For the following weeks Etienne would wish the sun from the sky everyday just so night would fall and he could be with Arlette. He felt cheated by the way that time would play tricks on them. Why was it that it hurried when they were together and slowed when apart? They would spend the night talking, learning about each other, discussing their dreams, deciding how they can be together and what their lives would be like when they were. They were so alike, they knew what the other one wanted, what they were feeling, and their desires were exactly the same. Etienne finally felt that he had found a person that he wanted to share the things that moved him with, because they moved them too. When he had tried to tell his friends or family about a beautiful sunset he had seen, or how he had been amazed when a dragonfly came and sat on his shoulder as he lay in the forest, he was greeted with an indignant reply that would frustrate him. Etienne couldn’t understand why they couldn’t see beauty in the same way that he did, but with Arlette it was different.
Weeks turned to months and they became closer every time they met. Their days were spent thinking of one another and when together in the evenings, time would ride with unbearable haste. Etienne was trying to see Arlette every night but as the months passed it became more and more difficult. There was unrest in the surrounding kingdoms and his father demanded a lot of his time. The time he spent with his father seemed fruitless, 'they spend the whole time arguing,' Etienne would tell Arlette. 'None of them really no what is happening. Scouts have been sent, but as yet none have returned.' Etienne wanted to tell his father of his love but Arlette begged him not to. She would say that ‘now is not the right time’, his father had to ‘concentrate on protecting the Kingdom’. News had started to spread of the King of Chaval planning an attack on the surrounding Kingdoms. Chaval did not need extra land or resources. The seven Kingdoms that made up the area were self-sufficient and lived in harmony, however the current King of Chaval felt it was time to reclaim what he felt was rightfully his. His Great-Great Grandfather, the first Duke of Chaval was unsatisfied with the initial agreement as to how the land, given by King Charlemagne, was to be allocated. He kept his disdain secret from the other knights; however it had been passed to each of his heirs like a curse, until the time came to seek retribution. Whilst the other six Kingdoms concentrated on developing their cities infrastructure and agriculture, and endeavouring to live a peaceful existence with their neighbours, in Chaval they were developing an army. The army was now ready and the time had come for Chaval to unleash his vengeance.

“How dare you interrupt me,” screamed the King of Chaval. The bishop had just walked into the dimly lit great hall, not expecting Chaval to be eating.
“I apologise Sire, I was not told…”
“Not told what? Not told that I was eating. Not told that I asked not to be disturbed,” Chaval said. “What is this swill anyway?” shouted the king as he picked up his plate of food and threw it against the wall. “Go and get me the cook.” A page, who stood nervously in the shadows, immediately jumped to attention and ran to the kitchen. “Well?” said Chaval turning his attention back to the Bishop. From where the bishop was standing he could barely see the king. He sat at the end of the long cavernous room; the only furniture that broke the catacomb was a long oak table and the king’s throne at the far end. The table had been set for his solitary dinner and the darkness was broken only by a display of candles that threw a lucent ghostly amber shadow over the monarch.
“Sire…” replied the Bishop.
“Come closer, you have already ruined this pungent mess of a dinner,” said the king. The Bishop walked toward the king, trying to choose a pace, not too fast or too slow as he knew if he got it wrong it would further anger him. “Hurry up,” shouted the king. “How dare you interrupt me and then walk like I have nothing better to do.” The Bishop sped up until he reached the king and dropped to one knee at his feet. The shadows had hidden the ghoulish figure that now sat before him. The kings hair was thin and long, falling across his almost malnourished looking face like a weeping willow. His eyes were dark sunken slips which stared with evil distain. “What is it?” The Bishop stayed bowed, fearful of making another wrong move, and thankful not to have to look at the skeletal face.
“Sire, your moment has arrived,” he said.
“Continue,” replied the king.
“Your army is ready. Allenay is not expecting us. We can take them now on your order.” The door opened as a petrified cook entered the room with the page.
“What now?” hollered the king.
“Sire, this is cook,” replied the page.
“Come here,” said the king. The page stood back into the shadows thankful that he had completed his errand. The cook stepped forward, fear leaving him mute. “Pick that food up and bring it here,” the king ordered, pointing at the pile of food on the floor. The cook got down on his hands and knees and scraped the food off the floor, careful to ensure that every last piece was replaced on the plate. He carried the plate back to king and placed in on the table. “Now eat it,” said the king.
“Sire?” replied the cook.
“Eat it.” The cook began picking up pieces of the meet and eating them. “Don’t use your hands. Eat like a pig, like a pig that you would serve this swill too.” The cook looked at the king and then quickly turned back to the food. He leant forward putting both hands on the table and started to push the food around the plate with his nose. “How dare you put your hands on my table,” the king screamed and he lifted up a knife from the table and stabbed it through the cook’s hand into the table. The cook yelped in pain, but the king’s evil fury had engulfed his body. He stood up and jammed the knife in deeper, bringing his face closer to the cook so he could see the pain in his eyes. “Don’t ever serve me swill again,” the king whispered into the cook’s ear through gritted yellow teeth. The king stood up looking for the page, “Get this pig out of my site.” The page ran forward and awkwardly worked the knife out the table and the cook’s hand. When it was free the cook sloped to the floor. The page lifted the cook and carried him back into the relative safety of the shadows. The king turned back to the Bishop. “Stand up.” The Bishop slowly stood, his stomach turning as he noticed out of the corner of his eye the blood stained table. “We attack tomorrow. I want every living creature in Allenay to pay for their actions.”

Etienne’s father first heard of Chaval’s intentions when the King of Allenay sent a messenger with details of imminent attack, a distress signal begging for their help. Unfortunately by the time the messenger had arrived it was already too late. Chaval had systematically run rampage through their city. It had been razed to the ground. Every building burnt and only those lucky enough to escape survived. Hundreds of men, women and children unwilling to give up their homes were slaughtered. The ones who escaped were now refugees, and it was only a few days before they could be seen on the horizon heading for Avalon. A line of damaged mourners like a trickle of blood weeping from their broken homeland. The king opened the city gates and let them in promising food and shelter.
Etienne stood beside his father on the castle’s balcony and watched as the slow procession of injured and weeping refugees made their way into the city. In the very far distance a pillar of smoke could still be seen, representing the evil that had bequeathed an unsuspecting city. “Son,” said the king to Etienne, “we will feed and water these good people, and give them shelter. I will not see one stomach go empty, or head uncovered. It is compassion that separates man from beast, and we need to show these people not all men are beasts.”

Dawn broke a beautiful red sky. The men stopped and watched in awe at the vista as the sun crept from behind the mountains in the distance. They stopped by a river and ate breakfast. Olivier asked Etienne questions of how he met Arlette, and of how their relationship had developed. Etienne was happy to answer his friend’s questions. Recalling these fond memories gave Etienne great pleasure, and the relief of being able to finally share them with his closest friend made him realise how blessed he had been. He had become so immersed in his reflecting that he had forgotten about the reason they were here, and the dangers that lay ahead. Both men ate, breaking off large chunks of bread with their hands, and with their daggers smearing on top smooth white goats cheese made in Avalon. They shared wine, and when finished laid back on the soft grass and closed their eyes, to rest for a while before they embarked on the rest of their journey.
“Olivier,” whispered Etienne. “Olivier, are you awake?”
“I am now. What is it?” Olivier replied, slightly disgruntled at the fact that his friend had woken him from his slumber.
“Olivier, what is love?” asked Etienne.
“Eh?” replied Olivier, rolling on to his side to face Etienne.
“What I mean is, what is it that makes someone feel like I do?” Etienne still on his back looked up at the clouds as they slowly crept across the sky above him, swirling and changing shape like a drop of milk in a pale of water. “Do you think it is our imagination? Is it because I can imagine how good it is when I am with Arlette that I long for that feeling when we are not together?”
“I don’t know but what ever it is, it has just woken me up,” added Olivier, not helping Etienne with his pondering.“If it’s not imagination, then is it the memories I have of us that makes my heart ache? Or maybe is it the physical attraction that I have when I see her?” Etienne continued still staring into the sky trying to picture some of those moments with Arlette that he treasured so much.
“I’m really sorry my friend but I don’t think I can help you. I have not yet felt the way you do. All I can say is that not everyman gets to feel the way you do his whole life. And to have that person feel the same way about you is truly special. If I were you my friend I would take care of it like your life depends on it.” Olivier wasn’t much of a philosopher, but in a simplistic way it made perfect sense to Etienne.
“How is it then Olivier?”
“Oh God, can we just go?” Olivier interrupted getting tired of his friends longing.
“We’ll leave in a minute I’ve just got one more question. How is it then that you can briefly see a person, then you don’t, but the feeling still remains in your heart? Why is that even if you can’t even see them anymore you can still feel them?” Etienne stood up and began packing his bag.
“That is what they must call love Etienne. There’s no explaining it, only enjoying it. You have found the one person in the world that you were put here to be with, so stop worrying about what it is and concentrate on why it is, and what you have. Now lets go we have still got a lot of riding ahead of us.”
‘Why it is and what you have,’ Etienne thought to himself. “I like that Olivier. Appreciate why it is, and what I have. Thank you my friend.”
“Pleasure,” replied Olivier. The friends packed their things and mounted their horses. “Arlette is amazing Olivier,” Etienne continued as he kicked his horse with his heels. “She has changed my life forever, I will never be the same man again.”
“It sounds to me like you’ll never be sane again,” added Olivier. The friends laughed before turning their horses and beginning in the direction of Chaval.
The day passed quickly, they followed the route that had been shown to them, and although they were being cautious their mood was jovial. That was until they viewed the city of Chaval for the first time. It came over the crest of one of the many mountain ranges that separated their home from the dark city. There, in the distance, they could see an enormous stone monolith, built from greed and anger.  Splitting the beautiful surroundings like a scar. It looked from where they were standing to be twice the size of Avalon. It emitted pure evil, devoid of colour. Plumes of dank smoke and an acrid stench polluting the air the only signs that there was life within the walls. The city was grey, the rooftops of the houses inside the walls grey and the huge castle that towered over the rest of city, a dark grey reminder to the city folk of the crippling power that it possessed over them.
The two men stopped, taken aback by the terror in front of them. Without saying anything Etienne started to ride again. His pace quickened, first into a trot, then a canter, then a full gallop. Olivier was struggling to keep up. When he finally did he shouted to get the attention of his friend. “Etienne, slow down,” but Etienne was focused on the city. “Etienne!” Olivier shouted again, but still no break in pace. Etienne wanted to get the castle as quickly as possible, deliver the parchment and get back to his love. Olivier was doing his best to try and keep up, but Etienne didn’t slow until they reached the city gates. The gates stood forty feet above them, and the arched stone gateway another twenty foot above the gates. The sheer scale was humbling. Etienne shook the thoughts of insignificance from  his mind and concentrated on his role as a knights. They had come here for a purpose and they were not going to leave until they had fulfilled it.  The gates were slowly pulled  open by two huge war horses. Six guards appeared, all much larger than Etienne and Olivier, and in full armour. Six giant bears with the smell of blood in their nostrils. The largest of the men bellowed. “Who goes there?”
“I am Etienne son of the King of Avalon and this is Olivier of Citerne.”
“And what business have you with Chaval?” growled the guard.
“I have message from the King of Avalon that I must personally deliver to your king.” The guards turned in order that they could talk without either of the boys hearing. Etienne looked at Olivier, who shrugged. The guards then turned back to face them, the same guard that had addressed them earlier stepped forward.
“If you wish to see our king, you must leave your horse and weapons here.”
“Etienne don’t do it, it’s too dangerous,” Olivier whispered to his friend.
“We have to,” replied Etienne. “We must show the king that we have come to find a resolution, not start a war.” Etienne got off his horse, unbuckled the belt that held his scabbard in place and laid his sword on the floor.
“But we were told not to…”
“Olivier it will be fine. Just leave your sword here with mine.” Olivier dismounted and removed is sword.
“If you are sure,” said Olivier.
“Now follow us,” boomed the guard.
“Does he really need to speak so loudly,” Olivier whispered in Etienne’s ear, trying to bring light of the situation as he often did when he and Etienne were in trouble in the past. “We’re only standing next to him.” Etienne smiled at his friend to put him at ease because he knew that Olivier was as scared as he was. They followed the guard through the gate and into a scene of pure misery and degradation. The grayness that the city emitted outside was magnified a hundred times within its walls. The streets and houses were filthy and filled with people whose tormented faces were proof of the pain and torture that had bestowed this land. These visions of misery stopped in the street to watch Etienne and Olivier being led toward the castle. Visitors were obviously rare Etienne thought, after all who would willingly want to come here. The whole place had the putrid smell of sorrow. The light that burned so brightly in the eyes of the people of Etienne and Olivier’s lands had long been extinguished here. They slowly made their way through the streets and up to the castle, careful not to touch or be touched by any of the pallid skeletal hands that were trying to grab their clothes. Any bystanders who came too close, or tried to cross their paths were slapped to the floor by the nearest guard. Etienne thought to himself that if this is what success in battle brought to your land then he would sooner be a fisherman than a knight.
A small child broke from the crowd; he couldn’t have been much older than Arlette’s brother, and ran toward the men begging for money, his clothes ripped and hanging from his malnourished body. Olivier went to take some food from his bag but before he could a guard hit the boy with such force that it took him off his feet. Olivier lunged at the guard fury burning in his face at the brutality of the guard’s actions, but before he could get to him four of the guards raised their swords to the stranger’s throat, a reminder that they were unarmed and it would be prudent to stand down. Etienne unclenched his fists slowly, he knew he had to gain his composure or their journey would end before they had even reached the king. He took Olivier’s arm and whispered. “My friend, we must control our emotions. We have a very important mission; the future of our people lies in our hands. We must leave here with Chaval knowing that we have come to find reconciliation.”
“Stop talking,” bellowed the guard. Olivier winked at Etienne to let him know that he understood, and that he would try to stay restrained. They reached the castle gate and the enormity of the building was more powerful than Etienne could have imagined. The thought of the sadness the king had caused to so many people to build this legacy disgusted him, but his mind was focused, the king’s judgment day would come.
Olivier nudged Etienne with his elbow, and with his eyes urged his friend to look up. He had noticed a woman standing on a small balcony that overlooked the castle doors.
“What?” asked Etienne, angry with his friend that they might further aggravate the guards.
“That must be Marianne,” replied Olivier. Etienne tried to ignore his friend and focused on the castle door. Olivier looked back up Marianne and smiled.
“I know I noticed her from the street,” Etienne whispered through gritted teeth, trying not to draw attention from the guards to their conversation.
“And?" Olivier continued. "What do you think?” Etienne looked at his friend indignantly. “If you don’t want to marry her do you mind if I do?”
“No. Now be quite before,” Etienne was interrupted by one of the guards.
“Shut up, or I’ll cut you down.”

Marianne had been watching the men as they made their way through the city. As they stood below, from her vantage point, she noticed the larger of the two smiled at her. “The contempt of the man,” she said as she spun away from the balcony, her cheeks reddened by Olivier’s impertinence. “How dare he smile at me?” The princess stepped into the room and then quickly turned back to have one more look over the balcony. “Who are they anyway?”
“I have heard from one of the guards my lady," answered one of the Princess’s maids as she tried to peer over the balcony without being noticed from below, "that they are the Prince of Avalon and his good friend the Prince of Citerne.”
“Come away from the balcony,” replied the Princess, “I do not want them to think we are interested in their arrival. Now fetch my shoes I want to go and see my father.”

Inside the castle it was even more dark and miserable than out, as if the castle was the epicenter, and misery spread from its source like a cockroach’s nest. Though it was built with the same stone as his father’s, cut from the same mountains, the castle’s atmosphere was a stark comparison. They made their way in silence through a labyrinth of huge corridors. Etienne was trying to forge to memory the route in case a quick escape was necessary, and he could tell from his friend’s silence that he was doing the same. Their footsteps echoed into the never-ending darkness, like a stone being dropped down an empty well. The guards stopped outside an imposing door, as thick as the castle wall and twice the height of the guards. The guard wrapped on it three times. The men paused, silently waiting for a response. “Enter,” came a voice from inside. The guard opened the door his handing trembling as he turned the large circular iron handle. The hall that faced them was larger than his father’s grand hall but not nearly as welcoming. There were no tapestries or silks adorning the walls or rugs on the floor, just bear cold stone. The only furniture the candles in simple candleholders that lined the walls, guiding your eyes to the large throne at far end of the room. A shadowy figure sat on the throne, flanked by the forms of two other silhouetted figures.

“I am too late,” Marianne whispered to the maids, careful that her father could not hear. She had run from her room followed by her two maids and was now standing behind a side entrance to the great hall. Hearing voices already inside she paused pushing her eye against the crack left by the slightly opened door in order that she could assess the situation.
“Why do you not enter my lady,” said a maid.
“I do not want the Prince to know that I would be interested in seeing him. I wanted to speak to my father first.”
“Are you interested in seeing the Prince then my lady?” asked the maid.
“Of course not, why would I want to see him. I am the Princess of Chaval. I do not run to any man. I just wanted to talk to my father that is all.” The princess held out her hand to bring the maids to silence. Inquisitively the three women waited at the door, the two maids vying for a position in order that they could see.

“Come,” came a voice from the darkness. It was not a strong voice like the guard or his father’s, rather a more muted muffle. The sound made the hairs on Etienne’s arms stand on end. Etienne looked at his friend and together they started to walk in the direction of the throne. The noise of their footsteps was deafening, but Etienne was sure that the noise his heart was making must have been louder. Etienne noticed by the number of footsteps he could hear that the guards had waited by the door. They walked slowly but with purpose, trying not to show any weakness, the words that Etienne’s teacher had told him a thousand times before were ringing around his head, ‘strong and proud’, ‘strong and proud’. As they drew toward the throne the candlelight started to give away some of the features of the man that they had come to see. Neither of them took their eyes from his face. He was smaller than Etienne had expected, and his hunch gave evidence of his frailty. His black royal clothes hung from him as if the body inside had withered away over many years. His hair was long and dirty and fell across his face. The closer they got the more the light started to paint the facial features and both Olivier and Etienne wished that it hadn’t. “Stop,” the king said. “To what does Chaval owe the pleasure of the presence of the son of Avalon?” The question was delivered with menace, but Etienne noticed a slight smile on the king’s face, a sanctimonious smile. ‘How did he know who he was’, Etienne thought to himself. Etienne took a meaningful step forward in order to address the king. He could now see the full gruesomeness of the king’s face; he looked older than anyone he had seen before, and for all the years he had been alive as if he had never taken one step from his sepulcher into the sunlight. Furrowed lines across his forehead the only clue that this man had any skin on his face at all.

Marianne, quickly turned to look at the maids. “Who is he, the other man?” she whispered pointing at Olivier. “Surely he is not the Prince of Citerne?”

“I,” replied Etienne having to stop to regain his composure for fear of stuttering, “have come with a message from my father the King of Avalon.” Etienne put his hand inside his tunic to get the parchment. As he did so the four guards rushed forward from the back of the room.
“Stop,” the king’s arm rose and the men froze. “Let the boy present me with his father’s message.” Etienne took out the roll of parchment. One of Chaval’s guards walked forward and took it from him and handed it to the king. Etienne stepped back in line with Olivier, grateful not to be able to see the king’s face anymore. The king ripped open the wax seal and unrolled it. He read the message to himself then, contemplating every word as one of his long yellow fingernail stroked the side of his face. When finished he looked up from the parchment and stared at Etienne almost serpent like as it assesses it prey: and without  leaving Etienne's face rolled the parchment back up and handed it to the man to his left.
“What are your names?” asked the king in an almost inaudible growling whisper.
“Etienne,” he knew he should say Sire but he had no respect for this man.
“Etienne, is this all you have brought?” asked the king.
“It is,” replied Etienne.
“And who are you?” the king asked Olivier.
“I am Olivier. Prince of Citerne,” he replied. The king’s smile grew, revealing a black line of stumps in the place of teeth.
“How is your father?” Etienne grabbed Olivier’s arm he could feel through his tunic the blood pumping through his veins desperate to be unleashed at this evil. “Enjoying his new home?” Etienne could feel Olivier moving forward, but he pulled him back desperate that his friend would not fall into Chaval’s trap. “You are both very brave coming here. Obviously far braver than either of your fathers.” Etienne went to reply but felt Olivier hold him back this time. “I do however think that your father is a wise man, and due to this I will discuss your father’s proposition with my council. Now leave.” The king lifted his hand  and flicked at the boys indignantly. Etienne stared back desperate to say something but he knew for the good of his friend and of their people he needed to turn and walk away: but the king wasn’t finished with his fun yet, the cat hadn’t finished teasing the mouse as it tried to escape. “Do you know my daughter?” Olivier and Etienne stopped and looked at each other. “Do you know Marianne?” They turned around to face the king again.
“I am aware that you have a daughter,” replied Etienne.
“And did you know she is not of wedlock yet?”
“I did not know this,” lied Etienne. The king paused. Etienne knew that the king was playing with him, and he was not going to rise to the bait.
“Do you have a wife yet Etienne?”
“I do not.”
“That is interesting,” replied the king now strumming his long yellow talons on the table. His hand then paused, as if waiting to see Etienne’s next move. “Do you think it would be easier for me to find this message more agreeable if our families were united Etienne?” Etienne knew the king had him cornered.
“I am not sure. I expect it probably would Sire.” The last word fell from his mouth as if laced with salt.
“I am also not of wedlock.” Olivier stepped forward to the aid of his friend.

Marianne squeezed the hand of her maid and drew breath. “He does appear to be a very brave man my lady,” said a maid.
“And handsome too,” added the other.
“I know, now be quiet, I am trying to listen,” replied the Princess.

The king looked at Olivier. “What could possibly make me want to unite my family with yours Citerne? You have nothing I want.” Etienne put his hand across Olivier’s chest and took another step forward.
“Sire with your permission my friend and I would like to leave.” He knew he wouldn’t be able to hold Olivier back much longer, and was also scared this line of questioning was going to further put him in a situation from which he could not escape. “We have delivered the message from my father and have a long journey back to Avalon. I will inform my father you have now received this, and will reply in due course.” Without waiting for the king’s response they turned and started walking toward the door having to force their feet to walk and not run and as they felt the king’s cavernous eyes burning holes in the back of them. They left the room, and the guards who had followed gave them back their weapons and ushered them back toward the city gates.
The king remained on this throne vengeance burning in his body. “They have come her to request parley,” the words contorting every remaining muscle in his body, “and then treat me with such disdain.” The king looked to the man on his right. “How dare they disrespect me?” The king remained facing the door his fingernails digging deeper into the table like a Kestrel preparing to give the killer blow. “Kill them.”
“No,” Marianne shouted from behind the door.

The two boys put on their swords and moved as quickly as they could to the gates without looking back. Unaware, eight of the Chaval’s knights were also getting ready to follow them. The boys mounted their horses and started in the direction from which they had come. Soon their horses were at full speed. The sun was beginning to set and they wanted to put as much distance as possible between them and Chaval before nightfall. They reached the foot of the mountain range before they started to slow. The horses could not run at that pace for long and they knew the distance they had ahead. Chaval’s horses however didn’t need rest; their journey would not be as far. Chaval’s knights reached Etienne and Olivier as they started to descend the first mountain. Their presence was not felt until it was too late. The brow of the mountain provided perfect cover for the chasing pack. The sound of the horse’s hooves first alerted Olivier, but by this time it was too late, they had fallen into Chaval’s trap. “Ride Etienne, ride,” screamed Olivier, bringing his friends attention to the four horses that were approaching from behind, like black thunderclouds breaking from the horizon desperate to unleash their celestial fury. The boys headed north but two more had flanked them and moved in from that direction. They turned to ride south, but another two horse blocked their escape. They were surrounded. The only option was to ride as fast they could forward; but their horses were already fatigued, and Chaval’s knight’s caught up with them at a merciless speed. The distance between them dwindled quickly, like the last remaining grains of sands slipping through a clasped hand, and it was not long before the first arrow whistled by Olivier. He changed direction again so as to spread his target. The boys ducked and kept riding, but the onslaught was relentless. They kept whipping their horses to get any speed that they had left out of them, but there was none. Another arrow flew torturously close, then another, and another Olivier and Etienne separated. It was their only chance. Olivier turned as he heard a noise he had feared, a noise he prayed he would never hear. Etienne yelled as an arrow hit him. Olivier looked over his shoulder to see Etienne had been hit in what looked like his arm and the strike had taken him from his horse. Six of the riders were closing in on his friend, swarming him like vultures; he needed to turn back and help but fear drove him forward. He couldn’t see where the other two horses were and the arrows continued to fly past him piercing into the trees, splitting the branches that he dodged in order to create some form of protection. And he kept riding. Tears streaming down his cheeks, until the arrows subsided and the rumble of chasing hooves couldn’t be heard anymore, he should have gone back, he should have stopped and fought, but his horse kept going, he never looked back.

The night, as ever, began drawing in and he had to start making his way back. His mother would worry if he was back after dark and although Gill felt he was old enough to look after himself, and his family, his mother had enough to worry about without him adding to it. His mother’s fretting had increased to almost unbearable levels recently with the rumours that had started to fill the marketplace where his mother had her stool. On her stool, as well as her jewelry and ointments, she also sold embroidered purses, wall hangings, tapestries and clothes, just about anything that could be sewn, stitched and decorated with beads and shells. She had a real talent and when she wasn’t on the stool she would be making things to cure all manner of ailments, from stomach pains to fevers. She would also get some money from repairing garments or decorations for the affluent people that lived within the castle walls. The stool gave her very little due to the lack of people with money within the city, however it did give her enough to buy some of the independence that her soul so craved. She was thought of so highly that a few times a year even the castle would come to her to repair curtains or clothes: this gave her extra money and extreme pride. The marketplace also provided her with all the city’s gossip. Although she would refrain from involving herself it was hard not listen to the soldiers and staff from the castle telling news of the dangers that Avalon was facing.
Recently she had heard from one of the king’s ladies in waiting whom she was repairing a dress for, that the king was becoming more and more frail. He was no longer able to get out of bed, and they were worried that he might not have long to live. Age, worry and the loss of his wife and only son had taken their toll. Arlette knew the king, she had never met him but Etienne, his son, Gill’s father, often spoke about him when he was alive, in those special nights that they spent together, those precious memories that she had kept locked away for fifteen years. Hidden away to protect her lost love. She knew that the king was staying alive for one reason only, to protect his people. To give them a safe place to live and the security that he had promised his wife on her deathbed. He had kept his promise but now he was getting to a point where he could protect them no longer. After Etienne’s disappearance the king had sent his knights to find him. The rumours around the marketplace, which Arlette listened to intently for news of her love, told stories of Etienne never actually reaching Chaval. Arlette never believed this, she had seen Etienne on the morning he left. She knew from looking into his eyes the determination that he had to seek counsel with Chaval. There was no way that he would not have got to see Chaval on that day. However after the Knights of Avalon reached Chaval it was said that they were greeted at the gates of Chaval by his guards pleading ignorance to Etienne or his friend Olivier ever arriving. The knights searched all surrounding area for five days but there were no signs of either Etienne or Olivier, and they returned to Avalon to tell the king the unspeakable news. It was at this point that the king ordered the gates to be locked, and he has not been seen by the town’s folk since.

“Will he not just die,” the King of Chaval said as he sipped a goblet of wine, droplets  spilling from the cup and running from the corner of his mouth, like the blood of a wolf’s kill. “I have waited fifteen years for this man to die and still he persists in getting in the way of me completing my conquest.”
“I have reliable information that your wait will not be long Sire,” replied the Bishop of Cheval. The Bishop was tall and lean, his scarlet cloak and black cap immaculately presented. His face was as pallid as the king’s, the only colouring a black sculptured beard  underlining secular smile.
“Is my army ready?” said the king.
“They are Sire. On your command we will move for Avalon.”
“Good,” replied the king. “Avalon will not know what has hit them. We will rip the city from the ground by its roots. I want every last person who dares to stand in my way killed.

The King of Avalon lay in his chambers; he had not risen from his bed now for six weeks. His curtains were pulled close; his eyes no longer able to take the light. The food that had been brought for him was still untouched on the plate to his side. The king rang the bell that stood on the table beside his bed to get attention from his nurse. Even this small movement took all the effort he could muster, just to stretch his weak arm and pick up a small bell sent shots of pain through his body. “Sire how can I help?”
The king cleared his throat and took as deep breath as possible in order to speak the first words he had for many days. “Please get me my Captain.” His voice a whisper, but the nurse heard his request. She ran from the room and told a guard who had kept constant  vigil at the king’s door to quickly find the head of the army. It didn’t take long for the guard to find him, and soon the king’s closest friend and deputy was at his bedside.
“What is it Sire?” asked the Captain as he knelt in front of his monarch and friend.
“I am dying Nicolas.” The king coughed and his friend passed him a drink of water in a vane attempt to suppress his obvious anguish. “I am not long for this world.”
“Please do not speak like this Sire. You are a strong man, I know you can overcome this.”
“Nicolas,” continued the king in a whisper taking his friends hand in his. It was not the same strong hands the king used to posses, they were now withered and hung from his wrist without strength or form like a loose white glove. “You have been my friend and counsel for many years now, and I thank you for everything you have done for me.”
“Of course Sire, I feel I have not done enough.”
“You have my friend.”
“It has been. It is a honour Sire,” Nicolas corrected himself. “What can I do, how can I help?” Nicolas had slowly watched his king, and oldest friend give up on this world, and the suffering he was experiencing greatly affected him.
“I fear for my city, and my people Nicolas,” continued the king. “The walls have been fortified, and an army trained, but without a leader I fear of attack. My only heir was taken from me. I know of other Kingdoms that left without their natural leaders have been taken by leeches feeding their incessant greed. This cannot happen to my city, the land of my forefathers. My last request of you my dear friend is to find Avalon a new leader.”
“How Sire, how will I know who should lead us?” but before Nicolas had finished asking his question the king rolled over and fell back to sleep again.