The battle was begun and it was one-sided from the start. The ancient Marquis De-Gall did his best, parrying and foiling his attacker, and one of the ladies cried with delight as her little blade somehow slashed the neck of a surprised soldier. The man dropped his sword and clutched at his throat, trying to catch the lifeblood that leaked through his hands. But these were isolated incidents as Flint’s men trod through the smashed plates, swiping and stabbing both young and old.

All this time, Ark did his best. His handheld mirror was useful and cunning, harvesting light from the full moon above as he ran among the chaos, blinding one soldier after another with careful aim until the courtiers had time to knock them out. The Warden had talked about the sacredness of life, but Ark was still powerless to stop the carnage. He wondered briefly about the commoners feasting beyond the walls. Among the noise of their party, would they even hear the screams from deep within the castle as Arborium was stolen from under their feet?

Bodies fell, blood mingling with the wine from spilled pitchers. It was more than unequal. Those who survived scrambled over the tables toward the fountain at the center of the courtyard. The King was among their number, protected for now. But they were outflanked, surrounded by soldiers who closed in, eager as timber wolves for the final feast.

“All roight, me boyos?” The sound, light and tinkling like a bell, was enough to stop the soldiers for a brief second.

“Joe?” Ark shouted.

“Yas! My little Malikum. Yow saved me once. Oi’m just returnin’ the favor!” The leader of the Rootshooters stood on the high battlements, his white shift and long body turning him into a spectral apparition.

As he spoke, other white-clad figures popped up. “Them mealworms ain’t nearly as nasty as yow lot!”

“Yow tell ’em, Dad!” said Flo, popping up by her father’s side.

Flint paused, wiping the blood from his knife on a convenient napkin. “A bunch of foreigner Rootshooters! Oh gosh, we are terrified. Shouldn’t you lot be out nibbling mushrooms, or whatever else it is you ore monkeys do down there?”

“Oi be glad yow’re scared!” shouted Joe. “Aim up, lads!” Harpoons suddenly appeared, pulled from their loose white shifts. “Take ’im first.” Joe pointed at one of the soldiers standing on the ruins of the feast about to cut his way into the crowd around the fountain.

There was a hissing sound and the man clutched his shoulder where a tethered spike had suddenly impaled itself.

The man gave a wood-rending scream before collapsing to the ground, unconscious.

“Now for the rest of yow sun-fed turnips!” Joe roared. His intention had been to scare the growing daylights out of Flint’s men.