Pocket tried desperately to see each one as they emerged from the tunnel, his excitement growing. He pointed. “There’s Bronze Wattle!” he told Napper, barely able to whisper. “And the one with him…with the double headed axe, that’s Poorly Well! And see there, the Dread Cockerel! I heard he may challenge Lackcomb for the place of Grand Master.” He could not help but bounce slightly up and down on his toes as he named each in turn, trying not to miss a single one, but fearful he would overlook his favorites, sharing them with Napper as they came into view. “The black one there--that’s Pitch Feather. Ha! Look! They have matched him with Sir Barn Lochlan, whom they call the White Noble on account of his feathers! Sir Corc! Two behind with the longsword…he’s the knight that brought me here! Oh! And there’s Blood Yolk and the fat one behind him…the Mad Capon! It is said he gelded himself so that he would never take a mate, one of the Order’s strictest vows!”

Soon they were present and arrayed, thirty-six in all, the surviving Knights Errant of the Order. Two knights were missing, Sir Haunticleer and Sir Tillory the Calm, both present at the last gathering barely half a year ago. Sir Tillory was thought to have been slain in the rocky wastes of Kymbru, and of Sir Haunticleer there was no word. After several days with no sign of the absent knights, Lackcomb could wait no more and had ordered the funeral to commence. The failure of two such formidable fighters to return was disturbing. Fewer of the Knights Errant made their way back to the Roost each two-year.

A keen whistle rose into a sharp wail as Áedán’s clansmen worked their bladder pipes, giving birth to a haunting dirge. The six grizzled veterans of the Knights Sergeant came slowly forward, pulled by the music. These were the instructors and weapons masters responsible for the training of the squires, their questing days long since over and permanent residents of the castle. Pocket knew them well, introducing them to Napper with hushed reverence.

“Stoward Thom. Banyon Deaf Crower. Yewly the Salted. Mallander Smokebeak. Worm Chewer. And the Old Goose.”

Many times he watched them deliver the harsh lessons of combat to their squire pupils in the training yards, pupils who now grew even more rigid as the Knights Sergeant passed. Whether it was in fear of the veterans or in respect for the burden they carried, Pocket could not say.