Coalspur’s body lay upon a litter, born aloft on the shoulders of the old knights. He was dressed in full armor, his greatsword resting on his chest beneath lifeless hands. Even from a distance and in the poor torch light, Pocket could see the ravages left behind by the fever. The body looked drained, wasted and thin. The breastplate was ill-fitting, gaping at the neck and under the arms. The castle gossip was that Coalspur’s feathers had all but fallen away in his final hours, leaving a flushed, bald, pitiful thing behind to die. If this was so, measures had been taken to ensure his dignity, for the body, despite its withered appearance was still thick with white feathers. Still, some things had been overlooked. Pocket noticed that Coalspur’s beak was slightly open, as if he was snoring softly, but his chest did not rise nor fall. The sight was pitiable, making the once fearsome warrior look vulnerable and weak. Pocket felt a rush of anger.

“Someone should have closed it,” he said aloud, almost wishing to be heard.

The pallbearers carried the litter to the far edge of the bluff and lowered it slowly to rest upon the stone pedestal, then joined their brother knights. The whine of the bladder pipes faded, and, as one, the squires struck the butts of their staffs sharply on the stone, then knelt low, heads bowed.

Grand Master Lackcomb strode through the gate, the crimson surcoat and cloak of his office hanging heavily over his burnished armor. His legendary pole axe, the Coming Dawn, rode his fist as he came forward onto the bluff.

Pocket shivered, suddenly grateful for the furry warmth and comfort of his companion, cradled closely to him. Lackcomb ignored the crowds’ presence, looking neither left nor right. From his vantage, Pocket could not see Lackcomb’s eyes and he was grateful, knowing the left was milked over and dead, the flesh surrounding it horribly scarred. He did have a clear view of the ugly, puckered bald strip on top of the Grand Master’s head. It was said he cut the comb from his head with his own hands so that he would be less vulnerable to his enemies. Pocket did not dare even a whisper to Napper while Lackcomb was near. His mind conjured up the story of the Grand Master’s ascension and it squatted there in his imagination.