There came the tickling of a girl’s laughter in the air, cruel and tainted with madness. It issued from the husk’s mouth, ringing off the stones of the ancient keep, but Rosheen did not slow her pace. And neither did the others. Even Muckle, bleeding and wan, leaning his bulk on Curdle for support, did not falter.

Coltrane was the first to reach the steps, his iron foot shattering the stonework as he surged upward. The phantom girl found this most amusing and her giggling accompanied the squeal of swiftly bending metal. Coltrane stumbled, catching himself on his powerful hands midway up the stairs. He tried to rise, but his knee joint was twisted and useless. Rosheen heard the sound of a hammer on metal and saw Coltrane racked with spasms as huge dents punched into his body, the violent work of some great, unseen hand. The Forge Born strained against an invisible pressure, his arms shaking as they fought to keep the force at bay. Rosheen winced when the metal warrior’s limbs collapsed and his torso buckled, the iron folding as if cloth. The body tumbled down the stairs, clattering, bent and lifeless. She did stop then and Padric halted next to her, staring wide-eyed at what had been, moments before, an unstoppable being of living iron.

But the coburn did not break stride. Bantam Flyn leapt over Coltrane’s ruined remains, taking the steps two at a time. Sir Corc, injured and snarling, was only a stride behind.

“Witch!” the knight cursed. “Release him!”

“Such bravery,” the girl mocked him. “Such nobility! From little more than an up jumped animal!”

There was a clangor as Flyn’s sword hit the stairs. He spun on Sir Corc, his feathers bristling, head bent and craning forward. A hiss escaped from behind his dripping tongue. Sir Corc had no words to reach the squire, for he too dropped his weapons, descending into brutishness. The coburn circled each other, their movements feral, their faces ugly and reptilian. Flyn pounced first, driving his long spurs into Corc’s body, beating at him with fists and head. They rolled down the stairs in vicious, mindless violence, stabbing with their beaks, leaving a trail of crimson on the stones.

Rosheen felt more Magic flood the air as the hobgoblins reached out to the coburn, trying to release them from their barbarity.

“You think to deny me with your hedge-craft?” the girl demanded.

Curdle and Muckle screamed as one, the pale seer grabbing at his skull while the Jester’s wound began spewing smoke and pumping black fluid.

The husk raised the iron circlet higher.

“Hear the voices of the thousands whose lives were claimed by the crown of your former king, Curdle Milkthumb!”