Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

“What do you mean, half-breed?” asked Prue, intrigued.

The fox waved away the question. “What do you want, coming in here?” he asked, stepping up from his chair. He tapped the remaining ash from his pipe onto the ground. “We don’t need for trouble.”

“I’m here to see the Mystics,” explained Prue. “I was sent by Owl Rex, from the Avian Principality. The Dowager Governess is back and she has my brother. She’s raised an army in Wildwood, and I don’t know what she means to do, but I know I need my brother back.”

The fox stared at her a moment before saying, “Sounds serious enough. Samuel, let’s take this half-breed to the Mystics. They’ll know what to do.”

Samuel saluted and gave his pitchfork another quick stamp on the ground. The fox was lazily stepping away from the house when the hare cleared his throat. “Um, sir,” murmured the hare quietly. “You’ll want your weapon. Official constabulary business, right?”

The fox looked directly at the hare for a moment, chagrined by his deputy’s impudence, before turning and walking back into the house. In a moment, he returned with a pair of pruning shears stuck in the belt of his pants.

“Okay,” said the fox. “Let’s go.”

CHAPTER 21

Wildwood Revisited;

A Meeting with a Mystic

They’d heard the groaning long before they arrived at the interrogation chamber, eerily echoing through the low tunnels of the warren. They no longer needed to follow Septimus; they were able to find the location of the Bandit King by the sound of his agonized moans alone. Turning a sharp corner just beyond the abandoned central hall, its giant soot-black cauldron toppled sideways, they stopped short to see the King hanging from his ankles by a thick cable anchored to the ceiling of the tall chamber. A burlap sack had been put over his head, cinched at his neck by a leather cord. Angus ran up to his leader and, with a swift flick of his wrist, flung the sack from Brendan’s head.

“My King!” he shouted as the rest of the bandits ran to his side.

Brendan cracked a blackened eye at the gathered crew. A bit of crusted blood darkened his lower lip, and his hair was matted with sweat.

“Hey, boys,” he said, his voice labored and rough. “Mind getting me down?”

Within moments, they’d pulled him down from his hanging position; Septimus sped up the rope and gnawed it clean through, letting Curtis and the bandits ease Brendan to the rocky ground. A simple tether holding his arms behind his back was quickly undone, and the Bandit King sat on the chamber floor, rubbing his reddened wrists.

“What happened?” Seamus asked finally.

“Oh, they knocked me around a bit,” Brendan replied, regaining his voice. “They were keen on the location of the camp, the mongrel dogs.” He briefly surveyed his rescue party, his eyes falling on Dmitri. “What’s that one doing here?”

Dmitri threw up his paws. “Hey, I’m with you.”

Brendan squinted his good eye at the coyote suspiciously.

“Well, did you?” asked Seamus. “Did you tell ’em anything?”

Brendan shot his gaze over at Seamus, his eyes set in a deep, studied glare. Curtis could see a deep sinew in his neck tense and shiver. He spoke in a slow, deliberate voice. “What do you think?”

Seamus cracked a mischievous smile and held out his hand to the King. “Good to have you back, Brendan.” Brendan returned the smile and accepted the bandit’s outstretched hand; he winced a little as he stood.

“The dogs bruised me up a good bit,” he hissed, hobbling uncertainly on his feet. “But I’m good to keep pace. Where’s that witch? She’s mine, boys.”

“They’re gone, Brendan,” Angus explained. “Just all up and gone. No one’s here.”

Brendan scanned the room, nodding. “Figured as much. They weren’t done with me, I don’t think, before they just left me there, hanging like a possum.”

“Where do you think they’re going?” ventured Curtis. “You think they’re on their way to do the thing? The thing with Mac?”

Brendan stared at Curtis. He walked slowly toward him, his pace hitched by a slight limp, until he was standing within inches of Curtis’s face. He stood easily a foot above Curtis, and his skin was fair and freckled, his forehead tattoo faded by sunburn and sweat. The hollow below his left eye was darkened by a deep purple shiner. Curtis could smell the sourness of his breath as he stood and stared down. “You,” he said. “Outsider. Now that we’re here, now that we’re free . . .” He reached down and tangled his fingers into fists around the lapels of Curtis’s uniform coat. “I can tell you what I really think.” Brendan flexed his arms, and Curtis could feel his boot heels lifting from the cavern floor. The Bandit King leered menacingly as he brought Curtis’s face up to his.

“I ought to tear you limb from limb,” he whispered. “For what you’ve done. You fool kid, you meddling Outsider.”

Curtis began to whimper helplessly. “I didn’t know!” he objected, the fabric of his jacket in Brendan’s fist constricting his throat. “I thought she meant well. I didn’t know.”

“Whoa!” shouted Cormac, coming to Curtis’s side. He placed his hand on Brendan’s arm. “He’s okay. He’s a friend.”