’s code, which says this: Honor and protect all matrons or maidens. Anyone who says my da harmed a woman is a pockmarked, worm-headed liar!”

  Emerick’s voice was hard. “That code is a mockery. Twelve years ago, he murdered a maiden: Lord Faintree’s daughter. He crept into the keep, into Celestria’s chamber, and—and—” He broke off and lowered his head. His lips were trembling. “Our knights rushed to her defense, but it was too late: He’d slain her, and then he slew all but one of them. Perhaps you understand now why the young Lord Faintree would like to see the Mad Wolf hanged. Lady Celestria was his sister. She was also my greatest friend.”

  Drest sat very still. She couldn’t pretend that her family hadn’t returned from war with the stolen goods that Emerick had described. And she remembered them once laughing about huts on fire, then growing quiet when they had seen her. Nay, Drest, we’re only joking. It’s not fit for your tender ears.

  But the code had always been clear. Matrons and maidens were to be protected, for they were weak, her father said, and vulnerable.

  “He wouldn’t have hurt that lady,” Drest said at last. “I know my da.”

  Emerick lifted his chin. “You know nothing of him.”

  “Have you forgotten that I’ve lived all my life with him? Nay, Emerick, someone’s lied to you. You can’t blame my da for everything.”

  “Are you truly so ignorant? Can you honestly deny that your father is a vicious devil? Everyone else knows that he is.”

  Drest set her hand on Borawyn’s pommel. “Do you think it’s wise for you to talk like that?”

  The young knight’s eyes narrowed. “Is that how your father speaks? Will you cut me down, just as you did that village boy?”

  Tig rose, his movement so sudden that the crow lifted from his shoulder.

  “Please—let’s have no cutting down of anyone, no more disagreements, no insults, and let’s start on our way. We have only four days, do we not?”

  A deep flush suffused Drest’s face. “Aye, we have to keep moving, not talking.”

  She walked away from Emerick and straightened her sword-belt with a jerk.

  Tig went to Emerick’s side and helped him stand. “I’ve heard parts of that tragic story before, but not how the lady died. I’m sorry about what happened to your friend.”

  “Thank you,” the young knight whispered.

  Drest cleared her throat. “Which way do we go, Tig?”

  “Ah. I was thinking it might be useful to stop by the village of Soggyweald on our way. They have a healer who could finish what Wimarca began with your cap—with Emerick. Then he might be able to walk on his own.”

  Drest drew closer. “Are you joining us for the whole journey?”

  “It’s my quest.”

  Emerick looked uncertain. “I heard your father speak of that. Tig, this isn’t going to be a simple adventure. There will be danger, and no turning back.”

  “That’s nothing new for me,” said the boy with a ghostly smile. “My foster father knows that I am destined for danger, adventure, and great things—or that’s what I’ve been telling him.”

  Emerick’s expression did not change. “Are you willing to risk your life for two people you don’t know? You’re not bound to any promise.”

  “I should be glad to be bound to a legend such as hers.” Tig gave Drest a little bow. “And I’m not afraid.”

  Drest frowned. “You may not be afraid in the sun in these woods, but we don’t know what will happen when we reach the castle. Are you sure, lad?”

  “I’ve never been this sure of anything. And as I said before, Mordag and I will be of great service to you both. Now please, accept my help, or I’ll just trail behind you the whole way.”

  Drest bit back her smile. “Come with us, then.” She patted Borawyn’s hilt. “And I’ll protect you.”

  “I’ll protect you as well.” The boy pretended to draw a sword from his belt and stagger beneath its weight. “In my own way. Even though you’re the legend.”

  Then he took his spot again beneath Emerick’s arm.

  Mordag flew up under the highest branches above their heads. Drest began to follow the crow, but Tig called her back.

  “I’m not as strong as you,” said the boy.

  As Drest slipped under Emerick’s other arm, she wondered: Was she truly strong? Strong enough to rescue her family from Faintree Castle without their help? Compared to them, she was but a wee lass, and a wee lass could never do such a thing.

  But Tig had called her a legend. And a legend could do anything.

  15

  SOGGYWEALD

  The path to Soggyweald was no path at all. The three travelers pushed through bushes and ducked under branches until they came upon a faintly trodden deer run. Soon after, the trail became wet.

  “It’s like pottage after the tenth day,” Drest said. Her father had often made a pot of it with old dried peas and slivers of smoked fish for flavor. Day after day, she and her brothers would add fresh water to extend their meal. “Pottage with wild greens that stick to your throat.”

  “Pottage with a pebble,” Tig said. “That’s the way Idony makes it, always with a pebble she’s missed. You never know when you’ll break a tooth.”

  “I’ve never eaten pottage.” Emerick’s boot slid on the mud. “Nor do I wish to if it looks like this.”

  “It’s better than shore mud,” said Drest. To Emerick’s shocked look, she added, “Which I do not eat.”

  “Or grains-and-dung,” said Tig with a smirk.

  “Don’t tell me the people of Phearsham Ridge eat that,” said Emerick.

  “No, but once when the farmers were spreading the fields, I picked up a handful and slipped it in Colum’s pottage. He never noticed. I was sure he would.”

  The path turned into liquid mud, and the leaves and clustered tree roots that covered it were slick.

  The first time Drest slipped, she stranded Emerick in a puddle, ankle-deep. The second time, he sprawled into the muck, his face a mask of pain. And once Tig sunk up to his knee in a swirl of mud and water. He withdrew his leg with a shake and a shrug.

  “Refreshing,” the boy said, and quickly resumed his spot beneath the wounded man.

  “Is this Soggyweald, then?” groaned Emerick.

  “Have courage,” said Tig. “We’re nearly at the shore.”

  At last, after creeping and slipping for hours, they were through. The ground became abruptly dry, and they saw before them a pair of wooden posts that marked the village. Just past, a stone hut stood with a series of short wooden stumps against its wall. Beyond it stretched a line of smaller huts.

  “Soggyweald congratulates you for surviving,” said Tig. With Mordag on his shoulder, he held out his arm, encompassing the village. “And that”—he nodded at the stone hut—“is the healer’s home.”

  Gasping, Emerick slid onto a stump.

  “I’ll fetch her.” Drest walked around the hut slowly, taking care where she stepped. Woven sticks formed a wet, glistening path.

  The door was open. She stole inside.

  The reek of dead plants almost choked her. Drest sank to her knees, a cough echoing through her chest. Yellow dust was drifting down over her head. She crawled away, out of its path, and watched it spill in a slow stream from a basket at the top of the door. The back of her neck itched madly where the dust had fallen.

  “Is anyone here?” Drest shook the dust out of her hair and struggled to her knees.

  The hut seemed larger than it had from the outside. Pale brown weavings with patterns like the lines of the paths in the headland covered the stone walls. Clay bowls and jars, small rush baskets, and sheaths of herbs wound up in string were scattered on a table by a shuttered window. Halfway across the room, a circle of black ashes marked where the healer kept her fire. Past it, near
the wall, a rope ladder led to an alcove in which Drest could just see the trailing edge of a cloak.

  “Are you the healer?” Drest tried to stand, but nausea pulled her back to the floor, and she lay there gasping. “Your dust—it’s made me sick.”

  No one answered.

  Drest closed her eyes and focused on breathing. It was almost as if she were underwater in a placid cove with tendrils of sea plants winding around her ankles, holding her, pulling her, tightening—

  She sat up, her heartbeat throbbing in her ears.

  “Where’s the healer?” Drest muttered, and forced herself to rise.

  Now that she was standing, she saw the hut clearly. The patterns in the weavings were just shadows and folds, nothing more. The bowls and herbs on the table had been shoved aside. And the cloak in the alcove—it was only a blanket.

  The hut was empty.

  A faint noise came from outside. It took her several moments to realize that Emerick was calling her name.

  “Drest?” His voice was distant. “Lass, can you hear me?”

  Her head began to throb. Staggering back, she carefully stepped over the spilled dust and darted outside.

  A burst of fresh air cleared her head, leaving only a lingering ache. As Drest took her first step on the slippery woven path, she noticed a print in the dirt close to the hut. It was cloven, like that of a deer, and recent. It had not been there when she had entered.

  A movement in the corner of her eye made Drest look up. She caught a glimpse of antlers as a huge tawny creature lumbered into the woods. A stag. It was almost as if the beast had been outside watching while she had been within.

  Drest hastened back to her companions.

  “We’ve been calling you.” Emerick reached out, and Drest stepped under his arm. “We heard you enter but then nothing, not for many minutes.”

  “I was looking for the healer. That hut—it was strange.” Drest didn’t want to mention the dust, which was now burning on her neck, or the stag.

  “All the huts are strange,” said Emerick. “We could see no movement in any of them.”