With an almighty twitch, Godfrey’s tensely sleeping body broke into consciousness. He had slept fitfully all night, waking at every rustle, every warm breath arising from the stable beneath his lofty bed. He didn’t know what the warning signs would be. A flaming arrow? The stampede of hooves? Maybe there wouldn’t be any. He sat upright in his hay bed, scratching his mite bitten skin. Last night’s dinner of salted herrings and wine mixed with sleepiness had left him with a thundering head too fuzzy to focus.

Swinging his legs over the side of his makeshift cot, he leapt down onto the cold stone floor of the empty stall. As a young hand, he was always removed from the real action but his job was as important as any in preparing the clan’s steeds for battle. Given the high alert they had been on for days, he was surprised that the Kings horse was not there – come to think of it, there was no noise at all. His brow furrowed as he peered over to the next stall. Empty too.

“PUGGER?” He called expecting to hear his brother hail back an insult.

Checking each stall as he passed through the stables, his confusion started to rise into panic. There should be an army of sleeping hands next to their wards. It was as if they had all been silently plucked from the earth while he slept.

Leaving the stables, he rushed towards the glow of the main house. Taking the quickest route, he stumbled through beds of sage and rosemary. The warm light spilling out into the garden was coming from a still burning fire. It must have been last stoked only half an hour ago as the flames were still licking through the dry wood. Turning round and round to try and find some semblance of life, his eyes skipped over piles of dirty bowls. That wasn’t last night’s meal sticking to the edges, mounds of oats had been hastily left mid consumption. Breakfast had obviously started without him but then left nearly as soon as it was served.

“COOK?” He yelled. Cook was always there. Always by the fire with a dirty apron and a matronly smile to reassure him. “COOK?”. Nothing.

Panic was now raging through him. No noise could be heard anywhere in the house as raced from room to room. Falling up the stairs to the main bedrooms, he burst through doors he would normally be scolded for even nearing. Each chamber empty. Still warm bed covers strewn over floors, clothes jumbled in piles.

Retracing his steps down to the main hall, his hurried stumbling footsteps dumped him out into the mud at the front of the house. What would normally be a scene of a sleeping township was instead something altogether more deserted and eerie. Not a murmur could be heard across the houses and fields. As Godfrey dropped to his knees, a lone figure appeared by his side.

“It’s too late…”