They came more cautiously this time, spreading out in a wide front. Padric looked into their gray faces as they drew near. There was no fear, only a cold cunning, a calculation of the killing stroke. Each was half the height of a man, but they carried long hafted weapons that could disembowel a larger opponent with ease. Boiled leather, studded and plated in bronze, hung filthy and worn upon their bodies, more protection than could be boasted by any of the shepherds. They made horrible bestial sounds as they advanced, barking and hooting, catching the attentions of the men and demoralizing them with promises of painful death.

And then they charged.

Padric saw Faabar’s weapons swing in mighty strokes, but almost instantly the goblins were past him. The men of the village gave a wordless bellow and surged forward to meet them and Padric went with them.

A Red Cap cackled at him, thrusting a rusty halberd towards his face. Padric knocked the blade aside with his axe and slashed back with his seax, but the stroke did not have the reach, whistling harmlessly past. Pain cracked through his ankles as the halberd haft swept low. Padric fell hard and waited for the heavy blade to cleave his skull, but the blow did not come. He stumbled to his feet and found the Red Cap lying on his back, an arrow in his chest. There was no time to thank the men on the roof. Padric saw Ardal fending off two goblins, his heavy chopping axe barely able to parry the swift thrusts of his assailants. Padric ran to his aid, bringing his own hatchet down into the back of one goblin’s head. There was a woody clunk, followed by a revolting squeal as Padric pulled the blade free of the skull. The remaining goblin cursed, turning to face this new attacker when Ardal’s axe took him in the shoulder. The force of the blow knocked the goblin to the ground, his arm twisted and broken. Ardal raised the axe high and dispatched him with a brutal downswing.

Padric took a quick look around. Faabar was continuing to hold the bulk of the Red Caps at bay, his greatsword sundering their polearms before they could reach him, the maul in his other fist sweeping into their ranks, breaking bodies. The goblins danced around, looking for an opening, stabbing at the fomori’s face to distract him while others slashed low, trying to bring him off his feet. Their numbers were many and for every two that Faabar killed, three slipped past.