“No one told us!” said Willam.
Tedros seethed. “It’s oil! Just take it and—”
Rhian snatched Tedros by the arm and flung him back behind the pillar.
“Why’d you do that!” Tedros berated, starting to get up again—
He froze still.
Four scims peeked around the side of the pillar at him, Agatha, Sophie, and Rhian. Their sharp, eyeless tips squiggled with glee, before they looked past the king’s group and saw Hester’s and Hort’s teams across the archway. The scims murmured high-pitched gurgles, taking in the bounty of flesh. They hewed together like a single arrow, drifting between targets, as if they couldn’t decide who to kill first. . . .
Then they flew at Tedros.
“Tedros, move!” Agatha gasped, shoving him left just as Rhian shoved him right, trapping Tedros straight in the scims’ path— A gush of amber liquid suddenly slopped down from above, drenching the eels and splashing to the ground.
The scims looked up, startled. So did Tedros.
Bogden and Willam gaped down between pillars. “Bogden thought we’re supposed to pour it,” said Willam.
Tedros groaned.
But now the oil-soaked scims had turned back to the king, their lethal tips glowing green. They slashed towards him— Tedros lunged forward with his gold fingerglow just as the scims hit his chest, and with a lion’s roar, he swiped his fingertip across them, setting the eels aflame.
Instantly the scims detonated into a fireball, shrieking and sizzling before they crumbled into dirt.
Anadil’s three rats set upon them, scarfing them up like they were crisped bacon.
The entire group slumped with relief.
Rhian squeezed Tedros’ shoulder. “Good thinking, Your Highness.”
Tedros glanced at Agatha. “Occasionally I can think like a king.”
Agatha flinched. “Tedros—”
“Sorry to interrupt your drama but we’re still about to die,” Sophie said as more scims shot through a seven-foot nymph in front of them. Somewhere Kiko screamed. “Tedros might have killed a few scims, but how do we kill the rest!”
“Brains,” said Hester, eyeing Anadil.
“Talent,” said Anadil, eyeing Hester.
The witches turned to Sophie. “Neither of which you have,” said Anadil. She snapped her fingers and her three black rats hopped onto her shoulders.
“Rats?” Sophie sniped as Anadil whispered to her pets. “That’s what’s supposed to save us—”
Anadil’s red eyes sliced through her. “Watch.”
The rats jumped off her shoulders and cannonballed into the puddle of oil like pigs into mud, slathering every inch of their fur, gulping up mouthfuls of it and hissing gleefully. . . .
Then they took off, scrambling up soldiers’ bodies and onto their heads. They whipped their rat tails and sprayed oil onto any scims within reach, before leaping to the next soldier’s head like a landing pad, dousing eels as they flew. Like stealth trapeze artists, they swung across the battlefield, twirling and tumbling and shaking out their fur to make sure every scim got a flick of oil, careful not to wet the soldiers. Agatha’s eyes tried to keep up with them in the night sky, ping-ponging in and out of torchlight like kamikaze fairies. Locked in battle with Camelot’s army, the scims didn’t notice three tiny furballs silently crisscrossing the air above as they executed spiral death drops and aerial dives, squeezing every last drop of oil from their bodies onto eels and spraying them with whatever they’d gargled in their mouths . . . until at last, their work was done and they collapsed exhausted and reeking in their master’s lap.
Agatha and the rest of the group blinked at the rats.
“Now what?” Sophie said, unimpressed.
Hester glared. “Now it’s my turn.”
With a searing cry, the demon on Hester’s neck flew off her skin, grazing Sophie’s cheek as he whizzed towards the battlefield, inflating to red-skinned, full-blooded life. Conjuring glowing firebolts from his mouth, he hurled them at unsuspecting scims, igniting the oil and combusting the eels to ashes.
Soldiers ducked in shock as flame-bombs exploded all around them like a fireworks show, scims’ screams multiplying until they were all Agatha could hear.
Rhian and Tedros looked at each other, then whirled to the group—
“Let’s go!” said Tedros.
The crew charged into battle behind the king and knight, who hacked at flaming scims with their swords. Bleeding and struggling with a limp, Hort’s man-wolf snatched scims out of the air and let out savage roars as he tore the eels apart. Sophie slit blazing scims open with a dagger she’d swiped off the ground; Beatrix and Reena shot them through with bows and arrows; Hester and Anadil ran to help Kiko, tormented by a burning scim that had yet to die, while Nicola wielded Reena’s dented shield like a frying pan at her father’s pub and smashed scims to pieces. . . .
But Agatha still hadn’t moved from the archway. She’d never fought without magic nor used a sword before. She didn’t have Tedros’ strength or Rhian’s skills or Sophie’s Evil.
But neither did Nicola or Hort or Dot.
They had something else to fight with, she realized, her heart thumping like a war-drum. The same thing that had fueled her in every war against Evil.
Her friends.
She grabbed a pickaxe from a fallen dwarf and stormed into the fight, chopping scims out of the air and spinning round to bludgeon more. Burning scims came from every direction like falling comets, streaking at Good’s future queen. Over and over she took them down with vicious yells, spraying the air with firedust, until Agatha was bent over and heaving, with no more scims to kill. Slowly she rose, her axe over her shoulder, her face smeared with ooze, her hair matted to her head. The rest of the group gathered at her side, looking out at a field awash in bodies and mist. Wounded soldiers stirred; others looked out from their hiding places, stunned to still be alive.
Agatha turned to Tedros, who stood by Rhian’s side, their arms on each other’s shoulders, gazing blearily into the distance. . . .
Then the king and knight went rigid.
Agatha followed their eyes.
Out of the smoke and embers came the Snake, his suit of scims shredded from top to bottom, revealing the young, mortal flesh of his pale chest and legs. Blood and bruises covered his milk-white skin, his body weakened by the death of his armor. But the Snake lived, moving towards them with clear purpose, his emerald eyes honed in on Tedros through his green mask, still intact.
He stopped ten feet from the king.
Excalibur shimmered in its lockbox above their heads.
“Hello, Brother,” said the Snake.
“I’m not your brother,” Tedros spat, lit up with rage. “I’m the Lion who kills the Snake. I’m the king who will bring your head to my people. I’m the real king.”
“Are you?” said the Snake, his stare hard and cold. “Time will tell.”
Tedros stepped forward. “You’re out of time.”
The king stripped off his armor, revealing his bare, golden chest. He threw Lancelot’s sword aside.
“No magic. No weapons,” he said. “We end this tonight.”