There were only thirty yards of ground between the groups and the damp air between seemed to grow heavy, stiffening as the squires prepared to charge. The sudden horn blast made Pocket jump and a terrifying screech split his ears as the two sides rushed at one another. For a moment it seemed neither group was gaining ground, their legs pumping in place, their talons scrabbling ineffectually in the mud and then they collided. Gulver, at the tip of the black wedge, smashed into the front rank of the green squires and went flying over when his opponent ducked, slamming a shield into his chest and heaving him into the air. The force of his own charge carried Gulver over and he landed hard in the mud behind the last rank of green surcoats, but he was up in an instant bellowing a challenge. Two of the green squires peeled off the back rank and engaged him, their quarterstaffs whirling. The black wedge had failed to penetrate the block of the greens and broke upon it like a wave. The black surcoats fanned out, attempting to surround their enemies and then all was chaos.

Pocket lost the individuals and saw only the mob, weapons rising and falling, the harsh sounds of wood and metal striking together. The mud was thrown in angry gouts between the fighters, covering them in thick grime, making it difficult to tell green cloth from black. Pocket heard cries of pain and triumph, calls of “Yield!” sprang from the din and the battle played out in vicious scenes that jumped from the teeming mass of pressure and violence. Pocket saw one squire take a mace blow to the face, his beak spraying blood and then he went down, lost from view and the attention of his attacker. Two squires fought back to back against a dozen or more, pivoting endlessly around to fend off the crushing numbers and then they were gone, lost in the press.

Another pair, muddied and bloodied, rolled on the ground, not four yards from where Pocket stood. They beat at each other with fist and elbow, shoulder and head, as they struggled in the muck. One wrestled atop the other and his fist closed around the haft of a discarded mace, its head broken off. As the heavy wooden handle was raised to strike, the squire on the bottom cried, “Yield!” his hands flung up in pleading defense. Heedless, the other struck downward. There was a sickening crack and the defeated squire lay still. The victor stood and was casting about for another foe when Worm Chewer knocked him to the ground. The Knight Sergeant stood over the squire, cursing him for a dishonorable coward. He raised the huge wooden maul high over his head and the squire begged for mercy. Pocket prepared to look away, his eyes half closed, waiting for the heavy weapon to drop. Worm Chewer froze and slowly lowered the maul.