Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

Brendan’s grip relaxed slightly, and Curtis’s feet met the floor again.

Cormac continued, “He risked his life for our escape, Brendan. He’s one of us.” Brendan let go of Curtis’s lapels, firmly smoothing the fabric back into place. His right eye was bloodshot and wide. Cormac held him off, away from Curtis.

“One of us, huh?” Brendan asked the room.

The group of four bandits nodded in unison, their steely faces glinting in the low torchlight.

“Very well,” said Brendan. He staggered backward, his knees buckling under him. Eamon leapt to his side and caught him by the arm, helping him to stay on his feet.

“Brendan!” shouted the bandits, each clamoring to his aid.

The king waved them away. “A momentary weakness, lads,” he said. “Let me just catch my breath.”

The room was silent. Curtis felt a tug at his pant leg and looked down to see it was Septimus. Curtis gestured with his head, and Septimus clawed up the fabric of his worn uniform to sit comfortably on his shoulder, staring at the Bandit King. The four bandits stole quick looks at one another, their faces tarnished with worry.

“We move,” said Brendan, finally. “We go back to camp.” He lifted his head, the blood returning to his face. “I can only hope that my little gambit with the Outsider girl got them far enough away from the scent. There, we gather our forces.”

Visibly gaining strength, Brendan lifted his chin high and let go of Eamon’s shoulder, limping to the center of the room on his own.

“If the witch is doing this thing, this sacrifice of the Outsider child,” he said steadily, “then the whole army must be marching on the Ancients’ Grove now; by my reckoning, the equinox is tomorrow.” He looked over at Curtis. “We’ll stop her. By my oath, we’ll stop her in her tracks. And the only blood that ivy’ll be feeding on will be her own.” A malicious smile spread over his face as he turned back to the bandits. “Don’t know about you lads, but I’m a bit antsy to get out of this stinking pit and back aboveground. Let’s move.”

The bandits chorused their approval. The group moved on toward the exit of the warren.

The hare and the fox traveled very slowly, and it was all Prue could do to keep her pace in check and not speed ahead of them. They had embroiled themselves in a heated argument about what was the best weather in which to grow Anaheim peppers and how to place them so as to maximize their spiciness, and when a finer point needed to be made, one or the other would stop in the path, their little fingers gesticulating in the air. At one instance, they diverged from the path completely, leading Prue on a meander through the under-brush because th

e hare had, earlier that week, discovered a healthy-looking patch of morel mushrooms and was curious to see if it remained untouched.

After what seemed like an eternity of this slow travel, Prue ventured an objection. “Hey, it’s really important that I see these Mystics, and soon. I don’t know how much time I have.”

This interjection was met by a stony silence from her hosts. They shared a disdainful look before the fox replied, “We’re moving just as fast as we can, missus. Need I remind you, you are in the custody of the North Wood Constabulary, and we move at the pace we feel is necessary per the circumstances.” However, after Prue’s complaint, they ceased talking quite so much and regained their earlier speed.

The countryside here was peaceful and calm, a remarkable change from both the wildness of Wildwood and the metropolitan busyness of South Wood. The air was clear and slightly tinged by the smell of burning leaves and peat. There were no towns per se in this rural landscape, just small gatherings of wood-and-stone hovels through which the wide dirt lane would wander; occasionally, a hanging sign above one such cottage would advertise drinks and food. Another had the picture of a winged envelope carved into the wood, suggesting a post office. They passed many fellow travelers as they walked, all of whom seemed to be moving at a similarly leisurely pace and greeted the constables warmly as they passed. After a time, they rounded a bend in the woods and arrived at a small inn, neat puffs of peat smoke drifting from its earthen chimney. Several small tables had been placed outside the front door, and the fox bade Prue to sit.

“The Council Tree isn’t far,” said the fox. “I’ll go ahead and make sure they aren’t in meditation. Besides, you must be famished.”

“I am, in fact,” replied the hare, “so.”

“The girl, Samuel,” castigated the fox. “The girl.”

Prue smiled. “I guess I wouldn’t mind a bite,” she said. “Though when you see them, the Mystics, please let them know this is very, very urgent.”

The fox nodded. “Of course, though I won’t make any promises. The Mystics’ judgment doesn’t often come quickly.” He arched an eyebrow and walked away from the inn, down a path that broke away from the main road.

Prue set her bike up against the wall of the inn and sat at the table across from the hare. A young girl came out with menus and, seeing Prue, blanched. She hesitated at the door before the hare waved her forward. “She ain’t gonna bite,” said Samuel. “Least not on my watch.” The girl blushed and walked forward, handing them the paper placards. “A bottle of water for the girl to start,” said the hare, eyeing the menu. “And I’ll have a glass of your poppy beer.” The girl nodded and walked back into the cottage.

The afternoon ebbed warmly. Prue kept one eye on the path down which the fox had disappeared. The girl came back with a clear decanter of water for Prue; she set a mug of brackish beer in front of Samuel. The hare, who had been studying the menu the entire time, peeked up and ordered, “I’ll have the braised greens and lentils.” He looked over at Prue. “You? It’s on the Constabulary.”

Prue gave a quick glance at the menu before replying, “I’ll have the squash dumplings. And some bread.”

The waitress smiled sheepishly, curtsied, and walked back into the inn.

The hare watched her go. “You make quite a stir, you know, coming in here,” he said, taking a sip from his beer. “We’re not used to this sort of upset, so.”

“I know, I know,” said Prue. “I’m really sorry for that. I really don’t mean to.” She paused before volunteering an observation. “This place is really different from the other places in the Impassa—I mean, the Wood.”

“And thank the earth for that,” said Samuel. “Couldn’t imagine living down there in South Wood—I’ve got a cousin in the Mercantile District, and I get letters sometimes, so. Crazy folk, down there. Glad we’ve got all of Wildwood as a buffer twixt them and us.”

Prue nodded before asking, “And we’re going to the Council Tree? Didn’t the fox say something about that?”