The Mad Wolf's Daughter

by Diane Magras

  Tig stood next to him, frowning. His crow hunched low against his hair and cheek.

  “Let’s look for the healer,” said Drest. “Or someone who can tell us where she is.”

  Holding Emerick steady, Drest started on the path that led between the huts.

  They had walked only a few steps when a raucous cheer rose from deep in the town. It made Drest think of the war cries that Wulfric had taught her.

  “A celebration?” Emerick did not sound confident.

  Drest led the way, her senses alert. Something about this town was wrong, yet nothing seemed to be out of place. Each hut was made of logs and sticks and topped with tight thatch. Lavish blossoms of white and blue billowed in gardens; others were planted with tender green vines. For a village stuck within a bog, it was surprisingly tidy.

  Yet Tig’s eyes narrowed and he cast every house a suspicious look.

  The path turned, and Drest found herself facing the back of a large crowd.

  Gobin had once told her about the time that he and Nutkin, scouting ahead for the war-band, had run into a mob of villagers. It was the only time he’d been afraid.

  “Do you smell that?” said Emerick. “There’s a bonfire ahead.” He staggered forward, dragging Drest, and tapped on the shoulder of a small figure who stood a little apart from the crowd, a fair braid down her back. “I beg your pardon, but what is this celebration?”

  The maiden looked over her shoulder. She was barely older than Drest and wore the same kind of long brown tunic as Idony.

  “We’re burning our witch,” she said. “Have you not heard? She’s been found guilty of all the charges.”

  Drest was very still. Grimbol had told stories at the headland of how such things came to pass, and how important it was to stop them.

  Emerick frowned. “This is a village of Lord Faintree, is it not? He would not take kindly to the burning of any person.”

  The maiden shook her head. “It doesn’t matter; he’ll never know.” She added in a low voice, “But keep quiet if you don’t want the village on you.” It was as much of a threat as a warning.

  Emerick’s face hardened, but he said nothing further to the maiden, who went back to the spectacle.

  “We shouldn’t stand here,” murmured Tig.

  “Nay,” said Drest, an idea beginning to grow in her mind. “We’ve work to do.”

  Quickly, pulling Emerick along with her, Drest skirted the crowd and returned to the main path. She led them out to the top of a low hill where they could see the village square below.

  The mob filled it, up to a narrow platform with a huge wooden post where a woman in white was bound. Her long hair—silver, it seemed, for it sparkled in the midday light—was loose upon the wind. Beside her stood a man with a staff who was shouting to the crowd. Another man stood at the foot of the platform, holding a torch aloft.

  Go down there, Drest, or that woman will die, murmured Thorkill’s voice.

  Honor and protect all matrons and maidens, said Gobin. Don’t forget the code.

  Nutkin’s voice added, I know you didn’t, lass, but you need to show it now.

  If I were beside you, said Wulfric, I’d teach these villagers what happens when they harm a woman.

  If I were beside you, said Uwen, we’d make a thousand wee pieces out of all those pig-spotted rat innards.

  Drest disengaged herself from Emerick’s arm. “Tig, take care of Emerick for me. Take him somewhere safe, and hide. I’ll catch up with you in the woods.”

  “What are you doing?” Emerick grabbed for her, but she skipped out of his reach. “Drest, wait! You haven’t the strength to challenge a mob!”

  “They won’t touch me if I’m quick. Take him, Tig!”

  A look of fear and awe flashed in the boy’s face, and he slipped into Drest’s spot under Emerick’s arm.

  “Drest, come back!” Emerick shouted.

  But Drest had already dashed down the path toward the mob.

  16

  MEREWEN

  The mob roared.

  Drest pounded into it, her feet racing nearly as fast as her heart. There was no clear path between people, but Drest shoved against the first wall of bodies, her fingers fixed around Borawyn’s grip.

  “Someone’s never seen a burning before.” A man as craggy and narrow as a tree chuckled as Drest pushed past him. “Slow down, lad. We’re reading the charges. There are still a few left.”

  “I need to reach the front,” snarled Drest.

  Other villagers, hearing their words, glanced back and smiled. And to Drest’s astonishment, they moved aside to make room.

  “Are you a stranger to this town?” a woman asked. “Come to see a fine sight? I promise you won’t forget this one, lad.”

  “Neither will you,” Drest returned.

  A girl she pushed past saw the sword on Drest’s hip, and stared, blushing.

  “Ah, we’ve a young warrior among us,” said an old man, and gave Drest his place.

  Soon Drest was at the front.

  The man with the staff was in the middle of a long recitation about evil spells, snakes, and ravens, but Drest suspected he was almost done: The man with the torch was inching closer to the platform, nodding to himself as if rehearsing in his mind.

  Drest looked up and met the witch’s eyes—gray eyes in a strangely young face that was marked with scars. For an instant, staring at those eyes, Drest’s heart froze. Then she slipped her sword from its scabbard and stepped out of the crowd.

  The man with the torch saw her first and laughed. “No, no, lad, it’s my job, not yours.”

  He was still laughing as she darted past him, but he stopped when she scrambled up onto the platform.

  “Lad!” he called. “Get down from there! Do you want her to cast a spell on you?”

  The witch did not take her gaze from Drest. Close up, her eyes were like a falcon’s: sharp and impassive. She looked nothing like Wimarca. Unlike Tig’s healer, this one was truly wild.

  “Don’t move,” Drest said.

  It took only one swing to cut the witch’s ropes—Borawyn sang richly on the post—and then another to knock the torch out of its bearer’s hands. The bark and twigs at his feet immediately crackled into flame.

  Well done, lass, said Wulfric’s voice. Now shout at them. Give them a warning.

  Drest swung around to face the crowd. “Stand back unless you wish to meet my sword!”

  “You stand back too,” the witch murmured, “and follow me, unless you want to get caught.”

  The man’s staff swung down close enough to nearly strike Drest’s sword-hand. She turned and jumped after the witch’s billowing white shift.

  “This way,” said the witch, taking a narrow path between huts.

  Drest raced after her. The path opened up to a field high with young green plants that bent but did not break under their steps as they rushed through.

  The witch plunged into a thicket of trees. Branches scratched Drest’s bare arms, but she didn’t slow. Her heart was pounding almost to the point of bursting. She’d done it. She’d rescued the witch. She’d obeyed her father’s most important code. It was like one of his stories.

  The witch stopped short and pulled Drest down in a hollow near a tree. She drew a broad, leaf-covered branch over them and crouched there.

  “Don’t say a word,” she panted.

  Drest stared at the witch’s face. The silvery gray eyes were frantic yet fierce, like the fox that Drest and Uwen had once cornered in the ravine. Faint old scars patterned her skin, as plentiful as the ones that lined Grimbol’s face, but a few were the red of recent wounds.

  “I don’t know who you are, but I owe you my life.” The witch seemed about to say something else, but the villagers’ voices were louder.

  Drest held her breath, her fingers damp on Borawy
n’s grip.

  The villagers never came upon them. Soon their shouts were far away. Then everything was silent but for the wind rustling in the trees.

  The witch threw back the branch. Breathing hard, she tried to rise, but sank to her knees instead.

  “That was nearly too much for me. I must be getting old and weak.”

  Drest sat up. “Do you think you’re weak? You just escaped an angry mob.”

  The witch gave her a faint smile. “In my youth, I would have slain them all. I didn’t even think of it this time.” She rose to her feet.

  Drest remembered Emerick and the rib wound that Wimarca had not tended.

  “Are you the village healer?” Drest asked.

  The witch laughed: a low, dry sound. “Would they do that to a mere healer? No, I’m their witch. Though yesterday I was their healer.”

  Drest clambered to her feet. “Why would they do that? What’s wrong with this village?”

  “Every village is the same.” She shook her head. “A word of advice: If you know you cannot save a family from a fever, don’t even try. Murder them outright, then flee before anyone can burn you.”

  Drest backed away. She was no longer eager to ask this healer for anything, even if Tig trusted her.

  The witch noticed her movement. Bitterness flared in her eyes. “You fear me?”

  Drest straightened. “I don’t fear anyone. But you sound like a madwoman, and I don’t want your help.”

  A low laugh. “Have I offered any?”

  “Nay, and I was going to ask, but I don’t want it now.” Drest started to turn away.

  “Wait.”

  The witch’s hand flew to Drest’s shoulder and gripped tight. Drest ducked beneath it, and twisted. If she had not wrestled so often with her brothers, she would have remained caught, but with that twist she was free—and two steps away, her sword ready.

  “Don’t touch me,” she said.

  The witch started, and pointed at Borawyn’s hilt. “Where did you get that sword?”

  “It’s my brother’s. He left it for me.” An ache like a bruise had begun to emanate from the place on her shoulder where the witch had grabbed. Drest raised her chin. If she could, she’d make this wild woman afraid of her. “We’re part of the Mad Wolf’s war-band, see. Have you heard of us? We’re led by a bloodthirsty warrior named Grimbol. I’m his daughter.”

  The witch’s eyes fixed on her, unmoving, just like a hawk’s. “What is your name?”

  “Drest.” She thought of what Emerick had once said. “Like the savage Pict.”

  “Drest.” A whisper. A breath.

  Then the witch shook her head. “Put away that sword. I shan’t hurt you. I shan’t frighten you again, I promise.” A strange expression—half smile, half grimace—came to her face. “That you should be the one to save me is—is rather extraordinary.”

  Drest lowered Borawyn. “Have you heard of me? Has my legend already traveled here? In a day?”

  “I know your legend well,” said the witch slowly. “I knew your father. But I never expected to see you here.” She shook her head again. “You said you needed help. What do you need? If I can, I’ll give it to you.”

  Drest slid Borawyn back into its scabbard. “I’ve a wounded knight traveling with me, and he needs a healer. I can’t let him die, see, because my da and my brothers are being held in Faintree Castle, and the lord will take this knight for them.”

  “I haven’t my salves and tinctures on me,” said the witch, “but I’ll do what I can. Where is this knight?”

  “Hiding in the woods at the other end of the village.”

  “Show me.”

  * * *

  • • •

  They found Emerick leaning against a tree, a short distance from the village, and Tig on the path before him, his crow on his shoulder.

  “You were supposed to hide!” Drest ran up to Tig and struck him lightly. He pretended to stagger.

  “We were hiding. I just spotted you.” Tig turned to the witch and gave a low bow.

  “You, Tig,” murmured the witch, “I did not expect to find you here, either. Did you bring her to me? How did you know?”

  “How did I know? Do you mean what state you’d be in? I had no idea that we’d find you tied to a stake; I’d thought we’d find you in your hut, and you would be able to help this knight—”

  “No matter!” The witch’s voice was agitated. “Come here, Tig. I always tell you a tale when you visit. I’ve a new one for you, and I’ll whisper it quick. It’s about what healers should do to faithless villages.”

  Drest edged away and strode over to the young knight. “Da’s code: Don’t let anyone hurt a woman. Even a witch. She’s the healer too, and she’s going to help you.”

  Emerick’s jaw was taut. “You could have been slain.”

  “I’ve not been slain and I saved her, Emerick. Just me, against a whole village. Tell that to anyone who doesn’t think that a lass can fight and win.”

  Emerick’s hard expression changed to horror. “For God’s sake, Drest, don’t tell me you risked your life to prove that point!”

  He was about to say more, but the witch approached. “Are you the knight? You look more like a washed-up magpie. Where are you hurt?”

  Emerick snorted, but then he raised a corner of his tunic to reveal the bloody bandage around his ribs.

  The witch winced. “I can’t help with that. I haven’t healed battle wounds in years, and that—I would need yarrow, thornapple, and agrimony. And I have nothing.” Her eyes traveled up and down Emerick’s figure. “But you, my friend, you’re young and strong. I’ve no doubt that you’ll reach the castle alive.”

  “Aye, he’s managed,” Drest said, “but he’s in awful pain.”

  A cruel smile flashed on the witch’s face. “Everyone deserves a little pain. Especially a knight from Faintree Castle.” She turned to Drest. The smile faded. “I’m sorry. I would help you if I could.”

  “If you won’t help him,” Drest muttered, “I’d like to see you give a wee bit of pain to the bandit who’s following me. But I’d rather you help Emerick.”

  “A bandit’s following you?”

  From Tig’s shoulder, Mordag gave a harsh creea.

  “Someone’s coming.” Tig squinted down the path, then pointed. “I see torches.”

  With a low curse, the witch rushed up to the woods and pushed through a cluster of young alders to reveal a narrow opening between the trees behind. “All of you, go down this path. No one will see you on it. Go as fast as you can.”

  Grumbling under her breath, Drest marched to the parting between the trees, but stopped when she had stepped past it.

  “I just saved your life. You owe me something. I’ll come back one day and ask for it, but what’s your name? So I can find you.”

  The witch’s eyes narrowed. “You saved my life and you may take my name for it. It’s Merewen. Now be gone!”

  Merewen. Something about that name called to a memory in Drest’s mind. But all was foggy, and Tig was already on the path, and Emerick was tugging at her.

  “Come with us, Merewen!” Tig called. “Forget that talk about faithless villagers!”

  The witch shook her head. “I cannot forget, not after what they’ve done. They shall not forget, either.”

  The young alders swished back into place.

  “What’s she about to do?” said Drest. “Do I need to save her life again?”

  Pulling at Emerick, Tig dragged them both on. “She’s going to try to burn the village—and it’s better if we just go now.”

  “Is she mad? They just tried to burn her—”

  “Hurry!”

  Tig let Emerick go and started off at a run down the path ahead of them. Drest had to grab the young knight by herself to follow.

  He
r heart was pounding with anger. She wished she had room to run, to fly down the path as she had sprinted on the headland. But she couldn’t, not with Emerick’s weight upon her shoulder. And so Drest focused on her steps, counting them to calm down. After the twenty-fifth, she glanced back.

  Trees and nothing else, not even a trace of the path, stood behind them, as if the growth had sprung up at their feet as they had walked.

  * * *

  • • •

  Dark clouds swept in, shadowing the path. Tig continued to lead, his pace swift.

  “I know we had to flee the villagers,” Drest grumbled, “but that witch owed me more than her name.”

  “You’re very lucky,” Tig said over his shoulder. “A witch like her—and indeed, that’s what she is—doesn’t take kindly to demands. You shouldn’t have spoken to her like that.”

  “Why? Am I not as good as she?”

  “Yes, of course you are, but there are people in this world, Drest, who don’t follow the basic tenets of human kindness. It’s best not to cross them.”

  “I only asked for help.” Drest sighed. “We have four days, and we wasted half of one to go to Soggyweald and save her life.”

  “Tig,” said Emerick, “do you know how close we are to Launceford?”

  “Is that the nearest town to Faintree Castle? The market town? I was there once, but by horse. By foot from here—two days, perhaps?”

  They trudged on in silence. Clouds hid the sun. All at once, Drest wanted to be out of the woods and on the road.

  She glanced back again. The trees and bushes that had sprung up behind them seemed as dense and real as ever. But she noticed something strange: The path was turning. They were subtle turns, but each new turn hid the one behind it.

  And then she smelled it: a faint whiff of smoke. But it was not like the smoke that rose from the bonfire on the headland. This smoke was bitter with an undercurrent of mud—a smell like burning thatch.

  17

  THE WITCH’S SON

  At last, they emerged from Merewen’s secret path onto the road. Though she was in the open air again, Drest was tense, as if she could still feel the witch’s grip on her shoulder. She was certain that they had barely drawn ahead of Phearsham Ridge. The delay in Soggyweald had been for nothing.