Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

Good luck, Prue mouthed as Curtis was carried by the wave of soldiers over the ridge and into the battle below.

CHAPTER 26

The Wildwood Irregulars;

A Name to Conjure With

At the fox’s instruction, Curtis, along with the archers and riflemen, after scrambling to the top of the ridge, held their positions behind the charging unit at the higher ground above the bowl of the clearing. He watched as the rest of the Irregulars tore into the heated melee below. A black bear wielding a threshing flail was laying into the tide of coyotes with a surprising enthusiasm, a wide swale of unconscious coyotes littering his wake. A bandit, armed with two short sabers, was engaged in a fierce skirmish with a coyote swordsman; the coyote seemed to be getting the better of the bandit until Curtis saw a rabbit, his haunches covered in blue denim, snaking between the feet of the coyote, stretching a tangled web of twine. Before the coyote had any idea what was happening, the twine cinched at his ankles and he went crashing down to the earth in mid sword thrust. The figure of the Dowager Governess, astride her horse, towered over the warring hordes, and she laid an impressive swath of destruction wherever she leapt her horse: bandits and farmers fell at the flashing steel of her long sword. Every attempt to unhorse her seemed to fail; her skill at swordplay was clearly unparalleled in this field of battle. Curtis watched her with rapt fascination as she made her way through the crowd, her eyes set on the far staircase that would lead to the third tier of the basilica: the clearing where the Plinth lay. A barked instruction woke him from his spellbound stare—Samuel the hare stood at the end of the line of soldiers on the ridge and made his command: “Long-range fighters, ready your weapons!” Curtis dropped a large stone into the cradle of his sling.

A loud whistle emanated from the midst of the combat below; it appeared to come from Alexandra, her fingers poised between her lips. Within an instant, a deafening sound of screeching tore through the air, and the sliver of sky to the east of the clearing was blotted by a throng of jet-black birds.

“The crows,” Curtis, whispered to himself in awe.

Samuel seemed to be in the grip of the sight as well—the scores of these flying birds like spatters of ink against the tree line as they dove down into the skirmishers below—but finally returned his attention to his charge. “FIRE!” he shouted.

The ridge came alive with the crack of gunfire and the swish of arrows. Curtis let fly the rock from his sling and watched it arc lazily toward his intended target. He was dismayed to see it fall well short of its mark, lost in the ocean of ivy that carpeted the ground of the clearing.

A bandit standing next to him, repacking the barrel of his musket, saw the shot. “Swing harder,” he suggested. “Put more arm into it.”

“Yeah, okay,” Curtis said as he grabbed another rock from his pocket.

A few crows had fallen during this barrage, but more arrived to take the place of their fallen kin—a dark cloud of birds funneled up the wide valley from the first tier of the basilica. The clearing was awash in the noise of clanging steel and the warlike shouts of the combatants.

Prue watched briefly as the fox’s battalion made their charge over the ridge into the wide valley below before she turned and ran back to her station—at the little stand of trees that stood between the middle and upper tiers of the open-air basilica. The valley in which the ruin sat was masked by the hill of ivy and trees, and as she ran back up the ridge, she had to roughly gauge where her initial position had been. Guessing at a break in the trees, she dove through the underbrush at the crest of the ridge and, losing her footing, tumbled down the hillside, her fall softened by the rich bed of ivy. Standing up to brush herself off, she saw the Plinth st

anding in the center of a clearing, its fluted base covered by fresh shoots of ivy vines. She began to walk toward it—she wanted to touch it, to feel the cold, austere stone—but was reminded of Brendan’s instructions when the sound of a thousand screeching crows sounded beyond the wall of trees.

She ran to her previous position, behind a squat stand of salmonberry bushes, and looked down at the heated battle below. She watched, aghast, at the teeming murder upon murder of black crows as they wheeled over the clearing.

Brendan, flanked by two bandits, stood on the bottom step of the wide stone flight of stairs that led up the slope to the top tier of the basilica. The three bandits were in a bitter struggle with an ever-growing crowd of coyote swordsmen. Brendan and the bandit to his right stood with their sabers flying, desperately holding the coyotes at bay, while the bandit to his left busily crammed ammunition into the muzzle of his rifle. While Prue watched, Brendan gave a swift kick to the chest of one coyote assaulter while shoving another away with the flat of his saber blade. Given a moment’s respite, he glanced back to see Prue ducking her head out from behind her covert.

“Good job!” he cried, leaping backward, step by step, up the flight of stairs. “Now quick: Get to Cormac’s unit. I want them to come down the ridge, regroup in the lower tier, and sweep up the slope from the east. Catch them in the rear flank. Is that clear?”

“Got it,” she said, preparing to run.

Brendan wiped a streak of blood from his brow. His beard was clumped with perspiration. “If we can hold them a little longer,” he said, eyeing the field of battle, “I can maybe get to the Dowager. But I’ll need those reinforcements to set up the distraction.” Prue dove off into the brush. The ivy was impossibly dense here, in the space between the middle and upper tiers, and Prue’s sprint was hampered by the vines—but she made it to the far ridge in a matter of minutes. Before she knew it, she was tearing down the lee side of the ridge, the low-hanging tree branches lashing at her face and hands. Farther down the slope, the third unit of the Wildwood Irregulars lay in wait.

“What’s happening? Are we to attack?” asked Cormac frantically, when Prue came to a sliding stop amid the waiting bandits and farmers. His was the last unit to receive instruction, and Prue could tell that he was desperate to join the fray. The sounds emanating from the valley beyond the little ridge came loud and fierce.

“He wants you to head down the ridgeline,” she said, battling for breath. “Regroup in the lower clearing. And then come up from behind.”

Cormac looked at her blankly. “How do we know we won’t be surrounded once we’re there? Does he know how many soldiers remain in the lower tier?”

Prue raised her hands apologetically. She could read the fear in the bandit’s face. “That’s what he said to do. He seems to have a plan.”

“Very well,” said Cormac gravely, turning to the gathered soldiers under his command. “Down the ridge, lads. We’re to fall in from the rear.”

Ducking low, the third-unit Irregulars jogged down the line of the ridge while the sounds of battle receded behind them. When they’d traveled far enough, Cormac instructed them to hold tight while he crawled up to the top of the ridge and looked over the lip. Prue waited with the rest of the unit, hearing their quiet, steady breathing and the sound of their weapons—iron, wood, and stone—as they turned them over, antsy, in their hands and paws.

Cormac returned from the ridge. His face was pale and serious.

“There’s a whole army down there,” he said stonily. “Waiting to funnel up those stairs to the second tier.” He looked over at Prue. “It’s an impossible feat.”

“What do you want me to do?” Prue asked, searching the bandit’s worn face for an answer.

“Nothing,” said Cormac finally, shaking his head. “Tell the King we done what he told us. Tell him there are four hundred more in the lower clearing. There’s a line of heavy artillery—I’d say twelve cannon—just about up the slope. They’ll need to contend with that. As for us, we’ll do our best.”

Turning back to the gathered soldiers, Cormac gave his orders. “Over the top, lads,” he said, and, with a great yell, the third-unit Irregulars crested the top of the ridge and ran howling down the far side. Prue remained in the protection of the low ridge for a time, listening to the cries of the soldiers and the loud baying of the coyote army they engaged, before she took a deep breath and went running back through the bracken, up the line of the ridge.