Belle didn't know which was worse, the screams of the dying or the terrible silences that followed. Both haunted her dreams in the few minutes of sleep she was able to catch here and there during the desperate escape from her father's castle.

Her father had stayed behind with the other defenders as the Ogres broke through. Given her own choice, Belle would have stayed with him. She had seen the maps and listened to the refugees who managed to reach the castle alive. She knew how far they would have to go to reach safety and how many of the enemy lay between them and it. There was a short sword hanging by her side. If they were going to die, they might as well do it facing their foes.

But, she'd also seen the desperate hope in her father's eyes as he told her to make her escape, to live. Following his orders was the last gift she could give him. She'd tried to look firm and resolute, as if she believed they stood a chance, while saying what she knew were their last goodbyes.

Then, her father turned to Gaston. "Protect her with your life," he ordered.

Gaston had bowed. "I will defend her to my last drop of blood, my lord," he said. Then, they turned and left. Belle dared not look back, afraid her father would see the hopelessness in her eyes—or that she would see the same in his.

The sounds of the battle followed them as they rode through the night. The sun had not yet risen when they saw the light behind them. The castle was burning.

Belle had a vision, then. Madness or truth, she didn't know. Her father, wounded and bloodied, stood in his throne room, the last of his men lying dead around him. He should have been dead, too, with the injuries he'd suffered. But, he had one last duty to perform.

There was a torch lying on blood-splattered floor, only a few inches from the hand of the fallen soldier who had held it. A dead Ogre lay near him. They must know what her father meant to do, she thought, the ones who had followed them in here. They had tried to stop him and his men before they could carry out this last duty and nearly succeeded. Even now, watching as her father knelt down to pick up the torch and its guttering flame, she wondered if he would have the strength to rise up again.

He didn't. But, he forced himself to crawl across the floor, slipping twice on the blood, knees going one way, arm another, almost dropping the torch. Belle could hear the Ogres battle cries mixing with their victims' screams. They were coming closer. She didn't know if they knew what her father was doing here or if that knowledge had died with the ones who had tried to stop him. Not that it mattered. Once they reached this room, once they saw inside, they would know all there was to know.

And they arrived. Belle thought one of the Ogres might be a general, if they had such things. He was taller than the rest and his armor, crude though it was, was more elaborate than the rest. The Ogre saw her father and cried out something in their own tongue, grabbing the spear from the Ogre beside him and sending it flying across the room.

It struck Papa in the back, through the left side of the chest where his heart was, and on into the floor, pinning him there. But, Papa, with his last strength pushed the torch to the piles of dry, oil soaked straw. The guttering flame at the torch's end was more than enough. In seconds, the room caught fire. The tapestries, the remains of the table where maps and battle strategies had been laid out, her father's wooden throne, everything went up in flames.

Throughout the castle, similar scenes played out. Some succeeded, some did not. But, it was enough. The castle began to burn, the victorious Ogres found themselves trapped in the fire.

Or so Belle hoped.

And, with them, were the refugees who had fled here for safety, the ones who hadn't managed to escape under cover of darkness, as Belle had, or find some way to run as the castle walls fell.

"Belle?" Gaston asked, reaching towards her.

"I'm well," she said, turning her face away from the flames.

"It was a good death," Gaston said. Then, the rode on.

Not enough of the enemy had died, that much became clear soon enough. They drove themselves onward, trying to stay out of sight or out of reach—or, Belle thought, trying to stay ahead of the other stragglers the Ogres might consider easier prey.

They spotted other bands of refugees and fighters in the distance now and then. None of them tried to join up with each other. Gaston said some things about tactics and how it was harder for a large group to avoid the Ogres than a small one. He might even believe it. But, the truth was they were running blind. And Belle had heard stories about the armed bands trying to survive in the Ogres' wake. Some of them were like Gaston and his soldiers, fragments of what was left of the army trying to carry out what was left of their duty. Some had become as bad as the Ogres themselves, raiding and killing any survivors they stumbled across.

It didn't really matter, Belle supposed. She would rather go down fighting Ogres than men but she didn't think they had much longer either way. The Ogres were on their trail and getting closer with each passing hour. A half day, Belle guessed, maybe less before they caught up with them.

In two days—less than that, if they could keep up their pace, but horses were already near the end of their strength—they could have reached the mountain passes. With their lighter, smaller frames, humans could move more easily uphill than Ogres could and could hold off larger foes in the narrow passes. The neighboring lands also had their own soldiers up there, ready to fight off the hordes. They might find safety if they could get that far.

Or they might find safety if they could fly to the moon. One was as easy to reach as the other, Belle thought.

But, then, they saw the small band of refugees only a little ways ahead of them. Unlike the others, these were close.

And, though some were on foot, they had horses, several horses.

Like Belle's company, they were fleeing for all they were worth but they were slowed down by the wagon in their group. Belle wondered why they hadn't abandoned it till they came closer and she could see the wounded lying in them.

Gaston had a whispered conference with two of his men before they approached. Belle, exhausted, had still tried to question him, though she'd gotten used to how he ignored her. This time at least, he answered. "We're being careful," he said. "In case they attack."

The small band looked like they couldn't fight off a troop of rabbits, but Belle nodded. They were all of them afraid and desperate, and desperate people did desperate things.

Which was true enough, she realized, when Gaston's soldiers drew their weapons and aimed them at the refugees. "Your horses," Gaston said. "Give them to us."

"What?" Belle said. "Gaston, no! What are you doing?"

"Getting you to safety," Gaston said. "As your father commanded. Our horses won't last much longer. But, with these, we stand a chance."

"If you take their horses they'll die here! The Ogres will kill them!"

"Which will give us more time to get away."

"No, you can't!" Belle rode her horse between Gaston and the refugees, her hand on the hilt of her short sword. "I won't let you do this, Gaston!" Belle searched the eyes of the other soldiers, looking for sympathy, understanding, for any sign that they were more loyal to Lord Maurice's daughter than to his would-be son-in-law.

But, these were Gaston's hand-picked men. A few looked away, ashamed, but they didn't move to help her. The rest looked at her with cold, angry impatience.

Gaston held up his hand, signaling his men to stay where they were. Then, he nudged his horse forward towards Belle. "My lady," he said formally, keeping his voice low so the others wouldn't hear him. "We can help these people, but first—" and he brought a mailed fist down on the side of Belle's head, knocking her from the saddle. She hit the ground hard. "I haven't time for this," he said in a louder voice. Get the horses. Kill anyone who resists. "

"My lord," one of the men said. "The lady."

"She's made her choice. And we'll make better time without her."

Belle lay on the ground as Gaston gathered up the reins to her horse. Of course, he wouldn't leave that behind. His men moved quickly, cutting harness holding the horses to the wagons and gathering up the rest. The riders, with a few glances at Belle, didn't resist.

"Goodbye, my lady," Gaston said before riding off. "I'm sorry, but it's necessary."

"So, this is what your sworn word is worth to you," Belle said. "I wish I could say I'm surprised."

Gaston shrugged. "A man does what he must." He spurred his horse and rode away, his men following, before Belle could say what she thought of that.

A man helped her up. "That could have gone worse," he said. He was a tall man with dark hair and eyes. Belle guessed was the leader of this small company.

"It could have?" Belle said.

The man nodded. "They could have killed us for the horses." He looked back the way Belle had come. "I'm guessing they didn't have time. How close are the Ogres?"

"A half day," Belle said. "Maybe less."

The man nodded. Like Belle, there seemed to be no hope in his eyes, but she couldn't tell it from his voice as he began to give orders. "All right, everyone, we're getting out of here. Leave the wagon. There's a ravine about half a mile from here. If we can get there, we can stay under cover till we reach the woods. . . ."

There was no talk of leaving their wounded behind. The man who had spoken to Belle carried one on his back. A large man named John picked up the other

They moved as quickly as they could, but the leader still fell in step alongside her, ready to question this. . . . . What did he think of her as? Another refugee? An enemy who might turn on them as Gaston had? An encumbrance he might kill if she slowed them down too much?

"So, you're a lady?" he asked.

"Lady Belle of the Marchlands."

"Huh." He would have been able to see the castle burning from here, Belle thought, whether or not he'd known what it meant. "So, if we reached the border, Mist Haven might be glad to see you? And anyone you brought with you?"

"They promised my family refuge," Belle said. "If we could get there."

"Yeah, that's the trick," the man said. He didn't look any more hopeful than he had before. "And the guy who left you?"

"They'll help him, I suppose. He was my betrothed." Gaston would probably tell them she'd died on the way. Knowing him, it would probably be very romantic and dramatic with himself cast as the hero.

"Ah. That's rough." He looked at the road Gaston had taken. "Here's hoping the Ogres follow their trail instead of ours."

Belle nodded. "Here's hoping." They said Ogres liked the taste of horse meat, and horses left obvious trails.

But, Ogres also liked easy prey, and their party was large and slow moving. Belle knew how this was going to end.

Still, they reached the ravine before the Ogres were in sight. They'd done what they could to hide their trail, little as it was. The ravine was narrow with harsh, rocky ground. Belle hoped it would be harder for Ogres to travel over than for them. But, it was no good. Moving as quickly as they could, it still wasn't long before Belle could hear the cries of the Ogres behind them.

"There's a bend in the ravine not far ahead," the man said, handing the wounded man he was carrying over to another. "That's where we'll make our stand. Fighters with me. The rest of you, get the children and run. We'll catch up with you."

He was lying, of course, and everyone knew it. They were all going to die here. Belle drew her sword. "I'll fight with you," she said.

"No," the man said. "You've got friends in Mist Haven, people who can help them. You've got to go with them."

"They need every second we can buy them," Belle said. "I'm staying here."

"What about your betrothed? Don't you want to see him pay?"

"Of course," Belle said. "But, I expect I'll see him in hell. We can settle things there."

The man laughed. It had an odd sound, as if he'd forgotten he could make it. "Good enough, Lady Belle, If we die, I'll give you a hand. And, if we live, I say we horsewhip him out of Mist Haven. If I die. . . ."

"Is there someone in Mist Haven you want me to give a message to?"

They were around the bend, now. As ambushes went, it was a pretty poor spot, but it was what they had. The roaring of the Ogres was growing louder. That was the one advantage of fighting Ogres on the hunt. It was the only time you didn't have to worry about them listening to you. It wouldn't be long now. "I don't have any family left," the man told her. "But, if you meet anyone from the Frontlands, tell them to remember Baelfire, will you? All right, everybody!" he shouted to the others. "Let's make these bastards pay!"

The small band raised their weapons as the Ogres rounded the corner. The roars were deafening, blocking out every other sound except one.

Belle shook her head. There was a strange, high-pitched noise, like . . . like laughter almost—mad, demented laughter, as inhuman as the Ogres' in its own way.

It was the roaring, she thought. It was a wonder her ears weren't bleeding, this close to that sound. Or it was like the madness that made her think she'd seen a vision of her father. With luck, she might go deaf soon. Not that it mattered, she was as good as dead. She met the yellow, hungry eyes of the Ogre charging her and aimed her blade.

Something dropped out of one of the trees growing alongside the edge of the ravine, landing on the Ogre. Belle had a brief impression of scales, claws, and tattered wings. The claws seized the Ogre by the head. Belle thought for a moment the creature was going to try and break the monster's neck, impossible as that would be.

What happened was more impossible. The Ogre's head burst into flames.

The creature leaped off it, nimbly landing on the ground, the one it had burned screaming as it collapsed. What Belle had taken for wings was a tattered, moth-eaten cloak. Still laughing madly, it raised its claws (hands? They might have been hands) against the other Ogres. They all burst into flames.

"Well, that was a bit of a letdown, wasn't it?" the creature said. It turned to them, smiling, showing brown, needle-like teeth. "No thanks, necessary, dearies. Just indulging in a little hobby of mine on my way through. Now, if you don't mind—"

"Wait!" Baelfire said. "Who are you? How did you do that?"

The creature gave a flamboyant bow. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am . . ." (he paused dramatically). ". . . the Dark One. You may have heard of me."

"Uh . . . no," Baelfire admitted. "I haven't."

"No? And, yet, I detect the touch of the Frontlands in your accent. Surely, you have heard a few tales of . . . Rumplestiltskin."

Baelfire stiffened slightly. "The only Rumplestiltskin I ever heard of died before I was born."

"Did he?" the creature looked intrigued. "And you've never heard of the Dark One? What a curious realm I've wandered into. Now, is there some castle where a weary stranger might rest his feet or. . . ." He trailed off, his voice changing, becoming more human. "No, of course not. The only castle I remember in these parts would have years ago."

Belle stepped forward. Whoever or whatever this creature was, he'd saved their lives. She wasn't entirely sure he was less dangerous to them than the Ogres; but, for now, he seemed to be on their side. "The Marchlands Castle is that way," she said. "I don't know of any other. It fell five . . . no, six days ago."

The creature looked as though he'd been stabbed. "Six days?" he said. "Just six days?" Then, he looked at Belle, his eyes growing wide. "Belle?" he gasped. He stared at her, as if she were a ghost. Then, he collected himself. "Lady Belle, I mean," he said in his mocking, high-pitched voice. "Daughter of Lord Maurice? Whateverhappened to your face? I doubt your own mother would recognize you."

"My mother is dead, sir," Belle said evenly. "And we're in the middle of a war." She swallowed her anger. This . . . Rumplestiltskin, had he called himself? Had saved them. Also, strange and terrible as he seemed, there was something softer in his eyes, inhuman though they were. He seemed as lost and alone as any refugee she had ever seen during the war. "I . . . we thank you for what you have done. I wish I could give you more than just thanks, but. . . ."

"Yes, yes, yes," the creature said impatiently, waving this aside. "A bit short on servants and plumbing, aren't you? No matter. I assume you have some idea where such things might be found? Eventually? Then, I shall come along with you."

Baelfire looked like he'd bitten into a rotten fruit. "You'll what?"

"Come along with you. For as long as I want. Depending on how tedious this becomes, I may find other sources of amusement. You will repay me for the pleasure of my company by telling me the local gossip, bringing me up to date on whatever little folderols occupy your time."

"Folderols?" Baelfire said. "People are dying!"

"Yes, that would be one of the stories I'm wanting to hear about." He smiled pleasantly at them—or as pleasantly as a man with so many sharp teeth could manage. "Whatever is the matter with you all?" he asked. "Don't tell me the day hasn't turned out far more pleasant than you thought it would! You should be happy!" He looked at Belle almost shyly, like a young boy afraid his glance would be noticed. "After all, you never know what things you've lost you may suddenly find again."