“Jileen,” Slouch Hat said. “Jileen said she had found my dead master’s tomb open while visiting her parents’ barrow. I went to look, and the works were gone. When I returned, she told me about Brogan and told me to flee, as I was suspected. I did not kill him, Padric.”

Padric spun on his heel, pacing in frustration, stifling a scream. “Enough,” he said, turning back. “It does not matter now. I should not have bothered with it. We are here now, whoever betrayed Kederic. Acwellen is a lout and a liar, but he does know I am false. He says the goblins cannot bring the Forge Born to life without the rightful heir. Is that true?”

Slouch Hat shook his head. “No. The Flame Binder will awaken them, but the Goblin King must command them.”

Padric thought furiously. “You possess the crown. Can you not command them? Turn them against the Red Caps?”

“The crown is only an artifact, Padric,” Slouch Hat told him gravely. “There is Magic within it, but the power to control the Forge Born lies within the bloodline of Jerrod the Second. Whatever sorcery he poured into this crown, it is not his seed.”

“Then what will happen?”

Slouch Hat’s face went slack, his hollow eyes stretching into long pits. Padric grabbed the husk by the shoulders.

“Slouch Hat,” he said, shaking him. “What can we do?”

The husk regained himself, pulling away from Padric’s grip. He raised a hand to his face, the other holding the crown limply by his side.

“She whispers to me,” Slouch Hat’s voice was tired. “She wants her freedom. But more than that, she wants revenge. Such hatred…”

“What does she intend?” Padric asked, fearing the response.

Slouch Hat looked up at him. “I know not. But…we will not survive it.”

“No,” Padric said. “But this is the moment that dying will matter most.”

Among fifty Red Caps there was no place to hide.

Pocket wore his fear as he wore the goblin face. It was on his shoulders, calling out, pointing at him, encouraging the goblins to come look at the impostor in their midst. Every moment became the last moment before he would be discovered. One of them would look at him and see him, really see him and those eyes would fill with hatred and cruel intent before he brought the others running with his shouts, so they might descend upon him with their brutal weapons. Pocket had a weapon, too; an ugly iron blade atop a long wooden pole, thrust into his hands the moment he reached the wagon. It was heavy, but not as heavy as the boots on his feet. They marched and the boots bit, bashing his toes.