Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

“Sure,” said Curtis. Taking it, he attempted a weapon inspection as well: He stretched out the rope to an arm’s reach and self-consciously stared one eye down the length. “Pretty nice one,” he concluded.

Aisling laughed. “Thanks,” she said, “tactical-ops man.”

Curtis’s face reddened. He tried to cover his embarrassment by holding out his hand and introducing himself. “I’m Curtis,” he said. “You’re . . . Aisling?”

The girl reached up and shook his hand. “Yep, nice to meet you, Curtis,” she said. A spray of freckles bridged her nose from cheek to cheek. “Who’s your friend?”

Septimus bowed low from his shoulder. “The name’s Septimus Rat, ma’am. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“He’s just there, y’know, temporarily,” Curtis explained. “Said I’d give him a lift. We met in the coyote prison.” He did a quick check to make sure the last phrase had registered with Aisling—a girl would undoubtedly be dazzled that he had been a member of the great escape party. He was rewarded when she made a half-impressed face. She then studied him as he awkwardly tried to think of another thing to say. He took a deep sigh and, arms akimbo, took in the busy camp.

“Pretty crazy,” he said, finally, gesturing toward the camp. “All this.”

Aisling nodded and continued to fiddle with the hammer of the pistol.

“Can’t wait to get some coyotes in my sight,” said Curtis, hefting the sling and swinging it casually in one hand. Glancing to make sure Aisling was watching, he reached down and picked up a small rock and set it into the cradle. “All this time, just sitting here.” He began rocking the sling. “I’m pretty ready to get back into—” With an unintended flick of his wrist the missile in the sling went flying. “BATTLE!” he squeaked, watching the rock fly over the bandit camp and into a neat stack of earthenware bowls. They crashed to the ground in a shower of terra-cotta shards, and the entire camp stopped their activities to stare at Curtis.

“Oh God,” he said, blushing deeply, “I’m so sorry. I really didn’t mean to . . .”

Aisling was belly-laughing, rocking on the tree stump.

“Maybe you should stick to tactical-ops,” said Septimus.

Curtis snapped at the rat, “I’ll get the hang of it, just wait.” He was about to fume off when Aisling waved him over.

“That’s good,” the girl said, between fits of laughter. “Things were getting a little too serious around here anyway. Nice work.”

Curtis smiled and shrugged. “I do what I can,” he said.

The sound of a horn penetrated the din of the camp’s activity, its one long sustained note sweeping over the ravine. Curtis looked up to see the bandits snap to attention.

“Guess this is it,” said Aisling, turning solemn. She stood up and fitted the pistol into her belt. Brendan had appeared at the mouth of the ravine, his sword clasped to his side and a long blunderbuss strapped over his shoulder. His left knee was shrouded in a layer of gauze, but it was obvious that his previous strength had returned.

“Ladies and gents,” he shouted to the attendant throng. “Bandits, all. The morning approaches. Fall in. We march on the Ancients’ Grove.”

The bandits wordlessly stepped into two neat rows on the ravine floor and began their march from the camp. Sabers were set into sheaths, their blades newly polished and sharpened; rifles were slung over shoulders. Teary good-byes were exchanged between sweethearts, husbands, and wives. Several of the younger children began to cry, separated from their parents, and were comforted by the few attendants who had been left behind to mind the camp. Aisling and Curtis began to walk toward the marching column.

“Good luck,” said Aisling as she disappeared into the crowd, “tactical-ops man.”

CHAPTER 23

Call to Arms!

“An army?” asked the hare, wiping sleep from his eyes. He’d apparently been woken from a deep slumber; his colander-helmet was set askew on his head and his constabulary uniform was in disarray. “We—we’ve never done that before.”

“What Samuel is trying to say, madam Mystic,” explained the fox, looking equally discomfited, “is that it’s, well, it’s been ages, really, since we’ve had to do that. I mean, we’re a peaceful people, right?”

Iphigenia was trying hard to suppress her frustration. “I understand that, Sterling, but you’ll have to improvise. This is of utmost importance.”

Sterling, the fox, stood and studied the Mystic. Prue, standing next to Iphigenia, grew impatient. Her toes were fidgeting in her shoes. The fox finally continued, “I suppose this would involve ringing the bell.”

Iphigenia rolled her eyes. “Yes, it would, Mr. Fox. And if you wouldn’t mind stepping to it, we have a half-crazed woman and her host of coyotes to stop before they lay the whole Wood to ruin.”

“Well, that’s just the thing, ain’t it,” the fox said. “The bell is in the old fire tower. And, well, the fire tower is locked.”

“So, unlock it,” said the Mystic.

The fox smiled uncomfortably. “No key.” He displayed the open palms of his two paws, as if showing them empty was some condolence.