‘I is back!’ one of the kittimews shouted, standing on the shoulders of the others. He wore a helmet fashioned out of an old teapot, topped off with a crown of broken glass and wire. Peering closer, Liska could see it was Fishbone himself.

‘Thank the Tree!’ she called down to him. ‘I thought you’d run away for good!’

‘Run away?’ The furry little cat man looked offended. ‘We is here to fight for Arborven like all the humies!’

‘How did you get so many ca— I mean kittimews, to come with you?’ Lug asked, staring at the spears and spiky clubs they carried with some unease.

‘Because I is their king, of course!’ Fishbone puffed out his chest and his people all yowled at the top of their voices. It was a sound that could curdle wyvern milk. Liska shook her head. She had been travelling for days with both Arborven and kittimew royalty without even realising it.

‘We’re going to take the heart to Bitterblight,’ she said. ‘Stay here and look after Lug.’

Fishbone rolled his eyes. ‘My army can do that. I is coming with you!’

Before Liska could stop him, he skittered up Embla’s back and took his usual place on top of her head, poking out from the nest of scarlet ivy. He raised both of his paws, claws out, and shouted, ‘Charge!’

As if at his signal, the treekeepers began to stride towards the enemy, making the ground shudder with their mighty footsteps.

The shapewalkers began to fold themselves in their cloaks, twisting their bodies into fighting shapes. They whooshed up from the ground with sweeps of their wings, filling the sky with creatures from ages past. Pantherines, cockatrices . . . Liska even saw some lamassu, the winged lions with human faces from the southern guard tower.

‘Be careful, Liska!’ her mother shouted up to her before shifting herself.

‘We will watch out for you from above,’ her sister added.

Liska waved back as Embla started her own march, waved also to Lug who was already beginning to start his summoning surrounded by a horde of fierce scruffy cat warriors. An honour guard of tails and whiskers.

All the other mages had begun their magic too. The battlefield lit up with streaks and flashes of coloured light. Strange, arcane symbols floated in the air. A mystical fireworks display.

The ground rippled as roots and vines pushed up from below, lashing their way towards the enemy. Clouds of mist, crackling with trapped lightning, started to form in the sky. The stunted, poisoned trees of the Rotlands were once again filled with life. They sprouted arms and legs, their bark hardened into spikes and blades, turning into walking wooden war golems. They snapped themselves off from their roots and joined in the march.

The air was thick with magic, the smell of it almost overpowering the putrid rot.

For a moment at least.

And then the army of Bitterblight attacked.

*