Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

“When, O Queen?” said the roots. “When will we feed?”

Smiling, the Governess reached her thin hand to the cave roof and ran her fingers through the fine fringe of the pale root hairs.

“When the time has come,” she replied. “When the equinox is here. You will have your succor. We move on the Ancients’ Grove tonight.”

“Yesssss,” hissed the roots. “Yesssss.” They quivered like so many hungry, lapping tongues.

Ring.

Alexandra dropped her hand to her side.

Ring.

A hot flush blemished her cheek; her eyes flew open wide. Her brow knotted.

Ring.

Silence.

“Three bells,” said the Dowager Governess, before her lips cracked into a wicked smile. “That stupid, stupid girl.”

Curtis was awestruck by how ably the bandits made their way down the long, spindly ladder. He stood at the bottom, anchoring the ladder with a foot, while each bandit in turn undid the padlock to his cage and nimbly capered down the ladder’s rungs. Within a short span of silent minutes, all four bandits had arrived at the cavern floor. Only Dmitri, the coyote, remained a prisoner. He was sitting in his cage with his back to the bandits. They’d been cajoling him in hushed voices the entire time.

“C’mon, man!” whispered Seamus loudly. “Think of your family.”

Dmitri stood on his hind paws up against the bars of his cage. “But . . . ,” he objected. “So you guys go free. Me, I’ll be court-martialed if I’m ever caught! That’s a hanging offense for sure.”

Cormac stepped forward: “Then don’t get caught. You’re a fool to stay here. They’ll probably hang you anyway, as a party to our escape. You ain’t necessarily raising a warning, are you?”

Dmitri thought about this for a moment before shrugging his shoulders and saying, “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Okay: Throw up the keys.”

The ring of keys was tossed, the padlock undone, and in a moment, Dmitri was gingerly making his way down the ladder to the floor. “All right,” he said once he’d arrived. “What do we do now?”

“You lead us out,” said Eamon, stroking the tussocky scruff of his black beard. “Septimus will scout ahead. You know this warren well enough?”

“Pretty well,” said Dmitri, his snout angled high as he snuffed the air. “I think I can find my way.”

Angus grabbed the remaining lit torch from the wall—it sent a shower of sparks skyward as he pulled it from its sconce—and called up to the rat, “Let’s fix a meeting point.”

“The armory. There’s a side passage that is usually empty. If we follow that we can skirt the central chamber and leave by the back entrance to the warren,” whispered Septimus from his nook in the ancient root-ball.

“But not before we free the King,” Cormac reminded the group. “We’re not leaving without Brendan.”

The four bandits, even the former dissenter Seamus, all nodded in resolute agreement.

“Very well,” said Septimus. “The interrogation chamber’s not far from the central hall. Do you know the way, Dmitri?”

Dmitri nodded, and Septimus continued, “I’ll scout it out. If there’s any trouble, I’ll head you off before you arrive.” The rat disappeared into the tendrils of the tree root, and this unlikely band of escapees—a coyote, an Outsider, and four bandits—left the prison chamber without looking back.

The air in the tunnel leading from the chamber was close and wet; the bandits’ footfalls made no noise. Only Dmitri’s and Curtis’s footsteps disturbed the quiet stillness. Curtis did his best to mimic the soft, quick movements of the four bandits but found it to be very difficult: The bandits’ dexterous motion seemed inbred, a natural instinct. After a time, they arrived at an intersection.

“Dmitri?” called Cormac quietly. “Which way?”

Dmitri squeezed his way to the front of the pack and pointed his muzzle down each of the four potential pathways. “We go right,” he said, finally. “To the armory. Straight ahead would take us to the central hall.” He heaved a swift inhale. “I smell dead campfire. They’ve put out the hearth. Curious.”

“Why?” asked Curtis.

Dmitri looked back. “I’ve never known the fire to be out. It’s always raging. I had the unfortunate task of keeping it stoked for a fortnight. No fun.”