The Hunt for the Mad Wolf's Daughter

by Diane Magras

Tig frowned.

  “That’s sweet of you, Drest, but I don’t think my uncle Oswyn has put a price on my head; I’m sure he’s just promised a new privilege—like instant knighthood—to anyone who slays me. It’s not about money.” He paused. “That’s not what you meant. What did you mean? Tig, why are you squirming?”

  “I’m twitching, not squirming.”

  Drest twisted her fingers together. “Tig said I can’t tell anyone, but—”

  “And there’s a very good reason for that!” Tig groaned. “The more people who know, the more likely it is that someone will mention it by mistake!”

  “God’s bones,” cried Emerick. “There’s a price on Drest’s head? Where did you learn this?”

  “The knight who was chasing me. He said there’s a price on my—my wolf’s head.”

  A dark look came into Emerick’s face. “That is not legal. Women cannot have that on their heads, and—God’s blood, you’re twelve. It’s only for men far older than you.”

  Drest bit her lip. “The knight said he’d get thirty silver pounds for me.”

  Emerick scowled. “I’ll strip that knave of his knighthood, have him whipped, then strung up like a hen before a feast—as soon as I get back to the castle.” He patted the side of his bed. “Come, Drest, let’s talk about this. It’s right that you told me. I’ve dealt with this sort of thing before.”

  In two long strides, Drest was at the bed. She plopped beside him.

  Gingerly, careful of his rib wound, he reached over and squeezed her shoulder. “A wolf’s head means that anyone—child, farmer, bandit, or knight—will be paid if they bring my uncle Oswyn your head. It’s not something my father ever did. He preferred to imprison his enemies and let them slowly die on their rings above the sea. Oswyn was following that tradition with your family—no one has ever escaped our prison before, and your family wasn’t going anywhere until you came—but you, my friend, escaped in less than a day. So you’re more dangerous than your father. Which is why he’s passed this sentence on you alone.”

  “Does Oswyn know that she’s protecting you?” Tig said.

  “He knows I’m alive and he saw Drest at the castle, so yes, he surely understands that now.” He frowned. “No doubt he’s told everyone that she’s kidnapped and murdered me, though. Oh Drest, with this sentence on your head, even my loyal men will slay you.”

  “How can he tell them I’ve slain you?” Drest grumbled. “Did he not see me in the window with you? Is it not obvious that I rescued you? How is it so easy for your uncle to lie?”

  “Drest, it’s more than an easy lie; it’s what appears to be the truth. Yes, he saw you in the window, but he didn’t see us together. They must have found Sir Maldred’s body on the rocks below and surmised that you slew him. Everyone knows that you must have freed your family; they’d been trapped for all those days until you came. Then you escaped from the castle without anyone seeing you, and now I’m missing.” He gave Drest a faded smile. “I expect you’ve become quite the legend at my castle.”

  The thatch above their head creaked in the wind, and a stray piece of straw drifted down. It wavered, then sank beside the pot into the fire, and instantly flared.

  Emerick lay back upon the pillow. “Drest, I’m sorry. This should not be your reward for saving my life. I wish I could stop it.”

  “You can,” said Tig, “if you mention this to no one. Drest, you too.”

  “Aye, you keep saying that. But why shouldn’t I tell my family?”

  “Words travel,” Tig said darkly. “Since they love you, Drest, they’ll speak of it, and plot, and plan. And each time they do, someone else might hear. I know how this works.”

  “Don’t tell me someone once put a price on your head,” Emerick murmured.

  Tig crossed the room to the pot and knelt beside it. “How do you think everyone here knows that my mother was a witch? I didn’t tell. Except Idony, once. And then she told Wyneck, who told Arnulf, and someone overheard. The other villagers began to talk about making Arnulf turn me out of this village. I was too dangerous to keep, you see.”

  “You were but six years old when you first came here, were you not?” Drest asked. “And they spoke of turning you out? Tell me who.”

  “No, I won’t tell you who. But yes, it was cruel. Which is why Wimarca mentioned to a farmer one day that she was glad they’d taken me in, for that meant that my witch mother’s spirit would make the harvest rich. It really wasn’t very rich that year, but everyone believed that what had grown was because of my poor mother.” He glanced up. “So let’s feed no rumors, please. This has to be our secret.”

  Emerick sighed. “But my uncle will do everything in his power to spread the word.”

  “Not in this village.” Tig gave a bitter laugh. “Remember, Emerick, Phearsham Ridge is no friend to Faintree Castle. Everyone knows that the castle men who come here rarely leave.”

  Uneasily, Drest watched them talk. The villagers might hate Faintree Castle, but they would hate Grimbol even more for enlisting their men against their will.

  7

  A LORD’S ORDERS

  “I don’t know why we have to go tonight,” Uwen whined, kicking a pale pink blossom from its stem. “I want to sleep.”

  Uwen, Drest, Thorkill, and the twins were gathered outside Wimarca’s hut, waiting for their father’s order. It was almost dusk, and their last order had been to rest but be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.

  “Uwen, lad, you know it’s not safe for us here,” sighed Thorkill. He was on his knees in the grass, carving the bark off sticks and giving them sharp points: simple arrows for his bow. Emerick was leaning against the doorway behind him, swathed in a trailing blanket.

  “I say we go up to the huts and take whatever beds we want and slay the villagers who try to stop us.” With a swift kick, Uwen sent a heavy purple blossom tumbling.

  “I say we put your head in the healer’s pot,” muttered Gobin, “and let her turn it into stew. A great deal of good your mind is doing us.”

  Thorkill sighed again and began to carve another stick.

  Drest nodded at her youngest brother. “Why don’t you sleep in Emerick’s bed? He’s not in it now.”

  “You sleep in it, you lazy feathered slug.”

  “Insult her again,” snarled Gobin, “and I’ll break your face.”

  “And I’ll break the back of your neck,” added Nutkin.

  Uwen reddened. “I’ll break you, you boar-witted toads! I’ll break your heads together!”

  Thorkill slammed down a half-sharpened stick. “If I hear one more word from any of you, I shall take him to the river and dunk him until I’ve drowned sense into him. This unraveling of control makes men fail on a battlefield—”

  “But we’re not on a battlefield!” Uwen burst out. “We’re in a stinking village in a filthy hut, and we’re about to go traveling for days and—”

  “Look, you’ve done it now,” crowed Gobin.

  In seconds, Thorkill had Uwen’s shoulder in one hand and Gobin’s in the other. “I warned you both. So it’s time for a bath, lads.”

  Drest ran to Thorkill’s side. Both Uwen and Gobin were struggling in his grip, but neither was any closer to getting free.

  “There’s an easy way to solve this,” Drest said. “Let me strike Uwen once. Then we’ll be even, and we can all rest and—”

  “I’ll strike you so hard you’ll want to go hide in a real maiden’s shift!” howled Uwen.

  “Stop it!”

  The voice—sharp and low, fierce and noble—came from the door.

  All the Mad Wolf’s children froze.

  Emerick was gripping the frame to keep upright, the blanket now pooled at his feet. But even though he stood there in his torn, dirty tunic with bare legs, there was majesty in his figure, and power too.

  “We cannot have
this. Every one of our lives is in danger.”

  Thorkill dropped his grip on his brothers. None of the four moved.

  “Uwen.” Emerick pointed to the boy. “Go sit by that white shrub. Don’t kick it. And don’t speak like that to Drest again. She’s the only one of you who’s had the courage to meet the enemy alone.”

  Uwen shuffled quickly to the white bush and sank to his knees.

  “Gobin and Nutkin,” Emerick went on in that hard, cold voice, “go over to those trees in the opposite corner. Sit quietly.”

  As if in one body, the twins silently retreated and settled onto the ground.

  Thorkill let out a long laugh and went back to his weapons on the grass. “Well done, lord.”

  Emerick’s mouth twitched. “Thank you.”

  Drest drifted to his side. “That was a fearsome voice.”

  “Ha. I can’t keep that up for long. It’s what my father called ‘the lord’s voice.’ My sister, Celestria, was brilliant at it. I never could do it as well as she.”

  “Nay, lord, you did it well,” said Uwen from his knees. “I was so scared I nearly wet my hose.”

  “It’s a fine voice,” Gobin called over his shoulder, “like your own battle cry.”

  “You really are all exceptionally trained,” said Emerick. “Better than knights.”

  The twins twisted around, smiling. Thorkill grinned. Uwen beamed.

  And even Drest felt warm: Only a week ago, Emerick had been telling her how much her family deserved to hang.

  A black whir shot through the sky above them, circled, and Mordag landed in the thatch.

  Tig came striding down the path. “Your father wants you now. And Emerick, he wants you as well, but only if you can walk.”

  “To the mill?” Emerick’s hand tightened on Drest’s shoulder. “I made it to the castle like this. Let’s see what I can do.”

  * * *

  • • •

  It was dusk. Grimbol and Wulfric were kneeling on the grass by the mill, looking over the sacks of food that had been set there for their journey. As the rest of the war-band drew near, Emerick leaning on Drest, Grimbol stood and dusted off his knees.

  “What do you think, lord? Are you feeling young and strong? You’ve walked all this way from the healer’s hut. Have you rested enough to walk farther?”

  Emerick was pale. “I doubt it. My ribs—the wound from Maldred’s sword—”

  “Nay, lord, if you’re feeling it after that short walk, you cannot come with us. That’s what I was afraid of.” Grimbol sighed. “I don’t like leaving you here alone. I do not trust the villagers to obey me when I am gone. Aye, one of us will have to stay behind.”

  “I want to stay,” said Uwen. “Leave me, Da, and I’ll protect the lord.”

  Drest scowled. “You only say that because you want to sleep. As soon as Da leaves, you’ll curl upon the floor with a blanket and let anyone with a blade walk in. Nay, Da, leave me. I’ve protected Emerick before. And I’m friends with Arnulf and Wimarca and I can make friends with the other villagers—and I’ll be safest here.”

  She waited, her heart pounding.

  “Nay, lass,” murmured her father. “We’ve been parted too much of late; I want you with me this time. Lads, which one of you will it be? Not Uwen, but of the rest?”

  Silence but for the river’s gurgling and the creaking of the mill wheel.

  “Should you not ask me who should stay?” Emerick said slowly. “I want Drest.” He paused. “And that is my order.”

  Grimbol slipped free his dagger, examined the blade, and tested it against his thumbnail. Then he sheathed it. His lips were twitching.

  “You sound so much like your sister, lord, like my wee lady Celestria.” Grimbol’s voice was strangely light. “Is Drest who you really want, out of all of us?”

  “Yes. She’s saved my life enough times that I will not feel safe without her by my side. And she can protect herself as well. You can trust her, Grimbol.”

  The old warrior gestured for his daughter to come near. “Don’t take risks, lass. If you see any castle men, call the village guards to take the lord into the fields and pretend he’s a farmer. Draw off the castle men. Use your skills to lose them in the woods. Then go back and take the lord to the woods, and hide until they’re gone. No fights, just running and hiding. Understand?” He turned to his sons. “Everyone, put a sack on your shoulder.”

  Drest skipped back to Emerick and ducked under his arm.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  * * *

  • • •

  It was dark with a faint glimmer of the moon when the war-band reached the edge of the village laden with their supplies. Emerick had gone back to Wimarca’s hut, and Drest was with them alone. Each of her brothers embraced her. A lump came to her throat as she hugged them back.

  “Remember: If you’re attacked, duck and parry,” said Gobin.

  “And make sure you have a stick,” chimed in Nutkin. “Blast. We should have made her a spear.”

  “Our wee Drest can make her own spear,” came Thorkill’s gentle voice. “But make sure you run before you fight; I don’t want to come back and find you hurt, lass.”

  Wulfric leaned down and kissed her cheek, his corded beard brushing against her. “Just be yourself, Drest, and all will be well.”

  “I wish I could stay with you, you bladder-headed squirrel’s bottom,” muttered Uwen in a choked voice.

  Grimbol snapped his fingers. “Hunt formation, lads.”

  The twins slipped to the front of the group. Thorkill swung the longbow from his back as Uwen charged to his side, and Wulfric marched between the two pairs.

  Grimbol nodded at Drest. “Take good care of our lord. And yourself. We’ll be back in five days, maybe sooner.”

  Was his jaw trembling? She didn’t have a good look; her father joined the lads at the end of their formation, and soon they were in the woods and, in moments, they were gone.

  Drest waited until she could no longer hear their footsteps. Then she pivoted and headed back to the healer’s hut.

  8

  THE VILLAGERS

  Emerick was snoring, thanks to Wimarca’s most recent sleeping draught. The old healer sat on her stool by the fire.

  “I’m glad you are here, child,” Wimarca said. “Tig tells me I have a legend in my hut. But do you know what pleases me most? Not that you are a legend, but that you are a friend—to Tig. That lad has not many friends in this village.”

  “I don’t know why no one’s been good to him,” Drest said. “He’s one of my greatest friends in all the world.” She paused. “But you’ve been good. He told me how you protected him when he first came to this village.”

  “A witch’s son inspires fear by his very presence. He cannot help it, and small-minded people cannot help their reactions. But it is not easy being different, and Tig is very different from other lads.”

  “Is it not a fine thing to be different from what people expect of you?” Drest shrugged.

  Wimarca’s old face creased in a smile. “It is good for this village to see that one such as you calls Tig your friend.”

  The healer stood and wandered to a large wooden chest, in the corner of her hut. There she knelt, opened the lid, and began to sort past weavings and linens and parchment tied with string. Then she removed a long sword-belt, worn with age and use, but oiled so that the leather shone. Beside it, Wimarca placed a long leather sheath covered with intricate whirls. When she took away her hand, Drest saw a hilt.

  “Is that really a sword?” Drest murmured, unable to take her eyes from the plain square pommel, nicked and worn with battle, above the leather-wrapped grip. “Where did you get it?”

  “From a fallen castle man. Yes, in the days long past when your father defended this village. I don’t know what fancy made me take this w
eapon, but I did, and have kept it to call to me when its time was right. And its time is now, and its place is at your hip.”

  The belt was soft in Drest’s hands, the leather a quality she had never touched before. She strapped it over her hips and slipped the scabbard with its sword into the loops. The sudden familiar weight against her leg made her chest lighten.

  Drest drew the sword. It was large and heavy, a sword for a fighting man, like her last sword Borawyn had been. “Has it a name?”

  “It may have had one in its distant past, but let me name it now as Tig would: Call this sword Tancored. Do you know who that is?”

  Drest shook her head.

  “Tancored is a fae in one of the Seelie legends of these parts. She teaches heroes to be their true selves.”

  Drest slipped the sword back into its scabbard. Tancored. That name felt right.

  * * *

  • • •

  It was completely dark as Drest drifted into the woods. The farmers were stationed around the hut and on the path, and it was time for her to speak to them and show them that she was their friend and not just her father’s daughter.

  Still, she was nervous; she had spoken to few villagers but Tig’s family, and was not entirely sure how she should address the others. Gruffly, repeating Grimbol’s orders? Thanking them for their willingness to serve? Neither seemed natural.

  Drest drew up to the spot by a cluster of rowan bushes where her father had set the nearest guard. But the bearded farmer whom Grimbol had put in place was no longer there. Had he taken a break? She stayed for a few minutes, listening, then walked on soundlessly to the second spot: a place by a stone near the path.

  It too was empty.

  Frowning, Drest darted on to the third spot, then the fourth. No villagers were guarding as they had been when Grimbol had left. There were none in the woods, nor on the path, nor in the fields.

  Scowling now, Drest ran up toward the mill, past the stream, which was silent in the night, its sluice closed. She hoped that Arnulf would remember all she had done for Tig and see her as his foster son’s friend and not as Grimbol’s child, for she would have to rely on his word to make the farmers obey.