Now, the activity in the yard was growing again. The forges were cold and silent, but the goblins still crawled over them, taking down the canvas coverings, hauling tools and anvils away. When he had come through the gate at dusk, the sight of the metal giants standing motionless around the burning goblin unnerved him greatly, making his skin tingle. That same goblin now stood upon the steps of the keep, no longer bathed in flames, watching the preparations, and gazing lovingly over the ranks of those hulking suits of armor. Pocket had seen drawings, paintings, and woodcuts of the Forge Born. But those did not come close to capturing the cold lethality that radiated from them even after centuries of repose. Some of the most famous knights of the Valiant Spur had fought and defeated Forge Born, but seeing these monstrous killers with his own eyes, Pocket could not help but doubt the tales. How could anyone of mere flesh and bone stand a chance against living iron?

A stir of activity caught his eye, and Pocket looked down to see another Forge Born being dragged into the yard. Even from a distance it was clear that this one was less rusted than the others and appeared in no need of repair. It lay upon a stout wooden litter attached to a single mule. A mule Pocket knew immediately.

“Backbone,” he worried to himself.

His beloved companion struggled forward, aided by half a dozen goblins pushing at the litter or straining to pull with ropes. Two Red Caps followed the litter, talking with one of the smiths. One of them, Pocket noticed, was quite fat.

“They are inside,” Rosheen announced when she returned.

“Bloody wonder,” Deglan said, still not ready to believe it had worked. The young coburn’s idea had been simple and bold, traits the squire fully embodied. Deglan had expressed his doubt that the mule could drag Coltrane at all, but Flyn said the beast need only make it to the castle gate. The Red Caps would help after that, so long as Curdle and Muckle played their parts convincingly. Deglan had doubted that, too, and said as much. Neither of their singular looking hobgoblins fit the muster for the typical foot soldier. He looked to Rosheen for support, but the piskie merely smiled slyly and nodded back to where the goblins stood with the mule. Where once a pale, wrinkled goblin and his bawdily-clad, corpulent companion stood, there were now two average looking goblins wearing filthy armor, iron boots and blood stained hats.

“Damn albino mind-twiddler,” Deglan scowled at the smaller of the two Red Caps.

“The mind sees what it wants to see,” Curdle replied.

“He’s still fat,” Deglan said, pointing at Muckle.

“Even Magic has its limits,” Curdle said wryly.

Muckle laughed the loudest but slipped in, “Both your mothers were whores,” between guffaws.

Curdle looked up at Coltrane, who stood waiting near the mule. “Are you ready?”