‘Who the flum are you?’ The Poxpunk with the raised arm turned to face them. He had crimson-dyed hair that trailed down his back in braids and was wearing a breastplate of hammered steel, flecked with rust and half-covered with fluorescent runes. His wyvern-skin trousers were spattered with neon paint and his armour-plated boots had spikes on the toecaps.

Even his face is tattooed, Liska realised. He looks like he fell asleep and someone doodled all over him.

‘We are from Arborven,’ shouted Liska, hoping that the Poxpunks knew of the tree-city. ‘And we forbid you to slay that baby wyvern!’

‘Wot, that puny runtling?’ The Poxpunk pointed at the baby. It was trying to open its mouth to cry but they had now wrapped rope tightly around it, gagging the poor thing.

‘Yes,’ said Liska. ‘We demand you let it go! By order of . . . um . . . by order of the treekeepers!’

‘Oh, yeh?’ The Poxpunk reached down to his belt and drew a wicked, curved knife with a serrated edge like shark’s teeth. Two more jumped down from the truck, waving weapons of their own. Liska stared into their mean, tattooed faces and felt a flow of icy fear spread from her neck downwards. These savage hunters obviously had no idea who the treekeepers were, let alone any respect for them.

‘Stay back!’ A yell sounded from behind her. It was Lug, with a bristling Fishbone perched on his shoulders. He was holding his hands out in a spellcasting gesture, which also had no effect on the Poxpunks.

‘Or what?’ said the one with crimson braids. ‘What are you bunch of snotty sniplings going to do to us?’

‘This!’ Lug crouched down to the ground, pressing his palms against it and muttering an incantation. When he stood again, both his hands were full of writhing earthworms. He hurled them at the Poxpunks with all his strength.

They pattered off their armour like wormy drizzle, and then fell to the floor, weakly twitching. The Poxpunks laughed.

Something about those scrappy bullies laughing at her friend’s brave stand made Liska’s hackles rise. She swept her cloak around her and drew on its magic, folding herself like liquid into her griffyx shape. In a blink, she crouched before the Poxpunks, snarling, lashing her tail, wings spread wide in the fiercest pose she could muster.

The head Poxpunk stopped laughing and took a step backwards. ‘It’s . . . it’s one of those shifters!’

His comrades stepped back as well, then began looking upwards, searching the skies for more shapewalkers. They must have clashed with guard patrols before. Liska noticed this and decided to use it.

‘Yes, I am one of the defenders of Arborven! And there are many more of us on the way! We do not tolerate you hunting so close to our city! Leave the baby wyvern and begone!’