The sharp set of her smile was disturbingly confident. “Oh, let me assure you, if you look through the glass darkly, you will see that matters are the other way around, my dear little weak king!”

All stood spellbound by her performance. Was she mad? But the clouds cleared, revealing the source of that pounding rhythm. A black shape blotted out the sky, and from its belly, more dark lines spun out like instant spiderwebs. Each carried a figure cloaked in black, cradling shimmering danger in its arms. Red dots suddenly appeared like little fireflies hovering over the chests of the King’s men.

Ark instinctively knew what was about to happen. All he could do was watch in utter horror.

“I think that now would be as good a moment as any? But please, spare the King.” The envoy snapped her fingers and several simultaneous cracks echoed around the trees. The shining red wavering dots bloomed like sick roses. The scent of blood hit their noses as, one by one, good Dendrans collapsed on the ground, instantly stabbed by shards of modified glass, their life force pooling and spilling out of the courtyard and over the edge of the great trees to drop to the earth far below in dark, red, unnatural waterfalls.

Ark took in several sights at once. Up above, on the battlements, another feminine cry rang out as Flo was punched back by a single blast. Down in the yard, Mucum had ducked behind the squit cannon as g-bullets shattered harmlessly against the side of its barrel. Little Squirt was not so lucky. How could a tiny projectile lift a whole person off the floor? There was a gasp and the young sewer apprentice tumbled backward in a heap.

As all this happened, Ark was aware of the heat in his own chest. He glanced down to see his own, bright red buzzing dot. But Corwenna had trained him well. As the bullet came toward him, he watched its trajectory, dividing it up into milliseconds. It was a simple matter of telling this speeding product of Maw that he was no longer in its way. He stepped to one side, allowing all the rifle’s projectile force to fall harmlessly, plowing into the far wooden wall.

The surprise lay on the face of the shooter. Petronio! Like a demon that would never give up, his chubby face leered toward him.

“Son of a beech!” was the only curse that came from his lips. “I thought the ravens had you!” It was rare for Petronio to be puzzled.

Ark had no time for personal grievance. The slaughter had to be stopped. Is that what the thin hollow whistle tucked in his cote was for? Petronio’s words were a sudden gift.