But it was no use. The hobgoblin’s entreaties were overcome as the Forge Born continued to slam his fists into the cave wall. An anvil sized rock broke away from the ceiling, and Deglan watched in horror as it fell towards Curdle. He leapt forward, barreling into the hobgoblin, his arms encircling him, flinging both of them away from a crushing death. They landed hard, but Deglan tried to take the worst of it, shielding the frail mystic from the stone strewn floor. Pain morphed into anger, and Deglan shoved himself to his feet. The Forge Born kept up its mad destruction, turning the cave into a dreadful bell, tolling itself to pieces.

Deglan marched forward, heedless of the ear bursting punches and the falling rocks. He had eyes only for this towering machine, this iron brute whose only purpose was death.

He hated it.

He hated hunting it, hated finding it, hated looking at it. The memory of his first sighting of it pained him. Bulge Eye had been with him, and Deglan could still feel the panic that rose when he thought it was Unwound. He and Faabar and the piskie and that coal haired youth had tracked it, hoping to destroy it, but they had found the Red Caps instead; Torcan Swinehelm and his cursed Flame Binder. Hog’s Wallow had burned, the villagers had died, Bulge Eye and Faabar along with them. Deglan’s own people had betrayed him, and it had all started with a distant glimpse of this Forge Born. This thing with a name.

“COLTRANE!”

The massive arms pulled high over the thing’s head, metal fingers interlaced into a single giant fist, poised for a final, dooming strike. Deglan threw his own arms over his head, preparing for the crushing weight of the cave to fall in on him, but the concussive slams ceased, and suddenly there was only the sound of his ringing ears. Deglan peaked up and found the Forge Born lowering its arms.

“Leave,” it said without turning, the deep, slow grind of its voice mixing with the fading echoes of its blows.

“Bugger you!” Deglan spat, and then took an involuntary step backwards as the Forge Born slowly turned. He could barely make it out in the recess of the cave, its towering bulk wrapped in shadow. It said nothing more, seeming to wait. Deglan felt a hand clutch his shoulder and turned to find Curdle standing next to him, gaze locked on Coltrane. The hobgoblin was covered in grit, but appeared unharmed.

“We would speak with you,” he said. “We must beg your help.”

“I,” the ponderous voice answered, “will not go.”

“I know you are being drawn,” Curdle pressed. “And that you do not wish to go. But destroying yourself is not the answer.”

“Go?” Deglan turned to Curdle. “Go where?”