Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

The entire bandit band occupied the span of the bridge. They’d arrived sprightly and full of vigor, but the time that had elapsed between their arrival and the current moment had drained their energies. They meandered the boards of the bridge aimlessly, and Prue was hyperconscious of their eyes as they looked to her for direction. Curtis mirrored her steps as she paced; they would meet at each halfway point and share a look. The darkness of the deep ravine spilled out below them.

Brendan leaned against the railing, a weed protruding from his lips. He chewed on it thoughtfully as he stood.

Finally, he spoke. “Prue,” he said. “We can’t afford much more time.”

Prue stopped in her pacing. She glanced back down the Long Road. It remained, as ever, empty. “I don’t know,” she said, fretfully. “I didn’t think they’d be that far behind me.”

“And you know for certain this army was being gathered?” asked Brendan.

“I swear,” said Prue. “I was there when the instructions were given. The Elder Mystic—she told me to go, to find you. And she said to meet here, on this bridge. Oh, dang it all!” She stomped her foot, hearing the sole of her shoe echo against the wooden plank.

Brendan looked away, over at the milling band of bandits. Several of them had their weapons out—pistols, rifles, and cutlasses—and were engaged in a kind of time-killing inspection. “We’ve got to move,” he said, “if we’re to stop this woman. The time is fast approaching.”

“Sir,” one of the bandits called, squinting into the distance, “them North Wooders, here they come.”

Both Brendan and Prue jerked their heads in the direction the bandit had been staring; sure enough, far off, around a bend, the first few figures were appearing. They walked in a loose formation, and what first seemed to be scattered groups of marchers soon grew until the wide expanse of the Long Road was filled from side to side with an ocean of creatures. They were rabbits and humans, foxes and bears—each wearing the dirty and worn costume of farm laborer: coveralls, overalls, button-down gingham shirts, and plaid flannels. In their hands and paws they carried every known farm implement under the sun, and they walked with a kind of gritty determination Prue had not anticipated. The crowd was broken here and there by the presence of ox- and donkey-drawn carriages, their bright paint jobs a striking contrast against a background of the forest’s million shades of green. Prue recognized Sterling the fox at the head of the marching crowd. She smiled widely when she saw him.

“You made it,” she said, relieved, as the crowd came closer.

Sterling extended his palm in greeting. “It took some doing, yes,” he said. “But here w

e are.”

She turned to Curtis. “Sterling, this is my good friend Curtis. He’s, well, he’s a bandit.”

Curtis made a low bow. “How do you do,” he said.

Sterling looked at him suspiciously. “Are you their leader?” he asked, his eyes falling over the gathered band of milling bandits.

“Oh no, no,” said Curtis, stepping away. “That’d be Brendan. The Bandit King.”

Brendan walked forward, his hands resting on the pommel of his saber. His chin was held high, his crown of salal vines tangled dramatically in his curly red hair. “Hello, fox,” said Brendan.

Sterling puffed up his chest at the arrival of the bandit. His eyes widened. “Hello, Brendan,” he said, his tone frigid and firm. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing your wretched face again.”

Alarmed, Prue looked at Curtis. Curtis shrugged.

Brendan smiled. “Funny circumstances, to be sure. But it’s all water under the bridge at this point, right, foxy?”

“I’m of the mind to arrest you, right here and now,” said Sterling. “For all you’ve done.”

Prue stepped forward. “Arrest him? Are you crazy? We’re allies, remember?” The fox glared at Prue. “You didn’t say anything about this psychopath being involved.” He pointed a jagged claw at the Bandit King, his teeth bared. “This man is responsible for more shipments of produce lost than any single bandit in the Wood. He’s a wanted man in all four of the countries. I personally have put my share of a season’s harvest up as reward for his capture, dead or alive.” He looked back at Brendan. “Last time we met, you were lucky to get away with your life—I intend to be more thorough this time.”

“Oh come now, fox,” said Brendan demurely. “Let’s not quibble over administrative details. Bigger things are afoot.”

Sterling was fuming. The thick red fur of his face seemed to take on a deeper hue as his eyes narrowed in anger. His hand went to the pruning shears at his side; he began to draw them from their sheath.

“Okay, foxy,” Brendan said, “if you must.” The silvery blade of his saber started to emerge from his scabbard. “Make your move, constable.”

A voice erupted from the crowd of farmers behind the fox: “Stop this!” came the voice. Prue turned to see Iphigenia, the Elder Mystic, shoving her way through the crowd. Arriving at the bridge, she put her wizened hand on the fox’s arm. “Constable Fox, I command you to stop this nonsense.”

Brendan hadn’t moved, his hand still positioned on his sword. “Listen to the old lady, foxy,” he said. The fox’s hackles rose; a bright spine of fur jutted from the back of his neck.

“You too, son,” Iphigenia said, glowering at the Bandit King. She walked forward and, putting her hand on top of Brendan’s, shoved the emerging sword hilt back into its scabbard. Having stayed the two combatants, Iphigenia stepped back and eyed the group warily. “Sorry we didn’t make it sooner, dear,” she said to Prue. “These old bones don’t move as fast as they used to.”

“No big deal,” Prue said, exhaling a deep, relieved sigh. “Just glad to see you all.”

Iphigenia smiled before raising her head and squinting up at the sky. The two armies squared off silently as the Elder Mystic gauged the position of the sun. Satisfied, she looked back at Brendan.