“Looks like they are about to begin.”

Padric suppressed a smile as Torcan heard the news of the attack. They had no sooner emerged from the keep than a Red Cap came running, reporting to Swinehelm of the horsemen’s charge up the bridge. The gate to Castle Gaunt no longer held doors or portcullis, and the men had almost reached the walls by the time the goblins could respond, throwing themselves into the breach to repel the riders.

“We hold for now, my lord,” the runner said, “but the bridge is too narrow to bring our numbers to bear.”

Torcan slammed a bronze clad fist into the messenger’s face, sending him tumbling down the steps.

“Push them back!” the warlord screamed. “Drive them into the fields and devour them! They must not interrupt us now…Go!”

His bulbous nose broken and bleeding, the Red Cap picked himself up and bowed before running back to the fray. Padric could not see the main gate from where he stood, but the sounds of battle echoed through the inner bailey, and he watched as goblins hurried from their posts, rushing through the yard and across the ramparts to lend aid. Torcan commanded Padric’s honor guard to remain, but ordered the rest to the defense of the bridge. There were more than a thousand Red Caps in the castle and Padric wondered what could possibly encourage two hundred men to assault such a garrison. It seemed Acwellen was a treacherous bastard no matter which way the wind blew.

The Flame Binder waited in the center of the Cog Yard, where the foundry once stood. He raised his head, looking up the steps, a smile beneath his mad eyes.

“Let them come,” he said and Padric watched as smoke billowed from his mouth with the words. “They will find only death.”

Fire came to life in the wizard’s eyes, licking up from the sockets. The Flame Binder spread his arms, hands splayed, fingers curling stiffly and lifted his head, filling the sky with black smoke and dark words.

“Hear me my children. Hear my words and remember. In a molten cradle did you quicken. Wrought at the core of the world and fashioned in the likeness of war. The anvil was your mother. The hammer your father. Remember their ringing voices, and let them call you from slumber. Awake! Awake and walk the world! Receive the Fire as your breath! Let it fill you, and once more become living iron! You are destruction! You are death! You are Forge Born!”