The castle was a confusing marriage of original stonework fortification and more recent structures of wood and plaster, creating a chaotically layered jumble of battlements, casements, spires and shingles. Pocket planned his route so that he ended up above the fortified bulk of the east gate, easily able to clamber down and gain the flat roof. He ducked low and crossed to the outer facing edge, peering cautiously around one of the merlons.

A wide, rocky bluff lay below, jutting from the cliffs at the base of the wall, facing east. Below and beyond, lay the highlands of Albain, lost for now in the final darkest hours of night. There was no approach to the castle from the east, no road, only sheer cliff face. The east gate, above which Pocket sat, served only to access the bluff from the inner courtyard of the castle. At the edge of the bluff sat a pedestal of stone, simply stacked, devoid of ornament or carving, but surrounded by large bundles of wood packed with straw. The squires were already in attendance, waiting along the processional way leading from the gate to the pedestal, bearing their iron tipped quarterstaffs, their combs covered by leather caps, fifty in all. The two nearest the pedestal held torches, the light from the flames sparsely illuminating the bluff.

Pocket caught sight of Áedán mac Gabráin, chief of the Dal Riata, standing off to the side with some of his clansmen, each holding a bladder pipe. The knights must have broken with tradition, allowing the humans to attend in honor of the allegiances Coalspur made with their clans during his tenure as Grand Master.

“We made it,” Pocket whispered to Napper, clutched firmly against his chest. “Shouldn’t be long now.”

True to his word, mere minutes passed before the unseen tunnel of the gate below echoed with a sharp clacking, metal on stone, the noise created by many small sources, amplified in unison.

Pocket felt his heart jump and could not keep himself from leaning over, craning to see the tunnel entrance. In they marched, the banner of the Order leading, held aloft by Sir Kortigern Hatch, the rest following two by two. Each pair bore a torch between them, uniting them. They wore no helms, their combs proudly exposed atop heads held high. Their armor captured the torch light, plates of polished steel from shoulder to waist, their legs covered in shining skirts of mail, slit in the back, allowing the plumage of their tail feathers to remain colorfully displayed. The long hind-spur on each foot was capped in a finely wrought steel sleeve, denoting their knighthood. Tall, powerful, the ringing of their march never faltering, they marched out onto the bluff, splitting to left and right by pairs.

The Knights of the Valiant Spur.