A figure dropped heavily through the burning hole in the roof. There was the sharp snap of shearing metal, and the swine-faced helm landed in the straw next to Pocket. The bronze armor stood unsteadily for a moment, looking odd without a head, then fell over.

Sir Corc stood to his full height, sword in hand.

“Are you alright?” the knight asked.

Pocket nodded, picking himself up.

Sir Corc looked at him for a moment, then seemed satisfied. “See to Curdle.”

Pocket came around to find the pale goblin conscious but very weak. He smiled thinly as Pocket helped him to his feet and remained by his side, supporting him. Sir Corc sheathed his sword and lifted Muckle onto the litter.

“I am far too near the nether regions of this ass for comfort,” the goblin pronounced in a quivering voice.

Sir Corc motioned for Pocket to bring the other goblin over and they lowered him down next to Muckle.

“Pocket,” Muckle said. “I wonder if you would be so kind as to dump Torcan’s head out of that helmet and bring it here.”

Pocket wrinkled his face. “Bring the head or the helmet?” he asked, not really wanting to do either.

“Well, I’m too weak to juggle, so just the helmet,” Muckle clarified. “Make a nice chamber pot.”

“No time,” Sir Corc said, looking out into the yard and pulling his shield from his back. “Pocket, lead Backbone and stay close.”

The knight pulled the heavy mace from his belt and ducked out of the stables. Pocket clicked at Backbone, and they followed him into the chaos.

A crazed Forge Born leapt at them, and Sir Corc charged forward to meet it, turning its first vicious slash aside with his shield then hammering twice into the side of its knee with his mace. The joint buckled, and the Forge Born fell. Sir Corc stove in its head with a swift stroke. Another of the metal monsters barreled towards the knight, its huge blade coming down to split him in two. Sir Corc rolled away, and the falling sword sundered the stones. It recovered quickly, slashing as it turned, but the knight ducked under the stroke, coming up inside its reach to slam his shield into its body, his mace striking downward to knock the sword from its grip. The Forge Born toppled backwards, and Sir Corc wasted no time smashing in its face.

Pocket marveled at how fast he moved. The Forge Born were broader and taller, their crushing blows capable of breaking stone and crushing metal, but Sir Corc did not try to overcome their strength. He avoided it, or turned it aside, using it to throw the berserk iron off balance. His mace fell on the exposed joints, crippling their movements before landing a killing blow to the head. Four now had come, and four lay in heaps of bent metal.

It would not be enough.