They followed the Lord out of a small opening in the side of the building and came into a mud clogged field. The Lord of the Pile trudged away from the pens, the hem of his robe dragging through the filth. After a few dozen paces he paused and turned back towards the building, his gaze resting high and he motioned for them to do the same.

On the roof of the building seven goblins stood precariously near the edge. Two large men stood behind them, sharing a bottle back and forth. The goblins’ hands were bound behind them and Rosheen shuddered when she saw that each wore a noose around their necks. The ropes fell down their chests, over the roof edge and looped back up under the eaves, tied to the rafters. A sack covered each of the goblins’ faces, painted a garish red.

The Lord of the Pile extended a hand towards the roof. “Is this what I have to fear?”

“So they are in the city,” Muckle said.

“Who?” the Lord of the Pile asked mildly. “Red Caps? It is possible. By your logic at least one of these seven must be.” He waved a hand and one of the men on the roof lazily put a boot into the back of the left most goblin, kicking him off the edge. There was a squeal of terror from beneath the red hood, cut short when the poor wretch passed the eaves and the rope jerked taut.

“Stop this!” Rosheen said to Sir Corc.

“My Lord,” the knight said. “You need not do this for our benefit.”

“Yours?” the Lord waved again. The second goblin fell awkwardly, almost spilling from the roof. He dangled from the end of his rope, feet kicking hopelessly as he slowly strangled. “The benefit is entirely for my city.”

“You cannot do this…,” Muckle began.

“Without proof?” the Lord interjected. Rosheen winced as another spine snapped, but the goblin pressed on, unaffected. “Why? You come to me with no proof. Only accusations. These seven are goblins. What more proof do I need?” He waved again and the fourth rope claimed a life.

“We came to you with a warning,” Sir Corc said, anger spilling into his voice. “And you give us this vile show!”

The men on the roof were laughing now as they kicked the remaining three to their deaths. “The only warning, Sir, will be the bodies of these seven strung up on the gates and bridges of Black Pool. You tell me my people are sympathizers to an army of blind fanatics? After today, they will not dare.”

Five bodies hung limply from under the thatching, the contents of their bowels running down their legs. The other two gurgled and twitched in the air, spinning hopelessly in agonizing death.

“Come away,” Muckle shoved past the guards. “I am not one for gallows humor.”