Pocket watched with horrible fascination as he laid his opponents low, one by one. Sir Kortigern Hatch and Sir Pyle Strummer acquitted themselves valiantly, but in the end they fell before the inexhaustible prowess of the grim knight. Neither of them left the field under their own power. Pitch Feather was no match for him, nor was Blood Yolk’s fury enough to win through. Not even Stoward Thom emerged victorious and he staggered from the field coughing up blood. The Dread Cockerel was indomitable and he alone stood when the matches were completed. And so it would end as Pocket knew it must. The only way this day could end and the outcome was certain. Pocket listened. The other field was silent. Bronze Wattle must have won his last match as well and now he would face the Dread Cockerel.

The final duel was to take place on the same large field as the squire’s melee and Pocket made his way over with the rest of the crowd where they mingled with the spectators from the other combat ground. Pocket shoved his way through, heedless of the curses and got right up to the front. Grand Master Lackcomb and the Knights Sergeant had once again taken up their position on the platform. Pocket saw Banyon Deaf Crower amongst them, looking none the worse after his bout with Bronze Wattle. Stoward Thom was not on the platform, hopefully recovering from the injuries suffered at the hands of his unstoppable foe. That would now be remedied, for the Dread Cockerel’s next opponent was not old, nor a squire, nor fat. He was the greatest knight of the Order.

The crowd settled and the Old Goose stepped forward. “It has been a day worthy of the knight it honors! Both our remaining champions have refused a period of respite and so the tourney will proceed directly!” A roar went up from the crowd and the Old Goose stepped back. The cheers died as the Dread Cockerel took the field, but Pocket could feel the anticipation growing as the people waited for the next champion to emerge. He felt he would burst as the nervous energy and the whispers grew around him. And then he was there, walking proudly and the voices exploded. Pocket threw his small voice into the tumult.

“Bronze Wattle!” he cried, but his cheer was drowned out, lost in the maelstrom of deeper, larger exclamations.

“Flyn!” the crowd cried. “Flyn! Squire Flyn!”

Pocket lurched. The coburn coming onto the field was slight, his walk a swagger. He wore neither plate nor mail and carried only a quarterstaff. It was the laughing squire from the melee! Pocket looked around at the humans to his right and left, his mouth agape.

“That little cock’s good and buggered,” he heard one man say. “The grey one’s a right monster.”

“Nah,” another man replied. “That Flyn is something. We seen him all day. Quick as lightning!”