Torcan grinned wickedly and stepped backwards, watching Faabar all the while. The Red Caps were parting, making way for something coming through the smoke, which appeared to gather unnaturally. It rolled thickly, defying the wind, coalescing around a nimbus of flame that made its way through the curtain of burnt air, which grew oppressively dry. Padric felt his throat and lungs begin to burn with each breath. The black cloud swelled then sucked into itself towards the fiery center. Four burly goblins stepped out of the smoke bearing that horrible chair on their shoulders, and seated upon it was the lank haired goblin, his eyes the approaching flame.

Faabar turned sharply towards the men behind him, but it was Padric’s face he looked into. “Run!”

A hissing roar erupted from the litter and a gout of flame spewed from the goblins burning gaze, blasting into the roof of the stable. The squeal from the men perched there was cut short as the top of the building was blown apart. Padric dove to the ground as chunks of blackened stone, burnt timbers and charred bodies fell around him.

“We must make for the river!” Ardal’s voice yelled into his ear and he felt strong hands lifting him to his feet. They ran clutching each other, keeping their heads low, heading for the safety of the water. A concussive wave of heat threw them into the air as the alehouse erupted. Padric felt the sharp slap of water and choked as liquid filled his throat. He rose coughing amongst a sea of wriggling death. He was in the eel pond and it was steaming. The eels thrashed about all around him, hopelessly struggling against the boiling of the water. Padric vaulted out of the pond, throwing his arms up to shield himself as the wheelhouse burst into flames. Ardal lay next to the eel pond, his brains dashed against the stones. The men were fleeing, several of them burning as they ran, their tortured screams mixed with the perverse laughter of the Red Caps.

Padric heard Faabar bellow with rage and looked up to see the warrior hurl his maul at the litter. The weapon whirled through the air, a deadly windmill of heavy bronze. The wizard only smiled as it spun savagely towards him and Padric stared dumbly as the wooden haft turned to ash in mid-flight, the metal head falling to the ground in a molten puddle. Howling in fury, Faabar charged, his greatsword held high. A bolt of fire punched into his shoulder and he staggered, but managed to keep his footing. A second caught his injured leg and he fell to a knee. The goblin magus stood, his arms held low and outstretched, fingers curled. The air between the fomori and the litter began to shimmer and distort as waves of heat danced mercilessly in Faabar’s path. Rising slowly, the warrior snarled and pressed on.