The Hunt for the Mad Wolf's Daughter

by Diane Magras

  “Aye, I saw a knight, Tig, thanks to your crow. He’s gone now.” Drest bit her lip. The knight’s words were a shadow in her mind.

  “Emerick said you went out to see who was there, but I didn’t think you’d challenge anyone, not without your family.” He faltered. “Did you challenge him alone?”

  “Nay, I just led him off. Tig—he said I’m a wolf’s head with a price.” She shuddered. “What does that mean?”

  “Did he tell you that?” Tig’s face clouded. “I wouldn’t think he’d say it to the person he’s hunting.”

  A sick feeling passed through Drest. “Are they hunting me? What does it mean, Tig?”

  “It means that you’re akin to a wolf. And if anyone slays you, they—they get paid.” Tig darted to her side. “I won’t let them. I’ll—Mordag and I will warn you each time an enemy comes near.”

  Drest crossed her arms. “I won’t let them, either. It’s just—” She broke off. “Where’s Emerick?”

  “He’s gone to hide,” Tig said distractedly. “The twins took him, and the rest of your brothers scattered looking for you, and—Drest, are you sure the knight called you a wolf’s head?”

  “Aye, I heard him, didn’t I?” Her left hand brushed her right hip, where her sword should have hung. “Da’s not going to be happy about this.”

  “No,” Tig said, his voice rushed, “don’t tell anyone. That price will be paid to whoever slays you, and if your family should mention it—that’s the kind of thing that no one should say.” Tig straightened his tunic. “I suppose that’s what can happen when one becomes a legend.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Drest and Tig went in search of her brothers. Mordag led them, swooping over the trees. The crow circled near a cluster of gray-barked alders and gave a hoarse call—the call for a friend—above Uwen and Thorkill.

  “I know Da says warriors must be up for everything,” Uwen was grumbling, bent over, his hands on his knees, “but can a warrior not have a single night’s rest after hanging for five days and nights from a ring in a cold, wet, dark, stinking prison?”

  Thorkill reached down and patted the boy’s back. “Aye, and we all thought those five days and nights were to be our last. You managed it well, lad. I heard nary a word from you all that time.”

  “I was ready to gripe as soon as they put us in there. I was even ready to cry. But Da would have shouted at me. So I hung there like a grub-headed squirrel.”

  Drest slipped through the trees. “That’s because you are a grub-headed squirrel with a belly full of crabs.”

  Uwen straightened, then lunged for her. He closed his arms around her before she could twist away—and hugged her fiercely.

  When had her teasing, taunting, whiny battle-mate ever hugged her like that? Then Drest remembered: When she’d rescued him from Faintree Castle’s prison.

  “What were you thinking, you rot-brained hare’s bottom?” Uwen said. “Running off without telling anyone. You’re part of a war-band. Have you forgotten the codes? How can you shuttle your courage with someone you trust if no one’s there, you midge?” Uwen sniffed and buried his face in her shoulder.

  Thorkill tousled Drest’s hair. “Ah, lass. All that time in the prison, we spoke of nothing but you: Had she escaped? Was she safe? Would she find what she needed to eat? And when we were all together, I thought, We’ll never leave her again. But you left us tonight.”

  Drest struggled out of Uwen’s grasp. “I had to. If I went back to the mill, the knight would have followed me there.” She looked from Uwen to Thorkill. “I led him deep in the woods to give you time to wake and be ready.”

  She waited for them to praise her.

  “Lass,” Thorkill said, stroking his ginger beard, “we heard your lad’s crow, so we were up and ready for battle—ready to fight one man. But we couldn’t find him.” His smile was sad. “He owes you his life.”

  Drest’s jaw tightened. “Maybe he does, but I didn’t see any of you outside when I needed you.”

  But she knew now what she should have done: led him directly to the mill. She should have trusted her brothers’ years of training.

  “I’m sorry,” Drest muttered, her throat thick.

  “We’ll catch him next time,” Thorkill said. “Nay, lass, there’s no reason to brood when you can learn from your mistake and no one’s been hurt.”

  Uwen slung an arm around her shoulders. “I wasn’t ready. And Wulfric’s the only one with a sword. Thorkill, would you have had time to slot an arrow in your bow with a man rushing at you? He’d probably have slain me while you struggled with the string. I owe you my life, Drest.” The lad leaned toward his sister and gave her a noisy kiss on her cheek.

  “That knight,” Drest said. “He—”

  As she drew out the words, Tig clicked his tongue, interrupting. With a long caa, Mordag landed on his outstretched arm.

  Why can’t I tell them? Drest tried to ask the question with her eyes, but Tig wasn’t looking at her.

  “What were you saying of that knight?” Thorkill prompted.

  She met her brother’s gentle brown eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t slay him when I had the chance.”

  She’d keep the secret. For now.

  5

  GRIMBOL’S ORDERS

  By dawn, Drest’s family was together in the healer’s hut, a place where they could talk by themselves while Emerick was being tended. The young lord lay in bed. Wimarca bent over him, applying fresh salve and bandages to replace the ones that had been dislodged by his flight. The room was rich with the scent of herbs: biting and clean, almost like the sea.

  Grimbol was conferring with each of his sons. Drest had seen him do that after battles when the war-band had come home and her brothers were sitting around the bonfire, their meat and ale in hand. Grimbol would tell them where they had lapsed and what they could do better, and though his voice had always been gentle, it had seemed like a blade at the end. He was talking to the lads in order of their ages—Wulfric, then Thorkill, Gobin and Nutkin, then Uwen. He was speaking with Uwen now, and the lad was rubbing his nose.

  Drest was leaning against the wall, apart from everyone, itching to tell Gobin her secret. Her favorite brother and his twin were directly across from her, their silky black hair stark against their pale faces. She had always told Gobin her secrets, though none before had really mattered.

  She stiffened: Grimbol was watching her.

  He ambled over to her side. “I’m proud of you, lass,” he said in his low, rough voice, “for all you’ve done, and how you’ve proved yourself. You’ve been everything I could’ve expected of you—nay, far more.”

  The fire crackled behind them.

  “But next time,” Grimbol went on, a flicker of iron in his words, “I make the plans, not you. Come to me when you need to make a choice, and I shall give you an order to obey, for that’s the way of a war-band.”

  The Mad Wolf of the North kissed his daughter’s forehead with a touch as gentle as a flower. He turned back to his sons.

  The last order you gave me was to be like the barnacle and hie to the eagle’s roost, Drest thought. None of you would be here now if I’d obeyed. But she said nothing.

  “That knight was a scout,” said Grimbol. “I know the castle’s ways: Oswyn sent him to find us, and that knight will have a war-band on his heels when he comes back. We haven’t the weapons to fight a castle war-band and win. Not this time. We’ll bide here until night, then go, and keep going from every place. This will be our life until the hunt for us slows.”

  Uwen slumped.

  Grimbol patted his son’s shoulder as he walked past him to the bed where Emerick was sitting up with Wimarca’s help. “Lord, I’m sorry, but your uncle is hunting you too, so you’ll need to come with us. But do not fear: He’ll not catch us as long as we do not tarry. You’re mended now?”


  “I would not call it that,” said Wimarca. “A man cannot be sewn like a cloth and made as good as new.”

  “Aye, but he can be mended enough to move.” Grimbol gestured to the floor. “Stand for me, lord.”

  Wimarca pulled the tunic down over Emerick’s bandages. “No, he shall not stand for you. He shall take my advice and lie back upon that bed and heal.”

  Grimbol’s eyes narrowed. “I cannot leave our lord here to be plucked and murdered like a bird from its nest. Be out of my way, old woman, before you make me angry.”

  Drest held her breath. Her father’s code of life and war included the rule to honor all matrons and maidens. This was not honor.

  “Be wary of making me angry,” Wimarca snapped. “Grimbol, you’ve no choice. He must have five days more to heal. Five. Then you may take him where you like. But not until then.”

  Grimbol’s hard, cold eyes softened. “Your salves are powerful, though. He may heal faster than you think.”

  His face set in thought, he walked to the center of the room.

  “We’ll be sitting birds in the nest ourselves if we stay,” he murmured. Then he shook his head. “Nay, a village should be able to protect its lord. I’ve protected this lazy village for many years, and asked for no payment. I shall ask for it now.”

  Grimbol pointed at Tig, who had been watching everything from behind the fire.

  “Tell your foster father I want a word with him,” said the old warrior. “Tell him to wait for me in the mill. I’ll be up soon.”

  “I’m not sure he’ll want a word with you,” Tig muttered under his breath. But he rose and darted out of the hut.

  * * *

  • • •

  Grimbol and Arnulf the miller stood facing each other in the mill’s big room, their families at their backs like two sides in a battle. Drest’s brothers stood according to their ages, a line of fierce warriors even without their weapons. Wyneck, the miller’s son and Tig’s foster brother, stood behind his father, his fingers in his beard. His fair-haired sister, Idony, was frowning at his side with Tig. Grimbol had also summoned Torold the blacksmith on his way to the mill. That broad-shouldered man stood next to the miller, staring uneasily at the war-band.

  Drest stood far enough from each group to be part of neither. After a few moments, Tig slipped away from his sister and went to Drest. They exchanged quick smiles, then Drest rocked back on her heels in her most arrogant warrior pose, one like Wulfric’s: knees slightly bent, arms crossed, chin high.

  “Arnulf, my daughter tells me you call this my village,” Grimbol said, his rough voice filling the cavernous room.

  “Yes, sir, it is. Your war-band has protected us over the years. And we are grateful.” Arnulf frowned. “Have we not served you well this night, sir? Do your sons and lass want other beds? And—his lordship—”

  “Aye, you’ve served me well this night, but this whole village owes me more than that. I want my dues for those years of protection.”

  Arnulf paled. “We have neither coin nor wheat—”

  “Your dues are your village men. There’s a traitor leading Faintree Castle who’s hunting my lord and me. My lads and I are leaving before he finds us, but Lord Faintree is still too wounded to flee. Your village men will guard him while he heals.”

  Tig’s foster family exchanged looks.

  “Guard?” murmured Arnulf. “We are not warriors, sir.”

  “All you’ll do is stand watch in the woods and take the lord to safety if you see a castle man. And aye, you’ll need to fight for his life if it comes to that, but it won’t if you do the rest well. I’ll be back in five days, when the lord’s healed enough to travel, and take him then. But for those five days, every man of this village must do my bidding.”

  “How can you ask that?” breathed Idony. “If you and your lads cannot stand against a war-band of castle men, how will our village men? They don’t know how to guard or fight!”

  “They’ll learn,” growled the Mad Wolf. “Arnulf, tell the farmers to come hear my orders. Gather them before midday.”

  “Sir, the farmers must tend the wheat and barley—”

  “The fields can wait.” Grimbol pointed at Wyneck. “You. I want you to lead this watch.”

  The miller’s son shook his head. “I don’t know how to watch or guard against castle men, sir. Idony’s right; none of us do.”

  Grimbol broke from the line of his family. He seemed about to cross the line of villagers and head for the door, but he stopped: inches away from Wyneck. The younger man was taller than him by a hand, but still Wyneck flinched.

  “You will lead the watch,” said Grimbol, his voice soft and menacing. “You and your men will be strong by your numbers. You will use those numbers to protect Lord Faintree. If I return and find my lord harmed, I shall burn your village to the ground—and every one of you along with it.”

  Drest shrank. This was not the father she knew, the man who had tucked her beneath his arm by the bonfire on the headland, the da who had told her stories. This was the villain from all the tales that Emerick had told her of her father.

  Grimbol turned to Idony.

  “You: Fetch enough food for my family for five days. Have it ready by dusk.” He pivoted to face Torold the blacksmith. “You: I need swords for all my sons and daughter.”

  Torold shook his head. “I have not the steel.”

  “Find it.”

  Grimbol returned to his sons. “Someone has to keep watch in the woods for castle men before we leave tonight. You’re tired, lads, but which of you will take this on?”

  The war-band hesitated.

  “I will,” said Drest. “Where should I go? All the woods around?”

  In truth, she wanted to be away from her family, to be alone in the woods, and to run. Her limbs were aching to move.

  But Grimbol shook his head. “Nay, lass, not you.”

  The twins stepped forward.

  “Da, Nutkin and I will keep watch,” Gobin said. “Drest, you should get some sleep.”

  “You’ve done your work already,” added Nutkin.

  “Aye, my wee sister, you’ve spent half the night in the woods,” rumbled Wulfric.

  “But there she goes, offering to keep watch, though she’s been on her feet and on the road longer than the rest of us,” Thorkill said. “My poor wee lass, you must be ready to drop.”

  “Nay, not unless it’s to drop a giant stone on someone’s head,” Uwen said cheerfully.

  They were all smiling at her. But the knot in her stomach remained.

  Torold the blacksmith began to back away. Grimbol swung around to face him, his hand at his dagger.

  “Where are you going?” he snapped.

  “I was going to our healer when you fetched me, sir. My wee brother is injured, like the lord, and needs Wimarca’s salve.”

  Drest looked down. She had nearly slain Colum, Torold’s wee brother, in a battle to defend Tig when she had first come to the village.

  “Do what you will,” growled the old warrior, “but bring me the weapons I asked for by tonight.”

  Torold hesitated. “Sir, I have no steel. And I cannot smelt steel as quickly as you wish. It will take me more than a day to smelt even enough for a dagger.”

  “No steel? What did you use, then, for the blade-edge of the axe I saw in your smithy? You can take its steel for us.” Grimbol nodded at Wulfric. “Go with him. See what steel he has. Thorkill and Uwen, help Arnulf gather our village men. And Drest—go back to your lord.”

  Drest wanted to tell her father to leave the villagers alone. But a small voice warned her not to confront him in front of everyone.

  The voice also whispered, You’ve just seen it come to life: Grimbol’s legend.

  6

  THE PRICE

  Back in Wimarca’s hut, Emerick sat
stiff and pale. The healer had gone out to gather plants and bark from the woods, and Drest and Tig were alone with him.

  “Your father has just oppressed my villagers.” Emerick was breathing hard. “I vowed I would never be cruel like my own father, and look—Grimbol’s taken my authority and struts like a lordly brute. The villagers will think I gave my power to him, that I’m a submissive member of his war-band. I said I wouldn’t join it, but everyone will think I did.”

  “They’ll think you’re a helpless victim of his war-band, if that makes you feel better,” said Tig.

  “No, that doesn’t make me feel better.” Emerick’s voice was harsh. “God’s breath. The farmers need to tend their crops; this is a crucial time for the fields. And they are not warriors. What is he thinking? Forcing them to do what they cannot do easily or well will only anger them. And what will I do with a mob of resentful villagers?” Emerick held his breath, his face stiff with pain.

  Tig knelt by the fire and filled a wooden cup from the pot. He carried it to Emerick’s bed and pressed it into his hands. “This is a caudle. It may smell like poison, taste like poison, and burn like poison, but I promise it’s still a caudle.”

  Emerick drank, and winced. “It tastes worse than poison.”

  “Swallow it quick.”

  Emerick did, then held the cup back. “This works far better than the caudles they make at the castle, though: My stomach is already numb. I wish I could say that for the rest of me.” He let out a sigh, and gave Drest a grim smile. “I’m sorry. I should have told you to wake your family last night. I didn’t care to see Grimbol scold you like that.”

  Drest eased herself away from the wall. She had forgotten her father’s scolding. Her stomach was in knots from something else. “Emerick, what it does mean if a knight puts a price on your head?”