Pocket coughed as the burning canvas poured choking smoke into the stables. The draft horses whinnied and bucked, spooked by the flames. Backbone stomped and complained. Pocket grabbed a bucket of rancid water and tossed it high, hoping to slow the flames.

“We have to get out of here!” he yelled, but Muckle and his friend were not listening. Both goblins had fallen to their knees, their eyes rolled back to sightless eggs, faces contorted with tormented concentration. Burning bits of canvas floated down into the straw around them and Pocket ran back to stomp them out. The fiery whirlwind continued to rage outside, and through the flying dust and smoke, a figure approached; squat and thickly armored, bearing an axe.

“He’s coming!” Pocket told the goblins, but they did not come out of their feverish trance. He looked around desperately for some way to stop the advancing warrior, and his eyes fell upon the horses. Pocket ran to the paddocks, throwing aside the crude logs the Red Caps used to contain the animals. The horses wasted no time, rearing as they turned, charging away from the fire above them. They bolted outside, the unnatural churning forces further spooking them as they ran, but they all darted away from the armored goblin, and he only paused a moment before continuing forward. He reached the entrance and pushed inside, his hideous helmet catching the light from the fire. A snarl echoed from the bronze boar’s face.

“You two!” the voice rang dully. “Scheming blood traitors!”

He stomped towards Muckle, his axe raised. Pocket grabbed for the armored arm as it swung, trying to stop it, but only succeeded in turning the blow. The blade struck Muckle between his neck and shoulder, the iron hissing as it cleaved his flesh. Muckle screamed in pain and his cry was echoed by the pale goblin next to him and in the air outside as the burning goblin added his voice to the anguish.

The Flame Binder’s cry split through the howl of the wind, sharp and horrible. Rosheen heard another voice join the goblin’s, this one a deep lowing of inhuman pain. She looked and saw it was coming from Coltrane. The Fire no longer linked him to the Flame Binder and his head flew back, no mouth giving release to that sound of perfect agony. He fell to his knees. Rosheen watched as the fiery hearts of the Forge Born all across the yard began to gutter out, and as each one was extinguished, its possessor lifted its head, adding its own cry to the suffering chorus. Soon every heart was gone and every iron head lifted skyward in a deafening song.

It was the death toll of the world.