Wildwood Imperium (Wildwood Chronicles 3)

“Let’s get a fire going,” she said. “I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me.”

Meanwhile, William had lifted himself up from his knees and was pawing at his face, wiping away the remnant mucus that had smoothed the fungus’s exit through his nostril. He looked around himself, dazed, until his eyes fell on Seamus.

“Seamus!” he said hoarsely. “What’s happened? Where am I?”

“You’re in South Wood, brother,” replied Seamus. “You’ve been made a slave. But that’s over now. It’s all over now.” The bandit’s voice welled with emotion as he spoke; it was clear that Seamus heavily wore the burden of having brought this fate on the bandit band.

And so their early morning progressed, there under the mantle of cloud that hung low over the forest: Each mound of ivy was discovered to be hiding some slumbering person or animal within its mesh cocoon and they were each, in turn, freed and revived. Those who’d been given the Spongiform, the silver-masked Caliphs, were left confined up to their necks until Prue could make her way to them (her energy ebbing with every case) and coax the spidery fungus from their nostrils. With each one, a new bandit was unmasked and awakened. A new flurry of questions and celebrations and sad, guilty explanations from Seamus were shared among the reunited bandits at every turn. A dozen sleeping Caliphs had been roused and set to rights—some of them were local South Wood citizens, innocently caught up in the Synod’s promised revival—before they arrived at the acolyte whose silver mask, once removed, revealed the sleeping face of Brendan, the Bandit King.

Once he’d been unslept and the fungus coughed up from his skull had been added to the blazing fire they’d started in the center of the meadow, he stood uneasily and, saying nothing, surveyed the crowd that was now surrounding him. Seamus rushed forward, seeing his long-lost sovereign, and threw himself at the Bandit King’s feet.

“Oh, King,” said Seamus, letting loose a torrent of sobs, “this is all my doing.”

Brendan looked at his most uncertain, there in the center of the crowd. Prue had only ever seen him steadfast and regal, in his sylvan element, his forehead tattoo a totem to his strength. But now he looked muddled and confused as he stared down at the bandit who was prostrating himself before him.

“Rise,” he said finally.

Seamus did as he was instructed, his head still bowed.

“What has happened?” asked the Bandit King. He held his hand briefly at his temple, massaging the skin.

“I was here, as an emissary,” started Seamus.

Brendan nodded, as if to say, This much I remember.

“They took me in, the Synod,” said Seamus. “The Mystics of the Blighted Tree. I don’t remember much past that point. Just hazy recollections, really. I was fed that stuff—the Spongiform. It’s a parasitic fungus; makes you do the will of the Blighted Tree and its disciples.”

The Bandit King remained silent; his brow was placid and his eyes stayed fixed on his comrade. His hand fell to his side.

Seamus continued haltingly, “I came to the camp. Under the influence of that . . . stuff. I fed the rest of the camp the fungus, and you all fell in line.” Seamus began to cry, big tears rolling down his nose and into the tuft of his brown beard. “We all marched back . . . here. And were made part of the Synod, doing the bidding of the tree.” He sniffed a few times, collecting himself, ran his finger under his nose, and said, “I’ve failed the band. I’ve broken the oath. I will recuse myself from my brothers and sisters. If it be your will, I’ll be a bandit no more.”

Silence followed; Brendan searched the bowed head of his fallen brother for a moment before replying. “Seamus,” he said, resting his arms on the man’s shoulders. “I’d as soon let you leave the band as throw myself into the deepest pit of the Long Gap. You are no more at fault than any of us.” He then surveyed his gathered subjects, his fellow bandit brethren, smiling, until his eyes fell on Prue.

r /> Prue instinctively gave a little curtsy.

“Why is it that I’m not surprised to see you here, as well?” said the Bandit King. “Prue of the Outside. It would seem that trouble follows you like campfire smoke.”

He’d given her a wry smile, which Prue took as a hopeful sign that the bandit had returned to his old, sardonic self.

“Smoke follows beauty,” replied Prue, smiling sheepishly. It was one of her dad’s old saws, always hauled out during camping trips. Just then her vision swam and her knees gave out. The bandit Angus, who happened to be standing next to her, grabbed her arm and steadied her.

“Are you okay, lass?” he asked.

“Just a little . . . worn out, I guess,” she replied. The work of freeing all the ivy’s captives had been more exhausting than she’d anticipated.

Owl Rex walked through the crowd of the thirty-odd bandits and townsfolk; they all parted to let the giant bird by.

“Owl,” said Brendan, acknowledging the Avian prince with a bow of his head. “What did you know of this?”

“Nothing, I assure you,” was the reply. “I’ve been gone these many months, adventuring elsewhere. Suffice it to say, this is a once-in-a-lifetime cock-up, one that is unlikely to be put to rights anytime soon. We can but do our best. The Blighted Tree is no more. It has been torn apart by the Verdant Empress’s wrath. She seems to be making good on her earlier threats.”

“Who is this Verdant Empress?” asked the Bandit King. “She’s no monarch I bow to.”

“She is the living ivy itself, imbued with the spirit of the dead. Or near dead.” The owl then turned to address the gathered crowd. “The woman you thought you slew on the field of battle, there on the ivy-strewn basilica during the Battle for the Plinth—she has returned. Indeed, she was never more than in hibernation, her spirit swallowed by the ivy itself. She has now come to finish her terrible rite and reduce the Wood to a desolation.”

Brendan seemed to be regaining his strength, and he put in, angrily, “She’ll not get far. Cover the Wood in ivy if she must, we’ll still send her to the devil.” His hand reached for a saber at his side that was not there. Instead, he clutched at the strange gray robes he wore and cursed.

The owl shook his head at the comment. “It’s worse than that, much worse,” he said. “The Blighted Tree has been torn down. This tree, standing for centuries, though much maligned by its detractors, has served a very important purpose. Along with the Ossuary Tree in Wildwood and the Council Tree of North Wood, it maintained the fabric of the Periphery Bind.” The owl paused so as to let what he next said fall with the appropriate weight. “And without the Bind, the boundary between the Wood and the Outside is null.”