Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

Curtis, in this haze of concentration, had neglected to keep pace with the rest of the marching column. One of the farmers, a black bear armed with a pair of loppers, grunted angrily when Curtis fell back and nearly tripped over the bear’s massive paws. “Sorry!”

“Just watch where yer going,” growled the bear.

Curtis jogged to catch up with Prue as she continued to push her bike and wagon up the steep incline of the path.

“Well, there you go,” said Prue. “Your old aunt Ruthie.”

“I don’t know,” said Curtis, shaking his head. “Come to think of it, most of my relatives would fit that description: a little batty.”

Suddenly, a whisper began cascading down the line of marchers. “Shhh!” A wave of an arm followed, passed from soldier to soldier, instructing the marchers to get down on the ground. Curtis waved to the black bear behind him, passing on the command, as he and Prue eased themselves quietly to the ground.

“What’s up?” he whispered to Prue.

“I don’t know,” she responded. Prue slowly, silently laid her bike against the slope of the hill. She tapped the

soldier in front of her, a female bandit in a muddy blue uniform with a thick coil of rope across her back. “What’s going on?”

The bandit shrugged, crouched low amid the sword ferns that dangled over the small clearing of the trail. After a moment, more information was passed down the line in a series of whispers. The bandit, receiving the intel, turned to Prue.

“Coyotes,” she whispered. “On the far ridge.”

Prue looked over at the other side of the ravine. The ample vegetation spilled down the side of the hill, falling to an empty creek bed where the two slopes met in a deep V.

“Where?” she whispered. “I don’t see any.”

Curtis was searching the far hillside as well. Finally, the crack of a broken tree limb in the bracken announced the approach of their enemy. Within moments, the woods seemed to disgorge a troop of thirty or so coyote soldiers, their heads barely above the massive copses of maidenhair ferns that surrounded them. The going was tough; they laboriously made their way along the hillside slope.

Prue looked up the long line of crouched bandits and farmers, searching for some sort of guidance. She saw Brendan’s head emerge from the line. He was gesturing to a few of his fellow bandits at the front of the column. The hand signals he made were indecipherable to Prue, but the bandits to whom they’d been directed nodded quickly in understanding. Walking crouched, he made his way down the line toward Prue and Curtis, stopping at the bandit in front of Prue. He made a kind of curlicue motion with his index finger and pointed across the ravine. The bandit nodded sharply and pulled the coil of rope from her shoulder.

“What’s the plan?” hissed Curtis from behind Prue. “Can we do anything?”

Brendan shook his head. “Sit tight,” he whispered. “Just archers and grapplers for this job.”

“I’ve got a sling,” suggested Curtis.

Brendan looked at him blankly. “Ever used one before?” he asked.

“No,” said Curtis.

“Like I said: archers and grapplers only,” Brendan repeated. “Hold your position.”

Minutes passed. The coyotes on the other side of the ravine, unaware of the danger that lurked on the opposite bank of ferns, continued their cautious march along the ridge. The bandits in the hidden line on the game trail watched for the sign from Brendan.

Suddenly, the wind shifted and swept down the hillside above the hidden army. One of the coyotes, the jangling medals at his breast suggesting a superior rank, held his muzzle high, sniffing the air. His eyes widened as he caught their scent.

“Enemies!” he shouted, whipping a saber from his hip. “On the far ridge!”

No sooner had he voiced this warning than Brendan gave the signal from the front of the line. About twenty bandits, in various places along the column, stood up and prepared for action. Half the bandits juggled coils of rope topped with grappling hooks in their hands, while others drew back the string of tall yew bows and took careful aim at the opposing ridge.

“Archers, NOW!” shouted Brendan, and the air above the ravine became an aerial show of flying arrow shafts.

Several of the arrows found their mark, and dozens of fern stands were mowed low by the coyotes, tumbling lifelessly down the hillside. In that instant, the troop of coyotes was easily halved in number, and the ones that remained began yapping in panic. “Hold the line!” barked the coyote captain, still standing with his saber drawn. “Fusiliers! Fire at will!” The soldiers to whom the command had been directed began desperately fumbling with their long flintlock rifles, jamming powder and ball down the iron barrels. The bandits let loose another fleet of arrows, and the few poor coyotes who had not found cover fell under the barrage before any of their rifle shots were fired. The captain remained standing, defiantly glaring at the opposite ridge.

“Retreat!” he cried. “Back for reinforcements!”

Brendan seized the moment to signal his grapplers to throw. The ridge, in an instant, became crisscrossed with taut rope lines as the barbs of the grappling hooks found purchase in the overhanging tree boughs. The bandit in front of Prue had thrown such a line and, testing its strength momentarily, she leapt into the air and sailed across the gully with the fluid ease of an acrobat. Prue watched as she arrived on the other side and, drawing her saber, quickly dispatched three coyotes with a series of lightning-fast maneuvers. Along the ridge, several more grapplers had swung the distance between the ridges and were engaged in heated battle.

The coyote captain, enraged at how quickly his troop had been defeated, gave a quick, angry bark to the bandits and farmers on the far ridge, sheathed his weapon, and turned to run. Curtis was the first to witness the captain’s retreat, and he quickly pulled the sling rope from his belt and began setting a rock in the sling’s cradle.