Flyn sprawled face down in the dirt, but recovered quickly, rolling into a crouch and shrugging the harness off his shoulder. Sir Corc stood over him, waiting as Flyn drew the greatsword. The squire stood, naked steel in hand, pain on his face. He swung. Corc stepped into the blow, allowing only Flyn’s swinging arms to strike him, grappling them quickly then ducking low, tossing the squire bodily over his shoulder. Rosheen heard the wind rush from Flyn’s body as his back slammed into the ground. Sir Corc now held the greatsword but tossed it aside, wasting no time in hooking his hands under Flyn’s beak, dragging him across the rotting leaves. The squire kicked and struggled feebly as the knight hauled him up, locking his thick arms around Flyn’s neck and head. He buffeted weakly at the hold, struggling to breathe, but Corc did not release him.

“Enough,” Flyn choked. “Yield…I yield.”

There was a horrible moment when Rosheen feared she would hear the young coburn’s neck snap.

This needs to end.

“Corc,” she said firmly. “I know where Pocket is.”

The knight looked up at her, the feral ferocity of his race running rampant across his features. She stared him down, willing him back to reason, but the coburn only looked back at his captive.

“You,” Sir Corc hissed, “have a lot to learn.”

He pushed Flyn away contemptuously and snatched the greatsword from the ground while the squire coughed and wheezed.

“Tell me,” he said, looking up at Rosheen.

She gestured at the body of the goblin, still dangling from the mule’s harness.

“Look at his tunic,” she said.

Corc bent and ran the heavily soiled garment between his fingers.

“Pocket’s,” he said.

“I think he is trying to tell us something,” Rosheen said. “That he is with them…as one of them.”

“Clever lad,” Muckle muttered.

Sir Corc stood, facing her. “Can he hold the change?”

He needs hope.

“Yes,” Rosheen answered. “I believe he can.”

“Then we go after him.”

“I… do not wish to duel,” Muckle offered carefully. “But we cannot defeat that many Red Caps on our own.”

“We have no choice,” Sir Corc said.

“Yes we do,” Muckle countered. “I know where the Red Caps are going. You said it yourself, they are moving slowly. We still have time. With help, we can get the boy back.”

Rosheen looked at the goblin dubiously. “What help?”

“Oh, the best kind,” Muckle smiled broadly, showing every tooth. “The desperate kind!”

T WENTY T WO

TWENTY TWO

Castle Gaunt.

Padric stood on the ramparts looking into the night, the glare from the dancing brazier blinding him to all that lay beyond and below the walls. The great fortress spread out around him, behind him, but he kept his gaze fixed on the familiar, star-filled sky, ignoring the ancient menace of stones. He could still feel it; a huge, blind, predatory weight ready to swallow him.