They walked the day away, passing over the rough highlands and windswept hills that surrounded the Roost. The castle must have disappeared from view at some point, but Pocket never noticed. He led Backbone along the rocky trails and talked and sang with Bantam Flyn. Sir Corc stayed well in the lead, rarely even wasting a glance back. They hiked through the herd lands of the Dal Riata, the shepherds and their children watching them as they passed, some of the men raising a hand to Sir Corc in greeting. The knight always returned the hail, but never stopped. He set a brisk pace, familiarity with the land giving speed to his steps.

They reached the coast just before dusk, the boulders grudgingly giving way to flat ground just before the surf. The sun had deserted them not long after midday and now they faced the ocean under a sky choked with grey clouds, spitting rain. A small fishing village squatted miserably on the shore, the stones of the little huts turned black in the rain. As they approached, Pocket saw several men standing out in the weather next to a small wharf. They wore thick woolen cloaks against the rain. Their beards were long, ragged and dripping and in their hands were thick spears with heads of pitted iron. A currach was tied to the wharf and Pocket saw two figures huddled in the vessel, clutching each other against the sea spray. Sir Corc had reached the village ahead of them, but stopped some distance from the wharf. When Pocket and Flyn reached him, the knight was staring at the small boat.

“Come with me,” he said. “But say nothing.” He snapped a look at the squire. “Do nothing.” And with that he headed for the wharf. Pocket followed, apprehension growing with every step. He glanced up at Flyn who gave a simple shrug. As they approached, the four men stood where they were, staring like wet beasts. Sir Corc walked purposefully forward and Pocket noticed he wore only a dirk at his hip. Sword, shield and mace were still strapped securely to Backbone.

“Which of you are conducting these two across?” Sir Corc demanded.

None of the men answered, but one held up an arm. The knight approached him and began speaking in low tones, the wind and roar of surf swallowing their words. Pocket and Flyn stood amongst the remaining three, who stared with the blank boldness Pocket had grown to recognize in the pitiless bullies of the castle. Three pairs of sunken, dim-witted eyes looked down on him, the thoughts behind them shallow and violent. None of them were even glancing at Bantam Flyn and took no notice when he drew the greatsword.

“Coalspur kept very good care of this blade.”

Every head turned to find the squire casually inspecting the steel.