Flint felt ashamed of being defeated by a bunch of common boys. “What do you think you are doing?” he roared at his men. First they had to deal with weirdo white grubs thinking they could fly, then a boy who flung his men into the air. Now the very sewers had risen against them. To top it all, the few who had any hearts left beneath their chain mail nearly sighed at the exchange between Mucum and Flo.

Flint knew he was about to lose command. All that he had left was the loyalty of his men and their pride. “Would you be defeated by mere children?”

Their leader was right. They were armory born and bred. Their job was to maim and murder for whoever paid them the most. Flint shouted, “I want every one of them dead!” It was an order they understood.

But Flint’s wish was not about to be easily granted. As his men let their blades lead them back into the fray, Mucum took control of his tiny but effective band. Little Squirt operated the rotating tracker on the cannon, turning a wheel that fired a constant jet of liquid like a geyser, spraying around the cloisters to take out the bowmen one by one. Mucum was hit in the arm by an arrow, but he simply snapped off the shaft and continued shouting instructions.

The remaining Rootshooters landed in the middle of the action and stripped off their wings, kneeling down to send a deadly spiderweb of threaded harpoons into the few archers who hadn’t been washed off their feet by the force of the cannon.

Ark watched in amazement. He was humbled by his friends’ risking all. With their help, the fighting might be quelled.

The King had regained his youth, deciding that mercy was not in the cards for the soldier trapped beneath his foot. He stamped down, snapping the man’s neck, then jumped forward, roaring like a bear, his blade swiping and clawing at any unfortunate solider who got too close.

It was a rout. Flint backed away like a wounded animal, watching all his best-laid plans go amiss. Where was that coward Grasp? And would Maw abandon this coup so easily?

The squit cannon dripped dry, the tank that fed it beneath the castle now empty. Mucum was not bothered by this change in circumstances. “Come on, boys, let’s clean up the last of this mess!” And with only meaty fists as weapons, he waded into the battle, swinging his big arms like a pair of broadswords. Even Little Squirt showed no fear, darting around like a squirrel to trip up Flint’s men so that they fell directly into the path of stabbing harpoons or Mucum’s bone-crushing punches.