Padric watched as Faabar’s tough hide began to blister and peel, sweat falling in torrents down his face. The hair across his shoulders smoldered yet still he planted one foot forward and then the other, dragging himself inch by inch. The Red Caps stood around, stamping their feet and the butts of the weapons, jeering as Faabar labored onward. A grunt of frustration and pain issued dryly from Faabar’s nostrils and the sword fell from his hand, the metal glowing red as from the forge. He was two steps from the litter when he fell face first into the earth. Torcan and his Red Caps threw dirt, spit and insults as Faabar attempted to rise again. He managed to push himself to his knees, but his injured leg buckled when he tried to stand. Faabar’s proud, horned head did not bow, but looked the goblin wizard in the eye.

“Irial Ulvyeh is King… of this isle. His…undying justice will fall upon you.”

Screaming flames burst from the goblin’s hands and Faabar was catapulted backward, thrown through the air to slam into the wall of the stable. The stones collapsed and the fomori was swallowed by the burning building.

Padric ran for the river and threw himself into the drink, the frigid waters an excruciating relief. He let the current take him, treading water to keep his head from going under. The village dwindled as the river swept him away and became nothing but a burning glow in the distance.

Two dawns crept over the horizon. In the east, the glow of the true sun lightened the sky. To the south, a baleful orange mocked the new day. Rosheen looked south.

Padric.

“All the curses of the Earth upon goblin-kind.” She had not heard the dwarf approach, but she did not take her eyes off the false dawn.

“Must you give them curses because you could not give them steel?”

“Aye,” Fafnir replied. “And truly they deserve both.”

The dwarf had scouted ahead several times during their long flight from the hamlet. Always there were watchfires and always he returned with no arrows spent, no blood on his blade. They suffered no ambush along the way and the abandoned fires were the only sign of goblins.

Oddly fortunate.

The refugees had stopped to rest and to watch and to weep when the glimmer of their village’s fate appeared behind them. The Red Caps would be coming, Rosheen was certain, but the men had done their job, giving them time to escape. The wives and old men said the Thegn’s fort was near. They would reach it and they would be safe, free to live new lives as widows and orphans under the care of a foreign warlord.

“We need to keep moving,” was all Fafnir said before turning his back to the south.

Rosheen watched for a moment more.