“And now let us send our brother on his way,” Lackcomb said solemnly. “May the glory of his deeds outshine the sorrow of his passing.” The Grand Master stepped to the side, allowing the knights to move forward, each pair lowering their torch at the base of the pyre, bowing low before stepping back to their places. The straw and wood caught quickly, surrounding the body in smoke and flame. All eyes were fixed on the burning pedestal, the sky continuing to brighten in the east.

“Knights of the Valiant Spur!” Lackcomb cried. “Lift your voices to the fallen! Let him leave this world to the sound of our salute!” He raised the Coming Dawn high over his head. “For Coalspur!”

As one, the knights threw back their heads, opening their beaks wide and threw the war cry from their chests, the throttling screech rising to its triumphant peak, piercing the sky.

“For Coalspur!”

Again they challenged the fleeing darkness.

“For Coalspur!”

Thrice they cried and thrice the hairs on Pocket’s neck stood up in a tingle of pride. Upon the final and loudest salute, he could not help but punch his fist into the air.

Dawn had come, but it seemed the sun had not risen. In its place, the pyre stood blazing at the center of the horizon, the sky beyond awash in smears of morning color. The fire burned and the memory of Coalspur lit the new day. Pocket let the tears fall and said goodbye to one of his heroes.

F IVE

FIVE

Rosheen wrinkled her nose. “Hog’s Wallow.”

“Hog’s Wallow,” Padric agreed with a frown. “Abandoned.”

Who would stay? Rosheen fluttered next to Padric as they made their way toward the center of the small hamlet, the ground a clog of thick, black mud. She could hear Padric’s boots struggling free with a sucking sound after every step. The simple dwellings on either side of the quagmire were empty, without fire or hearth smoke, their cold doorways pleading and threatening.

After weeks of hard, tedious travel, they had crested a small rise to find the village below at last and Padric breathed a curse. They knew immediately. No herds, no children, no dogs, not even a chicken. No movement at all, save the slow, dumb turning of the mill’s water wheel, forced by the Trough’s current to labor on. The other structures huddled pitiably together, shrinking away from the surrounding landscape. After a moment of weary silence, they went down the rise and into the village.

“No corpses,” Padric said darkly, after leaning into one of the little huts.

Rosheen knew there would not be, even from the rise. There were no crows. Fled, then. “What now?” she called across.

“We stay here,” Padric said. “No other choice. A day or two to see if anyone returns…then gather what we can and move on.”