Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

A gasp arose from the crowd of soldiers on the ridge.

The blackberries had begun to move.

They moved slowly at first—a few snags in the tangle of thorny vines separated, as if an unseen force was moving its way through the bramble—before picking up speed, and the bush disentangled itself from itself like the tentacles of some vast octopod. Where the vines were anchored to the earth by a rooted stalk, the capillary tendrils snaked to the ground and the bush widened, opening like a great, thistly flower. Before too long, the motion of this long horizon of brush came to a gentle stop, and a great thoroughfare had been laid through the deep grove of briars.

Iphigenia’s loud breathing softened and ceased. She opened her eyes and, looking at the bramble, nodded a wordless thanks. She then stood up, with some difficulty, tottered over to Prue, and grasped her elbow for support. Brendan, standing at the edge of the tree grove, blanched.

“Now, Bandit King,” said the Elder Mystic reproachfully, “if we can avoid such displacements in the future, I—and the forest—would greatly appreciate it.”

The army walked quietly through the Grove, surrounded by the bone-white stone of the toppled columns and colonnades, this ancient city bearing silent witness to their every movement. Alexandra rode in the middle of the coyote host, the ocean of uniformed canine bodies spilling out into the clearing around her. The baby was asleep now, nestled against her chest, calmed into slumber by the gentle rocking of the horse’s stride. The ivy made a deep bed of green here, suffocating nearly every other living thing in the vicinity; only the marble and stone ruins that jutted from its clutches seemed to defy the plant’s supremacy in the Grove. Here was a wide slab of white, block-hewn stone—perhaps the foundation for a market square; there were the teetering remains of a columned archway, a central auditorium. On a squat ridge above the clearing stood the remnants of a long colonnade.

What a waste, thought Alexandra. So much knowledge, lost to the ages.

A soldier disrupted her reverie. He was a young coyote, barely older than a pup, and his gold-ornamented uniform hung loosely at his shoulders. “The Plinth, ma’am,” he informed her. “Just ahead—above that little hill, in the ruined basilica. I’ve been instructed to tell you so.”

“Thank you, Private,” said the Governess, searching the horizon. “You’ve done well.”

Here they were. The moment was close at hand. The sun was approaching its highest point. Soon it would be the noon hour. She could sense the ivy seething below the horse’s hooves. The dark green leaves and their little snaky fingers seemed to lick at her ankles.

“Patience, my darlings,” she whispered. “Patience.”

The scout returned breathless. “The Grove,” he finally spouted. “Just ahead! The coyotes have beaten us there—but just barely.”

Brendan received the news silently. The army of bandits, Mystics, and farmers stood in wait. Behind them, the blackberry bramble had tangled itself back into its previous impassable shape when the last of the soldiers had made their way through; now the entire army had amassed in the shade of a vast collection of ancie

nt fir and cedar trees. Between two of the tallest and thickest trees of this glade lay the first evidence that this had once been a tamed country: a single fluted column—not unlike the ones Prue envisioned littering the landscape of Rome and Athens—had toppled here, creating a bizarre contrast to the wildness of its surroundings. It was in the shadow of one of the column’s shattered sections that Brendan gathered his captains together: Cormac, Sterling the fox, and Prue.

“Why am I here?” was Prue’s first question.

“You’ll be our messenger,” explained Brendan. “A very important function.”

“Okay,” said Prue, leery. She was a little uncomfortable with the designation. People’s lives were at stake here.

Brendan spoke quietly. “The Plinth is in the old basilica, in the center of the Grove. The basilica’s made up of three separate levels—think three giant steps cut into the hillside. The Governess’s army will be marching into the lowest level—it was some sort of gathering square. The third tier, nearest us, is the clearing where the Plinth is. We’ll meet the coyote army at the middle tier. That’s where we’ll have our fight. That way, if we get pushed back, we can still defend the Plinth.”

He looked each of the captains in the eye before continuing. “We split into three units,” he explained. “Two flanking units and a spearhead. Cormac, you’ll carve northward. Sterling, south. I’ll lead the central unit from above, coming in from the west, across the third tier. You’ll be positioned on either side of the middle tier, north and south. Move on my command. Hopefully, we’ll be able to split their forces in half between the first and middle tier—where the Plinth is. In the end, though, we have one goal, and one goal only: keep the Governess from reaching the Plinth.” He turned to Prue. “We’ll be split apart—and communication will be of the utmost importance. This is where you come in, Prue. You’ll need to relay information between the units. Is this clear?”

Prue nodded, desperately tamping down the fear that was beginning to rise from the depths of her belly. She wondered if her tennis shoes were up to the task. She’d wished she’d worn her cross-trainers, the bright pink ones her parents had bought her for her birthday. She’d abjectly refused to wear them, they were so ugly. That consideration seemed awfully petty now.

Brendan heaved a momentous sigh. “We’ve got about six hundred fighters. Against their one thousand. This won’t be pretty. But if we can just keep that Plinth protected and stop the Governess from completing this ritual, any lives lost will not be in vain.” The sun broke through its veil of clouds, and Brendan glared defiantly at its cast light.

“Now,” he said.

With a sudden jump, he’d leapt to the top of the fallen piece of column and gave a low whistle to the awaiting crowd of soldiers.

“Men,” he began. “Women. Animals, all.”

The army of farmers and bandits murmured in acquiescence as they gathered around the speaker.

“Once, in these quiet groves,” Brendan began in a resonant voice, “a great civilization thrived. A city of momentous proportion graced these grounds, full of life and thought. Today, it is no more. But its ruins stand as a stark reminder to those of us who have survived whatever ravages befell it—a reminder that nobody is safe from the machinations of those who, at any cost, wish to destroy the advances of brotherhood and civility.”

He paused, surveying the crowd.

“Brother and sisters,” he continued, “humans and animals. Today, we forget whatever grievances we may have with one another in an effort to combat a greater evil, an evil that threatens to undo us all. Today, we are not the Wildwood bandits. Today, we are not the unassuming farmers of North Wood. Today, we march together. Today, we are all brothers and sisters. Today, let us together be the Wildwood Irregulars, six hundred strong, and let the mighty Wood strike fear into the hearts of anyone who dares stand in our way.”

The crowd exploded into a cheer.

Prue walked back to Curtis, who was waiting along with the rest of the soldiers for their orders.