فصل 31

31

Spies in the Stymph Forest

By the time they made it to the outskirts of the Stymph Forest, the sun’s shrinking glow was firmly in the east.

“Only a few hours until the sun sets,” Tedros said nervously, his hand moving to Excalibur as if to make sure it was there. “Even Lance keeps looking at the sun like he knows we’re doomed.” “Lance. He gets a nickname from you and I don’t?”

Tedros glanced at Agatha. She cracked a smile.

“It’s not funny,” he said, seeing the entrance to the Stymph Forest ahead. “There is no escape this time. The dark is coming, Agatha. This is The End for us. The real End—” “I know.” She squeezed his hand, still affected by Cinderella’s story. “So let’s try to hold on to every last bit of light that we can.” He stared at her. “Now you decide to be romantic? Now?”

Agatha stopped smiling. “Look, Merlin has a plan, all right? He has to have a plan.” In front of them, the other pairs began to slow down as they approached the gates of the Stymph Forest. At the entrance stood two colossal elm trees, as tall as castle towers, with their trunks bowed towards each other and dead branches whittled into the shape of a bristling black swan, beak open, feathers beating, so lifelike in its impending attack that Agatha felt herself clutch Tedros tighter as they crossed beneath it.

She shook off her fear. “I mean, it’s Merlin we’re talking about, the Merlin of legend and myth, who never fails Good in times of crisis—” “Except when he deserts us for six days, forgets to recruit a real army, drags us straight into School Master territory without weapons, and doesn’t teach us a single fire spell to kill any of the two hundred zombies about to eat us.” Agatha swallowed.

They couldn’t see anything now, for the Stymph Forest was so dense with sky-high elms that it scrubbed out the last pinprick of sun. Agatha waited for someone to light a torch or a fingerglow, but no one took the initiative, as if it was less frightening to be in the dark than to see what was lurking in the trees. With no other light source, the nineteen heroes folded in a tight hive behind the wizard, whose hat led the way with its glowing white stars.

The deeper they drew into the Stymph Forest, the more they began to smell the acrid smoke seeping from the bonfire in Gavaldon beyond the Woods. Instinctively, the younger members shielded their older mentors, remembering their duty to protect them and keep the shield over the Reader World intact. Anadil’s rats spread out across Anadil’s, Jack’s, and Briar Rose’s shoulders like bodyguards; Hester and Lancelot wheeled Hansel and Gretel through the pebbly dirt; Yuba stuck by the White Rabbit, whose night vision was quite acute; Dot and Red Riding Hood hewed to Princess Uma, insisting a teacher of Animal Communication should know how to manage stymphs (“Stymphs aren’t animals; they’re beasts,” Uma moaned); and Hort held out a rusty training sword, guarding Peter Pan and Tinkerbell.

Slowly their eyes drifted upwards, pinned to the trees, and as they adjusted to the darkness, they began to make them out . . . bony, vulturous shadows, eerily still on the elm branches, not making a sound.

“They’re watching us,” Lancelot murmured.

Merlin stopped suddenly, causing a pileup behind him and an array of hissed curses and crushed toes. The wizard peered ahead.

“Gretel, why is wizard stopping—” Hansel started.

“Shhh!” Gretel retorted. “Listen . . .”

That’s when Agatha heard it too.

The low thunder of marching, reverberating through the Forest.

Far away, pulses of bright green glow pierced the blackness like blinking stars . . . first a few . . . then a dozen . . . then hundreds, lighting up all at once before vanishing back to dark. With every second, the pulsing lights grew closer, matching the crescendo of footsteps—left, right, left, right—until Agatha wasn’t sure whether it was the light following the march or the march following the light. As the flashes grew bigger, brighter, she honed in on the green detonations, like mini-fireworks, holding just long enough to illuminate the trees in the distance . . .

And the bodies coming towards them.

The Dark Army skulked into the Stymph Forest in perfect rows, carrying axes, swords, and spears. Over their heads floated a cloud of black zombie fairies that kept the beat of their march with their glowing green tails, extinguishing and rekindling again and again. With every flash of light, the army strobed closer, as if time was skipping forward, and soon Agatha could make out their dead-eyed glares, stitched-up skin, and infamous faces.

Peter Pan and Tinkerbell shrank against a tree at the sight of Captain Hook and his curved steel blade; Cinderella clutched Agatha’s arm when she saw her wicked stepmother with a rusty axe; Jack pulled Briar Rose close, glimpsing his club-wielding giant and her dagger-carrying fairy; Hansel and Gretel wheeled to the rear of the pack to hide from their zombie witch; and Red Riding Hood shifted from cowering behind Dot to cowering behind Lancelot when she snagged a look at her salivating wolf.

“Merlin, this is where we ‘leave it to you’!” Hort called out.

If Merlin did answer him, it was drowned out by the swell of the villains’ march. Agatha searched for the glow of the wizard’s hat, but the Forest was too dark and the heroes huddled too close.

“Looks just like when I saw him in Granny’s nightdress,” Red Riding Hood rasped, watching the wolf in the front line, only fifty yards away. “Ate me in one swallow then. But I’m a grown woman now. Which means he’d have to chew first—” “I’d take a wolf’s teeth over a hook any day,” said Peter Pan anxiously.

“My stepmother has an axe!” Cinderella boomed.

“You win,” said Hansel.

“It’s not your stepmother, okay? They’re not any of your old villains,” Hester retorted. “They’re zombies. They’re not real.” “They look plenty real to me,” Lancelot growled, drawing his sword.

Hands shaking, Tedros pulled Excalibur, as the Dark Army marched closer. “Lead the way, Sir Lancelot.” “Look who’s suddenly showin’ me respect!” Lancelot snorted. “You, who spent all week blathering that you could win this war without my help!” “You don’t know me well enough to know that I spend half my life saying stupid things and the other half apologizing for them,” said Tedros. “Please, Lance. You’re the greatest knight who’s ever lived. Surely you’ve faced tougher battles. . . . Surely this isn’t as bad as it looks?” The knight could see Agatha and the rest gazing at him with the same hopeful expressions.

Lancelot glanced up at two hundred villains brandishing weapons, thirty yards away now . . . then back down at his army of defenseless Evers and Nevers, crotchety old heroes, and a prince who held the world’s greatest sword but still wasn’t much good at using it.

“Not as bad as it looks,” he said. “Worse.”

The Dark Army halted their advance, twenty yards from the knight. The fairies lit up to full blast as the villains sneered across the forest, eyes red and murderous, mouths clamped in flat, lifeless lines. They raised their weapons in the fairy light, waiting for the order to charge.

“Think I just wet myself,” peeped Hansel.

“M-M-Merlin?” Agatha spluttered, fixed on the zombies. “Merlin, tell us what to do!” “That’ll be difficult, ‘cause Merlin ain’t here,” said Hort.

Everyone spun around.

Merlin was gone.

Agatha and Tedros gripped each other in horror. “We’re dead,” they gasped— From the sky came a blast of wind and they looked up to see two shadows, embraced in flight, float down through the trees.

The boy touched down first, his white hair spiked as sharp as the black crown of the girl he held in his arms. He wore a sleeveless black shirt that showed off his porcelain skin and lean muscles, and long black breeches that hung low on his hips, revealing a piece of his rippled stomach. The girl was as pale as he was, her cheeks and lips so colorless that for a moment Agatha thought her a marble statue, until she pulled away from the boy wearing a black leather catsuit that hugged every curve of her frame. She moved towards Agatha, her hair a gold wave beneath her jagged crown, her skin so tight against her bones the veins glowed through, and her mouth curled in a cold, nasty smile.

But it was only when Agatha saw the green of her eyes, the wicked emerald green, as bright as the fairy tails around her, that Agatha knew who the girl was.

“Hello, darling,” said Sophie.

Agatha’s throat felt like a vise, trapping her voice. Her vision blurred, Sophie lapsing out of focus, as if Agatha’s whole body was rejecting the moment, searching for the ends of a dream. She could hear nothing, only a furious ringing in her ears. Darkness curled in at the corners of the scene and she knew she was losing consciousness; her legs weakened, her heartbeat fizzled, the world funneling to black . . .

Only there was light through the darkness now, gold like a beacon . . . a gold light like the one that glowed from her own finger when she needed it most . . .

But it wasn’t coming from her finger.

It was coming from the Evil Queen’s.

The ring.

Make her destroy the ring.

Agatha felt the mulch beneath her feet again, the bleak night air, her eyes refocusing ahead . . .

And there she was. Sophie, as Evil and dead cold as the boy she’d chosen.

But Sophie still the same.

“Agatha of Woods Beyond. The girl who never wanted to be a princess,” said Sophie. “And here she is with a crown.” Agatha held her ground. “Evil has a queen. So too does Good.”

“If I have a prince, you want a prince. If I have a crown, you want a crown. It’s what I love about you best, Aggie. Always a step behind me.” Sophie looked past her at ragged, frightened Tedros, before her gaze moved to Rafal, immaculate in fairy light. “Until I do it better.” Tedros took Agatha’s hand and scowled at Sophie. “You call him better? A demon? A devil’s spawn?” “Oh Teddy. Don’t be transparent,” said Sophie. “We can make you a paper crown if you like. For the boy not yet a man. The prince not yet a king.” Tedros flushed. “Well, perhaps you were too busy admiring your own crown to notice you’re missing half your army!” he scoffed, struggling to sound intimidating. “What happened, lost ‘em on the way here?” A sharp laugh echoed and Rafal sauntered forward. “Oh I’m quite sure my queen would have preferred we attack you with full force, little prince. Now that she has her crown, she makes me look quite soft in comparison. But our students represent Evil’s precious future. I wouldn’t risk a single one of them when Evil’s past is perfectly able to destroy you all on their own.” Agatha followed his eyes to the Dark Army, teeth gnashed, impatient for their Master’s signal. She thought of Reena, Chaddick, Ravan, and all the other students she’d come to know, trapped in the School for Evil. One day, Rafal would ensure they ended up as dark-hearted and ruthless as these undead killers hungry for war.

But then Agatha remembered Kiko . . . lovely, sweet-faced Kiko, who just wanted everyone to find happiness and love . . . who could never be Evil no matter what anyone did to her.

“Evil will never have a future,” said Agatha, thinking of her kind Evergirl friend. “Not when there are those who want to be Good.” “And no one wanted to be more Good than me, Aggie,” said Sophie. “But no matter how hard you try to make an Evil heart Good, it won’t take. You know that, or you’d never have given me a chance with your precious prince. You knew full well that I’d make a fool of myself.” Sophie’s pupils gleamed. “But to make a Good heart Evil . . . oh that’s child’s play, Aggie. Because Good hearts are like the softest underbelly, ripe for Evil to rip through. Just ask your friend, Kiko, who I heard crying last night, wishing she still had her ‘best friend’ Agatha to talk to. Quite popular, weren’t you, in your time at school, darling? Too bad your ‘best friend’ won’t be able to talk much longer. She’ll end up making a nice wicked goose, when her Evil education resumes and her mogrification is complete.” “You know what they say,” Rafal said, smirking. “Even the purest Good excels at Evil when it might end up as Christmas dinner.” The two of them burst into snickers.

Agatha tensed, thrown by the glee in their laughter. With their ghostly skin, ice-blue veins, and sharp cheekbones, they looked so much alike now.

“Well, there’ll be no goose and there’ll be no Christmas dinner,” Tedros blustered. “Because we’re winning this war.” “Are you?” Rafal said bitingly. “With your formidable League of . . . Nineteen? Seems you lost your wizard, though there’s so many rallying to your cause that it’s hard to keep up. My, my, how will I ever kill the one hero I need to break the shield?” He scanned the meager group huddled against the trees: eight famous old heroes quailing in fear, four young Never turncoats, a languid white rabbit, a potbellied green fairy, an animal-language teacher, and a feeble old gnome . . . before his eyes fell on Lancelot, sword in hand, watching the conversation between this young foursome with a confused look on his face.

Rafal’s smile darkened. “A complication.”

“Who the devil are you?” Lancelot blustered, squinting at the snow-haired boy. “And when does the School Master get here?” “That is the School Master!” Hort hissed. “I told you he turned young!” Lancelot’s eyes bulged in shock. “Good God, why didn’t anyone say so?” In a split second, he launched forward, with a running start, and hurled his sword like a tomahawk at Rafal’s head. Caught off guard, the young School Master raised his hand too late. Sophie let out a cry of surprise— The sword blade smashed into Rafal’s forehead, cleaving right through his skull.

Villains froze. Heroes held their breath.

The Stymph Forest was as silent as a corpse.

Lancelot scratched his ear, stunned by how easy it all was, before he flashed a boastful smile. “Hooah! See that, boy? One shot and the cad goes down! School Master dead. Storybook closed. Now where’s our bright sunshine—” His smile eroded.

Rafal was still standing there, a sword in his head, a cheeky grin on his face. Slowly the blood seeped back into the wound around the sword before the young School Master reached up, took a hold of the hilt, and drew the blade out of his skull. The hole in his head sealed up, smoothing to fresh, young skin, as Rafal wiped the blood off the steel edge with his bare palm, his eyes never leaving Lancelot.

Sophie too was grinning now, stroking the gold ring on her finger, which had kept her true love alive.

“Our friend seems to have misplaced his sword,” the young School Master said to her.

“Tends to have a habit of meddling in other people’s business, if I remember,” said Sophie. “Especially mine.” “Then perhaps you’d like to be the one to return his weapon?” Rafal asked.

Sophie gripped the sword by the hilt. “Would be my honor.”

Slowly she lifted cold eyes to Lancelot, her fingertip glowing pink. “Never liked him much anyway.” She fired her glow to the knight’s blade and shot it like a bullet across the Forest— Lancelot didn’t even have time to breathe. His own sword rammed into his shoulder, cutting clean through skin and tissue before spearing into the tree trunk. The knight let out a lion’s roar of pain, pinned to the elm like a piece of meat.

Sophie cozied up to Rafal. “Complication solved.”

Agatha and Tedros were white as death. All the other heroes cowered against the trees, watching their greatest warrior whimper and flail, immobilized by his own weapon.

Rafal caressed Sophie’s cheek. “Like I said, my queen makes me look soft.” Agatha could see the dark pleasure in Sophie’s face and the yellow, catlike glow in her pupils. Suddenly her hope to make her friend destroy her ring seemed numbskulled and naive. Merlin had warned her: there would be no easy path to Ever After. Because there was nothing she could say to make Sophie destroy that ring now . . . nothing she could say to bring her back to Good. . . .

Because there was no Good in Sophie anymore.

“Help me, boy,” Lancelot cried out to Tedros. “Help me loose!”

Tedros didn’t budge.

Agatha could see him watching Lancelot on the tree. The sword was buried at the top of the knight’s shoulder, away from vital organs and clotting the wound from bleeding out. As long as Lancelot stayed there, he’d be in excruciating pain . . . but safe. Because the second Tedros helped Lancelot off that tree, Lance would make another charge for Rafal and end up dead on the spot. Villains didn’t offer mercy more than once. And whatever happened to Tedros from here, whatever he had to sacrifice to help Good win—even his own self—he’d make damned well sure of one thing: Lancelot would go back to his mother alive.

The knight saw the change in Tedros’ face. “Tedros, no! Don’t fight them alone!” But the prince was looking at Agatha, who’d taken Tedros’ hand, her teeth gritted, silently telling him he wouldn’t fight Evil alone.

He would fight it with her.

“Tedros . . . please!” Lancelot begged.

The prince’s fear hardened to steel. Hand in hand with Agatha, he turned back to Sophie and Rafal, the scared and tremulous boy gone.

Rafal looked thoroughly entertained. “They think this is one of their old storybooks, my queen. Join hands, fight for love, and everything will go Good’s way . . .” “At least Evil does love with dignity,” Sophie scoffed, studying their joined hands. “You two are like one of those cakes drowned in frosting so no one will notice it’s spoiled.” Agatha lost her poise. “A cake you did everything possible to get for yourself, remember?” “And I did, thanks to you,” Sophie replied coolly. She smiled at Tedros. “It just didn’t taste very good.” “You’re a witch,” Tedros hissed. “A witch who’s even uglier than the warty, bald-headed one you were before. Lucky that you found a freak as empty as you. Another black hole of a soul.” The venom in his voice took Sophie by surprise. Her cheeks blushed, before they paled again. “And yet we love each other just like you and your princess, Tedros. Nothing you say can make my love with Rafal mean any less. Nothing you say can take away our happy ending.” She pulled in tight to Rafal, who kissed her gently on the head.

“Unless it’s hate, not love, that keeps you together,” said Agatha, watching them. “And hate can never win.” “Never win?” Rafal arched a brow. “Your steadfast wizard flees like a child the moment he sees our army. Your trusty knight proved even less useful . . . and yet still you’re pretending as if you have a chance?” Sophie glared at Agatha, fury building. “That’s the problem with Good, isn’t it? It tells you to believe in hope and faith, when those are just phantoms. Evil tells you to believe in the truth—the truth that’s staring at you in the face, no matter how scared you are of it. And here’s some truths for you. I was dreaming about Rafal all along. I was in the right school all along. I could have been happy being myself, instead of trying to be something I wasn’t. And if I’d just accepted that, I’d never have tried to be your friend in the first place. Because the only reason I knocked on your door with my big smile and my basket of cookies was so that a School Master would think I was Good. I was using you, Agatha. You were my Good Deed to get what I wanted. The same way you’ve used me to get closer to your prince. So don’t stand here and tell me what Rafal and I have isn’t love. What you and I had wasn’t love. Because that was a lie from the beginning.” All Agatha could hear was the sound of her own breaths, for Sophie’s eyes were like fireballs, scorching through hers.

“But then again, you have hope and faith on your side, those never-failing weapons,” Sophie said cuttingly, “when all we have are axes, armies, and youth on ours.” “Is that all we have, my queen?” Rafal asked playfully.

Sophie read his face. “How could I forget?”

Fingertip searing pink, she thrust it skywards, directing the cloud of fairies higher into the trees and lighting up the Forest overhead.

Thousands of bony, fleshless stymphs snarled down from the branches with their eyeless sockets, cawing with high-pitched screams at the sight of their Master and his new queen.

Agatha and the heroes shielded their ears from the terrible shrieks, but Rafal just hummed along, as if listening to beautiful music.

“They can scream all they like,” Tedros growled, trying to endure the sounds. “Stymphs won’t attack the Good. You only trained them to attack the Evil.” Rafal tried not to laugh. “What I admired most about your father when he was a student was that he never thought he was more than he was. He knew he was about as sharp as a flint stone, so he kept his mouth shut and made up for it with a pretty face.” Tedros reddened, looking unnerved.

“You, on the other hand, despite having even less brains than Arthur, have somehow convinced yourself that you have something going on in that exquisite little head of yours,” Rafal cooed. “Must have your mother’s blood. Always thought she was quite the know-it-all.” “Whoever birthed you would slay herself on the spot if she knew you had her blood!” Tedros spat. “I’m proud to be my mother’s son.” Rafal’s stare chilled him to the bone. “Well, she won’t have a son after tonight.” Agatha felt Tedros tense against her.

“And as for those stymphs . . . they are indeed trained only to attack the Evil,” Rafal said, leering at the prince. “But the Woods are no longer the Woods you once knew, little prince. Good used to be the side with happy endings. Good used to be the side with true love’s kiss. Good used to be the side with Evers fighting for it. But Evil has all those things now. Evil has become the new Good.” He raised his arms to the stymphs with a malevolent smile. “Which means to them . . . Good is the new Evil.” The young School Master bared his teeth. “KILL THEM!”

The Dark Army roared with bloodlust and charged for the heroes—

Rafal held his hand up and they skidded to a stop.

He was still staring at the stymphs, who hadn’t moved from their posts. They weren’t screeching anymore either.

“I said . . . kill them,” Rafal bellowed.

The birds didn’t flinch.

The Forest was quiet.

“Yoo-hoo! Over here!” a voice pipped.

Slowly Rafal raised eyes to Merlin, high in an elm tree, astride a stymph. “You see, I’m afraid Evil isn’t the new Good, my dear boy. Not if your Evers and Nevers are both on Good’s side.” At the top of every tree in the forest, shadows toting bows and arrows slid out onto the branches from behind the tree trunks. With a swish of his hand, Merlin magically lit all their arrow tips on fire, illuminating the archers’ faces.

Agatha and Tedros blanched at the sight of her classmates—Chaddick, Mona, Arachne, Vex, Reena, Millicent, Ravan, and Kiko, beaming despite her goose-feathered limbs—along with nearly two hundred other Evers and Nevers, their flaming arrows pointed at the Dark Army.

“I peed again,” Hansel said, alongside his fellow gaping League Members.

Sophie was the color of ash. She looked at Rafal, who was just as dumbstruck. “Impossible . . . ,” he breathed.

“They were at s-s-school—with the teachers—” stuttered Sophie. “Lady Lesso barricaded them inside—” “Just like she did inside her classroom every session this past week, preparing her students to fight for Good,” said Merlin cheerfully. “I should know, my dear. I was there, teaching the class with Lady Lesso while the old villains were asleep. The sleeping spell was my work, of course; as your friends will tell you, I have a specialty in putting things to sleep, whether the thorned trees outside the school gates, visitors to my Celestium, or a sadistic fleet of zombies. And here you thought Lady Lesso was teaching them black magic tricks for your idiotic training fights! (That was Beatrix by the way, who found the spells in her old library books, while supervising the infirmary.) But it proved a useful smokescreen for what Lady Lesso was really up to, once you became suspicious and visited the Dean’s room. Not that Lesso lied to you—she was helping the young students fight the old villains . . . just for a much bigger fight than your pointless classroom brawls. I was hiding under her desk the whole time you were there by the way, trying to disguise my sniffles. Terrible allergies to sour plums.” Sophie couldn’t find air. “You . . . I heard you . . .”

Agatha and Tedros were just as floored. That’s why Merlin was gone all week, Agatha thought. That was the old friend he said he was visiting . . .

Hester, Anadil, and Dot weren’t his real spies.

“It was Lady Lesso,” said Sophie, realizing it too. “She was the spy all along—” “Playing Evil’s fervent champion and your loyal mentor until I needed her. And with your return to Evil and the darkening of the Woods, that time finally came,” said Merlin.

“You are a fool, old man, if you think a bitter, feckless hag of a Dean can make a difference in your fate,” Rafal sneered.

“Given Lady Lesso has been Evil’s greatest Dean of all, I’ll happily play the fool,” said the wizard. “For even she knows that Evil cannot exist without Good, the two of them in constant tension, refining and defining each other as nature’s balance. Try to erase Good and you only tilt the balance more in Good’s favor. Which means despite all your efforts, you haven’t made Evil the new Good at all. . . . You’ve made Evil as old as it ever was.” The wizard smiled at Rafal. “And it seems you’ve trained your stymphs all too well.” He let out a piercing wolf whistle and with a rousing war cry two-hundred strong, the students leapt astride the birds and dive-bombed the birds off the trees, launching flaming arrows at the old villains— Arrow blades ripped through their targets, igniting zombie bodies on fire.

Chaddick spiraled his stymph straight into the Dark Army, skewering three ogres with a single arrow . . . Beatrix managed a flying loop before she sparked fire to Snow White’s witch with an arrow to the neck . . . Arachne took out a cyclops’ eye with a straight shot and spinning dive . . .

Agatha watched a fleet of Nevers spray arrows into more zombie heads, utterly flabbergasted. Neither stymph-flying nor archery was ever taught at school. How had students as bumbling as Brone or Mona or Millicent become bird-riding, weapon-firing warriors in a week?

But it was only when Agatha saw Kiko, flying wildly with absolutely no direction, her hand puttering on her bow, unleashing an arrow miles off target, that Agatha realized what was really happening. For all of a sudden, Kiko’s stymph magically leveled and her arrow magically veered, before tearing through a troll’s throat and setting him aflame.

Slowly Agatha looked up to see Merlin high up in his tree, waving his palms like a symphony conductor, managing the stymph and arrow flights of his Ever-Never army with a sorcerer’s touch. Leave it to me, he’d insisted all along. For if the School Master would bring forth an army under his control, so too would Merlin.

He swished his arms once more and four unmanned stymphs with bows and fiery arrows in their mouths throttled towards the ground, scooping Hester, Anadil, Dot, and Hort onto their backs, who immediately began taking aim at zombie targets and letting arrows fly.

“If Daddy could see me now . . . ,” Dot cheered, lancing a headless horseman through the chest.

“He’d ask why we’re fighting for Good,” Anadil crabbed, taking out two Harpies.

“Always the party pooper, Ani,” said Hester, firing arrows as her demon flung firebolts from its mouth, igniting zombies on the spot.

“No wonder Good always wins,” Hort marveled as he flew above them, watching Merlin correct the witches’ shots. “You guys cheat!” For a moment, Agatha felt a surge of relief, knowing the wizard was in command of Good’s whole army—well, almost the whole army. The old heroes were trying to charge into the fray, but were held back to the trees by Princess Uma, Yuba, the White Rabbit, and Tinkerbell, who knew even one of their deaths would break the Readers’ shield. Meanwhile, Lancelot yelled for the wizard to help him off the tree, but Merlin was so distracted trying to orchestrate his army that he flicked his hand in the knight’s direction and accidentally buried the sword deeper into his shoulder. As Lancelot hollered in pain, Agatha started towards him, but stopped short— Tedros.

Where was Tedros?

She whirled to see him, Excalibur in hand, charging towards Rafal, whose back was turned. Agatha held in a scream as Tedros raised his sword— Rafal spun just in time, shooting a bomb of black glow which Tedros barely deflected with his blade.

“Always so impulsive, little prince,” the young School Master snorted. “And now you’ve taken yourself into battle against someone who can’t be killed.” “When I’m done, you’ll be in so many pieces, I’d like to see you try to put yourself back together!” Tedros roared.

As the two clashed viciously, Rafal firing more death spells and Tedros repelling them, Agatha could see her prince already losing ground. The School Master was rifling spells so fast and blasting away trees with such force that Tedros was diving behind stumps to avoid being toasted alive.

Agatha couldn’t breathe. Her prince was going to die. She had to help him! But how? The School Master was invincible. There was no way to save Tedros unless— The ring.

She looked up urgently and saw Sophie, crimson with rage, firing spells at stymph birds and crashing them with their riders to the ground. Sophie sensed something and froze still, before she turned and saw Agatha glowering at her . . . at the ring on her finger . . . her jaw set with determination. Slowly the two friends locked eyes.

Sophie took off, fleeing through the Forest.

Agatha started chasing, then heard Tedros cry with pain. She whirled and saw him crawling through flaming bodies, clutching his singed arm, as he tried to dodge Rafal’s spells.

At the same time, the Dark Army was starting to regain a foothold in battle, thanks to Jack’s giant, knocking down stymphs with his fist, while Captain Hook slashed his weapon, sending students careening to the ground. Merlin’s gestures were increasingly frantic, and he had the same anxious look that he’d had when he’d lost control of his fairy-dust train.

Agatha swiveled to Tedros and saw him using a stymph corpse as a shield against Rafal, as the School Master closed in. Petrified, Agatha spun and saw Sophie getting farther away— Either she went to help Tedros or she went after the ring.

She looked up to the sun’s glow sinking in the dead-east. There wasn’t much time— “Let me free!” Lancelot’s voice ripped through the chaos. “The boy’ll die without me!” Agatha’s eyes veered to him, speared to the tree. The knight was caked with blood, his hair ragged and beast-like, his face filled with primal rage.

“I fight,” he snarled at her. “You go after her.”

Agatha knew there wasn’t an argument. In a heartbeat, she hurdled over burning bodies and yanked the sword out of the knight’s shoulder.

Lancelot howled in agony and relief before he stumbled forward and snatched the sword out of her hands.

“Get her back here,” he panted, squeezing her arm hard.

“But Tedros . . . what about Ted—”

“He’ll be here, safe and sound, with Excalibur ready to destroy the ring when you return. I promise you, Agatha: I will keep the boy safe. But we need you to bring Sophie back,” Lancelot pressed. “Don’t fail me and I won’t fail you. Understood?” Agatha nodded, breathless.

He shoved her away and she hurtled after Sophie into the trees. She peeked over her shoulder at Tedros, trying to repel Rafal’s death spells with a broken stymph bone, before she saw Lancelot storming towards them, the gang of old heroes at his back.

“Do we fight or do we cower!” Lancelot yelled.

“We fight!” the League roared.

They followed him into battle as Agatha ran away from it, Good’s last and only hope to survive.