Rosheen flew over to where the goblin stood atop the driver’s bench. He held the sail cloth covering in one hand, exposing a corner of the wagon bed.

The Hallowed save us!

The massive forms of several Forge Born lay in the wagon, as menacing in silent stillness as they were in violent motion. There were separated arms and heads, but Rosheen could see that at least two were whole, their heavy iron bodies reclined in this rolling casket.

But they do not intend to bury them.

Sir Corc came and looked, Bantam Flyn marveling over his shoulder.

“Are those Unwound?” the squire asked, voice full of awe.

“If they were, we would all be dead,” Muckle replied without a trace of mirth.

“Come,” Sir Corc said. “We must get back to Pocket.”

Flyn was at his heels. “What about the wagon?”

“Leave it,” the knight said brusquely, avoiding secrecy and heading back down the road.

Rosheen went to follow him and stopped short. A mass of goblins was marching down the road directly for them. Sir Corc turned on his heel.

“Off the road,” he commanded.

A horrible, cackling cry wiggled in the air as the Red Caps caught sight of them and Rosheen saw them break into a run.

“Go!” Sir Corc yelled.

Bantam Flyn ran up to him. “We could take the horses!”

“No,” Sir Corc barked, shoving the squire towards the roadside. “They will not abandon this cargo! If we take the horses, they have no choice but to follow. Now do as I say! Go!”

They all slipped off down the side opposite from the ridge and fled over the downs.

Rosheen flew even with the knight, yelling next to his head. “They came from behind us! They might have seen Pocket!”

Sir Corc quickened his pace. “We will go back for him! But we must be sure we are not pursued!”

“I can go!” Rosheen said. “Make sure he is safe!”

The knight looked over at her. “Do it! We will lead these vermin a chase!”

Rosheen nodded and peeled away, flying high. She risked a glance back. Below, the Red Caps had circled the wagon, thirty at least, while a smaller detachment broke away in an attempt to run down her companions. She was surprised to see Muckle well ahead of the two coburn, sprinting nimbly despite his bulk.

Pocket went over to Backbone and stroked his nose while the mule sniffed at his other hand.

“Sorry, friend,” Pocket told him. “I don’t have an apple for you.”

He giggled when the mule gave him a gentle push, glad that he was not totally alone. He had tried to tell the squire not to go, but Flyn would not listen, making for the road when his impatience got the better of him.

“Wait!” Pocket had called after him. “Sir Corc told us to stay here!”