They thronged around a large bonfire, the blaze illuminating them in a harsh, hot radiance, their twisted shadows stretched and capering. The leaves of the trees, normally soft gold and honest orange, were molten hands shimmering above the furious clamor of the goblins. All were armed and armored similar to the corpse next to Padric, their heavy boots stomping, spears, scythes, bills, halberds, all thrusting into the ember filled air. The goblins cavorted and cheered. The fire burned and everything was awash in red anger; the boulders, the dirt, the trees, the skin of the goblins and the rough, shapeless bonnets atop every head. Padric locked his teeth together.

Red Caps.

Padric learned today that not all fables are false; that history and legend are sometimes one, but he needed no tale to tell him these were dangerous creatures. These fanatical killers had plagued the mortals of Airlann for generations and were spoken of with as much fear and disdain as the gruagach. But where a changeling worked its evil with trickery, deceit and quiet murder, the Red Caps brought theirs with the torch and the sword, razing whole villages, using the blood of their victims to dye their hats that horrible color. Even the warriors in Stone Fort grew grim at the mention of Red Caps. Padric heard they slaughtered other Fae-folk with equal impunity.

He looked over at his companions. Piskie, gnome and fomori. Each face a carved mask of disdain, the firelight etching their features in burning shadows. Rosheen felt his gaze and looked over. Her expression was pained, almost shameful, her eyes wishing him a thousand miles away. Beyond her, he saw Deglan lurch forward, his eyes wide, the muscles of his jaw working beneath the skin. Padric turned back to the valley and saw the goblins settling as one of their number stepped next to the bonfire.

He seemed larger than the others, but that might have been due to the suit of heavy bronze armor that covered him toe to throat. On his head, he wore the same dreaded hat as the others, but a brazen helm, fashioned in the likeness of a snarling boar was tucked under his arm. He turned slowly in place, taking in the goblins around him, waiting for the din to die before speaking, his voice even, calm and dripping with malice.

“Promises, my cullies. Promises. Who keeps them?” He paused, his pale eyes gleaming, searching his band. “The Lord of the Pile?”

There were hisses, angry jeers, cursing and spitting.

“The fat lord of our mud brothers, King Hob?”

More screams of dissent and several of the warriors pulled their members out and pissed in the dirt. The speaker nodded slowly, a thin satisfied smirk on his face.

“Promises…who keeps them?” He thumped his chest, his bronze gauntlet ringing on his breastplate. “Torcan?”