From his vantage Pocket could not say whether it was a stone that tripped Sir Tillory or a mud hole or simply a misstep, but he went down hard. He managed to get up on one knee before the cudgel came screaming down, and he raised his sword to block. The heavy iron head crashed into the blade, bending it horribly before slamming into Sir Tillory’s head. The knight’s limbs went oddly limp as he fell, flopping in a manner that made Pocket queasy. The Dread Cockerel stood over him, staring downward and remained there as the Knights Sergeant came running, dropping to their knees in the mud around the fallen knight. The Grand Master stood on the platform, waiting. Pocket watched as the Old Goose rose from the mud to face the platform and slowly shook his head. Pocket stood, silent as the rest of the crowd. Sir Tillory the Calm, thought dead only this morning. If only he’d stayed away, Pocket thought.

S EVEN

SEVEN

It was windy on the Tor. The trees hissed in complaint, their branches bending, throwing their leaves into the air, flights of red and gold. Padric tied his hair back to keep it out of his face, but the wind plucked ceaselessly, and soon errant wispy tendrils broke free to tickle at his eyes and lips. He shivered. The ascent had been tougher than he expected and when they reached the top he was sweating freely. Now the chill breeze cooled the moisture that clung to his skin and Padric found himself wishing for a dry tunic. He considered sitting on one of the pieces of broken wall, somewhere out of the wind, to ease his quivering legs but dismissed the thought quickly. Faabar stood in the overgrown center of the ruined castle, his back turned. Padric would not rest so long as the fomori was on his feet. The steep grades to the top of Bwyneth Tor were taxing even with two good legs; Padric did not know how Faabar managed the climb.

He could do nothing but gawk for a moment when he first laid eyes on the huge warrior. Fafnir had instructed Padric to deliver the sword to Faabar’s hut the morning after he and Rosheen arrived in Hog’s Wallow. When the fomori came to the door, Padric almost dropped the blade. At least seven feet tall, he dwarfed even the biggest men Padric had known, his father among them. Faabar’s shoulders were broad and sloping, his neck corded with heavy muscle. His skin bristled with coarse hair, like a cow or goat’s hide, while a thick black mane fell across his entire back. From this mane sprouted two sweeping horns, like a ram’s, and below was a bulging brow. Faabar’s nose was flat and broad, while two curved fangs poked out from his thick lower lip. His eyes were gold flecked with jet, an animal’s eyes. A predator.