by Diane Magras
Carefully, Drest slipped the blade free. Her heart pounding, her fingertips slippery, she pivoted the blade back bit by bit, until at last it touched the rope, then sank it into the fibers.
The ropes loosened on her wrists. In the next instant, they were gone, and the twisting strands and their heavy knot disappeared into the darkness below with a splash.
“Would you look at her,” Gobin said. “She’s freed herself. Our Drest has a knife.”
Drest held the ring with one hand, the dagger with the other, and looked out over her family. Their faces glowed with pride and hope. They were liars, cheaters, and brutes, but all of the best kind.
And she was one of them.
“There’s my lass,” Grimbol said. “Can you climb across to me? Cut my ropes and I’ll open my trap. Then I’ll open the rest of them from outside.”
“Don’t be frightened, Drest,” Wulfric called. “You’re a brave lass.” He nodded encouragingly—just as he had when he’d been the first to show her how to hold a sword.
“These walls will be nothing to you. You’ll creep upon them like a spider,” said Nutkin, who had stood beneath the sea cliff and caught her when she was learning to climb.
Thorkill leaned forward. “Drest, lass, remember how you strung my bow this winter? No one thought you could, yet you did. You can do this just as well.”
“You can do it, Drest,” Uwen said. “Do it quickly before you lose courage.”
“Drest will never lose courage.” Gobin gave Drest a smile—the radiant smile that he’d always given her when he’d come home from wars. “Go on, Drest. Show us what you can do.”
Drest took a deep breath, and laughed. “You’re very kind, lads, but I’ve no doubt that I can do this.” She was about to climb to Gobin’s ring on her way to her father’s, but stopped and looked up to the wooden trap above her own head. “How will you open the trap, Da?”
“Your dagger, lass. The trap is closed with but a bar in two slots. I’ll push it up with the blade.”
“Why don’t I do it here with mine?” With her feet firm in their hold and one hand on her ring, Drest reached up. She had seen the bar in the trap from the outside: a flat metal bolt as long as her arm that extended across the center of the wooden door that now lay above her head. Light shone around the edges of that door, interrupted by the bar in two places on either side. The bar was resting in two slots, Grimbol had said, so she would need shove it up. But how? From one end? From the other?
From both, Drest realized, one at a time.
She stuck her dagger’s point in the crack below the bar closest to her head, and pushed up.
“Your arm isn’t strong enough,” her father said. “Don’t even try. You’ll drop your knife.”
Drest slipped out her knife and stuck it in the crack across the door, as far as her arm would reach, and pushed. “You don’t know me well if you think that.”
She brought the blade back, and jostled the point of the bar nearest to her again, then its other side.
And again.
And again.
And then—the bar scraped, and moved, and the trapdoor seemed to spring up.
“I’ve done it,” Drest said. “Now I push?”
“Put your dagger where it’s safe,” called Grimbol, “and aye, reach up to the trap and push. Watch for the guard.”
Drest carefully bit the dagger’s grip. With her jaws tight, she drove her free hand against the trap.
The wooden door flew open, the iron ring on its outside banging against the stone floor.
Drest crawled out, blinking in the light from the wall torches, the dagger’s grip still clenched between her jaws.
A guard in chain mail was leaning against the wall, his eyes wide and fixed upon her.
Drest sprang to the next trap on the floor. On her knees, she thrust up its bar and yanked on its ring to tear it open, then reached down. With one hand, she grabbed Gobin’s wrist, and with the other slashed his ropes.
The guard drew his sword.
Gobin slipped out and rose at once into a sinister phantom shape between Drest and the guard. “Free Nutkin,” her brother murmured. “Then run to the end and free Da.”
Drest pushed up the bar on Nutkin’s trap, flung open the door, and cut her brother’s ropes. She hadn’t even moved aside when he sprang out.
The twins threw themselves at the guard, who by that point was running away.
Drest ran to the last trap. Her hands were shaking, but she soon had the bar out, the hatch raised.
“Good lass,” said Grimbol, his fierce eyes upon hers. “As quick as you can now.”
There was a shout in the distance behind her, and footsteps pounding on stone.
Drest cut her father’s ropes and slid aside as the Mad Wolf crawled out.
Soon Thorkill, Wulfric, and Uwen were free. Grimbol stood in the middle of the hall.
“They’re coming for us, lads. Make yourselves ready, but don’t fight if you can avoid it; we’ve none of us eaten in days, and we’re weak as snails.” He nodded at each of his sons. “Join a battle-mate and spread all over this castle. Find your way out: through windows and down walls. Fetch cloaks or cloths or furs to hide your faces. Now go, lads, and we’ll meet in the wood by the sea.” He nodded at Wulfric. “You take Drest.” The Mad Wolf grabbed his daughter in a crushing embrace, then slipped down the hall on silent feet.
The twins followed their father, then Thorkill with Uwen at his side. Drest watched them, her stomach filled with tingling pinches of worry.
“You come with me,” Wulfric said. “You’re my battle-mate today.”
A muffled cry sounded from down the hallway, then silence.
Wulfric turned to the first stairway. Drest followed him up the stone steps, but faltered, her knees suddenly weak.
Her brother looked back. His fearsome face softened. “Are you feeling unsteady, lass? I’m here with you. I won’t let anything hurt you.”
Drest had imagined his presence by her side so often that it seemed unreal to have him there at last. Though she knew they had to hurry, Drest couldn’t help herself; she grabbed her enormous brother as high as she could reach, and hugged him. His strong arms closed over her back and his corded beard tickled her cheek.
“I missed you,” Drest whispered.
Wulfric’s grip tightened, and it almost seemed he would lift her from the ground. “I missed you too, lass.”
A distant clank and a muffled cry farther up the stairs told them that a pair of brothers was not far ahead.
“Blast them,” Wulfric said. “That would be the twins. Da told them not to fight. Let’s go on our way.” As he turned, he sniffed and drew his huge, rough hand beneath his nose.
31
VENGEANCE
Grimbol’s order had been to escape, but as Drest watched Wulfric disarm and then slay a guard who tried to stop their way up the stairs, a new order lodged in her mind: Find Emerick and seek her vengeance. She could imagine the young Lord Faintree, arrogant and stern, chortling over the talisman. He had made a dire mistake, and he would soon find that out.
“This castle is strange,” said Wulfric as he led the way up past the guard’s body. “There should have been a window or some other way out by now. Or a hall. If we see one, we should take it.”
“Wulfric, I need to go higher. I need to find—I need to find Borawyn.” That would be her weapon: the sword that had been her true companion throughout her journey. She wouldn’t need Gobin’s voice to urge her on now.
“You had Borawyn all this time?” Her brother’s face crinkled in amazement. “You’re a lass in a million, Drest. But you won’t find Borawyn here; they’re sure to have put it in the armory.”
“Nay,” she said, “Borawyn’s here somewhere.” With Emerick.
“We can’t risk our lives for a sword,” sai
d Wulfric, then added in a quieter voice, “Not even that sword.”
“May I look for it while you look for a way out? I’ll keep where I can hear you.”
Wulfric shook his head and was about to answer, but before he could speak, a single pair of walking footsteps sounded on the stairs ahead of them.
Seconds later, below them: a fleet of boots, and they were running.
“Blast.” Wulfric had taken the sword from the knight he’d slain and now held it ready. “When you see the one coming down, duck under him, and fly up the stairs. Look for a way out, and take it. Don’t wait for me. I’ll hold back the ones below and find my own way after.”
Terror flared in Drest. It was like the headland again, and she was helpless with no sword.
“Did you hear me, Drest? You’re to run. Get ready.”
The knight from above came around the bend in the stairs: an older man who blanched at the sight of the Mad Wolf’s eldest son.
Wulfric lunged, forcing the knight to the side, making room—just enough—for Drest on the stairs.
Drest scrambled past the slumped knight: up the steps, around the curves, the panic of the invasion at the headland flooding her—
The invasion that Emerick ordered.
—and then a window appeared in the curving stone wall, and below it the sea. It was wide enough for Wulfric and easily wide enough for her.
Drest grabbed the sill and started to climb over, but stopped.
If she left Faintree Castle now, she would never return.
If she left, Emerick would never be punished for his lies.
Never falter before yourself or the enemy. Accept no defeat: Always fight.
Drest drew her leg back from the windowsill. There would be more than one window like that in the castle.
* * *
• • •
Where would a castle keep its lord? Drest raced up the stairway, meeting no one, but finding no hint. She came to an arrow loop and looked out at the bailey.
It was a stage of confusion. Guards on foot and men on horses raced across the grass between overturned wagons and fleeing people.
She pulled away and continued up the stairs, faster. The steps grew smaller and pressed close to the wall. If she had been carrying Borawyn, it would have been difficult to wield it and even harder to fight.
There were no more guards, but each time Drest glanced out an arrow loop, she saw knights streaming across the bailey, pushing through crowds of villagers who parted for them like frantic schools of minnows.
She climbed past doors that opened to storerooms, then came to a nail-studded door off the stairs. She burst in with her dagger drawn, but the large, ornate chamber—with a tiled floor, white walls with blue patterns, and a massive bed mounded with rich weavings—was empty.
The search was taking too long. Before she knew it, her whole family would escape and she alone would be trapped inside. Drest took the stairs three steps at a time, clutching the wall for balance.
For a long stretch, there were no arrow loops, but at last she came to another window. Drest peered out to see what side she was on: the sea or the bailey. It showed her a rocky cliff above the crashing waves. It was neither a good place to jump nor climb. She had to go on.
A sleek black shape bolted past the window.
Drest leaned out and watched a crow rise to a stone arch above another window, where it uttered a fearsome creea.
It was Mordag; she was sure of it. And the crow was marking the place of an enemy.
32
LORD FAINTREE
The door was locked. From somewhere inside, Mordag’s call rang above an unfamiliar voice. Drest dropped to her knees. With any luck, this door would be like the prison’s trap. She thrust her dagger into the crack and slammed it up.
The unmoving bar shot an ache through her arm.
Mordag began a wild string of caws.
Drest held her breath and pushed again. It was as if she were pushing her dagger against a cliff.
Beyond the door, a shout exploded, followed by a crash.
Then Emerick’s cry.
Hearing his voice sent a shock through Drest, then a new bolt of rage. She drove the blade against the bar and, one hand clasped over the other, rose from her knees, trying to funnel her motion into her arms.
The bar moved. Barely. Then more. Then it was lifting, and Drest threw all her weight against the door.
She fell into the room just as the metal bar hit the tiled floor with a thunderous crack. Drest’s dagger dropped from her sweaty hands and clinked after it.
“Drest!”
Tig—his face clean, his black hair tidy, in a blue tunic with black hose—seized her wrist and dove to the side. Drest followed as a knight slashed his sword against the door where she had just been standing.
“Get out of here!” he roared, yanking his blade from the spot where it had embedded in the wood.
The red-faced knight.
The lavish chamber had been turned upside down, the tables flipped, the curtains around the bed slashed into wavering pieces. An alcove with a wide window that hung open to the sea lit the far wall, and against it hunched Emerick, his face shaven and pale. He wore no hose, only a long white tunic that was torn at the neck.
Drest and Tig scrambled out of the way of the knight’s next blow, which crashed against the tiles. Her dagger was just inside the door, out of her reach.
“Did you hear me?” bellowed the knight. He went for her, but she was quick and feinted toward the door, while Tig clambered back.
“Where’s Borawyn?” Drest shouted. “Where’s my sword?”
“Out the window and in the sea,” said the knight, and laughed. “That’s where you’ll go too, if I don’t catch you first!”
He came at her again. Drest dove to the side and grabbed the nearest object—an iron candlestick almost as long as a sword—and blocked the knight’s blow. Thick yellow candles rattled over the floor. Drest had done well with her unusual shield; the knight’s surprised eyes showed her that.
She blocked his sword at her feet, then at her head, each with a resounding clang. But though she was forcing him off and damaging his blade, Drest knew she wouldn’t last long with such an awkward defense.
Behind her, Tig tried to crawl to safety. The knight saw the boy’s movement and rushed for him.
Drest didn’t have time to run; she threw the candlestick at the knight’s knees. It struck him hard, and he fell with a crash. She grabbed Tig’s arm and lunged toward the alcove.
Directly beside Emerick.
Drest turned to the red-faced knight, who had kicked away the candlestick. “Give me your sword! I will slay him!”
The knight laughed. “I don’t know who you are, boy, but I’ll give you some advice: Cherish this moment, for it will be one of your last.” The knight began to stalk toward her.
“Drest,” said Emerick, his face twisted. “Is that what you truly want? Revenge?”
“Is that not fitting? I protected you and saved your life and you—you lied to me.”
A gust from the window chilled Drest’s head, and she glanced out. The sea lay below, but so did a bed of rocks; she could see the foam around their points.
The knight gave another laugh. “The window? If you wish, boy, you may throw him out upon the rocks and jump after him.” He stepped closer.
Drest straightened. Her life was now at risk.
Never falter before yourself or the enemy.
Accept no defeat: Always fight.
“You should cherish your own last moment,” Drest told the red-faced knight. “And you’ve the brain of a minnow if you can’t see that I’m a lass. I’m Grimbol’s youngest, his only daughter, and I’m his most powerful weapon. I’m a legend, see.”
He charged at her, but stopped and gave a cruel laugh as
Drest recoiled. “A skittish weapon.”
Drest’s fingers tensed on the wall behind her—and brushed over a faint ledge in the stone.
It was same kind of ledge she had found in the prison, the ledge where the stones and mortar met.
The whole castle had been built with such ledges.
Drest gave the red-faced knight her most insolent smirk, despite her thundering heart. “Sometimes you need to waver to make the blow strong. But you wouldn’t know that, would you; you’re not just a traitor and a coward but a toad-faced boar’s bladder.”
He let out a booming laugh. “Do you think yourself brave to call me names?”
“Nay, everyone should call you names. You’re a craven pile of fish-guts and you smell like them too.”
The knight’s eyes narrowed. “I’m coming for you, Grimbol’s daughter, and I’ll end your legend for good.”
“Is that what you think? You’ve a head like a pig’s stomach and it’s full of the same muck.” With her fingers on the wall, her legs ready to leap, Drest waited.
He lunged.
Three seconds.
Two seconds.
One second away from running her through.
Drest turned and leaped into the window, grabbing at the stone bricks above it on the outside, and yanked herself up.
Just barely avoiding the blade that plunged after her.
It extended through the window, glittering in the sun. The knight’s arm followed, then his head as he stared at the cliffs below.
“Up here,” called Drest. The sea wind tugged at her, but her holds were secure. “See if you can get me.” He wasn’t out far enough for her to dislodge with a sudden movement, but if he reached out more, he might be.
Growling, with a scrape of chain mail, the knight pushed his shoulders through. Now most of his weight was at the top half of his body. If she could make him lunge for her, he might slip.
Only—
The knight was crawling out, his feet on the window’s sill, one hand on the stones, finding ledges just as Drest had, the other holding the sword aloft.
