Alex and Meghan pulled out their permanent power weapons. Within thirty minutes the two of them, working in beautiful tandem, rendered forty-four Quillitary members permanently frozen in odd poses using Alex’s splatterpaint combined with Meghan’s Nutcracker ice dance.

As the squads behind the fantastic Simber shield met their marks, a few of them falling back with stray pellet wounds, the squads inside nailed the enemy with fireball dragons, stinging soliloquies, splatterpaint, fire steps, itch glue, slam poetry, scatterclips, slash singing, blinding highlights, and the dreaded Shakespearian theater curse from those who had no qualms about inflicting mortal fencing wounds on their enemies.

Lani and Samheed weren’t quite as fortunate. Samheed, though he thought he had prepared himself for this, soon found himself face-to-face with his father. And unlike with General Blair, Samheed hesitated a split second too long in this matchup, and Mr. Burkesh took advantage by slamming his son in the head and chest with a shield. Samheed groaned and fell.

Immediately Lani reacted with a paralyzing taunt at Samheed’s father, but the man fell forward instead of backward, crashing on top of the young girl and trapping her under his weight. It took her several minutes to free herself, trying to cast spells at other enemies while struggling, her leg caught quite firmly underneath Mr. Burkesh. A sharp, rusty corner of the man’s armor dug into her calf. With one tremendous effort she broke free, ripping a nasty gash in her leg in the process.

“Sam!” she cried, but Samheed was out cold. Blood poured from his nose, which was obviously broken. Lani dragged him with a sort of superhuman strength to a protected spot behind a tree and took a moment to rip a piece from her already shredded pant leg and wrap up her own gushing wound.

Samheed groaned and moved his head weakly. The left side of his face was rapidly swelling up and turning purple.

“Stay still!” hissed Lani.

Samheed opened the only eye that would open. He coughed, swallowed painfully, and whispered, “Kill him.”

Lani gave him a wild, pleading look. “Oh, Sam. I—I can’t.”

Samheed looked at her for a long moment. Then he nodded weakly and tried to smile. “It’s okay.” He rolled to his side and spit blood, then took a deep breath and rose shakily to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”

“No, Sam!” Lani whispered.

Samheed staggered over to his father, released the paralyzing spell and waited for Mr. Burkesh to stand and get his bearings again. The boy stood nearly eye to eye with the man.

“Father.”

Mr. Burkesh glared. He pulled a knife from his belt and held it to Samheed’s neck.

Lani ran toward them. “No!” she cried.

“Father,” Samheed said again, his voice deathly calm.

Mr. Burkesh’s hand trembled slightly as his face grew red. He spoke in harsh, drawn-out words. “Don’t speak to me. You are no son of mine.” And then he hesitated no longer, rearing back with the knife and roaring, “Die a thousand deaths!” He plunged it through the air toward Samheed. Samheed shook, but he made no move to stop him.

Lani screamed. “No! Samheed!” She began uttering another paralyzing taunt, just as a thin voice from somewhere above her uttered a sharp rhyming curse.

Immediately Mr. Burkesh flew backward in the air and landed on the ground. His hand relaxed on the knife, and it fell in the grass.

Samheed sank to his hands and knees, shaking his head in disbelief, sobs and blood clutching at his throat. “I had to know,” he choked out, “if he would really do it.”

Lani tossed off a quick handful of spells at the other Quillitary nearby, and when they were all temporarily contained, she looked up to see where the voice had come from.

In the tree sat Mr. Sigfried Appleblossom. He hopped to the ground nimbly, walked over to Mr. Burkesh, and, putting a foot on his chest, tugged at something. Soon he pulled out a small, thin fencing sword, as clear as an icicle. He ceremoniously wiped it clean on the grass, gave it a quick polish with his hanky, handed it to the wounded boy, and said:

“Your father is a beast beyond compare.

You proved you have more dignity and grace.

Your worth to me … it’s more than I can share.”

He paused tearfully, took a steadying breath, and continued. “Now go inside; have someone fix your face.”

And with that, Mr. Appleblossom returned to his post in the tree.

Once the Quillitary’s front line had turned into a magical pile of stiffs, Simber roared, “Advance!”

Inch by inch, yard by yard, Simber moved forward on the Quillitary, his squad close behind, and the other squads following in their wake.

As many Quillitary soldiers as were able to get past the great stone statue did so, easing their way into the magical world to face a new group of attackers. The afternoon wore on, Simber unwavering, though chipped in spots; Alex gaining confidence as the battle continued; Meghan temporarily set back by a melee attack that left her slashed from shoulder to elbow before she was able to stop the three attackers with a fire step that sent them running away.

It was nearing sunset on the desolate side of the wall when all those of the Quillitary who hadn’t made it into Artimé had been contained in one fashion or another. Simber sent Rufus to Claire Morning with this news as the squads outside of Artimé regrouped and refueled on water and food that somehow had appeared at the gate, delivered by some brave protector.

When the squirrelicorn returned, he bore this news: “Ms. Morning is sending out the night watch. She requests the backup squads deliver the injured into the mansion at once.” Rufus took a deep breath and continued. “Simber …” He shook his head, almost as if he were reluctant to deliver the rest of the message. “Claire wants you and Alex to meet her on the mansion roof immediately.”