“No. Spring is here right now!” Ark stamped hard on the floor in front of him. His words and the Rootshooters’ engineering were both accurate as a trapdoor slammed up, powered by a compressed spring. Unfortunately for the two soldiers, they were standing right on top of it. Like the Rootshooters, they flew. Unlike the Rootshooters, they didn’t have the benefit of wings as they slammed with an awful crunch into the side of the battlements.

“Sorry about the lack of a beard!” said Ark as he turned and stalked toward Flint.

The Commander looked worried for the first time. But then he smiled. “You’re clever, boy. I’ll give you that. And your friends appear to have the upper hand. However, you never know what’s behind you.” Flint helpfully pointed past Ark’s shoulder.

While all eyes had been focused on Ark’s trick with the spring, one of the soldiers had slithered like a snake through the mounds of bodies, under the table, and straight toward the fountain. The soldier sprang up now, dispatching the King’s closest bodyguard with a strike-punch to his Adam’s apple, cutting off the windpipe and effectively strangling him. Then a knife shone out of nowhere. One calloused hand held the King’s crowned head, the other a blade that rested easily against Quercus’s neck.

“It seems we have a draw!” said Flint. “The slimy Rootshooters might win, but if your precious Majesty is dispatched, everyone loses.”

Ark was flummoxed. One Dendran death against the whole of Arborium? Quercus might not have been the best of kings, but he was the symbol they were all fighting for. And that one Dendran’s life was now in his hands.

“Glad to see you’re thinking it over. Tell your friends to stop now, and we will let Quercus go into exile. I am a man of reason. I might even be able to persuade my colleagues not to butcher any more of the court’s posh little brats.”

Ark looked over Flint’s shoulders and saw the princess with the golden curls lying on the ground as if sleeping. Her teddy boar was ripped open, its stuffing spilling across her dress. Flint was loathsome, his followers a poison fungus.

“Ignore every word!” the King spluttered as the knife nicked at his neck and a thin stream of blood trickled down. “My life means nothing. It is this kingdom that matters.”

“Shut it!” snarled the soldier.

“No, Sergeant. His words have a rather noble ring to them. Nothing like a lost cause to make one feel nostalgic.” Flint turned to Ark. “Come, boy, I need an answer. My time is precious.”