Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

“Whoa, whoa there,” chided Brendan. “Slow up, you’ll bust that rib going on like that. First things first: Why are you here in the first place?”

“My brother,” said Prue calmly. “My brother was abducted by crows. And brought here. Somewhere in Wildwood.”

“Whew!” whistled Brendan. “You lost two O

utsiders? Bad luck there.”

Prue shook her head sadly. “I know,” she said. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I was on my way to North Wood, you know, when we got shot down. Now I’ll never make it.”

The Bandit King nodded. “It’s a long ways,” he said. “To North Wood. And it’s unforgiving territory, too. The coyotes are crawling over these parts.”

Prue looked at the King imploringly and said, “Can you help me? Please? I’m just so terrified that something horrible has happened. And now Curtis has joined in with the coyotes? I’m just so confused!” Despite herself, she began to cry.

Brendan frowned. “I don’t know what to tell you, Prue. We’ve got our hands full here, what with this war on. I can’t be helping little girls find their brothers.”

A knock came at the hut’s doorframe.

“Sir!” shouted the bandit at the door. “Coyotes! On the perimeter!”

Brendan leapt up. “What?” he shouted, alarmed. “How far out?”

“Second sentry line!” was the response.

The King whispered a curse under his breath. “There’s no way they could find us—they’ve never been this far out. Unless . . .” He stopped and looked down at Prue.

“You’re coming with me!” he shouted, kneeling down and throwing Prue over his shoulder as if she were an empty duffel bag. She shrieked at the pain of her bruised rib colliding with his shoulder blade. He ran from the lodge, into a clearing surrounded by rustic huts and lean-tos. The camp, built into the shallow of a deep, wide draw, was alive with activity: Men and women milled about the periphery at various labors, children played with little wooden toys near a central fire pit.

“Aisling!” he shouted. “Saddle up the brown mare, Henbane, and bring her to me!”

“What are you doing?!” called Prue.

“Getting you out of here,” responded Brendan. “They’ve got your scent. They’re after you. And you’re about to lead the whole coyote army down on us.”

Henbane was a lithe chestnut mare, and she whinnied excitedly when Brendan vaulted astride her and threw Prue on her flank behind him. Prue winced, the horse’s quick movement painfully jarring her delicate ribs. Brendan grabbed a fistful of Henbane’s mane in one hand and pointed to the camp with the other.

“Get the children inside!” shouted Brendan to the throng of bandits. “And arm up. We’ve got coyotes on the perimeter!” The horse reared, and Prue desperately threw her arms around him, pulling herself in close to his back. Brendan briefly surveyed the actions of the bandits, all scurrying to follow his instruction, before kicking the horse into a gallop. They sped down the ravine, away from the camp.

Prue watched the camp disappear behind her as they arrived at the mouth of the draw and took a sudden right turn onto flat ground. The huts and lodges seemed to melt away into the green of the foliage, undetectable. Brendan shouted a loud “HYAH!” to the mare, and they vaulted through the underbrush, dodging brambles and leaping fallen tree trunks. After a moment, the bandit pulled back on Henbane’s mane, and, coming to a shimmying stop, he looked up into the overhanging tree branches. “Where are they?” he shouted.

A voice came from above. Prue squinted to see a bandit, hidden in the boughs. “Farther south, sir! One hundred yards. By the split oak!”

Brendan gave no reply but spurred the horse instantly back to a gallop, and they drove through the woods as fast as the mare could carry them.

“Are you just going to turn me over to them?!” shouted Prue over the crashing of the horse through the bracken. How was it that she was single-handedly bringing all this danger on top of everyone she met? She felt like the world’s most effective bad luck charm.

“That’d do me no good!” he shouted back. “They’d still be on the perimeter, sniffing around! I can outrun them, but I need them to follow me.” He whistled and shied the horse to avoid a giant mossy berm. “And you’re my bait, Outsider!”

Suddenly, they broke through a wall of blackberry brambles and landed directly in the middle of a squad of coyote soldiers, easily fifty in number, knocking over several who stood in their way.

“The girl!” barked one of the coyotes.

“The King!” shouted another.

Brendan, with an expert twist of his wrist, turned the mare eastward and kicked her flank. “HYAH!” he shouted, and the horse burst into speed. Prue gripped Brendan’s waist tightly, her body jolting against Henbane’s bare back. They tore through the underbrush, the bushes and boughs whipping at their skin.

The coyotes, in a desperate, baying lather, tore after them. A pursuit troop broke away from the main group, sprinting on all fours, their uniforms ripped away by the sheer power of their strides. Reduced to their base animal instincts, they joyously barked and snapped as they gave frantic chase.

Henbane was heaving, her muscles churning with every leap. But she knew the terrain; Brendan barely had to direct her as she deftly flew through the forest.