As they set off, Pocket worried over what Sir Corc had said, but try as he might he could not bring himself to understand. Sir Corc was one of the greatest knights in the Order. Or was he? It suddenly occurred to Pocket that he knew very little about him, beyond the fact that he was the knight that brought him to the Roost as a babe. He quested often in Airlann, the Source Isle of Magic, across the narrow sea to the west, but what he did there Pocket did not know. He never heard tell of Sir Corc performing feats of arms, slaying beasts or rescuing villagers. Some of the other knights in the Order were living legends, but Sir Corc was not famed for any particular victory or defeated foe. He was simply Sir Corc the Constant. Could he be craven? Pocket could not believe that. Sir Corc looked cross and Pocket worried he had offended him.

“I must return to the castle,” Sir Corc declared abruptly, “You will not want to miss the tourney.” With that, the knight walked away.

Pocket stood for a while quite puzzled. Noon drew closer and it was true, he did not want to miss the tourney.

The human clansmen turned out in far greater numbers for the knights than they had for the squires and Pocket found it difficult to find an open spot to watch. There were two separate combat grounds for the knights and they would both hold bouts simultaneously. The final victors from the two fields would become the champions that would fight for the prize, but there was no way of knowing who would fight where, so Pocket found the best view he could and trusted to luck that his chosen field would host the knights he most wanted to see.

Again, he was disappointed.

The first match he saw was between Sir Pyle Strummer and one of the squires from the melee. Pocket grimaced. It would have been better if the squire was the flamboyant staff wielder Flyn, whom Pocket wanted to see again, but it was not. This squire looked small and awkward in full armor, the breastplate engulfing him. He held the blunted tourney sword with a shaking hand, his face all but hidden behind his shield. Sir Pyle was not a great favorite of Pocket’s, but next to his opponent he might as well have been the Grand Master himself. The whole sorry display lasted all of half a minute, before the squire was on his back, talons kicking in the air. Sir Pyle was to continue on, the squire was eliminated from the contest.

Pocket heard cheering from the other tourney ground and hopped up and down, desperately trying to see what heroic match he was missing, but the gathered mass of spectators foiled his efforts. Crestfallen, he turned back to his chosen field.

The wrong field.