And so he joined the hunt, finding himself atop the Tor, in the wind, waiting on the fomori. During the trek, Deglan remained bad-tempered, Rosheen stayed in her huff and Faabar was intent on his tracking, so Padric marched in silence. He gathered from the few exchanges between the others that Deglan had seen the Unwound coming from the Tor, so the search would begin there. They had been on the summit for the better part of an hour and the ruins did not seem to be yielding any trace so far as Padric could tell, but he was no tracker. Rosheen’s patience broke long before his. She stayed on the ground, marching over to Faabar, who stood still as a statue.

“Anything?” she asked. Padric smirked. The fomori towered over him, next to Rosheen, he was a mountain. The piskie did not seem to notice.

“There are traces,” Faabar said. “Even in these strong winds, the scents are here. Iron. Rust. Oil.”

“Sounds right,” Rosheen stated.

“No. There is something missing.” Faabar looked down at her. “Blood. Unwound always smell of it, from many different sources. It would be the strongest scent. There is none in this air.”

“There are none up here to kill.”

“Perhaps.” Faabar looked doubtful. Padric stayed where he was. He had nothing to offer but another pair of eyes. And some stories about the Unwound.

They were soldiers of living iron brought to life by the human sorcerers that ruled the goblins in bygone days. They were said to be monstrous large and unstoppable. There were hundreds of them and they marched forth to slaughter the Fae that were fighting to put the Elf King back on the throne. The Fae rebels defeated them with Magic; working a spell to give them a heart. It is said they threw down their weapons in shame for their bloody deeds and abandoned the Goblin Kings. It was not one of Padric’s favorite tales, but a good one nonetheless. He kept his mouth shut as the others spoke. He did not want to look the fool twice.

“Still,” the fomori went on. “We will follow the scents that are here. They lead down from the old gatehouse,” Faabar motioned to the ragged remnants of three stone walls, irregular in height and crumbling. Padric tried to detect even the shadow of a gatehouse in the ruins and failed. “…down the opposite side of the Tor. The boy and I will follow.” Faabar turned to Padric and bid him approach with a jerk of his hand, then turned back to Rosheen. “If you will go down the way we came and tell Master Loamtoes to meet us at the foot of the hill, near Bairn’s Babble. It is a spring. He knows the place. Circle around the northern edge of the base and do not split up.”