The Hunt for the Mad Wolf's Daughter

by Diane Magras

  The sword was heavy on her arm—too heavy. Drest winced; she should have practiced with it to grow accustomed to its feel and how it swung.

  Sir Oswyn thumped onto the ground. He drew his sword and lunged at once, forcing her near the roaring water.

  Drest pivoted, and leaped away from the river, toward the bank she had just descended. He tried to catch her with his free hand, but his step slipped in the mud.

  She could push him in the river if she rushed—

  But the moment was gone.

  “Whelp of the devil.” Sir Oswyn was breathing hard. “The rest of my men are coming down an easier path. Give yourself up. Tell me where you’ve hidden my nephew.”

  Tancored’s weight ached on her arm. “Do you not know that Grimbol’s whelps never give up? It’s a code of our war-band, see.”

  She slashed.

  Sir Oswyn dodged, then lunged again.

  She dodged, but the blade met her leg, tearing her hose. It was a light cut, but had enough of a sting to make her grit her teeth.

  He lowered his sword, and she took the chance—swooping in at him with a rising tide, a move that would cut his shoulder or neck.

  “God’s blood!” roared Sir Oswyn, and threw himself aside—but as he did so, he dropped his blow, swinging hard at her feet.

  Drest leaped over the blade, and caught it with Tancored on its way up. Steel screamed against steel for a horrible, grating instant—and the swords parted.

  Suddenly, Sir Oswyn’s hand shot out and clamped on to her shoulder. She ripped free, but he grabbed her again, and threw her down.

  Drest’s elbows slammed against the dirt. She tried to scramble up, but his boot pounded upon her stomach, and stayed there, pinning her, his knee bent. Drest suppressed her moan and swung her sword in time to block his blow at her head.

  But his blow was fierce. It knocked her sword from her hand.

  Tancored!

  The sword thumped out of her reach, over the bank to the river’s edge. Its hilt teetered, the square pommel nearly touching the water.

  Nay!

  It was a heavy sword, a sword for a fighting man. As if it had decided that it was done fighting for her for good, Tancored slipped into the water, hilt-first.

  “Where is my nephew?” Sir Oswyn lowered his sword, its point hovering over her chest. “I know you’ve kept him safe all these days. Tell me where he is, and I’ll spare you.”

  But in that movement, his balance shifted—Drest felt it, the slight lifting of his foot. She threw herself to the side, twisting out from under him, then rolled back, back, until she was away. As she sprang to her feet, she drew her dagger.

  “My God,” Sir Oswyn gasped. “I have never seen a creature move as fast as you. What is your name, beast?”

  “It’s Drest, like the Picts. Remember it.”

  “Oh, I will.”

  Suddenly he was beside her, shoving her, his sword knocking away her dagger into the river at her back, where it fell with a muted plop.

  Gone.

  He stepped back and swung at her ribs.

  Drest dove toward the muddy cliff, curling up when she hit the ground, then flew to her feet.

  The ravine was before her, the trees beckoning, the cliffs with the ropes just beyond. She had an instant to start running toward the cliffs, an instant in which she might escape.

  Yet another chance lay before her.

  Sir Oswyn’s back was to the river.

  If she moved quickly, she might push him in. But it would take more than a push.

  She would have to throw herself in too. She would have to be brave enough to risk everything.

  Merewen risked everything.

  Drest flung herself against Sir Oswyn with all her weight.

  And closed her arms around his, pinning him.

  The sudden push knocked him off balance.

  He strained against her, but the weight of his chain mail carried them back, back, over the lip of the bank.

  And then the river was around them.

  34

  THE RIVER

  Icy cold swept over her. Drest almost opened her mouth to scream, but forced herself to focus: It wasn’t over yet.

  She was still clinging to Sir Oswyn, and he was thrashing to get free. She let go of him and kicked hard, meeting his chest, pushing herself up with the blow.

  As if in a dance, the water and the weight of his armor dragged the old knight down—down in a silvery glimmer, his arms reaching but helpless.

  In five seconds, he was out of Drest’s sight.

  He’s gone. I’ve done it.

  And then the river tried to pull her down as well.

  The waves grabbed her, crushing her against a block of stone far beneath the river’s surface. Drest dug her fingers beside it, into the mud of the underwater bank, and climbed. One ragged fistful of earth, then another, the water tearing at her face and limbs. Her breath fluttered in her chest like a trapped bird.

  But her holds were secure.

  Hand over hand, half swimming, she slowly rose. Stones and mud came off in her hands.

  Her ears were pounding with her heartbeat.

  She was almost there. The lip of the bank was just above her.

  Her head was starting to cloud.

  Drest reached up. Her hand broke free of the water.

  Another hand closed on her wrist with a bruising grip.

  It hauled her to the surface and up the bank’s slimy mud onto the grass. Drest coughed out water until air filled her lungs and she could feel the pebbles beneath her knees.

  She was still alive.

  Are you sure? Pinch yourself hard to see, sniggered Uwen’s voice.

  Drest raised her head—and flung an arm around Emerick’s dripping shoulders.

  He squeezed her, murmuring her name over and over.

  “What are you doing down here?” Drest choked out. “You said before you can’t swim.”

  “No, I can’t. But we saw you go under and—and not come up.”

  “Nay, I came up.”

  She cleared her throat, coughed, and tried to sit, but was shaking too much.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she muttered.

  “You nearly drowned. That you even survived—”

  “I’m a water rat.”

  He gave a hollow laugh. “Thank God you’re a water rat, or fish, or seal, or whatever form you might take beneath the waves.” He held her to him, his wet cheek against her forehead. “Just breathe.”

  Then Tig was beside her, hugging her as well, wiping his face with his sleeve.

  It was wet with tears, Drest realized, not water. She reached out for him, and soon was holding both of her greatest friends.

  A strange dizziness was engulfing her, as if she were half-asleep.

  “You did it, Drest.” Emerick’s voice, in her ear. “He’s gone. I can hardly believe it, but he’s gone. Lass, you’ve saved my life for good, and—and nearly lost your own in doing so. Please, Drest, never do that again.”

  “But he’s gone,” she murmured, “so it was worth the risk.”

  Mordag’s call—flying near—pierced the roar of the river and the waterfall over the cliff: a blistering, incessant string of creeas.

  “God’s breath,” whispered Emerick. “They’re coming. Quick, Drest, Can you stand?”

  Tig was under her arm, helping her as she had always helped Emerick.

  But she couldn’t stand. Her legs were like reeds. They folded and she fell on her knees in the mud, gasping, each breath a burden in her lungs.

  “I can’t move,” Drest whispered frantically.

  “Hold still.” Emerick was lifting her, one arm under her back, the other under her legs. “Where can we run? Tig, is there a way up that cliff before us?”
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  It was the cliff she had just slid down, a cliff deeply marked with the furrows she and Sir Oswyn had made in their descent.

  A thunder of footsteps was nearing, and with it a chorus of clinking chain mail.

  Drest raised her eyes.

  Faintree Castle’s army was advancing up the ravine. Sir Reynard, running, was at their head.

  They were shouting, though the roar of the river muted them.

  “There’s nowhere to go.” Emerick’s voice was a shadow. “Drest, I—I cannot believe it has come to this.” His arms tightened around her. “I will not let you go. They will have to hack through me before they will reach you, and then—then we will fall together.”

  Tig grabbed his arm. “But Emerick, your uncle is dead! We’ve triumphed, we’ve won. Tell them that. Speak to them as their lord and they’ll obey. Remember what Sir Reynard said?”

  A shiver passed through Emerick, but he nodded. “God’s bones, I hope you’re right.” With a deep breath, he faced the army.

  “Let me go.” Drest struggled out of his arms. She had to grab hold of his tunic to keep standing, but she was on her feet as the army surged into clear sight.

  Over sixty men—in chain mail and the brown tunics of men-at-arms, spears pointing, swords drawn. They were ten paces away when Sir Reynard raised his hand and they stopped.

  Suddenly, Grimbol was there, pushing through, and halted at Sir Reynard’s side. The old knight grabbed Grimbol’s arm—but as if to support him, not hold him back.

  As if Sir Reynard were again on Emerick’s side. As if he’d never left.

  “She’s alive?” Grimbol said, his voice a whisper against the crash of the waterfall at Emerick’s back, though his lips showed his words. “My lass is alive?”

  Drest leaned against Emerick. Her head was swimming. “Aye, Da, I’m alive. I don’t die that easily.”

  Emerick’s arm encircled her.

  “Speak to your army,” Tig urged. “Quick!”

  The young lord took a deep breath. “Men of Faintree Castle! You stand before me, thinking I was dead, but—but I live, and—” His voice faded. “—yes, I live.”

  Tig raised his chin, and strode in front of Emerick. He planted himself solidly before the army.

  “Lord Emerick Faintree lives!” he shouted, his voice a cry through the thundering water. “Behold your one and only lord, your true lord, the man who will take Faintree Castle into a new age of glory!” He paused. “And behold who stands with him. Not a vicious beast, but a legend of courage and faith. She is the warrior maiden who has saved our lord from death, and who has drawn the traitor into the waters beyond. Yes, Oswyn Faintree, with his rotting core of evil, is dead. He has gone forever, into that.” He pointed at the pounding river behind him.

  No one moved.

  Tig took a step closer to the army, and though his azure tunic and black hose were muddy and torn, he could not have looked more regal. He flung out one arm in a gesture to encompass all the men. “Let the loyal among you kneel, and let the traitors stay standing.”

  Tig spun around and, as if he were a royal page, knelt on one knee in the mud before Emerick, head bowed.

  Silence.

  Emerick tensed.

  Drest’s fingers crept down to her sword-belt and closed over the top of the empty scabbard.

  Suddenly, Grimbol and Sir Reynard fell to their knees at the river’s bank, heads bowed, hands on their hearts.

  And with a rattle of chain mail that sounded like a rockslide, the army did the same behind them.

  Drest scanned the crowd of bowed heads—knights, spearmen, and her brothers too.

  The whole army.

  Not a man had remained standing.

  part four: the way home

  35

  THE RETURN

  Drest picked at the dried mud caked on her wrist. She could barely see it in the dark, even with the flickering torches all over the deck. The wind gusted, and the ship’s enormous sail strained over her head. Her legs were still wobbly, but, clinging to the side of the hull, Drest hauled herself to her feet and looked over into the black water.

  Spray splashed up from where the ship’s hull met the waves, spattering her face. She was abruptly cold, her legs shaking like the gorse on the headland’s cliffs.

  “You’ve lost your blanket!”

  Tig came up behind her and flung the blanket over her shoulders.

  “I—I need to sit,” Drest muttered.

  “Take my hand. I’ll help you.”

  “Nay, lad, I’ll more likely tear you off your feet.” She sank to her knees, thumping painfully against the wood. “I’m all unsteady. I feel like a gull that’s been swept in the waves and half drowned.”

  “You are that gull. You have been half drowned.” Tig sat beside her and grabbed her hand. “I still can’t believe you’re here. I saw you go under the river—no, that’s not the worst—I saw you fighting. Each time Sir Oswyn raised his sword, I thought—” He broke off, his lips trembling.

  “That was just battle, Tig. It’s what I’ve been trained to do all my life.” And yet—it had been more than just battle.

  She’d fought Sir Oswyn. A soldier as strong as her father. A warrior with no weakness, no mercy.

  I wouldn’t have slain him if I hadn’t gone in with him. He might have slain me.

  Drest shuddered.

  Tig’s arm closed around her. “You’re here,” he murmured. “You’re here and safe. Oswyn’s gone forever now. You’ll never have to fight him again.”

  Drest squeezed his hand weakly.

  “I’ve never seen you in a deadly fight. And that river, and that fog, and the sound of that water—” The boy’s laugh was broken. “I beg your pardon, Drest, but I don’t much like your home.”

  “Nay,” she murmured, “it’s not my home now.”

  Across the ship, Wulfric was carrying Uwen. The boy’s wounded shoulder was bound with a cloth that glowed in the torchlight. Wulfric’s step was sure on the rolling deck, as if he’d walked on such an unsteady surface all his life.

  “He wants to see his wee sister.” Wulfric knelt and gently set Uwen on the deck beside Drest. “How are you, lass?”

  “I’m alive, am I not?” She nudged Uwen, whose eyes were open only a crack and whose face was ghastly pale. “What about you?”

  A ragged laugh came from his throat. “I’m a gull-faced rat’s bottom if I’m not.”

  “Well, you’re a rat’s bottom, so does that mean you’re only half-alive?” She leaned against him. He smelled of sweat and blood.

  “I—I don’t know how long I’ll last.” Uwen’s voice was a shadow of what it had just been. “It doesn’t hurt anymore. I know that’s bad.”

  Drest’s stomach was hollow. “That only means that you’ve lost enough blood to have a fuzzy head. Nay, lad, you’ll last. It’s but a short ride by ship—half a day, Emerick once said—and then when we’re at the castle, they’ll have healers.”

  Tig dug in his tunic. “If it’s not wet—oh, good. Wimarca gave me this for Emerick, but I think you might need it more, Uwen.” He withdrew a handful of herbs.

  “What do I do with them?” said the boy in a slurred voice.

  “Eat them,” said Drest. “Open your mouth, lad.” She grabbed a pellet of stems and seeds and set it against her brother’s tongue.

  He chewed, and then stopped and was quiet—too quiet, Drest thought with alarm. She started to rise.

  “No, don’t move,” said Tig softly. “They’ve made him fall asleep. That’s good.”

  “Aye, lass, let him rest.” Wulfric stood and set his hand on the railing, looking out at the sea.

  Drest nestled against Uwen, the battle-mate of all her youth, and closed her eyes.

  Above her, the sail thumped with a new gust of wind.

 
“How is she, lad?” It was Wulfric, quiet.

  “I don’t know for sure.” Tig, just as quiet. “She sounds like herself. I feel as if I’m going to start weeping at any moment, however.”

  “You and our da. For him to see her go under the river like that—” Wulfric sighed. “I was with the twins. They wanted to rush in and help her, but it wasn’t safe. She was fighting well, but if she’d been distracted, he would have had her. I held them back. But if that had been the wrong choice—” His voice broke. “Ah, lad, I feel like weeping too.”

  Drest wanted to open her eyes, but they were heavy.

  “Is she resting?” Now it was Thorkill’s voice.

  “Aye, lad. With her battle-mate. Remember when we were like that?”

  Thorkill gave a soft laugh. “Aye, after our first battle. I could barely stand. And that quiet—”

  “The quiet that comes when all is still.” Wulfric’s voice, faded. “It’s never been that quiet since.”

  “Why is that?” Tig asked. “You’ve been to many battles, haven’t you? And all those battles end.”

  “Aye, but there’s always another,” said Thorkill. “And after your second, you realize that there will be another, and another. They’re never truly done.”

  Boards creaked, and someone warm settled on the deck beside Drest.

  Another warm someone joined him.

  “I don’t like ships.” Gobin’s voice, muted. “How’s my wee Drest?”

  “There’s no color in her face.” Nutkin’s voice.

  “She’s resting.” Thorkill. “She’s worked hard, our brave lass.”

  Nutkin gave a faint laugh. “She called herself a legend once. After watching what she did today, I’d say she’s right.”

  Gobin shuddered. “But it tears some years off of a lad’s life, doesn’t it, to see his wee sister battling a man who wants nothing more than to cut her in two.”

  “Hush,” murmured Wulfric. “Don’t speak of that near her.”

  A pause, so long that Drest almost fell asleep. But then Wulfric resumed his low murmur: “When she wakes, all will be different. She’ll know that life has changed, and she’ll never again be the wee lass we’ve known. That fog—you all know what I mean—she’ll start feeling that soon. Keep a close eye on her, and help her. But do it as you would for one of us, not our wee Drest, for she’ll never be that again.”