Padric saw the Flame Binder turn his head with great effort, the muscles in his neck straining. Thin gouts of Fire shot from his eyes, striking the makeshift canvas roof of the crumbling stables across the yard. The covering began to burn, and Padric’s brow wrinkled in confusion. The Forge Born drawing the wizard’s Magic was nowhere near there, but Torcan wasted no time, his armored form weaving through the ranks of iron. Padric looked to Slouch Hat, a question on his lips, but there was no time. Something was thwarting the Flame Binder, and the Swinehelm was going to stop it. He could not let that happen. He did not know who was hiding in the stables, but he was not going to stand idly by while they were butchered. Padric wrenched the cape from his shoulders, the wind catching it as it fell from his fingers. He tested the weight of the mace in his left hand, then drew his seax with the right.

“Come on,” he told Slouch Hat and his guards, but the husk did not even look at him.

“Slouch Hat!” he persisted, “Are you coming?”

Slouch Hat continued to stare blankly. With a curse Padric ran down the steps with his guards following close behind. He suddenly found himself wondering where these goblins’ allegiance would lie once he tried to kill Torcan Swinehelm. He pushed the thought aside and headed into the Cog Yard.

“It is working!” Rosheen yelled over the wind, pointing to Coltrane on the far side of the yard.

Sir Corc and Bantam Flyn crouched on the ramparts next to her, looking down into the chaos of swirling flame and blowing dust. The Flame Binder hovered in the center of it all desperately trying to regain the energies that now poured into Coltrane. Movement at the keep to their right caught Rosheen’s eye. Through the smoke she could just make out Torcan Swinehelm approaching the Flame Binder, yelling something lost on the wind. Fire leapt from the wizard’s eyes and something under the wall to their left began to burn.

“Curdle and Muckle,” Sir Corc shouted. “They have been discovered!”

“Look!” Bantam Flyn exclaimed, pointing. Torcan was hurrying through the yard, making for the burning structure, and he was being followed. Rosheen could just make out a man, pressing through the tumult, guarded closely by eight Red Caps.

“It must be the heir!” she declared, looking at the coburn.

“Can you do it?” Sir Corc asked, his voice directed at the squire.

Bantam Flyn nodded. “Leave it to me.”

“Go,” Sir Corc replied. “I will help the hobgoblins.”