by Diane Magras
Drest tensed. The small figures were closer now to Tig. “You’ll have to lean against this wall. Tig needs my help.”
“Are you mad, Drest? They surely have knives, and—look at you, you’re shaking.”
“I promised Tig I’d protect him.”
Drest staggered out from the shadows, the sword on her hip much heavier than it had ever been.
The figures turned toward her movement.
Girls. Young, as she had been not long ago.
Drest walked toward them as if she were approaching a pair of fox kits. Their long tunics were tattered, their faces speckled with dirt, and their hair snarled and tangled.
They were watching her with wide eyes.
As if she were a legend come to life.
The Mad Wolf’s daughter crouched in the dirt before them. “You there. I wonder if you know about stocks and how to break them to pieces, for that’s what I intend to do.”
The two children whispered to each other.
“I bet you’d like to see that,” Drest said. “People you’ve loved have been trapped in those stocks, have they not? Perhaps you’d like to see those stocks ripped apart and wrecked forever.” Drest nodded toward the center of the square. “That lad is my friend. Will you help me free him?”
They whispered again. One of the girls crept closer.
“What shall we do?”
In those four words, eagerness blossomed—and not just eagerness, but hope. The words revealed a lifetime of humiliation, of need and want and unfair punishment. Drest heard that as clearly as if the children had told her of the life they led in the alleys of Launceford. Seeing the stocks destroyed before their own eyes would prove that life could change.
Drest pointed at Emerick, a bent figure in the distance. “My other friend across the road is keeping watch for us. Come with me and let’s think how to free my lad. I’d like to chop that wood in two, but I don’t want to hurt him.”
“You’d better do it quickly,” said the girl who had stayed back. “They’re fetching a river boy as guard.”
Drest didn’t ask what a river boy was; she had an uneasy feeling that one would not be a welcome companion for Tig.
Without looking to see if the girls were following, Drest strode up to the stocks.
Tig cocked his head as best as he could. “You’re back. With reinforcements.”
“Aye, I promised, did I not?” Drest drew Borawyn. “We’re going to free you now, aren’t we, lasses?”
She turned then, and found the girls behind her. Their faces shone in the faint moonlight, gazing with wonder upon her sword.
“Are you a girl?” one of them said.
“Aye, just like you.”
“You’re allowed to have a sword?”
“Aye; my brothers trained me to use it. But I know how to use it in battle, see, not against a wooden brute like this. Do you have an idea of how I can chop it?”
The girls dashed up to the stocks and ran their hands over the wood.
“Chop here,” one of the girls said, pointing a dirty finger at Tig’s wrist. “The wood is thin.”
“But she’ll cut off her friend’s hand,” said the other, “you pignut.”
“Nay, you rotten egg, the wood is thin, so she could chop it quick.”
“You’re both right,” Drest said. “What do you think, Tig?”
The boy rattled his wrists against the holes that held them. “None of this feels weak. It was designed to hold men like your brothers. But the hinges—and your sword—can’t steel cut through other metals?”
Instantly, the two girls went to the metal clasps and ran their fingers over them. “This one first,” said each of them, stroking her chosen clasp. “This one.”
Drest took a deep breath. She would have to hold the sword steady, and her aim would have to be perfect.
“Look at your other friend,” whispered one of the girls.
Drest turned.
Emerick was gesturing for her to come back.
“Someone’s coming,” said the other. Both looked to Drest, their eyes doubtful.
“Then do it,” said Tig. “Do it now.”
Drest stood back. Clutching the grip with both hands, she swung Borawyn up, around, and down with all her strength.
The tiny metal hinge snapped off and clinked to the ground.
Drest looked at Emerick again. His gestures were more frantic.
“Quickly, Drest!” said Tig. “The other!”
With a grunt, she swung her sword.
The second hinge broke free at the touch of the blade.
The girls rushed up to the stocks and lifted the loose piece of wood that held Tig’s neck and wrists.
Drest sheathed her sword as Tig scrambled out. She turned to the girls. “Take as much wood as you can carry so they can’t easily build this again, and run. Tell your family this was a gift—from Drest, the Mad Wolf’s daughter.”
They scattered: the girls to the shadows, each with her arms filled with pieces of wood; and Drest and Tig to where Emerick was nervously waiting.
“We must flee,” said Emerick. “Someone’s coming.”
The man in green was on the road with a tall boy at his side.
Drest drew Emerick’s arm over her shoulders and she and Tig pulled him into the alley. They ducked between houses, into another alley, and kept going like that until grass replaced the houses and the town’s stone wall stood before them. Tracing her way through the weeds, Drest followed that wall until the houses became sparse and she saw the iron gates ahead.
They were shut. A guard stood in their shadows, watching the road beyond.
Any moment, someone would find the broken stocks. A call would sound. A hunt would begin. Any moment, they’d be caught.
Then Drest heard it: a faint trickle of water.
She led them through the high grass, parallel to the wall, the sound growing louder, until she saw a rush of familiar dark movement at the bottom of the stone wall.
“A hole,” Drest said. “There’s a drain hole under that wall, and the water is rushing through. Emerick, can you swim?”
“Not with these wounds.”
“But it’s our only way out. We have to try.”
A man’s voice bellowed from the marketplace. Another answered.
Drest and Tig tore through the grass, dragging Emerick. More voices shouted beyond the houses, matching the noise of the water as Drest drew up to the wall.
“Wait here,” Drest whispered to Emerick. “Come, Tig. You go first.”
She slipped into the icy water, pulling the boy after her. It was slimy and filthy. She couldn’t see the hole, but she could feel the rush of water through it, and ducked under to find the edges.
The hole was ragged, rough with broken stones, but large, easily large enough for a boy and perhaps even large enough for a man.
“Tig, can you swim?”
The boy winced, and shook his head.
Drest seized his hand. “Hold on for your life, then.”
She ducked deep, pulling Tig through.
The other side shot the water out into a stagnant moat. Drest swam hard with one arm, drawing a coughing Tig through the water beside her with the other. She swam six strong strokes and pushed the lad to the opposite bank, where he scrambled up. The moon shone over the empty road behind him and the gates in the other direction.
“Keep low and quiet,” Drest said, then slid back into the moat.
It took greater effort to swim against the pouring water. Drest had to grasp the edges of the hole to pull herself through. Emerick was already in the water, wading up to his chest, his hand against the stones above his head.
“They’re coming, Drest. They’re coming along the wall.”
“Then hold your breath. Ready?”
Emerick no
dded, and inhaled.
Drest pulled him down, under the water, into the hole, and guided his head and shoulders through. The wounded man sank in the moat on the other side. Drest dove after him. She clutched his good arm and swam.
Six strokes again, and they were at the bank. Tig helped her haul Emerick up and to his feet. And together they stumbled, away from the gatehouse, away from the town.
27
THE WITCH’S GIFT
“Can we stop?”
The wind tore away Emerick’s words, but Drest heard them—barely.
“Aye,” she said. “We’re far enough now.”
The three halted, breathing hard, still soaked from the moat. The road hung black and empty around them. Gusts of icy air whipped across the moonlit meadows on either side, chilling them to their bones.
“Might we have a fire?” Tig said, his jaw shaking. “It would make everything so cozy.”
Drest eased Emerick to the ground while Tig gathered twigs for tinder. She sank to her knees before the small pile and with trembling hands took her steel piece from her pouch.
“Here.” Tig handed her a stone. “This one’s nice.”
Emerick lay on his back, his fists clenched against his shivers, while Drest raked her chunk of steel against the stone. A few sparks fell, but the wind gusted and blew them out. She leaned over the twigs and tried once more.
A single spark fell, and widened into flame. In seconds, the tinder began to burn.
“Well done.” Tig yawned, and curled up beside Emerick.
Drest added more sticks. When the fire was high, she lay down with her friends, her legs and shoulders aching.
She needed to sleep. Yet she had only one more day—two if that pilgrim was right. Her father and brothers were waiting.
Scraps of images filled her head: Jupp’s tormented eyes; those frightened, eager children; Tig’s furious face in the stocks. And Emerick, his eyes fixed on Jupp, his voice low and steady, somehow at that moment nobler than she could have ever imagined.
Drest looked up. The road stretched empty behind her like the sea. The sea, the headland, and her father too—all seemed so far away.
She closed her eyes, but woke in what seemed to be only seconds later. The fire had snuffed itself out, leaving behind a wispy trail of smoke; and the silver-white moon had risen above the black-tipped trees at the edge of the meadows.
Then she heard it: hooves on the road from Launceford.
Drest started. Someone was coming after them on a horse.
She looked at her companions. Tig was limp with sleep, and Emerick was shuddering with every breath. They were in no state to flee, and the meadows gave them no place to hide. She could only hope that the rider would not notice them in the intermittent moonlight, or would see them only as a bundle of ragged travelers.
The hoofbeats were getting close.
Drest scrambled to her feet and slid Borawyn from its scabbard.
A cloud shifted away from the moon, lighting the road, and she saw the rider who was drawing near: a black-cloaked figure on the massive, antlered stag.
Merewen. Drest lowered her sword with a rush of relief.
The stag slowed, drew even with her, then stopped.
Gray eyes gazed down at her from under the shadowing hood.
“I saw your bandit on the road, in the other direction,” said the witch softly, “and knew you would be here, or slain in Launceford. There was no trace of you in town, but there was a story: of a thief, an escape, and a grubby youth with a sword.”
“Aye,” said Drest, “that was Tig and me. He didn’t steal anything.”
“Of course he didn’t; that’s not his way. But I think I know your way. You frightened that bandit for good, didn’t you. Your father would be proud.”
She gazed in silence upon Drest, then turned around and untied a bound black cloak from her stag.
“Here, this is for you. Have you any idea, Drest, of what lies ahead?”
Drest sheathed her sword and took the bundle. “I’ve already told you I’m not afraid of anything.”
“Perhaps you should be. Do you know what a castle is? A mouth of doom for people like us. A sword flashing. Your life cut down before you feel the blade. If you continue on this journey, you will see that for yourself.”
Drest stiffened. “Da wouldn’t fall. And I won’t, either.”
“Your father, child, is mortal. He is as vulnerable to a sword as anyone. And so are you. Think carefully. Do you wish to go on? You will die if you do.”
“I don’t plan on dying.” Drest set her jaw, and tried to hold in her shiver. “I’ve come this far, and I’m not about to turn back. I thank you for the cloak, but I don’t want your advice.”
The witch gazed at her, her eyes gleaming in the light of the moon. “I wonder—you are so strong. Could that castle be something else for you?” A faint smile came to her face. “I thought I’d help you, but you don’t need my help, do you. You never did.”
The witch leaned over and reached out her hand. It curved around Drest’s chin and held her, a gesture both warm and soft.
“I have a boon to ask: Remember me kindly, Drest, as but a witch who tried to help you on your way.”
Merewen drew back.
“Good-bye. And good luck.”
The stag turned toward Launceford and broke into a trot. Soon it was a run, and they seemed to be flying: back up the road, then into the meadow, and then they were gone.
A pang filled Drest as she watched the witch disappear. Then she shook herself and carried the bundle back to Emerick and Tig. As she slipped it from its rope and began to unfold it, the pang disappeared.
Four round, flat loaves of hearth bread appeared after the first fold, strips of smoked meat between them. After another, a stone jug. After the third, a roasted hen, blackened by a fire. After that, fold after fold of the cloak itself—a huge woolen cloak that would cover all three of them.
The witch must have stolen it all in Launceford.
Drest woke her friends. She did not tell them of Merewen’s strange words, only that she’d come with food for them, and they ate, tearing at the bread and meat like starving animals. They took turns drinking new ale, sweet and cold, from the jug. Soon nothing was left but stains on the cloak.
“Let us doze for another hour,” Emerick said. “I pray that this gift will give us the strength to walk for the rest of the night. We are very nearly there.”
He was pale, however, despite his smile.
“It will take us just a night?”
“We’ll find a crossroads ahead, and by that point it is only an hour by horse to the castle. Even with my slow steps, if we leave soon, we’ll be there just past dawn.”
“Nay, but it’s good that we’re careful,” said Drest. “We shouldn’t rush.” But what she meant was that, for the first time, she could not rush. Merewen’s words had shaken her. For the first time, she was afraid.
* * *
• • •
That night, it began to rain.
the sixth day
28
THE CROSSROADS
Drest woke to a thunderclap and a rush of water, as if a bucket had been emptied over her head. She and Tig scrambled to their feet.
“It’s only rain,” Tig said lightly, water streaming down his face. “Seems like a good time to keep going.”
Drest pulled up the cloak, dislodging a pool, then ran to Emerick’s side and helped him rise. He was heavy and almost entirely limp, though his hand did close on her shoulder in an approximation of his usual way.
Drest arranged the cloak over her two companions, then ducked under too. The rain pelted down, but the wool proved solid.
“Drest?” Emerick’s head lolled against her shoulder. “I don’t know how long I’ll last.”
She hung on to him
tightly. “How is that? You said you needed only a wee sleep. You’ve had sleep. And you’ve eaten.”
“With any luck, I will make it far enough for the trade.”
Drest winced. “Nay, Emerick. I’m just taking you home. I’m not trading you. I’ll find another way to save my family.”
But how she did not know.
They walked through the rest of the night, Drest leading the way, only pausing to prop Emerick up when he started to slip. She skirted around puddles marked with ripples and swells like the sea. Mud spattered over the travelers, their boots became heavy with water, and the rain never stopped.
And then, as the foggy length of morning lightened the sky, they came to a tall gray stone, chiseled with writing. A firmly packed road extended on either side.
“A milestone,” said Tig. “We must be at the crossroads.”
Emerick could barely nod.
All that way, Drest hadn’t worried about keeping Emerick alive. He had lasted as she would have expected a knight to last. But now she wondered how dire his wounds truly were: from the red-faced knights’ blows, from Jupp’s kick, from the journey itself. Far from the obvious cuts and stabs, other wounds could be festering inside of him.
For the first time, Emerick’s death on the road seemed a possibility.
Memories of their journey flashed through her mind: his frowning face, his petty insults, the moment they had started to truly work together, his tight embrace after he had saved her from Jupp. She was sure that something bound them now. As Drest walked forward in the pounding rain, she felt that clearly.
* * *
• • •
A man with a mule tramped past. Four pilgrims huddled by soon after. Then a workhorse drawing a covered wagon plodded up behind them.
“Tig, hold Emerick.” Drest wiggled out from under the cloak. In an instant she was in front of the horse, waving madly.
The driver, an old man with a blanket over his head, pulled his horse to a stop. His gaze flicked from Emerick and Tig to Drest in the pouring rain.
“I beg your pardon,” Drest bellowed, her voice cracked and loud, “but my wounded friend is of Lord Faintree’s castle and needs to get there soon. If he walks on this road any longer, he’ll die.”
