Never a squire, Lackcomb simply strutted into the Roost one morning, strange looking with his bald head, and offered challenge to the reigning Grand Master, the legendary Coalspur. Tradition demanded that the Grand Master accept any challenge to his rule and defend it in single combat. So it was in the Great Hall of the Roost, amongst the squires and Knights Sergeant of the Order that a self-mutilated youth of no renown, threw down the greatest warrior of the coburn, winning himself the right and title of Grand Master of the Knights of the Valiant Spur. He was seventeen years old.

Of all the legends and stories Pocket knew regarding the knights, this was far from his favorite, but he loved hearing the part where Coalspur, in humbled awe, became Lackcomb’s shield bearer and boon companion, remaining a loyal retainer until his death.

A death that claimed him eight days ago.

Lackcomb had retained his position of Grand Master against all challengers for over fifty years and commanded the respect of all within the Order. Despite the rumors and the Grand Master’s advanced age, Pocket doubted even the Dread Cockerel could defeat him. He made his way steadily up to the pedestal where his predecessor now lay, and turned, acknowledging the others for the first time.

“Words were not Coalspur’s weapons!” Lackcomb’s voice, gravelly and shrill, pitched across the bluff. The sky behind him had turned an inky purple with faint traces of pink and orange outlining the horizon. “And neither are they mine. It is enough to say that our brotherhood must bid farewell to one of the finest knights ever to wear the Spurs. I became his superior. I was never his equal. There is no dishonor in how he died as there was none in how he lived.” Lackcomb gave his knights a baleful stare, as if daring any of them to refute his words.

None did.

“Now, he is free from his sworn service. A service he was not ready to relinquish. His final wish was that his sword not journey with him, so that a part of him might still serve the championed causes of this Order. To that end and in honor of his last instructions there shall be a tourney, open to all, squire and knight alike. The champion will receive as prize…,” Lackcomb tenderly lifted the greatsword from Coalspur’s chest, turning back to hold the weapon aloft. “…his blade, which shall from this day forward bear his name.”

Pocket found his mouth was open. A tourney! Excitement bundled up inside his chest, worked its way into a tight coil, preparing to spring forth and escape past his lips in a cheer of delight, but it slammed silently into the roof of his mouth to be swallowed safely back down into his gut.