Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

The King spat on the wooden planks and said, “No matter how many of my people you kill and imprison, you’ll never find us. You don’t know these woods as we do.”

“All in due time, Brendan,” she replied. “All in due time. Your ‘people’ will be sorry they didn’t come out and join me, when the day is at hand. And it won’t matter what little cesspit they may be hiding in presently.”

Brendan was losing his temper. “Draw your sword, Governess,” he said calmly. “We’ll settle this now.”

“Not so simple,” was Alexandra’s stoic reply. She put two fingers to her lips and let out a loud, bright whistle. Suddenly, the far side of the bridge behind her filled with coyote soldiers, each training a rifle directly at Brendan and Prue.

Brendan gaped. Prue squeezed his waist tight and buried her face into the damp cloth of his shirt.

Alexandra took this moment to finally draw her sword from her sheath. “Drop your weapon,” she commanded, the tip of her sword pointing steadily at Brendan’s face. The sound of metal clattering on wood followed as Brendan’s saber fell from his fingers, and the pack of coyotes behind them, still breathless from the pursuit, came clambering up and dragged the two riders from their horse.

“Take the King to the cages!” shouted the Governess. The coyotes barked in approval. “But bring the girl to me.”

Alexandra gave one final look at Prue; she then sheathed her sword and drew the reins on her horse, guiding him at a trot away from the bridge and back into the forest.

CHAPTER 17

Guests of the Dowager

Curtis woke to the sound of gnawing. It came from above his head, and he cracked one eye open to try to identify its source. A few of the torches in the cavern had been relit and Curtis could see, dimly, the hanging shapes of his neighboring cages.

Looking up, he saw Septimus, the rat, busily chewing on the cable connecting his cage to the root system. He’d taken a sizable chunk out of it; barely half remained. Curtis shot a quick look down to the ground below the cage—a distance of some sixty feet led to a cavern floor piled with jagged rocks and strewn with fractured bone—before scrambling to his feet.

“Septimus!” he hissed. “What are you doing?”

The rat jumped, surprised, and momentarily stopped in his labors. “Oh!” he said. “Good morning, Curtis!”

Curtis, agitated, repeated his question. “Septimus, why are you chewing on my rope?”

Septimus looked over at the rope, as if unaware of the activity. “Gosh, Curtis,” he said, “I don’t know. I just do that from time to time—feels good on my teeth.”

Curtis was furious. “Septimus, there’s like a huge fall to the ground here, and if you break that rope, I’m dead!” He jabbed a finger downward, pointing to the bones that littered the ground. “Look at those bones!”

Septimus looked down. “Oh,” he said. “I see.”

“Now . . . buzz off!” Curtis shouted.

“I think they throw those bones around down there just to make it look scarier,” said the rat calmly.

“Septimus!” yelled Curtis.

“Got it,” said the rat. “Loud and clear.” He shot up the rope, scampered across a root tendril, and leapt onto the top of another cage, setting it to swaying. The bandit in the cage he’d jumped to, Eamon, was awake and was quick to shoo the rat from his rope. “Don’t even think about it, rat,” he said.

Septimus huffed grumpily and disappeared into the dark crevices of the root-ball.

One of the bandits, Curtis couldn’t make out who, grumbled something in half sleep. Another snored. Pushing himself up into a seated position, Curtis kicked his legs across the floor of his hanging cell. His lower back was killing him; if it weren’t for the fact that he’d been so incredibly exhausted, he wondered if he’d have slept at all. He stretched his arms over his head, feeling a crrrrack in the midsection of his spine as he did so.

Suddenly, a commotion from the hallway disrupted the relative calm of the morning; a coyote soldier came rushing into the cavern, waking the warden, who sat slumbering against the wall, with a kick of his paw. A few words were hastily exchanged and the warden, getting stiffly to his hind paws, followed the soldier out of the room. Shouting could be heard from the tunnel and then, to Curtis’s great surprise, a small troop of coyote soldiers was led into the cavern, a rope-bound man in their custody. Curtis immediately recognized him from the battle the previous day.

“Brendan!” Eamon shouted, anguished. “My King!”

Brendan stared stoically up at the cages. His red beard and mop of crimson curls were matted and wet with sweat—it looked as if he’d been through some arduous labor before arriving here.

The other bandits were roused and took to the bars of their cages, staring down in disbelief as the warden gave his rote speech to the new prisoner: “The distance to the ground, unjumpable. Abandon hope. Abandon hope.” Brendan looked on into space, his face betraying no emotion.

“YOU’LL PAY FOR THIS!” screamed Angus, desperately shaking his cage.

Eamon and Seamus had picked up their tin bowls and were dragging them across the wood of the bars, making an unholy din.