“You have mercy, bantam!” Pocket heard him snap, using the demeaning name for squires. “I give it to you, as a true knight should! As you should have done! Now get your brother to the leech and see he does not die! Go!” The old knight kicked at the squire until he gathered up the foe he had bludgeoned and fled the field. Worm Chewer ducked under the rope and stalked back to the platform, reaching into the pouch at his belt to fill his beak with a fresh wad of the pink crawlers that gave him his name.

Pocket turned back to the rest of the field and found the melee had shrunk to only a few fighters. Nearby, he watched a squire with a quarterstaff hook the end of his weapon behind the lip of his opponent’s shield, flinging it away before spinning to deliver a solid strike to the gut with the other end, laughing all the while. His winded opponent went down, holding up a hand in defeat, unable to speak. The staff wielder helped him to his feet and clapped him on the back as he hobbled from the field.

At the center of the field, the huge squire Gulver was still standing, only he had lost one of his maces. His latest opponent was pinned under his talon, unconscious. Three others were harassing a single warrior at the far end, his shield taking a good deal of the punishment, but the blows rained down and he yielded quickly. The trio turned and stalked back to the center of the field. Gulver nodded to them and they formed up behind him. Those four and the laughing squire where all that remained. The four wore black. Small patches of green showed through the mud on the garb of the loner. The crowd was silent, watching. Pocket held his breath.

“Best to yield now, Flyn!” one from the trio called out. “We got you four to one and Gulver counts for three all to himself!”

The laugher, the one called Flyn, did not respond. He wiped some mud off his staff and peeled his skullcap from his head, shaking his comb free. Without warning he bolted forward like an arrow, straight toward the four. Gulver braced himself, his mace held low and ready. Flyn did not break stride, closing the distance swiftly, vaulting sideways as the hulking squire swung the mace in a vicious arc toward the ground. Flyn was in the air, the mace passing harmlessly under, and landed next to Gulver, delivering a hard strike to the brute just above the hip. The staff never stopped moving, the iron tip coming around to land solidly on Gulver’s wrist, disarming him and then sweeping like a broom at his feet, spilling him over facedown. Flyn landed a final blow to the back of Gulver’s skull before he hit the ground, where he landed hard and did not rise. The trio never moved.