The fomori, always so few, had retreated to the coastal crags. The gnomes, divided by their cultural controversy, retired to their underground city, and the ever fickle sylphs went to play in the winds over other lands. Without the guidance of the elves, the undine had become an unpredictable presence, changeable as the tides in loyalty and temperament. They may fight one day, but stand idly away from danger the next. The gruagach would challenge the goblins and fight as they always had, but theirs would be a personal war, ignoring the well-being of any but their own kind. They would skulk in the darkness and wage their shadow war with trickery and quiet murder, but it would amount to little. There were simply too many goblins in the world to throttle in the night.

Rosheen’s own people and the other lesser Fae had never possessed the might needed to wage wars. They were steadfast allies and were much prized where they lent aid, but without a formidable force to rally behind they were of little use.

We watch roads.

Rosheen poked her head out of the lamp house. She found Sir Corc and Pocket, still some distance away, trudging through the rain, the boy leading the mule. Muckle’s rotund form was visible just behind them, but Bantam Flyn was nowhere to be seen. The knight had ordered him to walk a fair distance behind so that he could rush forward with warning if anyone tried to overtake them on the road. It was a solid act of caution, but Rosheen was certain that Sir Corc had given him the rear guard for less strategic reasons. She waited until she could hear Backbone’s hooves clomping on the uneven stones before leaving her dry shelter.

“Clear to this point,” she said as she flew towards the trio.

Sir Corc only nodded, looking past her to the unexplored road beyond. He still wore mail, despite the rain, the metal rings already beginning to show signs of tarnish from the damp. Rosheen looked down at Pocket. He stood cold and miserable, eyes wide to fight his obvious weariness. The mule’s guide rope was clutched almost desperately in his thick fingered hands, and Rosheen frowned in concern over the shivers he fought to hide.

“We need rest,” she told Sir Corc. “Food and warmth.”

“Beef and bacon pastie,” Muckle licked his lips. “And a horn of hippocras. Go down nicely.”

“Not here,” Sir Corc said simply.

“When?” Rosheen pressed him. “Pocket cannot handle much more.”

“I am fine,” the gurg said bravely.

Without taking his eyes from the road, Sir Corc placed an armored hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Soon,” he said. “We have put some miles between us and Black Pool, but we are far from outside our enemy’s reach.”

“Perhaps if you tell us where we are going,” Rosheen said.