Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

The Ivy and the Plinth

The tattered and disjointed remains of Sterling’s troop were easily corralled down the slope of the hill away from the basilica, though many continued to fire quick, errant shots back into the horde of pursuing coyotes as they went. Those who survived the routing found cover on a wide granite promontory built atop a large pile of massive boulders. The ruins of a felled tower were here; only the foundation remained. As Curtis sprinted toward this refuge, ducking a fresh hail of gunfire from the coyote fusiliers, he saw Sterling, waving him forward.

“Come on!” he cried. “Quickly!”

He shot up the broken staircase and threw himself down on the stone floor of the promontory. A short rock wall, the scant remnant of the ancient foundation, made a kind of low palisade around the edge, and it was behind this that the small troop of Irregulars found cover. Behind the promontory, the ground fell away to a deep ravine.

Curtis crawled to the wall and peeked out over the top. The sloping hillside was awash with coyote soldiers, a seemingly endless supply pouring down from the ridge above. The promontory held around fifty bandits and farmers, sitting with their backs pressed to the wall. They took turns popping up over the edge of the wall and firing into the onslaught of coyotes. The close air was sharp with the smell of sweat and gunpowder. A bandit, his leg badly wounded, was being comforted by a fellow soldier in the corner of the foundation. The grime-streaked faces Curtis saw inside the low walls of the ruined building were sorrow-laden, the troop desperately demoralized.

The approaching coyotes heeded their captains’ orders and dug in behind whatever cover was available to them in the terraced sculpture garden. Their numbers grew and grew as more reinforcements, freed from the fighting in the basilica, joined their compatriots on the hillside. The tree branches became leaden with the weight of the scores of black crows, watching the scene play out from above.

One of the coyote captains stuck his head from behind his cover and cried out, “You’re surrounded! Give yourselves up! There’s nowhere for you to go!”

Sterling, his back against the edge of the wall next to the staircase, eyed the huddled group of farmers and bandits. “Well, folks,” he said. “It’s come down to this.” He paused his clawed fingers working over the handle of his pruning shears. “I don’t blame you if you want to give yourselves up. Any man, woman, or animal who wants to do that, I suggest you go now.”

No one moved. The distant sound of gunfire could be heard up over the ridge.

Sterling nodded. “All right then,” he said. “Unto the breach, it is.”

The gathered remnants of the Wildwood Irregulars nodded in agreement.

The fox took a deep breath. “On my mark,” he said. “One . . . two . . .”

“My King!” shouted a voice from behind Prue; she turned to see a bandit sprinting to their side from among the clashing soldiers in the basin of the clearing. Prue had Brendan’s head cradled in her lap, and she was using all the strength she could conjure to hold the blood-soaked hoodie to the fallen Bandit King’s deep wound. “What happened?” asked the bandit frantically.

“A shot—I don’t know where from,” Prue sputtered. “A bullet. In his shoulder.” She peeled her jacket away to reveal the torn fabric of his shirt, saturated with blood, clinging to the skin of his chest.

The bandit grimaced. “Hold on,” he said. He reached into a leather bag at his hip and pulled out a little tincture bottle. Dripping a few droplets of a hazel-brown liquid onto a clutch of torn ivy leaves, he packed the poultice against Brendan’s shoulder, using Prue’s sweatshirt as a secondary bandage. Brendan winced when the liquid came in contact with the open wound, and the bandit grabbed his hand and gripped it.

“Breathe into the pain, Brendan,” the bandit said calmly. The battle still raged behind them. He looked up at Prue. “Erigeron cinnamon,” he explained. “Strong stuff. It should help stop the bleeding.” Brendan’s eyes were fluttering as he battled to stay conscious against the rush of pain.

“I’ve got to go,” said Prue. “Stay with him?” She knew that Alexandra would be moving on the Plinth. There was no one left to stop her.

The bandit nodded and Prue jumped up, running for the stone staircase to the third tier of the basilica.

She leapt the stairs, two at a go, until she’d made the top of the slope and her feet met the tangled carpet of ivy. In the middle of the clearing, Alexandra was dismounting from her horse and pulling the wailing baby from the leather saddlebag. The Plinth, its base all snaked with ivy, stood in the center of the square. Prue stood at the top of the stairs and opened her mouth to scream.

“Alexandra!”

The voice had not been hers. Instead, it came from the other side of the clearing. Prue, her mouth clapping closed, stared across the wide ivy-strewn plaza to see Iphigenia, the Elder Mystic, making her way through the dense ground cover toward the Governess.

“Put the baby down,” she demanded.

The Governess stifled a laugh.

“Iphigenia,” she said archly. “Dear Iphigenia. I should’ve known that your hand was in this little bagatelle you set for my armies—those poor farmers you’ve sent to their deaths. Well, you’ve arrived just in time. The ceremony will soon be complete.”

“You will only mark yourself as a murderess,” said Iphigenia flatly.

“I am freeing a natural force from its imposed slumber,” replied Alexandra. “Allowing it to once again assume its prior dominance in the wild world. To a godless naturalist such as yourself, this must seem a real setting to rights.”

“It will consume you when it’s finished tearing down every tree in the forest; don’t think you’re immune. And the coyotes, that innocent species you’ve conscripted, do they know the true consequences? Have you told them that their warrens will be invaded and their waiting broods, their wives and pups, will be smothered?”

“Pish,” dismissed the Governess. “Those hapless dogs? The illusion of power is manna enough for them. I’ve given them more in the last fifteen years than they’ve ever enjoyed in the history of their breed. When they are extinguished, at least they’ll die an elevated species. As for me, I wouldn’t concern yourself with my outcome. I’ll have slept the ivy long before it can get its vines around me.”

Iphigenia frowned, her face set with worry. “Don’t assume it’s so easy to control. Once you’ve started this wheel in motion, there’s no stopping.”

The Governess laughed. “Can I assume that I have your sanction, then, to continue? Or are you going to keep distracting me from the task at hand?”