Thieves of Weirdwood

by Christian McKay Heidicker

  He sloshed through the ankle-high water, trying focus on more pleasant things. Instead of a titanic alligator around the next bend, maybe the Merry Rogues would be waiting with smiles and songs and a warm cup of wassail. Arthur would finally get to shake Garnett Lacroix’s hand!

  Tunnels branched left and right, black as pitch for their lack of drains above. He stopped and stared into the impossible darkness, his eyes wide and hungry for torchlight.

  “Hello?”

  Hello? Hello? Hello? Hello?

  His voice echoed down the dark tunnel. The rats fell silent.

  “Garnett Lacroix?”

  Silence.

  That was strange. Arthur cleared his throat.

  “Echo!”

  Echo Echo Echo Echo

  “Lacroix?”

  Silence.

  Darkness seeped into his heart. The Gentleman Thief’s name didn’t echo in this sewer.

  Every inch of Arthur wanted to run back to Sekhmet. But then he remembered a moment from Garnett Lacroix and the Endless Forest. The Merry Rogues had become separated in the wood and had sung “A Song for the Lost” to find one another. Arthur had memorized the lyrics and made up a melody and everything. After his mom had died, he would sing it to himself at night, hoping she would answer.

  Arthur sang it again now.

  “When your head’s a haunted wood

  and the dark strangles the good

  When the world’s full of falsehood

  Reach out for me…”

  Arthur stopped and listened. The song didn’t echo either. It was as if neither Garnett nor his music was welcome in this sewer. Arthur gazed back toward the light of the drain he’d climbed down. He would try two more tunnels, and if he didn’t find anything, he’d hightail it out of there.

  He sloshed on, singing the next verse.

  “When your heart’s tangled in thorns

  And your will to rise is torn

  When all of life feels forlorn

  Call out for me…”

  me me me me

  Arthur stopped. The song had echoed through a tunnel to his right. He continued down it, picking up the tempo for the chorus.

  “Oh, I’ll wear my socks as earrings

  I’ll smooch a snail or three!

  I’ll wrestle down a mailbox

  And sail it down the street!

  I’ll juggle seven toddlers

  And gargle cans of worms!”

  “…I’ll do all of the silly things

  to make your sadness squirm…”

  Arthur’s heart leapt. Somewhere in the darkness a voice had picked up the tune. He followed it, singing the first half of the next verse and then letting the voice finish.

  “I’ll drink a case of ginger ale…”

  “… and spray it out my nose!”

  “I’ll tame a team of grasshoppers…”

  “… and mush them through the snows!”

  “I’ll hop aboard a pirate ship…”

  “… and clean all of their toes!”

  He reached the voice just as they both finished the chorus:

  “’Cause there’s nothing that’s too silly to save your heart from woe!”

  A dusty laugh wheezed in the darkness, followed by a voice that was all charm and swagger. Or had been long ago.

  “Koff—I haven’t sung that song in—koff—years.”

  “Garnett?” Arthur said, eyes wide. “Garnett Lacroix?”

  “The very same,” the voice said.

  Arthur practically ripped out his hair he was so excited. He was talking to his hero. His true-blue, bona fide, real-life, er, fictional hero.

  “Oh jeez,” Arthur spluttered. “I’ve been a fan of yours since I wet the bed! Ugh. I don’t know why I told you that. Ha ha. I’m kinda nervous.”

  “People still … talk about my adventures?” the voice asked.

  “Yeah!” Arthur said, trying to shake the feeling back into his hands. “I mean, sort of. Alfred Moore stopped writing your adventures when he disappeared. So now you’re a lot less popular than you used to be.” He winced. “Sorry, probably shouldn’t have told you that. It’s just with the Pox and starvation and gang fighting in Kingsport, people don’t feel too adventuresome these days, y’know?” He cleared his throat, trying a better tack. “But hey, I still read your adventures every day! And now you’re right in front of me!” He squinted into the darkness. “But I can’t see you. Do you have a torch?”

  “Ah, yes,” Garnett said. “Light. Light is good. There. To my right.”

  Arthur blindly felt his way to the wall where he found a raised stone platform and a wooden box. His fingertips recognized the objects he needed. He wrapped a bit of cloth around a piece of wood, struck the flint, and the flame came crackling to life.

  When he turned around, he nearly dropped the torch. The man he’d been talking to was encased in cobwebs.

  “Mr. Lacroix?” Arthur said, holding the torch closer.

  The webs around the man’s mouth stretched into a grin. “Yes?”

  Revulsion crept up Arthur’s throat. “Let’s get you out of there.”

  He clawed at the figure, freeing him from his webbed prison. Then he stepped back, breathless. Garnett looked like a mummy, barely bones and skin. His hair, once thick and red as chestnuts, was now thin and yellow as straw. His skin, once sun-touched, was sallow and tight against his skull.

  “That’s, um, better,” Arthur said, trying to sound positive.

  Head freed, Garnett craned back his rickety neck. Torchlight twinkled in the Gentleman Thief’s golden eyes, and Arthur finally recognized his hero—just as he’d always imagined him.

  “What happened to you?” Arthur asked, pulling the webbing from Garnett’s knees like a corn husk. “Not that you don’t look good. Just…”

  “Koff koff.” Garnett hunched over on his splintered throne. “No one has summoned me for a mission in—koff—I can’t remember how long. The adventures dried up like an old prune, and me with them. Koff koff.”

  Cold crept through Arthur’s skin. “And the Merry Rogues?”

  “In sweet slumber.” Garnett pointed a mummified finger at a pile of bones. “They will wake when the next adventure calls. Isn’t that right, mates?”

  A femur rolled off the top of the pile.

  Arthur grimaced. “I’m not so sure about that.”

  It was obvious why Garnett and his Rogues were in such terrible condition. Alfred Moore had ended the most recent adventure on a cliffhanger. Garnett had been encased by the Thousand Thirsty Spiders of the Thorny Throne. Hence his bloodless appearance. The three Merry Rogues, meanwhile, had been swallowed up in piranha-infested acidic quicksand. Hence the pile of bones.

  Arthur remembered Gus, who was tall and skilled with knives and puns. He remembered Tuck, who was short and skilled with clubs and … also puns. And he remembered Mim, who was of medium height and was skilled at punching puny punks … but couldn’t come up with a pun to save her life.

  And now none of them would ever come up with a pun again.

  “Thanks for visiting,” Garnett said, sinking into his throne. “Come again soon.”

  The cobwebs started to crawl up his legs like a living blanket.

  “No!” Arthur yelled, swiping the torch until the webs retreated. “You’re Garnett Lacroix! You’ve been in much worse positions! Remember when you were trapped in the Haunted Hulks and didn’t eat for forty days, only licking the mossy sideboards? Or how about the time you stole that jade egg, only to be pursued by a hundred and thirty-seven cougars?” He thrust the torch toward the ceiling. “The real spirit of Garnett adventure lies out there—on the high seas, in treasure vaults, in the eye of a storm! I refuse to accept your retirement!”

  Garnett’s golden eyes twinkled. “I … remember.” He smiled at the pile of bones. “Do you remember, mates?”

  This time it was a rib that rolled off the bone pile.

  “Then why are you still sitting?” Arthur asked.
<
br />   With some effort, Garnett hefted his skeletal head. “Is there … adventure?”

  “An adventure unlike any you’ve ever seen!” Arthur leapt onto the stone platform, adventure thrumming through his veins. “There’s a city of bloodthirsty beasts to escape! A friend to rescue from evil magicians! A father and a brother to break out of a mental hospital! And that’s not all! An infectious doll is plaguing Kingsport’s streets! The odds may seem impossible, but it’s just the sort of adventure you would seize by the suspenders!”

  Arthur beamed. Surely no rallying cry in history had ever been so inspired.

  Garnett sighed dustily. “Just let me rest a moment,” he said, and then promptly started to snore.

  Arthur lowered his torch in defeat. When it came down to it, the Gentleman Thief was no more help than words on a page.

  Arthur sat on the stone platform, feeling heavy. “I need to know, Mr. Lacroix.”

  The Gentleman Thief snorted awake.

  “How did you do it?” Arthur asked. “How did you steal from the rich and give to the poor and still feed yourself? How did you stand up for the Rogues and not get caught and look so good while you did it? How do you be a thief … and a gentleman?”

  “It’s simple,” Garnett said, blinking open his eyes. “Come closer.”

  Arthur put his ear to Garnett’s leathery lips.

  “The answer … lies here.” The Gentleman Thief tapped the top of his head.

  Arthur touched his own head. “Huh?”

  Garnett gave a mummified grin and then rested his head again.

  Heat rose in Arthur’s veins. That was no kind of riddle! At least Graham’s riddle had actual clues. What was Arthur supposed to do? Think his way out of this problem? His thinking was what had caused this problem in the first place!

  Garnett gathered in his bony limbs like a dying spider. “Good night.”

  Arthur scowled. He wanted solid advice that he could carry back to his city—an ember that he could fan into a flame of heroism. Otherwise, he would become colder and harder over the years until he ended up like Harry.

  “ARTHUR?” A man’s voice echoed through the sewers.

  Arthur plunged his torch into the water as someone came splashing down the tunnels.

  “It’s Weston! Weirdwood’s gardener! Lady Weirdwood sent me to collect ya! Report!”

  Arthur crouched in silence.

  The man grumbled to himself. “Dumb kid. Crawling into the Mirror sewers. I should let him get eaten by the gray water, 's what I should do.” He cleared his throat. “Arthur! You gotta come quick! Your city’s under attack! Your friend’s in trouble!”

  Arthur knew this trick. Oakers used it all the time to try and get Black Feathers to come out of hiding. Arthur wasn’t falling for it. But his only escape was blocked. And Garnett was no help. The only person who could revive the Gentleman Thief was Alfred Moore. But Arthur had no idea where the author lived.

  “Arthur!” Weston bellowed. “Come on out now!”

  A cave-sized roar answered. Arthur peeked around the tunnel’s corner and found Weston scratching a building-sized alligator under the chin.

  “That’s a nice beasty,” Weston said, tossing a beet into its giant mouth.

  The alligator chomped the beet gratefully, purring as loud as a train. Arthur ducked back behind the corner just as Weston approached the tunnel where he was hiding.

  “Garnett,” Arthur whispered. “I need your help! You don’t have to fight. Just … tell me what to do!”

  Lacroix raised a skeletal finger and arched a dusty eyebrow. “Whenever I’m in a pinch, I call upon my Merry Rogues!”

  Arthur frowned at the pile of bones. What was he supposed to do? Club Weirdwood’s gardener over the head with a femur? But then Arthur remembered the moments Garnett had spoken to Gus, Tuck, and Mim’s remains. Each time, a bone had tumbled off the top. Or had the bones moved?

  It may have been impossible for Arthur to retrieve those Thirsty Spiders and pump the Gentleman Thief full of blood again. The Merry Rogues, on the other hand, had always followed Garnett Lacroix’s commands to the letter.

  In a fit of inspiration, Arthur grabbed a swath of cobwebs hanging from the corner of the Gentleman Thief’s throne and wiped it off. Garnett’s wide-brimmed hat had faded to the color of elephant skin. A shriveled daffodil stuck out of the brim.

  He placed the hat on his head. “Listen up, Rogues!” he whispered. “I need your help, and I can’t have measly acidic quicksand get in the way! I mean, if piranhas could survive in there, it couldn’t have been that dangerous, right?”

  The bones didn’t stir.

  Arthur searched his memory for smaller details of the adventure. “Besides, wasn’t Gus carrying that jug full of lemon juice that he stole to make his world-class wassail? If that broke open, it would neutralize the acid, allowing you guys to swim to the top! Everyone knows quicksand is a myth anyway!”

  A slight sound in the darkness. Like bones scraping.

  Arthur cleared his throat, and did his best impression of the Gentleman Thief. “Gus! Tuck! Mim! I demand that you wake up posthaste! There’s a scoundrel that needs fighting!”

  In the darkness, the bones began rearranging themselves.

  14

  THE BATTLE OF THE CORVIDIANS

  Wally stood outside Hazelrigg and stared up in horror.

  It looked like a mistake. Like ink spilled across the sky.

  But then the shape shifted, and Wally realized he was looking at a flock of birds … or almost birds. There were hundreds of them, each as big as he was, with a blend of bird and human features: black beaks and human eyes, wide wings and hands for feet. Their fingernails were talons of glinting steel, and when they cawed, it sounded like children crying through the throats of crows.

  “Yikes,” Breeth said from Hazelrigg’s front door. “And I thought the goblin screamatorium was scary.”

  The Corvidians dove at the people of Kingsport, knife-like talons slashing at arms and faces, ripping clothes and flesh, and snagging purses and wigs, which the monster birds carried back into the sky and toward the cliffs.

  “This way!” Amelia cried, and she, Ludwig, Sekhmet, and Pyra ran toward the port where the flock cast its shadow. The birds were flying straight toward Greyridge.

  Wally and Breeth followed close behind, passing people who were bleeding and sobbing, their eyes flinching toward the sky. Wally pictured his brother, helpless in his mildewed cell, and ran faster. The Corvidians would make mincemeat of Graham with those talons.

  “Ludwig!” Amelia yelled, still running. “Can you blow the Corvidians away from the hospital?”

  “I vill try!” Ludwig said, folding squares of paper into tiny birds with his massive hands.

  “Pyra?” Amelia said. “Can you cook up something that will stun them?”

  The chef giggled madly as she drew out two corked vials—one as darkly purple as a storm, another filled with electric-pink pellets. “Pluck ’em! Gut ’em! Roast ’em for dinner!”

  This brought Wally some relief. With Weirdwood’s staff distracting the Corvidians, he could make it to Greyridge without being sliced to shreds.

  “Sekhmet,” Amelia said. “You are not to draw your swords unless I say. Understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Sekhmet said, unable to hide her disappointment.

  They reached the port—a chaos of slices and screams and falling feathers. The Corvidians dove at the boats, tearing sails and swiping up oars and giant fish.

  “We can’t reach the flock from down here,” Amelia said. “We need to get to higher ground.” She searched the port, then pointed to the fish-processing factory. “There!”

  She cracked her whip and floated up to the roof as graceful as a dancer. The other staff members scaled the building’s siding.

  Wally left them behind, continuing up the cliffs toward Greyridge, heart pounding in his chest. “Still with me, Breeth?”

  “Yep!” Breeth said, squishing through the m
oss that grew along the cliffside. “If those birds so much as glance your way, I’ll ooze all over them!”

  Wally looked straight up at the cloud of Corvidians streaming toward Greyridge. A multitude of stolen objects dangled from their claws—purses, oars, bedpans, fish, boots. The monster birds carried them up the cliffs, soared over the hospital’s gate, and then dropped them onto the guards, knocking some unconscious before swooping back to the city to grab more ammo for their assault.

  Why were they attacking Greyridge? Wally hoped with all his heart that it had nothing to do with Graham.

  A shadow passed over Wally as a dozen Corvidians carried an entire carriage over the gate.

  “Oh no,” Wally said, heart sinking.

  But before the birds could drop the carriage, something in the air shifted. A powerful wind blew the Corvidians and the carriage back down the cliffs. A new flock of Ludwig’s paper birds had formed above the hospital’s roof and were flapping up a gale, sweeping the monster birds back toward the roof of the fish factory where Amelia and the others waited, poised to knock the beasts out of the sky.

  Wally sighed with relief. “Get ’em, guys.”

  He reached Greyridge’s gate and tried to open it. It was locked.

  “Let me in!” Wally shouted at the bleeding guards. “I need to check on my brother!”

  The guards didn’t stir. They’d been knocked unconscious.

  The dead hedges lining the grounds rustled to life. Their brown limbs extended toward the gate and coiled around the bars. “I can’t possess it, Wally,” Breeth said from the leaves. “It’s made of metal.”

  Wally was eyeing the spiked top of the fence, seeing if he could climb over, when a man cried out on the port.

  “Oh God! Please! No!”

  Wally turned around and found a man pushing a baby carriage along the docks. The baby carriage was empty.

  “My son!” the man screamed, pointing at the sky. “They took my son!”

  There, a hundred feet in the air, among the objects in the feathered shadow, something was wriggling. Wally squinted, and his stomach fell.