He rushed into their midst, unarmed, catching the first sword stroke and sending his fist through the attacker’s head. Metal screeched as he pulled his hand free, flinging the limp body aside. He sidestepped another slash, clasped his hands together and brought them down, hammering the Unwound into the ground. They surrounded him, their blades whirling, but Coltrane was indomitable. Rosheen could feel the concussion of his fists in her chest as he beat his opponents back. Iron struck iron, again and again with reverberating force. The Unwound were fierce, wild, thoughtless, their swords striking each other. Coltrane laid punishing blows with fist, shoulder and elbow, ripping heads and limbs off with calculated prowess. The six he fought were soon destroyed and others came. A dozen at least. Coltrane fought them all.

Rosheen saw Flyn helping Sir Corc to his feet. She detached herself from Padric’s protective embrace.

“We have to get out of here!” she screamed over the clamor of combat.

“Head for the gate!” Flyn shouted.

“The goblins hold it,” Sir Corc wheezed.

“Not anymore,” Flyn pointed.

The Red Caps came fleeing back into the yard, trying to escape the swinging swords of the horsemen who pursued them. It was a rout, and men and goblins poured into the inner bailey, but the victory cries of the horsemen died in their throats as the Unwound set upon them. The Red Caps rallied themselves, ready to stand beside the Forge Born and slaughter their enemies, but the cheers turned to screams of panic as the living iron tore into them with equal bloodlust.

“We will never make it through that,” Rosheen said.

Coltrane approached, victorious. “I will lead you.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Bantam Flyn asked.

“You go,” Padric told them. “I must go back to the keep.”

Rosheen whirled on him. “What? Are you mad?”

“Rosh, I have to. Svala and Kederic are there. I cannot leave them.”

“Then I am going with you.”

Padric shook his head. “Go with them. I will follow.”

“Stubborn boy! I am going with you--”

“Wait,” Sir Corc cut in.

Rosheen ignored him. “If you think I am going to let you run off again--”

“WAIT!”

The knight’s growl silenced her. They all turned to Sir Corc.

“Where is Pocket?” he asked, his wound forgotten.

Rosheen looked around. She was startled to find Muckle on his feet. He looked ghastly, leaning on Curdle for support.

“We tried to stop him,” the pale goblin’s voice was full of sorrow.

Backbone stood patiently by, his guide rope dragging the ground.

It called to him. It called to him, and he came. The voice was sweet, coaxing and Pocket trusted it. The girl whispered to him, promising all he had been denied. He deserved his prize. It was time he claimed what was his by rights.