A massive portcullis arose to meet us as we crossed. We, the last 63 survivors of the Eastern Clan crammed our lives into 14 wagons. Tied behind were whatever livestock had outlasted the trek to Avalon. My father climbed down ahead of the entry gate to meet the Avalon City guardpost.

3 leather-armored guards fanned out to halt our caravan. The horses protested as did the morning traffic on the bridge behind us. “Hold now!” shouted the lead footman. The size of our lot had garnered the attention of the gate battalion on the parapet above. Their deadly crossbows held low, but visible. Our grandeur had suddenly faded to trepidation.

“What business you have here in Avalon?” started the footman. “Who speaks for you?”

“I do, sir.” answered my father.

“I see no workers or wares man. What purpose then to enter?” He motioned his squad to survey our column.

“We…umm…we are not…” Father dwindled.

“Out with it man, the bridge is packed!”

I spoke from atop our lead wagon, “We are refugees! Have mercy on us.”