Disclaimer: Not mine. Will never be mine unless I become a millionaire. Actually, I'm pretty sure that needs to be "billionaire." Maybe I'll just infiltrate Disney and steal it instead. (If I'm not distracted by the myriad of other things Disney that I love and if, of course, stealing wasn't wrong.)

Beta'd by trustingHim17, who splendidly turned this around in a few hours so it could still be published today.

A/N: I'll admit I got so tired of Peter's unpleasant captivity I shortened the last chapter and made the five days pass quickly. It makes for a bit less of a climax, and for that I apologise (and am attempting to build the story back up)—but my brain was stuttering and came up with absolutely nothing to happen in those five days but more unpleasant things I didn't want to think about, and I didn't want to write any more of them. I'll try to build up to a better climax as Peter's evening progresses.

WARNING: contains violence. The fighting begins, and I'm sorry, swords are often bloody.

OOOOO

Peter fell asleep. Later his siblings would tease him about being at such peace he could sleep while his fate was so uncertain. But he had committed his future to Aslan, and he slept while he could.

He was awoken by a quiet rushing voice, one that sounded so familiar, and to a light pressure on his legs and chest. "Your Majesty? King Peter? No, I mean High King. High King Peter? Sir, wake up sir, please wake up, Aslan, don't let them have hurt him and him not wake up! Are you hurt? Why won't you wake up? Please wake up, please, sir, please? Please? You have to wake up! WAKE UP SIR! Oh no no no no, I shouldn't have yelled, and not at him, pages don't do that! I'll, wait, what was that? Did they hear me? We've got to get out of here! Are you ok, sir? Wake up! Please wake up, sir?"

Peter opened his eyes to see bright black ones a few inches from his face. Patterfeet was standing on Peter's legs and attempting to shake the High King's large body with his tiny front paws.

"Patterfeet?" Peter sat up quickly, arms moving to balance the small Squirrel. "What do you here?" The High King's face grew stern. "Found you Narnia, and my siblings?" He looked the Squirrel over, eyes noting the bandage around one of Patterfeet's legs, wrapped from heel to thigh.

"Yes, sir, I did, sir, I did! I climbed the mountain, and it took all night. I fell off, sir, and hit the rocks, but a Narnian Owl* heard me crying. I'm sorry about the crying, sir, my leg really hurt. He flew me to Cair Paravel, sir, he and an Eagle, and I told them everything, and Lamash, sir, he went back to Calormen right away and Aslan gave him good winds and he wanted to help, sir, he was going to be one of the slaves Igteroth brought back, only he sent a message saying that Rabadash found out and didn't allow it, sir-"

"Rabadash what?"

"Because the prince didn't want Uvayeth winning, sir. Lamash is going back to the temple of Tash! King Edmund asked me to tell you to remind King Edmund when they got back to rescue Lamash, but rescuing you is first, sir, and most of us came by boat, and Oreius didn't like that because we had to take small boats to not be seen, sir, and he couldn't come, but King Edmund said I could run ahead and check on you. Are you all right? Please, sir, please be all right; please?"

"Hush, good cousin; I am well. It was not in the interests of my captors to harm me further, be at peace. Is my brother near?"

"He's sending scouts to find all the entrances, sir. I drew him a map—I remembered!" Patterfeet said proudly, standing straighter; but then he drooped. "Only, I just remembered inside the caves, sir, not all the ways out. And Queen Lucy said that was all right, I still helped, and that was when King Edmund let me come find out if you are all right. I'm supposed to go back to him, sir, and report." Patterfeet hesitated, eyes suddenly looking down. "I don't want to, sir."

"And why not?" Peter inquired gravely. He longed to ask about his sister—surely Edmund had not brought her along, and how was she back from Archenland? But the problem in front of him should be dealt with first, though he thought he knew the cause of Patterfeet's hesitation. Narnians were ever loyal.

"I don't want to leave again till you leave, High King Peter."

Peter laughed, softly so his captors might not hear, and stood. Ah, Aslan, it was good to be around the Lion's own again. He started striding towards the bars, but paused to look down at the Squirrel who kept pace with him. "There is little in war that a soldier wants to do, but still it must be done. Go give tidings to my siblings of my health, and then, if they permit, rejoin me. But first, good cousin, if they are close, I desire to meet them in the halls and not be found here in this prison. My brother gains much joy, once our enemies lie vanquished, in reminding me of all the times he must come to my rescue; his ribbing must be diminished if he finds me outside my cell." Peter did not mention the other reason, that if Rabadash had stopped Igteroth's ship from coming, in a few hours Peter's captors would be coming for him. "But quietly!" he reminded Patterfeet. "For it would not do for such advantage to be lost this late." The Squirrel, with a noise so familiar and now joyous, bounded away down the hall, quickly returning with the clink of metal keys. Peter left his cell, locking the door behind him. Aslan willing, it was a place he would never return to. "Now run to my siblings, whilst I look to the movements of our enemies. And Aslan go with you," he added, bending to kiss the Squirrel's head with the blessing of the High King. "Be of good courage, cousin, for I am still in Aslan's paws." Patterfeet bowed, bounded up a wall, and took off running down the hall, his tail whisking—and not falling off this time, Peter thought with a smile. Freedom lifted his spirits to joy.

Yet caution still called with a warning voice. His rescue was close but not present. And he was pretty sure Dagguer would happily have him run through, or a finger cut off, if the man found Peter wandering free again. Peter slipped into the small corridor and paused before the large cavern, listening from the shadows. Voices and footsteps echoed, but the sounds were distant. He braved the cavern and headed towards one of the passages he and Patterfeet had not explored, hoping it led towards an egress from the caves. He could meet the coming Narnians all the sooner, and lead them towards the men they could resist and conquer.

But that passage did not lead outside; it led to grimy caves filled with snoring members of Dagguer's band. Peter backtracked quickly, pausing once again before a bend exposed him to the cavern. The sounds were closer.

He pushed himself against the wall in the shadows, and waited. The voices sounded animated, and he hoped that meant they were not coming to sleep, for the shadows did not hide him well enough if they came down this passage. Louder, louder, louder, arguing with such volume the echoes drowned out their words—Peter only caught "missing" and "your fault." He frowned; he'd hoped his escape would not be caught till he had at least found his own side.

All of this, too, is in Aslan's paws, he reminded himself. He waited, wishing impatiently for another task than to hide.

The noise grew softer, words again becoming indistinct. They had not come down his passage. Though they had woken some of their fellows, it seemed, as Peter heard grumbling curses from behind him. Time to leave.

Another passage, one that led to stores of food lined haphazardly on shelves and in a few scattered bins. Peter took a breath, refusing to allow his frustration to take hold. This was a gift, even if it wasn't the one he desired. He took a few of the stores from the shelves, hastily eating some of the bread, and the tasteless dried meat. He turned to leave when he heard running footsteps coming towards him.

"By Aslan's mane, why did I stop?" he muttered, ducking behind four of the bins stacked on top of each other. He crouched, hands splayed loosely on the floor, ready to move if needed. He listened.

Running steps, made by more than a single person. Harsh breaths. Rustling cloth. And—interspersed— metal clinking. The footsteps stumbled, halted, and just the breathing. Then-

"By the altar of Tash!" Uvayeth cursed. The sound of a hand smacking cloth. "Thou hast the brains of a donkey! We need out of this thrice-accursed maze, not their beggarly food! Hear behind us the footsteps of those who seek us; they know we have left! I will not be fed to the demons of their Northern world; find us a way out, now! Check the walls; this might have another tunnel that leads out!"

Peter paused. Uvayeth. Uvayeth, whose bargains and ambition had first led to their captivity. But for now, at least, they had a common desire to avoid an unpleasant end; and the Calormenes could resist their captors, should they be found. Peter stood, stepping out from behind the bins.

One of the two guards saw him first, turning white and taking a step back. Uvayeth whirled, also taking a step back.

"By the light of Zardeena," the guard said hoarsely. "Go, ghost of the Narnian King, and haunt us no more!"

In spite of himself, Peter raised an eyebrow. How Edmund—or Lucy—would have loved to play this out. But with captors on their heels, he had no desire to prolong this fear. "I am no ghost, but a fellow captive still. Touch my hand, and feel my flesh." He held out his hand, and the guard, wavering, stepped forward. Uvayeth gulped, taking another step back, and the guard froze. Peter stood, as patiently as he could even as he itched to leave, holding his hand steady. The guard swallowed and stepped forward again, flinching when his hand touched Peter's. A brush at first, then the guard gripped it firmly once he felt it.

"Dagguer told us he'd killed you," Uveyath muttered, his face rapidly moving from fear to greed. "That he'd take the fifteen slaves to the giants for his trouble, and we'd be sent back to Calormen empty-handed; or fed to them with your dead and rotting body, if Igteroth did not come. But now-"

"I am not your captive," Peter warned sternly. "I do not doubt your former partner in unpleasant business meant to extort more from you—perhaps another fifteen slaves—since you would not make any attempt to find me once a ship-load of soldiers arrived—but that gives you no rights to my freedom or person now. Cease our quarrel till we are free or dead; then, as Aslan wills."

Uvayeth looked ready to argue, but ceased as the guard who'd been walking along the wall cleared his throat.

"If this unworthy servant may venture to speak, great nephew of the Tisroc (may he live forever), the barbarian King speaks with a wisdom beyond his years. If the unworthy dogs find us, it will not matter whether the barbarian be living or dead, but-"

"Cease!" Uvayeth snarled. "Truce, then, High King. But only till we are safe from the grasp of these vile and vicious-"

And hopefully in the grasp of my brother and our people, Peter thought, tuning out the rest. He turned instead to survey the store room once more. "There are no exits visible to my gaze; can you see any way to our freedom?"

Both soldiers shook their heads. Uvayeth turned with a frustrated sound, looking back towards the passage they had come from.

"Then we go back and pray for another way out," Peter said cooly, striding past the fuming Calormene. He did not wait to be obeyed, but listened for their footsteps as he walked. They followed, and he smiled grimly. Two swords, at least, against their captors. Perhaps even Uvayeth, motivated as he was by fear. Though Peter doubted the Tarkhaan had much skill. He seemed the kind to let others do his fighting for him.

Peter slowed as he neared the cavernous cave, the footsteps behind him muting as their owners walked softer. He peeked out, saw no one, and led the way to the next tunnel branching off.

His companions made little difference in the way of sneaking; it seems most of the kidnappers, knowing where the exits were, went to guard them. That left the labyrinth of caves empty and easy to transverse. But it did mean they would have a fight on their hands if they did find an exit.

"Ware," Peter called in a low voice. The floor of their present tunnel was well-packed dirt, to the point of hardness, and Peter guessed it was well-traveled. The constant quiet sneaking through flickering torchlight was beginning to wear, and this had him tensing. Their footsteps sounded louder with no soft dirt to muffle them, and Peter moved towards the wall, sliding along it. Farther, and farther, around a curve and into darkness with little light, the next torch somewhere further than the bend. He moved further, into the light, listening for any sound. Breathing, moving, rustling—anything to let him know enemies were close.

Nothing. But their passage ended in a door, an actual wooden door. Peter paused, then tried the handle; locked. He looked back at one of the soldiers.

"Your dagger, if it please you," he commanded, holding out his hand. The nearest Calormene guard hesitated, then surrendered it. Peter stuck the tip between the door and the wall, pushing on the leverage to move the door back from the stone. He pushed until the lock popped out of its receiver and the door opened.** He handed the dagger back and slipped inside.

It was filled with things that made it almost worthy of a tiny dragon hoard. Swords, armor, clothing, coins, and other valuable belongs were scattered on the floor in haphazard piles, unsorted in a chaos that was any housekeeper's nightmare. Peter looked around once, ready to leave, then halted.

He saw Rhindon. It lay on top of his cloak, with lumps under it that were probably his boots. His sword. He felt a push on his shoulder, and the Calormene guards rushed past him, heading straight for the coins and the few scattered jewels. Their faces twisted with gleeful greed as they hurriedly scooped up valuables by the handful, stuffing coins in their sashes, one guard unwinding the white cloth around his helmet and making a sling he filled and knotted into a clumpy ball. Peter shook his head, walking quietly over to his boats, cloak, and sword. He picked them up one by one, arming himself once more. This, this felt like home wrapped around him, familiar and safe. He stood, satisfied, the feel of leather and comfort under his feet. He stooped and picked up a dented breastplate that might fit a man his size, a dusty helmet, and other armour.

For just a moment, he missed his brother so much he struggled to breathe. He looked around; the only others about were enemies. Not his brother, to tighten the straps to the breastplate and rib him about how it made him look fat. (Susan always assured Peter that it didn't, and Lucy always said he looked as Magnificent as he was.) Not a sword to guard his back and a brother against evil. All who were near were guards who wanted him broken, now filling their clothing with gold.

But he was on his way to find his brother. Or perhaps it was his brother who was on his way to find Peter. Either way, if Aslan allowed, he would see Edmund soon.

"Come," the High King reprimanded sharply. "'Tis enough, and would be of no use if you were taken to Harfang. We must away, and at once." The two guards scowled but left their thievery, and they rejoined Uvayeth. The Tarkaan was standing impatiently in the hall, muttering insults in a low voice at the other three. Peter didn't rebuke him; such insults took all Uvayeth's brain power and kept him from thinking—or disputing Peter's commands.

Back to the large cavern; Peter tried not to revolt as their feet stole through it yet again. They were getting nowhere.

Patience, he heard a gentle voice counsel him.

Patience, he agreed. Each delay is as Aslan's wills, and I accept. Even if I wish He would tell me why. He could see his sister's wry smile of agreement. Perhaps this next passageway?

Perhaps it was. Peter, leading the way, heard the sounds first. It was a repetitive sound, building, motion and water and collision, echoing, fading, and coming again.

A sound he heard every evening he was at home. They were near the sea; he could hear the sea. Even if the sound was different, more crashing—they were near the sea, and nearly out of the caves. He drew in a breath.

"We're nearly out," he hissed as softly as he could, turning his head to face those behind him. "They sent men to every exit; draw your swords." He waited till the faint shing of metal scraping metal finished and the curved scimitars were clenched in dark fists. "I have sworn to not resist them, and cannot foreswear myself, but this can I do. I will distract them, running through them, turning their attention to myself, and halting just through the entrance. Once their attention cannot be turned to you, fall on them, and Aslan give us victory in this hour!"

The guards nodded, their faces grim. They knew their fate if they stayed, and Peter did not doubt their desperation. Uvayeth, too, had drawn his weapon, but he hesitated, staying behind the two men he'd recently insulted. Peter internally shrugged. The Calormene would need to defend himself soon enough; he might learn courage then.

The High King turned back towards the tunnel, walking forward till he could see the darkness lightening. He paused, turning back once more, checking the readiness of his begrudging allies, and then straightened, took a deep breath, and sprinted forward.

Around the last curve, three Centaur's lengths between him and the four—five men squatting at the exit, and he sped, feet digging into the dirt and breath coming hard, passing the first startled man before he gained his feet, dodging to the left of the man opposite him, and ducking under the dagger the third man flourished. The last two had been facing outward; they just turned when Peter ran through them, through, through, and out! Into the air that smelled of sea, into light and mountains and freedom. But he turned; still he had sworn not to escape, and his steps halted just out of reach. The curses of his captors rained on him now that the wind was not rushing past his ears, and all five were stepping forward, their attention fixed on him. One step forward, and he took one back; another, and he retreated, and at their grins glanced behind. A cliff, high above the sea, but fifteen paces behind him. He turned back towards the five, just in time to see three fall, two thrust through with scimitars, and the third bleeding from a deep cut on his throat. The other two turned at the cries of pain, but were cut down by the two guards, Uvayeth standing well back.

"Freedom, thanks be to Tash," the taller guard breathed.

"Tashbaan for me," the other agreed. "Be there a boat, by the gift of the gods?" He strode past Peter to the cliff, glancing down. "By Tash's beak, there is!"

"Tashbaan for us all," Uvayeth sneered, his eyes on Peter. He stepped forward, and the guards glanced at him warily. "I knew my plan was favored by the gods! See, oh barbarian, what happens to those who sacrifice at their altars? O my enemy, behold, you are in my hands, and the way back to my kingdom lies open before us! You will be yet another sacrifice on the altar of Tash, bound to his will, and the poets will make sayings of your defeat! Igteroth or no, I have brought you back, and none other!"

"You mistake your power. You, a consort of kidnappers, are no match for a King," Peter responded, his hand unsheathing Rhindon. "I have sworn no oath to you, and neither you nor your guards can take me against my will. Try your strength against mine! Only the blood of those thrust from behind darkens your blade. Mine has spilled that of warriors, and will yet spill yours, if you seek to master me." He glanced over his shoulder, shifting to his right so the guard behind him was in view. "I stand against the three of you!"

Uvayeth's face grew dark with anger and he motioned the guards forward. "Why do you hang back, you timorous cowards? He is but one to three, and the bolt of Tash falls for us! Forward! By the gods, why do you not move forward?"

The shorter guard stepped prudently away from Uvayeth's side, out of reach of the Tarkaan's arms. "He is a warrior, o great one. Tales were told in Tashbaan of his brother's valor just this year past, and 'tis said the High King is a match for him."

"Do not the poets speak of the glory of those who fall in battle? Oh that you had a tenth of their courage, for the one who falls by the sword will rise in glory and be sung of in the courts! Go, or I-" and he raised his own scimitar threateningly towards the guard. The guard eyed it—the other one watching with interest from the cliffs—and Peter wondered if he was measuring the danger from Uvayeth against the danger from Peter. And if he regretted serving a man so ready to spend the guard's life for the Tarkaan's own glory.

Either way, Peter had spent enough time doing nothing. He stepped forward, his sword catching Uvayeth's and forcing it down, twisting it to send it flying from the Tarkaan's hand. It flew right over the cliff, Peter was pleased to note, even as he turned swiftly to the guard, who backed away, lowering his scimitar.

"Fool of a man! Coward! Dog! One of you, disarm him!" Peter rolled his eyes, and brought the hilt of his sword up to tap Uvayeth on his temple. He was not gentle, and Uvayeth collapsed into unconsciousness.

"The warriors of Narnia will be here soon," Peter warned both guards. "You fought for your own freedom, as men will. Stand with me till they come, fighting for me if enemies approach, and your sentence in Narnia will be lightened. Or take your chances speeding to the boat below, before either kidnapper or soldier finds you, and sail back to Tashbaan empty-handed. But seek to take my freedom and you die."

The two guards glanced at each other, then the taller one also lowered his scimitar, wiping it on the grass and sheathing it. "No welcome besides the dungeons and torture chambers waits for us in the country of our birth, if we come back without the nephew of the Tisroc (may he live forever). And if we go back with him, our welcome would not be much better. We wait with you."

"Till Tash sends us opportunity to escape," the shorter one muttered under his breath, but Peter let him. That was a trouble for another time; and he did not think the Calormene would escape the piercing and vengeful eyes of the Narnian soldiers.

"Then unsheath your sword, for Dagguer's men may seek us yet, and we know not which will find us first," Peter ordered, eyes on the taller guard. Once the guard obeyed he stood them together, before Uvayeth's unconscious form, and well within eyesight. He went to the cliff, scanning the narrow strip below or the path for any sign of his people. Surely they were close?

A screech pulled his eyes up, to the sky, and he shaded his eyes. A grin stole over his face, growing larger and larger as the screech was repeated, a call to any who trained at the Cair, and he held his arm aloft as a Hawk plummeted from the skies. It landed on his arm, wings spread to keep balance before drawing in. Peter knew this Hawk, had seen it at a court discussing missing Narnians but a week before. "Well met, good cousin. Be my brother close?"

OOOOO

*The inclusion of a Narnian bird finding Patterfeet was one of Anonymousme's suggestion.

** This is, by the way, a viable method to open locked doors if the lock is a poor one and is short, or if the door has even half an inch of space between it and the frame. Locks actually aren't that long, and I've had to use a screwdriver to open them before. (For completely legal purposes! I'm just [quite often] around small children that love to lock doors and then shut them from the outside. Or sometimes around forgetful adults.)

Response to Anonymousme: I'm afraid it's another cliffhanger; there just doesn't seem to be an appropriate place to break the action! At least they're not in deadly peril. :) It may be a few more chapters after this - I realised in my first count I wasn't including the hinted resolution of some of our Calormenes - and I'm still not quite sure how to work that in! This story has been an experiment from start to finish, and I've written it with a much more "let's see what happens" than "this is what I have planned." ... I don't think I like that approach as much. :) Other than the weather, have things been well with you?