“He’ll have to be,” said the first man. “If he plans on staying alive.”

“Well, he knocked that one with the shiny helmet on his back sure enough.”

Pocket whirled on the man. “Bronze Wattle!? He beat Bronze Wattle!?”

The man looked at him dubiously and put a hand on his coin purse. “Aye, he did and many others besides.”

Pocket turned back around and watched as the Old Goose walked onto the field carrying a tourney sword, breastplate and shield. He went directly to Flyn, holding the armaments out. Pocket could not hear their words but it was obvious the Old Goose wanted the squire to use them and Flyn was refusing. The Dread Cockerel was a terror and this cocky scoundrel was going to fight him with nothing but a stick and some leather armor.

“Madness,” he heard a man say.

All around him, the crowd started arguing. The people cheering Flyn’s name were sure he would walk away with the prize. Those like Pocket who had seen the Dread Cockerel fight were horrified, knowing that the match would only result in a dead squire. Why was he out there in the first place? Pocket was sure it should be Bronze Wattle, not some mirthful upstart. How could he have been beaten? And by a squire? The Old Goose continued to try and convince the stubborn squire to better arm himself while the Dread Cockerel stood unmoving, staring implacably. Coalspur’s sword was as good as his.

At last, Flyn’s protests won through and the Old Goose turned back to the platform. Flyn spun his quarterstaff and said something to the Dread Cockerel that Pocket could not hear. The knight made no reply but took a step towards the squire, the cudgel riding his fist. Pocket did not want to watch.

“HOLD!”

The crowd gasped and spun at the voice behind them. After a moment of shocked silence they parted, allowing a figure to pass and approach the field. It was a coburn, dressed in mail and blue surcoat, both travel stained and speckled with mud. A sword hung from his belt and a spear was propped on one shoulder. He was a good height and well built, yet stooped and weary, his face stricken with exhaustion. He came within a few feet of Pocket as he ducked under the rope and walked to the platform where he knelt before the officers.

“Forgive my intrusion, Grand Master,” the newcomer said with respect, but loud enough so that the crowd could hear.

Lackcomb’s face was unreadable. “Rise Sir Tillory and be welcomed. We feared you lost.” Pocket leaned forward. Sir Tillory the Calm, thought to be dead.

“Not lost, Grand Master,” Sir Tillory replied as he stood. “Only delayed in Kymbru. But I have come and wish to enter the tourney.”