The Mad Capon was the fattest thing Pocket had seen, coburn or otherwise. He waddled out onto the field, his bulbous body encased in armor designed to encompass his prodigious girth. Like many of the knights, he wore no helm to show off his comb, but his pudgy face and fat neck made his eyes and beak seem ridiculously small. Even the tail feathers sprouting from the slit in the back of his straining mail skirt appeared tiny next to his broad haunches. Despite his globular physique, the Mad Capon was said to be a deadly fighter and was feared by many of the other knights. After all, any coburn that would castrate himself to ensure his vow of celibacy was daunted by neither pain nor fear. The fat knight bore a flail and shield, the blunt head of the weapon already swinging lazily around on the end of its chain.

Pocket’s heart leapt when he saw Stoward Thom enter the field. One of the Knights Sergeant against one of the most colorful and famous of the Knights Errant! This was going to be grand! Stoward Thom was short and compact, but still quite strong. He bore shield and tourney sword, his armor well used and well cared for. He wore a mail coif over his head, covering his comb and he saluted his opponent with a smile.

“This could get brutal, Capon,” Stoward Thom said lightly.

The Mad Capon chuckled, his belly bouncing under his armor. “It was always so under your tutelage, sir.” He charged the older knight.

Pocket was taken aback by how fast the Mad Capon moved. He fought wildly, the flail swinging in all directions with reckless abandon. Stoward Thom was quick as well, dodging where he could, interposing his shield where he could not. The head of the flail hammered down and around and down again. Pocket could feel the impacts in his teeth and the crowd instinctively stepped back from the ropes. Stoward Thom could do nothing but defend himself as the fat knight’s onslaught pressed him backward. One clever swing snaked the chain around the older knight’s shield, the head of the flail slamming into his shoulder. Stoward Thom grunted, but his spaulder took the brunt of the blow as metal rang on metal and still the Mad Capon came on. Stoward Thom had not yet made a single attack and Pocket winced as another blow from the flail whipped into his breastplate. Surely he would yield soon! If this kept up there would be naught but jelly inside the Knight Sergeant’s armor. Maybe the Mad Capon would feast on that jelly after the fight was done, but, as Pocket watched, it seemed to him that the Mad Capon was tiring. His blows came less sudden, striking true less often and he was certainly slowing, his ponderous body moving more to its nature.

And then it was over, as quick as it had begun.