“These are grave,” Deglan said, and Acwellen’s head lolled over at the sound of his voice, his eyes trying to focus. “Grave, but not necessarily mortal. With the right care, you might live. I could certainly save you.” Deglan nodded slowly. “Think I will give your injuries the same time you allowed me to tend to Bulge Eye. That seems only right.” Deglan reached into his satchel and removed a roll of linen and some herbs. He held them in his hands for a moment then looked at Acwellen and stood.

“Time’s up.”

Rosheen flew carefully upwards, staying close to the wall. She reached the edge and crept between two of the merlons, listening. She peered around the stone, first left then right, searching the length of the ramparts for patrolling goblins. She saw none. A watchtower lay not far to the left, its yawning doorway straddling the wall, hiding a span of it in deep shadows. She could see the wall march back into the sunlight on the other side of the tower and nothing approached from that direction. To her right the rampart ended in the solid bulk of a barbican, stairs leading from the wall to its roof. The ruined corpse of a broken drum tower blocked her view of the inner bailey.

A forgotten, crumbling corner of the vast castle.

Sir Corc chose his spot well.

Rosheen dropped off the wall, gliding down past the stonework and then past the natural stones of the crag. The coburn waited for her at the base of the hill.

“It is clear,” she told them.

The knight nodded and immediately set off, scrambling up the rocks, hauling his armored body over the boulders, making for the wall. Bantam Flyn watched for a moment, then shrugged out of his harness so that he could sheath his massive blade.

“I would have thought you would have gone with the horsemen,” Rosheen said to him. “Charge the front gate.”

Flyn slipped the harness over his shoulder, adjusting the sword comfortably across his back. “Pocket is one of us,” he said. “He is of the Valiant Spur. This is my place.”

We all find it sometime. Maybe too late.

“Tell me piskie,” Bantam Flyn said, his head lifted. “Have you any gift with poetry?”

Rosheen wrinkled her face. “No.”

“Pity,” Flyn said, eyes still upraised. “This is a deed worthy of remembrance.”

Rosheen followed his gaze. Above them, already past where the crag met the foundation, she could see an armored figure, shield across his back, reaching for another handhold.

“Sir Corc the Constant,” the squire said with awe, “is scaling the walls of Castle Gaunt.”

T WENTY F IVE

TWENTY FIVE