“What?” asked Prue quizzically. “What are you smiling about?”
“You found ’em,” he said.
“What?”
“The
bandits. You found ’em. You happen to be looking at a Wildwood bandit, signed and sworn,” said Curtis proudly, his arms at his hips.
“You?” she asked. “You’re a bandit now?” She threw her hand to her forehead.
“Yep,” continued Curtis. “The whole bandit band is right behind . . .” He swiveled as he spoke, but was stopped short to see that the road behind him was empty. “They were just there.” He looked back at Prue, smiling apologetically. “Hang on,” he said, holding a finger in the air. “I’ll be right back.” He turned and began jogging down the Long Road, the gold fringe of his epaulets swinging. When he’d arrived at a bend in the road, he stood on the forest’s edge and yelled something into the trees. After a moment, a figure appeared. They spoke briefly, and the figure disappeared back into the trees. Curtis turned to Prue and waved his hand in a circle, rolling his eyes. Suddenly, the dark green underbrush gave way and dozens of armed men and women, dressed in an array of ragtag uniforms, stepped from the shadows onto the clearing of the road. A man Prue recognized to be Brendan walked to the front of the crowd, and with Curtis walking alongside, they all approached Prue as she stood, speechless, by her bike.
“Prue, this is Brendan, the Bandit King,” said Curtis when the band of bandits came close. “I believe you two have met.”
“We have!” shouted Prue, making a slight, embarrassed bow. “Oh, Brendan. I’m so happy to see you’re okay.”
Brendan smiled. “How are your ribs, Outsider?” he asked.
“Fine, thanks,” she said, blushing. “Much better.”
Prue scanned the crowd of gathered bandits; their number was fewer than she’d anticipated. Apparently, her face said as much, because Brendan spoke up in explanation, his face suddenly sullen. “Our numbers have been decimated. We are not the hale band you encountered when you last fell into our midst. But no matter: You have found us on the march to confront the Dowager Governess once and for all. We plan on giving her the hiding of a lifetime—even if we die in the trying.” The crowd behind the King murmured in resolved approval.
“But listen, Brendan,” said Curtis, his voice quaking in his excitement, “Prue has an army too!”
“What?” Brendan stared at Prue.
Prue took a deep breath. “Since I saw you last, I went to North Wood and spoke to the Mystics there. They’ve agreed to help, to fight the Governess. They’ve called their militia together. The whole country of North Wood is mustering to the defense of the Wood. They’re on their way now—they can’t be far behind me. I rode ahead to find you, the bandits, in the hope that you would join us.”
A collective furor erupted from the gathered bandits. “Allies!” one shouted. “Our number grows!”
Another reprimanded the first: “Those bumpkins? Are you kidding me?”
“No bandit has fought alongside a civilian—that’s unthinkable!”
Brendan turned and, waving his arms in the air, attempted to quiet the unruly bunch. “Shut up, all of you!” he commanded. When the band had quieted, he turned back to Prue. “What kind of army are you talking about?” he asked.
“Four hundred,” said Prue, “give or take. Human and animal. Armed with farm implements, mostly.”
“Oh boy,” remarked one bandit from the middle of the crowd. He was immediately shushed by his neighbors.
Brendan chewed on the information. “Not ideal, but the measure of a fighter is in his skill, not his weapon,” he said, stroking the coarse hair of his red beard. “An old bandit adage goes, ‘A bell is a cup until it is struck.’” He turned to the amassed bandit crowd and called for their attention. “We will fight alongside the farmers,” he said, and the crowd exploded into objection.
“We steal from them, we don’t fight with them!”
“My granddad would be spinnin’ in his grave to know that a daughter of his would be fighting alongside a North Wooder!”
“Quiet!” shouted Brendan. “I’ll take no objections! I didn’t call for a vote on the matter; this is final!” Once the bandits had ceased their clamor, he continued, “The creed and code of the bandit clearly states ‘to hold all plants, animals, and humans as equals.’ Never in the history of our band have these words rung more true.” His voice grew steely and hard, as he pointed a tattooed finger in the direction of the woods. “This threat we face is shared by every living thing in this Wood. By allying with North Wood in this fight, we not only uphold our code, our oath, but we make it stronger. Stronger by living it.” He flared his nostrils and eyed the crowd. “Is that clear?”
He was met by silence.
“I said, is that clear?” he repeated, his voice ringing out through the narrow clearing of the road.
“Aye,” said a bandit. A few more fell in as well: “Aye, King.” Finally, the entire crowd chorused their approval, and Brendan nodded. He turned to Prue.
“Okay, girl,” he said. “Take me to this army of yours.”
Prue had pedaled her bike to the northernmost plank of the bridge and, resting its frame against the railing, had hopped off and was currently pacing the distance between the two columns. Occasionally, she would look sidelong at the farthest point of the road, hoping that soon a few shapes would appear out of the hazy distance—perhaps the ears of a rabbit or the arched roof of a caravan that would be a harbinger to the arriving army, but so far, the road remained empty.