The Great Hall was so vast that the high windows cut near the roof could only shed their light into the very middle of the area, leaving great pools of shadow around the walls. On dark winter days or at night, sconces would be lit to chase away the dark shadows ... but it was the middle of the day; and the light pooled around the great table where the nobles stood, deep in anxious conversation, occasionally shooting worried looks to the great throne to one end.

The occupant's slight figure seemed dwarfed by the splendour of the carvings and the richness of the hangings, but he did not sit uncomfortably. Indeed, he was as relaxed as if he had sat there for years, rather than two bare months. At his feet a great wolfhound slumbered ... occasionally the raised voices would make the great hound raise his massive head. Then he would shake his heavy head and settle himself again. On the arm of the chair perched a rare white raven, and the chair's occupant seemed absorbed in feeding the bird little morsels of fresh meat, even while he was listening to the argument in front of him, without ever seeming to fully open his heavy-lidded eyes.

There was a commotion at the door of the Great Hall; two nobles reached for their swords with muffled exclamations as a travel- stained man pushed his way past the guards who stood there. One of the body guards who stood eith side of the throne also made a movement forward; a white slender hand was raised by the throne's occupant, and the guard hesitated and returned to his still, watchful stance.

"Approach." A light voice, cool and clear, carrying through the vast room.

The travel-stained man moved swiftly through the room to come to a rest on one knee before the throne, his head bowed.

"My liege."

The same slender hand extended to him; the man raised his head and kissed the ring of sovereignty ... a little loose on the long cool finger.

The King looked down.

"What news?"

The man looked up ... there was fear there.

"My liege, the land of Monan has fallen to the Witch Queen - the Earl has been slain!"

There was a gasp from several of the nobles in the room. As for the King ... the heavy lids lifted a little and he looked intently at the traveller.

"The last of our allies is lost? Monan is fallen, and Athlon stands alone? This is confirmed? How long ago did this occur?"

The man nodded. "Three days ago, my Liege. I have ridden hard ... "

The King rose to his feet. As though bound to him by an invisible cord, the wolfhound rose too and shook his great head. The traveller shrank back slightly, away from the proximity of those massive jaws.

And now the King was moving forwards, to the great table where the map of all Cheron was spread out before them. Disconcerted, the nobles fell back slightly as their monarch moved around the table, studying the map from many angles.

"You," he said suddenly, and the startled traveller moved to his side. "Where did the army advance from?"

He gazed down thoughtfully at the point indicated.

"Hmmmm ... We may presume, I think, it was a long-planned attack. And vicious ... that is ever her way ... as my Father learned."

He looked up, the eyes wide for once, and burning with an inner light.

"Let our advisors attend our pleasure within the hour. In ... in the inner chamber. We shall await them there."

So saying, he turned away and moved the length of the Great Hall, the great hound - as ever - at his heels, leaving the nobles behind. Even before he reached the door to the Inner Chamber, he heard their voices break out in excited speculation. He turned and called out sharply.

"Cearbhall!"

With a soulless croak, the white raven took flight, swooping the length of the hall until he came to rest, furling his white wings, on
the proffered wrist of his master. The nobles, watching, fell silent.

"My Lords," the King said, and inclined his head at their hasty bows. He glanced at the bodyguards, now moving smoothly to their positions on either side of the door.

Then, his raven on his wrist and his hound at his heels, the sixteen year old boy who was Hugh Fitzgerald, King of Athlon, and the hope of what was still free in Cheron, walked into the Inner Chamber and closed the door.

The room, the private domain of the Fitzgerald family, was empty and still ... only the sound of logs crackling in the grate.

Hugh raised his arm, allowing the raven to fly to his perch on the other side of the room. Then he moved fowards towards the great open hearth. At a slight gesture from him, the wolfhound settled like a great living rug before the fire.

Then he closed his eyes, remembering a different entrance ... a bare month ago ... when he had come in here, like this.

***************** ********************
Then, unlike now, to his slight surprise it had not been entirely unoccupied.

A tall dark haired man with flashes of white at his temples was sitting in an armchair to one side of the fire. Dark and swarthy in complexion, dressed in soft leather boots, grey pants and vest over a plain black tunic, one of his long hands was stroking thoughtfully at his dark goatee beard.

Ah yes ... Hugh remembered it vividly, every last little detail ... for that had been the last time his family had been together ...

The man had looked up as Hugh entered, and half-risen.

"Alaric," said Hugh, a note of pleased greeting, gesturing for him to be seated. "I am glad you are here. I must else have sent for you and my aunt."

Here in the private room of the Fitzgeralds, the royal "we" was laid aside, and the real youth that was Hugh Fitzgerald emerged fleetingly. Alaric watched this with cool grey eyes.

Hugh looked towards his new uncle, made such by his Aunt Analise's recent marriage.

"We have had news, Alaric. The WitchQueen has captured the older daughter of Lord Monan. An ambush. I have asked for my Uncles to attend me here ... that includes you, of course. We must decide what action should be taken .... "

Alaric nodded slowly, mind already in motion. He said nothing though, as was his way... to gather all of the information before responding.

"Perhaps a raid ... deep into the WichQueen's territory .. " suggested Hugh.

Alaric looked up at him. "Do not let youthful exuberance blind you to the fact that she has much experience... and many men And other things ... beside men like you and I ...

"This will be a long, hard fought war... and you would do well to remember that."

Hugh sighed. "Yes, you are right to curb my exuberance .... "

Alaric continued, almost as if he has not heard, "To remember that your people will be out there... shedding their blood for you...and for their belief in you."

"Better they believe in me and in Athlon than in the cursed WitchQueen ..."

"If she can shatter, or even bend that belief... she has a powerful weapon. All weapons are not made of steel ... nor do all weapons have such a clean cut... She would do anything to gain control of all Cheron ... ANYTHING!"

Hugh sighed again. "I know .... "

"You'd do well to remember that," said Alaric sternly. "And what is this I hear of you skipping your studies with the armsmaster?"

"Alaric ... they are so dull ..." Hugh protested. "Cut, slash, retreat ... I can do it in my sleep."

"Dull? Dull?!? The Axes of the WitchQueen's generals are not Dull... You would find it a wee bit more interesting once your head is
separated from your shoulders.. Come... now... let me drill you... see if you are indeed good enough to judge dullness..."

Hugh sighed and drew his bastard sword, taking a stance.

"This really isn't fair," he said glumly. "We both know you're a phenomenonal swordsman and could kill me with a single blow if you chose."

"What in life is?" Alaric said drawing his longsword, walking toward Hugh... "You have the potential to be a lot better, if you keep to your drills."

Hugh moved smoothly to a defensive posture, his face a little sullen, then lighting at the words ...

"Do you really think so?"

Alaric brought his sword over lightning quick at a strike to Hugh's head...

Hugh moved to one side smoothly, bringing his own sword up in a blocking motion ....

Alaric nodded as the swords clanged together. Hugh could see an intensity there he had not seen before... as if he was really trying to hurt him? Hugh took a step backwards, even as he moved his sword once more into a defensive posture ... his heavy lidded eyes alert ....

Alaric dropped the sword to the floor...

Hugh waited ... his eyes fixed on Alaric's face ... not abandoning the defensive pose for a second ...

"My father ... always told me ... never trust an enemy who lowers his sword ...."

Alaric smiled ... and raised his sword to strike again at Hugh's face...

Hugh blocked it ... textbook drill ... taking a step forward too but his blade struck against no resistance as Alaric's blade span off the block, and he struck Hugh in the midsection with the pommel.

Hugh doubled up with a gasp.

"Ouff!"

He crouched as if to the floor then moved upward, driving his sword towards Alaric's groin, but with his sword still pointed towards the ground, the older man batted the sword aside. Hugh moved swiftly, using his free hand for leverage as he pushed himself upwards, and aimed a rather wild slashing blow at Alaric's midriff as he came again to his feet ...

**CLANG!** Their swords locked together.

Hugh looked full into Alaric's face, his own serious ... intent ...

"You need more practice, sire." Hugh felt the tap of cold steel against his side, as he noticed Alaric had only one hand on the
sword. "You must always pay attention to your opponent. Not his weapon." He looked down to see a nasty long knife tapping him on his ribs.

Hugh stepped back, his face pale. He nodded, a little grimly.

"Would you have really drawn my blood?" he asked quietly.

Alaric looked at him just as grimly, his mouth set in a thin line. Finally he replied, "Would the WitchQueen draw blood? You speak of war, and let moods affect your weapons practice."

"But to answer your question, if you had fought at less than your capabilities, I would have given you something to remind you of your folly."

Hugh gritted his teeth a little.

"You are getting better... much better," Alaric said, letting the hint of a smile reach his mouth.

High smiled a little wryly at the compliment. "A timely lesson, Uncle. I shall not neglect the armsmaster again."

Alaric nodded. "Especially with the Witch Queen at the borders."

Hugh bit his lip. "I know. In the battle, when Father was killed, one of her damned lieutenants nearly had me. If Brian had not come
then ..."

He walked to the great oak table and suddenly slammed his clenched fist down on it.

"Damn my Father! If only he had not inisisted on fighting then! If only he had not been killed!"

"You cannot blame your father," said Alaric softly. "Instead put the blame fully at the feet of the WitchQueen where it belongs."

Hugh spoke very quietly. "Oh I do, my Uncle. I do."

***************************************

Now Hugh sighed and gave himself a little shake. He could remember all of that so vividly ... the evening his Uncle Coln had returned from his long mission, bringing with him a prize that had been snatched from the castle of the WitchQueen herself ...

How long ago it seemed ... how younger and innocent Hugh seemed, in his own mind.

And now Coln was dead, the lingering effects of his wounds having proved too much. And Deirdne the wise woman was dead too ... mysteriously. And Annalise his aunt had been captured by the WitchQueen, Alaric her husband gone in quest of her, refusing all aid.

His Uncle Brian ... he still survived ... but was tirelessly guarding the vulerable borders of Athlon.

And Hugh, as Athlon stood alone, the last Free Kingdom, faced whether the time had come for one last great gamble ...