Ark now stood over Joe’s body, collapsed onto the ground, his eyes frantically searching for any sign of life. He knelt down, reaching out his hands, feeling only the warmth that was gradually leaving his old friend’s body. Joe’s eyes stared wide like a saint’s, that same crinkly smile on the Rootshooter’s face passing on a message that a good death was never to be feared. Ark grabbed a tablecloth, scattering goblets and glasses, then gently placed it over the body to make a shroud.

But battles do not wait on a single death. Before the next volley of arrows could fly, the Rootshooters took matters into their own hands. Working in teams, they launched a pile of leaves straight down into the courtyards. At least, they looked like a pile of leaves. But the soldiers’ amusement turned to horror when they realized that these leaves had been cleverly stitched together. Each double-winged construction supported the weight of a single Rootshooter. Those who lived in the depths of the tree now flew down toward the courtyard with only revenge on their minds and deadly iron spitting from the mouths of their harpoons.

“For Joe!” they screamed. “Our kith and kin!”

Flint’s men began to drop like plague victims. The Commander was furious. He rounded on the boy who was obviously responsible for this turning of the trunk tide. “Children and Rootshooters? You think you’ll beat the Armories of the North?”

“Yes!” answered Ark, turning away from Joe. “And now it’s my turn to deal with you!”

“Threatened by a boy who can’t even grow a beard. How very droll.” The commander crooked his fingers at two of his nearby men. “Kill him.”

When Ark first came to the Ravenwood, Corwenna also tried to dismiss him. Then, he was a frightened boy. Now, he was angry, a true child of nature, tooth and claw.

Two soldiers circled him. “Don’t really like it, you talkin’ to our gaffer like that!” snarled the first.

“It’s disrespectful-like,” said the second.

“And those ’oo disrespect our boss need to be punished!”

Ark looked around. The battle was in full swing. He saw the King backed against the fountain, sweat pouring from his face, his eyes gleaming. Bodies were strewn around the floor like straw. Rootshooters dipped and dived like sap swallows, some hit by arrows, fluttering over the edge to fall into the forest, and others crashing into the massed ranks of bowmen, causing devastation.

He had his own fight to wage. The men closed in, ready to finish off the arrogant apple-pipsqueak.

“Spring is coming,” said Ark.

It was a warning the men should have heeded. “It’s fall!” said one of them, confused.