The Mad Wolf's Daughter

by Diane Magras

  Nay, not nothing, murmured Thorkill’s voice. You saved a woman, after all.

  A horrible woman, thought Drest. The code shouldn’t exist for women like her.

  They walked on past groves of ash and aspen, then bogs and dead trees, then more living woods. Drest’s mood grew ever bleaker, as if with the sky, which became dark from a brewing storm that never broke. Doggedly, Drest kept on, her footsteps pounding a rhythm: four days, four days, four days. When Emerick stumbled and lifted his arm, she realized that her entire back was damp with sweat.

  “May we stop and eat?” Emerick said. “We’ve walked since dawn.”

  “We haven’t time to stop,” muttered Drest, but her mouth was dry and her throat felt hollow.

  They stopped on the side of the road and Tig handed around two more hearth breads, two dried trout, and a clay flask of sweet ale. The bread wasn’t as soft as it had been before and the fish was too salty, but Drest bolted down both.

  “And that,” said Tig when they were done, “is the last of our food. I’m sorry we packed so little; I told Idony we’d get more in Soggyweald.”

  Emerick lay down on the road. “I wish you’d said that before; we could have saved some.”

  “We all needed it,” Tig said gently, “perhaps more than you think.”

  Drest stood over the young knight’s outstretched figure. “Don’t fall asleep. We’ve only three days after today.”

  And at those words, she felt sick.

  Drest wandered aimlessly toward the bend in the road. The landscape was starting to change. Ahead of her, everything looked bare: The woods were thin and the land around them empty and green but for copses of oaks. The air was stagnant and thick.

  Drest closed her eyes. If only those fields were the sea. The smell of brine and wet stones, the crisp whip of the shore wind—she longed for them as with a whole new thirst.

  Tig drifted to her side, his crow on his arm. “That was very brave, what you did for Merewen. I’ve heard many stories of witches burned at the stake, but never one that ended with a rescue. You really are a legend.”

  Drest looked up and shrugged. “My da and brothers are all legends; I’m no different from them.” For the first time, it was true; she had just proved it.

  But Tig’s next words doused that feeling: “Oh, you’re different. I’ve heard the legends of your family, and they’re not like what yours is going to be.” He gave a short laugh. “They’re like what Merewen is known for.”

  “What’s she known for? I’ve never heard of her.”

  “You wouldn’t have. Only other witches know her legends, and they keep them quiet.”

  “How do you know her legends, then?”

  Tig’s eyes sparkled. “What if I told you that I might be a witch myself? That my mother was a witch, that I know the ways of witches and their stories and need only a quest to make my own?”

  On his shoulder, Mordag gave a grumbling creea.

  “I only know about sea witches, and they’re really only seals.” But Drest didn’t take her eyes off the boy. “Is what you said true, or are you mocking me?”

  Tig’s grin disappeared. “I’d never mock you. I’d mock the people who mocked you. I’d mock them to misery. No, Drest, I was just telling you what I am.”

  She didn’t know what to say. She looked up into the cloudy sky, where a layer of mist hung above the world.

  “You’re not at all curious?”

  Drest looked back at the boy. “I don’t know what to think of it. Should I be afraid of you? I was afraid of Merewen.” She could admit that now, out on the road.

  Tig shook his head. “What’s the difference between a witch and a warrior? Or a knight, for that matter. None. We’re all the same, if you take away our trappings.”

  “Birth; that’s the difference. I was born a warrior, see.”

  “You were born a maiden, but you’re not like Idony, nor the lady in Emerick’s story.”

  “Aye, but I was born a warrior too. That part—my da’s part—is stronger in me. It’s like Emerick—he was born to be a knight, but he’s not like a knight, is he? Something else is strong in him.”

  “You’re very good to him,” Tig said softly. “He is your enemy, is he not?”

  “Of course I’m good to him,” Drest said. “I can’t have him die, can I? Besides, we can’t be enemies, not when we’re traveling together like this. Later, maybe, but I hope not.” She glanced over at the young knight lying on the road a short distance from them. “I know I’m not supposed to, but I like him.”

  “So do I.”

  They stood together, watching Emerick’s chest rise and fall, the afternoon heavy and warm around them.

  “Where’s your mother?” Drest suddenly turned to Tig. “You just said she’s a witch. If that’s true, then she must be a healer, and she could help me keep Emerick alive by fixing that rib wound. Is she on our way?”

  Tig snorted. “No, she isn’t, and no, she can’t help us. She’s dead.”

  “She wasn’t—she wasn’t burned, was she?”

  Mordag leaned over and nuzzled against Tig’s jaw. Absently, he stroked her head.

  “No, our village hanged her.”

  A shock passed down Drest’s spine, as distinct as a finger of ice.

  “Did you go after them?” she managed to get out.

  “I was but six years old, Drest.” He paused, then went on coolly, “She was a healer. They did to her what most towns do when a healer fails.”

  “How does a healer fail?”

  “Don’t you know? My mother always said she was lucky; she never had to care for anyone who was truly ill. Until one old woman was, and died, and her husband never forgave my mother. That’s how a healer fails.”

  Softly, he told her more: of other illnesses, other deaths. Then one day, Otto the brewer, who had always been a friend, bound Tig to a staff and thrust it in a hole in the middle of the town square. His young son had become ill with fever. So Otto went to Elinor, Tig’s mother, and told her that if she did not save his son, he would hang hers. Elinor insisted they free Tig, or she would never heal anyone again. Otto refused. His boy died that night. The villagers hanged Elinor at dawn. Despite Otto’s threat, no one could bear to hang Tig. They took him deep into the woods and abandoned him instead. It was winter, and he would have died if Wimarca had not found him the next day and brought him back to Phearsham Ridge.

  The boy was silent, his face grim.

  “What’s your village called?” Drest asked. “And where is it?”

  “Why do you want to know? For vengeance? You’d be too late; Caervaerglom is empty now.”

  “You’ve been back?”

  “No,” Tig said quickly. “Wimarca and Arnulf went. To see if they had a new healer, and to warn her. But no one was left in the town when they got there. Everyone had died from fever, or fled. Too bad they gave up my mother; she could have healed at least some of them.”

  Abruptly, the boy stopped.

  “There, a mirthful story to round out our day. We should be off if you don’t want to waste more time. We don’t want all your family to die too.”

  Drest flinched, pricked by Tig’s tone, then stomped over to the young knight.

  “Get up, Emerick. I’m sorry, but we’ve got to go.”

  The young knight sighed. “We have three days.”

  “Aye, only three. Come on. Give me your arm.”

  He grumbled, and was too stiff to rise without help from both Tig and Drest, but at last they had him on his feet.

  “We can stop again at the next town—but for food, not sleep,” Drest said. “Tig, can you do that?”

  The boy nodded. “I can walk all night.”

  “I can’t,” groaned Emerick. “I can barely walk as it is.”

  “I know you can walk. Your wounds are h
ardly oozing. Come on, Emerick. Show me what a knight can do, or we’ll think you’re less than a wee lass from the headland.”

  Emerick cast her an icy look. “Do you think a challenge like that will work?”

  “Nay, but I thought I’d try. Come on, you maggot-headed squid. Start walking, you craven mass of muddy hose.”

  “Has it ever occurred to you to speak sweetly to get your way?”

  “Nay. Are you ready?”

  Emerick sighed and adjusted his grip on her shoulder.

  Their pace had only begun to smooth out when Mordag rose from Tig’s arm and shot above the road, disappearing around the bend. Tig abruptly stopped.

  “What is it?” Drest said.

  The road was silent. Woods had crowded both sides again, and the trees were silent too.

  Suddenly, Mordag’s caw echoed through the growing dark.

  “It’s your bandit.” Tig frowned. “When she calls like that—it means an enemy is near.”

  Drest set her hand on Borawyn’s wide pommel.

  Nay, lass, murmured Gobin’s voice. This is no time to wield your sword.

  You’d better hide, said Nutkin. Be like the barnacle, just as Da said.

  A sudden despair swamped Drest. It was as if the whole world had been slain around them—all the villagers of Soggyweald, Tig’s mother, and her father and brothers too, and only the three of them on the road and the bandit were left.

  The boy raised his eyes to Drest’s and gazed at her intently, as if he could see her thoughts.

  “You’ll get to your family in time,” Tig said. “That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Now go on, and let me be useful.”

  18

  THE STORY OF THE MAD WOLF

  Drest watched Tig slip out from under Emerick’s arm and start toward the bend. Mordag was flying back.

  “Be careful,” called Emerick.

  “Go on,” said the boy without turning around, holding out his arm for Mordag to land. “I’ll find you when I’m done.”

  Done doing what? A terrible foreboding pricked at Drest, and at that moment, more than anything, she didn’t want to see Tig walk around that bend.

  But he did, and was gone, and Emerick was pulling her back along their path.

  Night fell as they walked. Drest took as much of Emerick’s weight as she could to help him swing along. Her back was soon hot and damp against the chill.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t let you rest, but if we keep on, I know we’ll reach my da,” Drest said at last. They had walked a long stretch in the dark without speaking. She had been thinking of Tig, and wondering where he was.

  “Your da,” Emerick murmured. “It’s still strange for me to hear Grimbol spoken of as anyone’s da.” He glanced at Drest and then was silent, as if weighing what he was about to say. “Did you know that your father once served in the old Lord Faintree’s army?”

  Drest almost stumbled. “I know he fought alongside knights, but he never said whose. Are you sure?”

  “He was a famous man-at-arms, known to show great strength and courage in battle. Grimbol the Savage, they called him.”

  “That’s it; that’s my da.” That explained why Wulfric’s old shield bore the castle’s tree. “Why did Da leave the army? He never told us.”

  “The old Lord Faintree had one story,” Emerick said slowly. “Your father disappeared in the middle of a battle, then went to the old lord when all the fighting was over with a story of having lain wounded. The old lord said it was a lie, that Grimbol had abandoned the field, and shunned him. Your father stayed with the army on the march to the castle, but when they reached it, the old lord turned him away for cowardice.”

  Drest was quiet. None of that sounded like her father: from being wounded to being called a coward.

  “But other knights told another story: that Grimbol had been gravely wounded and was lucky to have lived. He’d taken a fierce blow to save Sir Oswyn, my uncle, and had lain for several hours unconscious while the battle raged around him. When he woke, the battle was done. That he’d served with honor—he knew that as well as anyone. So he staggered to the old lord’s tent, expecting not only balm for his wounds but praise for his bravery and the important life he’d saved, but instead received the old lord’s scorn. The rest of the story is the same.”

  “Was Sir Oswyn his battle-mate? A rotten battle-mate if he didn’t help my da when he needed it.” Drest shook her head. “And why did the old Lord Faintree do that? Did you not just say my da was a good warrior?”

  “I’ve wondered why. All I can think is that perhaps Grimbol was too good. Perhaps the old lord feared his strength. Perhaps he suspected that Grimbol was more faithful to another man—to Oswyn—and would stand for Oswyn if he ever wished to challenge the old lord. There, I’ve told something good about your father.”

  Drest listened to the rhythm of their step. “Did you fight in that battle?”

  “That was many years ago. I was but a child.”

  “Did you ever meet my da?”

  Emerick waited before answering. “When I was small.”

  “Did you fight him?”

  “Unlike you, I don’t rush blindly into battle when I haven’t a chance. No, I gave him an apple.”

  Drest laughed. “Did you really?”

  “Celestria told me to. She was afraid she’d be beaten if she did it herself; she was not to talk with the men-at-arms, and certainly not Grimbol. She was thirteen then, nine years my senior, and I obeyed her every wish.”

  Drest looked up at Emerick. A strange gentleness had crept over his face.

  “I was terrified of Grimbol; we had all heard stories of him. I was shaking as I handed him the apple and recited Celestria’s words.”

  “What did he do?”

  Emerick was quiet. “He knelt beside me and asked if I wanted to share it.”

  Drest grinned. “Was it a good apple?”

  “I don’t know; I was far too scared to take the half he cut for me.”

  “You should have.”

  Emerick did not return her smile. “Celestria loved Grimbol. She would haunt the places where he might go and they would talk together in corners of the bailey by the wall. I sometimes followed them. When the old lord refused Grimbol and sent him away, Celestria was sick with grief. For months, she sent word for him to return, sent it with every merchant, bard, pilgrim, and beggar who came to the castle, praying her messages would reach him. For months, she was all but mad.” Emerick’s voice had grown thick. “That he could murder a lass who loved him so dearly, all for revenge against her father, showed us the truth: that he was savage throughout, a true wolf in human form.”

  Drest stopped walking. “If she loved him, he’d never hurt her. It’s not just the code, but the way my da is. Someone’s lied to you, like I said.”

  Emerick’s face was damp with exhaustion and emotion. “Sir Maldred would never lie; he was the one knight who escaped your father, the one knight who went to Celestria’s defense and lived.”

  “He must have lied,” Drest insisted. “Or someone else murdered her and ran off without your Sir Maldred seeing him.”

  “Ran off the cliffs into the raging sea? That’s what Grimbol did. Who else do you know who can swim like your father?”

  “Even my da can’t swim in a raging sea! There had to be a boat, and someone else—”

  “How can you keep denying it? Your father murdered a young maiden. Perhaps his code came after, out of guilt, but he was a monster then.”

  They stood apart in the middle of the road, breathing hard. Emerick was slumping, but she wasn’t about to help him.

  Suddenly, a clatter came up the road behind them: the sound of running boots.

  It was Tig, pale-faced and panting, a shadowy figure in the darkness. As he drew close, Drest saw that his cloak was gone and the collar of
his tunic was torn.

  Mordag—a sound of wings and a shape in the sky—flew above his head, then swooped over the trees and landed on a branch not far from the road.

  “I’m sorry,” Tig gasped. “I’ve failed. And now we have to hide.”

  19

  THE STAG

  Drest and Tig took their places beneath Emerick’s arms, and the three lurched across the empty road and crashed into the woods. They made no attempt to conceal the sounds of their steps.

  “Here!” Tig drew up short beside an ancient pine with branches that seemed to reach beyond the midnight sky.

  “Must we climb that?” Emerick moaned.

  Tig pointed to a fallen branch as wide as a cloak, strewn with moss. Struggling, he tried to lift it. “Help me, Drest!”

  She let Emerick go and with both hands lifted the front of the branch, tearing up a hollow in the soil.

  “There,” Drest said. “Both of you, crawl in. Quick.”

  Emerick sank to the ground and slid under the branch with a groan. Tig climbed after him, leaving space for Drest. She crawled between them and lowered the branch to rest against her shoulders. A second later, Mordag’s caw exploded above them.

  A footstep creaked on the twigs close by. There was quiet, then the sound of boots scraping bark: The bandit was climbing the tree. Those sounds became distant, but grew louder as he returned. His steps circled, and again he stopped before the hollow where they hid.

  “Come on, girl, I’m tired of this. Come out and let’s have a talk. You owe me that much. Ask your father why.”

  Ask Da? Drest thought. Grimbol had always spoken harshly of bandits, called them worthless rats with no sense of loyalty. Drest shuddered to think of what he must have done for the bandit to go to such pains to hunt her.

  A whimper came up from Drest’s throat, and she could not fully stifle it.