Faabar lurched, spasms wracking his body. Deglan could only watch. The sight of his friend’s pain and his own helplessness were too much, so he cast a baleful glance up at the Forge Born. It seemed to be watching Faabar, unaffected by his agony. He settled at last, but the shivers of shock remained, seeming to shrink the proud warrior with every tremor.

“We…we must get word…to the Waywarders,” Faabar managed. He looked up in the direction of the Forge Born. “Help me rise.”

The machine leaned down and reached for the fomori.

“Do not touch him!” Deglan shot to his feet.

The thing stopped and returned to standing over them, as if it had never moved.

Faabar groped feebly for Deglan. “He is not…Unwound.”

“I damn well know that. But it is still iron.”

Deglan had no doubt the thing had carried Faabar up here, aggravating his already grievous injuries. The strength required to move the weight of a fomori was frightening to think about, but it was a task this Forge Born had done with ease. It did not have Faabar’s bulk, but it was at least half a head taller and not subject to fatigue. Why it had done it was a mystery and one that Deglan had no time to unravel.

“You cannot travel,” Deglan told the fomori, trying to keep the finality out of his voice.

Faabar shrank further into the barrowside, letting out a pained breath. “Then you must. Go to Court. Tell them…what has happened. Stop this…before it is too late.”

Deglan watched the grass ripple in the breeze, trying to ignore the cairn stones and the sense of hopelessness in his heart. “Sixty years or more since a Waywarder came through these lands. Over two-hundred since the last proclamation from the King…and near another hundred on top of that since anyone last laid eyes on him. He may be dead.”

“He is not.” Faabar’s voice was weak, but not the conviction behind it. “The island clings to life. Winter has not yet fallen. Irial lives, Deglan…he lives.”

It was still a gamble and Deglan had made up his mind. “I will go where I know there is help. For all the foolishness, there is still strength in Toad Holm. Hob will do something…he must.”

Faabar’s breathing was shallow and labored. “Keep your temper, Master Loamtoes. You must make them hear you. Remember…they are your kin.”

Deglan kept his mouth shut. The gnomes were his kin, the rest were squatters.

“I wish…I… could go with you.”

Deglan knelt and took one of the fomori’s large hands in his own. “I wish that, too.”

Faabar looked to the sky. “Do you remember…little Colm? He used to ride on my shoulders. He would laugh…such a joyful sound. He…is buried here.”