The Hunt for the Mad Wolf's Daughter

by Diane Magras

  Emerick’s soft voice broke her from her thoughts: “I can hardly believe this will be over soon. And also, what must happen for it to succeed.” He met Drest’s eyes. “I’ve never hated my uncle. It feels strange—wrong—to wish for his death like this. My father—he wasn’t fond of Oswyn, but he never wished him dead.”

  “You don’t have to wish it,” Tig said. “Grimbol will take care of it. Just think past it to what lies ahead: You’ll be home with a whole castle of faithful men.”

  “God’s bones, I hope they’re faithful.” Emerick rubbed together his shaking hands. “I keep thinking there is something we’ve forgotten, something we should have done. If we don’t succeed—”

  “If we don’t succeed, we’ll still go to Faintree Castle and meet Lady de Moys,” Drest said. “You’ll get back your castle one way or another, Emerick.”

  “But that way—it would be a battle between two powerful armies. I should have spoken to her, and warned her. Oswyn will bring his whole might down upon her—”

  “Nay, he doesn’t know she’s there; she’ll bring her might down upon him. And her fury.”

  “Yes, that’s right. I should think only of that: that we will succeed, somehow. But I wonder at what cost.” Emerick frowned.

  “Don’t think of it,” urged Tig. “Think of the headland, bright and open—”

  “It’ll be cloudy and open,” interrupted Nutkin from ahead.

  “—the headland, cloudy and open,” Tig went on. “All the traitors will be on their knees—”

  “They’ll be on their backs and dead,” called Gobin.

  “—on their backs or knees, and Emerick, you’ll stand before them with joy in your heart and know that your castle—”

  “No, actually, I won’t stand before them; I’ll be up on the cliff with you and Drest.”

  Tig narrowed his eyes in mock anger. “Do you want to hear my tale of your victory or not? All I’m saying is that this will soon be over, and you can’t think of shoulds and mights just now.”

  Above his head, Mordag made a rattling sound in her throat as if in agreement.

  “Aye, don’t drop your courage, lord,” Uwen called. “You’ll need it for the battle.”

  “He hasn’t dropped his courage, you rat-faced pool of eel slime,” Drest shot back. “He’s doing what good lords do: thinking about all that should and might happen.”

  “You prickle-headed, bat-tongued—” Uwen stopped, then mumbled: “Nutkin, is that what lords are supposed to do?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  The woods grew thicker. The wind rose, tugging at their hair and tunics. No one spoke as they strode on.

  They passed the mossy fallen log where Drest, Emerick, and Tig had rested in their flight from Phearsham Ridge six days ago. Drest glanced at it longingly. If Grimbol hadn’t been so far ahead, she would have asked if they could stop for Emerick to rest: He was staggering along with a permanent wince.

  But also, she was afraid. A thick, dark dread had gathered in the pit of her stomach, and the weight in her chest felt like a boulder.

  She was going home, yet it was not home, yet it would decide her world.

  After another hour, they reached the shore.

  The sea was wild. It thundered against its banks, tossing foam from its waves.

  The war-band stopped. Grimbol went among the men, handing out sheepskin flasks, small meat pies that the villagers had rushed to make, and muttering a word of encouragement to each, even the squires.

  “Are we close, Grimbol?” Emerick asked when the Mad Wolf came near.

  “Aye, lord. Another hour or so, and then we’ll be at the cliffs. We’ll go deeper into the woods to follow the river. If there are men watching for us, we’ll find them.” He patted Drest’s shoulder, a pained half-smile on his lips, but didn’t speak to her.

  Their rest was short, and they walked away from the sea, heading back into the deep woods.

  Trees, and nothing but, surrounded Drest and the war-band. Soon she saw a burned-out pile of coals, black and old, that sparked a memory: of her journey with Emerick not so long ago.

  “If I’m not mistaken,” he murmured, “that’s where we cooked our first hare together. And where Jupp the bandit ate it.”

  They exchanged wan smiles.

  More trees, and a trickle of water, which became a greater stream. The war-band paused to drink.

  The river grew wider, then wider, then was churning alongside their makeshift trail, the water a roar like the sea itself. Drest’s ears grew numb from the noise.

  Something was wrong.

  The air felt heavy. The river seemed too loud.

  Her brothers walked with their shoulders bent, their bodies tense and ready to fly.

  Tig carried Mordag on his arm, but held her wings to keep her from warning the enemy of their approach with her calls of alarm. Her head never stopped turning, her black eyes fixing on the woods around them with an eerie, blank look.

  And as they walked, Drest thought of the people she’d left behind:

  Elys and Wimarca and all the others from Phearsham Ridge.

  Fergal, who had betrayed both his masters: first Emerick, then Oswyn.

  Lady de Moys, whom she would soon meet on the road to Faintree Castle, the Harkniss army at her heels.

  The woman in the passageway in Harkniss Castle who had been kind.

  Merewen—who had risked her life to save Drest’s.

  Suddenly, they were at the cliff. Not far from where they stood, the river rushed against its banks and thundered down in a foaming waterfall.

  “Gobin, Nutkin, go along the edge,” Grimbol said. “Draw up the ladders, but for one. Drop two of our ropes.”

  The twins nodded, the ropes they had brought from the village in their arms, and darted off into the trees.

  Grimbol waited.

  Within minutes, the twins were back.

  “Five rope ladders,” Nutkin said. “We left the nearest one.”

  “Five,” Grimbol mused. “I wonder why they set up five. They shouldn’t have needed so many for forty-one men.”

  Then he walked before the war-band.

  “Gobin and Nutkin, it’s time for you to go. Reynard, pick two knights and two men-at-arms to follow them.”

  The twins sauntered up to Drest.

  “Keep a good watch for us, lass,” Nutkin said.

  “And be ready with your sword if you need it,” said Gobin.

  And then they went to one of the ropes that they’d tied to a tree, and slipped over the cliff’s edge and down.

  Sir Reynard murmured to two of the knights, then nodded at two spearmen. The four men started down the one rope ladder, each one at another’s heels.

  “Thorkill and Uwen, your turn.” Grimbol pointed at a knight, then two men-at-arms.

  Drest’s brothers approached her.

  “Be brave, lass,” said Thorkill, and set his hand on her cheek.

  Uwen grabbed her, squeezed, then let her go.

  The lads started down the rope, and the knight and two spearmen went down the ladder.

  “Wulfric,” said the Mad Wolf without turning around. “And the rest of you castle men but Reynard.”

  Drest’s eldest brother held her in a long embrace, then kissed both her cheeks. As she watched him go, a lump grew in her throat.

  “Reynard, go down with me now.”

  Sir Reynard murmured a final word to Emerick, then approached Drest. “I would ask you to have courage and take care of his lordship, but I know you will.” He gave her a short bow, then started down the rope ladder with a grim face.

  Grimbol watched from the brink until Sir Reynard was on the ground, then knelt and pulled up the ladder. “Drest?”

  She went to his side.

  “Take care of yo
urself first and most, my girl.” He kissed her forehead. “I shall return.”

  And then the Mad Wolf started down the rope.

  Forty-one castle men, Drest thought. Against but eighteen—nay, seventeen without me.

  Aye, but seventeen like us? Uwen’s voice in her mind laughed. They’ll be dripping from our boots when we’re done with them, like the squashed snails they are.

  “Stay away from the edge, Drest,” called Emerick softly. “Don’t let them see you.”

  She nodded, and began to pull away—but a movement in the ravine caught her eye.

  Men were emerging from the mist, men in chain mail, shields and swords in their hands.

  They were more than forty-one.

  Far more.

  32

  THE BATTLE

  A trap, Drest thought. Fergal must have known. She opened her mouth to shout a warning.

  But her father had noticed the army. He and Sir Reynard were side by side near the foot of the cliff, exchanging a word. Sir Reynard called something to his men.

  Suddenly, all the loyal knights and men-at-arms swung around, weapons bristling, to face her family. The lads stood with the river at their backs, the mist that was rising from it hiding its waters.

  “Nay,” said Drest, her heart in her throat. “Emerick, your men are attacking my brothers.”

  Not attacking, though, not yet. They were closing in on them.

  The Mad Wolf’s war-band scattered: The twins slipped into the mist by the thundering river. Then they were gone, and Thorkill too.

  The army surged bellowing from their bank of fog.

  The crash of metal, more shouting—then a cry broke through.

  Uwen’s.

  He was crouching on the ground, a hand to his bleeding shoulder. The knight who had attacked him raised his sword for the killing blow—

  He crumpled, struck by Wulfric’s blade.

  Every form was in constant motion. Everywhere, weapons flashed.

  Drest’s father and brothers seemed very small among them.

  Even Wulfric, who was now surrounded.

  But then Thorkill was beside him, and the two loomed over Uwen. Thorkill crashed every blade that neared. Wulfric ducked one blow, and rose with his sword swinging.

  The twins appeared, lunging over to help, but spearmen and knights cut them off. In seconds they shifted, standing back to back, pivoting in unison, their swords weaving to block every blow.

  She could not see the loyal knights, not even Sir Reynard’s dark face.

  “Hie to the eagle’s roost!” roared Grimbol.

  Suddenly, her brothers darted, each in a different direction. Wulfric had Uwen under his arm and was running toward the river, pursued by three knights—

  “Nay,” Drest whispered. That water was as fierce as the sea. It would sweep them away.

  There was a splash, then an unfamiliar cry. Wulfric, still carrying Uwen, was visible through the mist for an instant, and disappeared again.

  “Drest!” Emerick seized her arm and pulled her back from the lip of the cliff.

  A frantic need to move, to run, to fight—to do anything—rushed through Drest. She went back with him—but in seconds had slipped out of his grasp. “Tig, don’t let him near the edge.”

  “Drest?” Alarm flashed in the boy’s face. “You’re not going down—”

  “Your father’s order—” Emerick began, but she cut him off.

  “My da and my brothers are dying down there. And your knights have betrayed you. So his order’s changed. My family needs me.”

  By the time she reached the cliff’s edge again, the battle had moved up the banks toward the sea. All the knights were in pursuit of the Mad Wolf and his sons, but her family was gone.

  Drest grabbed the rope her father had used and flew down. The fibers burned her hands raw, but she was soon at the bottom.

  The mist was rolling in. Drest plunged into it—and into a man-at-arms who was fumbling with a crossbow.

  “Who’s there?” He reached out.

  Drest dropped to her hands and knees, and rolled. As she did, she saw his bolts, all held by a leather strap, on the ground at his feet. She closed her fingers upon the bundle, and darted back into the fog.

  “Who’s there?” called the man again, panic lighting his voice.

  “Lord Faintree is alive, you traitor,” Drest shot back, and slipped deeper into the mist.

  She knew the ravine well. She and Uwen had hunted there often: going after squirrels and hares, but also each other. She had played hiding games there all her life. And so Drest knew which trees would hold wreaths of mist and the ones that were too sparse. It had always seemed a ghostly, eerie place, but the mist would serve her now.

  She slipped past clusters of knights and castle men, stealing what supplies she could. Soon she was carrying four bundles of bolts.

  Drest wove her way to the river and dropped each bundle into the violent rush of water, which grabbed them from her hands. With the thundering river filling her ears, she looked around.

  The mist was dense, enough to blur the woods.

  Drest rose and darted between the spindly trees, taking care to step lightly.

  Soon the river’s roar had faded behind her, and the woods were quiet and still.

  A stick crunched.

  It was no more than three steps away.

  Drest dropped to the ground.

  A figure in chain mail showed briefly through the fog.

  “Grimbol?” whispered Sir Reynard’s voice. “Is that you?”

  There was silence, then the muted clink of mail. He was leaning against a tree, and had put back his hood. He was running his hand over his face and hair.

  “Traitor,” Drest whispered.

  Sir Reynard straightened, but she had already slipped away.

  Where had her family gone? Had they reached the eagle’s roost, the highest point of the headland? It was above the place where Emerick had fallen on the day of the invasion, and had the best defense of her home. Grimbol had taught Drest and her brothers how to position themselves around the stones and fight attackers below. There was no room for more than two men at a time on the path. And two men would be easy enough for the war-band to slay.

  Not if they have crossbows, Drest thought, her stomach sinking. Not if they stand back and have their weapons aimed and ready for you.

  She had to find her father, and warn him.

  Drest followed the river, ducking between trees, her eyes constantly scanning. When she saw a knight or bowman, she would freeze and wait for him to turn his march away, and then she would rush on. Eight castle men were posted in the ravine. Some had crossbows, others spears.

  At last, she was at the end of the ravine where the waterfall thundered over the sea cliffs in a foaming rage. Beside it, an uneven cliff stretched up toward the eagle’s roost. That cliff was not an easy climb, and dangerous with the waterfall behind it, but Drest and Uwen had made it their duty to learn to climb that spot.

  Only, she had never climbed it when Uwen wasn’t there at the bottom to catch her in case she slipped. And twice she had slipped, sending both her and her brother perilously close to the hungry river.

  Drest grabbed one of the ledges and pulled herself up. Tancored’s scabbard scraped against the soil. The cliff side was slippery, damp with the waterfall’s spray. Careful of each grip, she climbed, and finally reached the brink of rough reddish stone at the top. Drest hauled herself up. She was there at last, at the highest point, right near the eagle’s roost.

  She stood. The wind gusted around her, pushing her back against the cliff’s edge. Drest shoved forward, and looked up to where her family would be waiting.

  But her family wasn’t there.

  Sir Oswyn was sitting at the edge of the boulder, two men-at-arms beside him.
Gaunt, pale, in his silver chain mail hauberk with his sword in his hand and a brutality like her father’s in his pale blue eyes.

  “I was wondering when I’d see you again,” he said in his bitter, cruel voice. “Wolf’s head.”

  33

  SIR OSWYN

  A wisp of rage began in her chest, and spread like fire.

  “The real Lord Faintree’s people are looking for you,” Drest retorted. “Traitor.”

  She almost jerked Tancored from its scabbard.

  Wait! cried Gobin’s voice. Look behind you!

  She turned—and ducked to avoid the blow that a knight at her back was swinging.

  Go down the cliff again! Nutkin’s voice. Quick, lass! You’re surrounded!

  She dropped on her knees and scrambled back, and disappeared over the edge.

  “Climb after her!” roared Sir Oswyn.

  Her boot slipped on the wet stone, but Drest found a lower hold. Then another.

  A knight heaved a leg over the brink. But his foot had no purchase, and skittered at once. Half his body slid off the cliff above Drest.

  She clung to her stone, pressing herself close to the dirt and the grass. If he fell and struck her, he’d knock away her grip—

  But he’d gained a hold and, grunting, pulled himself back up.

  “Are you such a coward?” bellowed Sir Oswyn.

  “It’s too slippery, sir! And the waterfall below—”

  “Get out of my way!”

  Sir Oswyn’s leg appeared above her, and he began to descend. Hand over hand, his chain mail creaking.

  He knows how to climb, Drest thought with a chill.

  It was a race down the cliff.

  And she would lose unless she was faster.

  But if you reach the bottom first, you’ll have time to draw your sword, said Gobin’s voice. And slay him.

  Drest lifted her hand, and let herself slide.

  Clumps of soil fragmented into slimy chunks between her fingers. Each foothold crumbled into pieces beneath her weight. She was rushing, tumbling, falling—

  At last, her boots hit the ground. Stone pebbles and pellets of mud rattled down upon her. Drest closed her eyes, breathing hard, waiting until she felt her balance. Then she stepped back and drew Tancored with an even swish.