A/N: Sorry for the wait, busy busy week.

The bottom seemed to drop out of time itself, the seconds suddenly draining away, elongating into eternal versions of themselves. Only half a dozen steps down the hall and Nike could see the door to her brother's quarters was standing open.

There was no sign it had been rammed as hers had been, but if Orianna hadn't yet been ready to sleep, she may not have latched it. It may be possible that Nike's mother had been visiting to say a final goodnight, or that a servant had been delivering a soothing cup of tea.

It was not the sight of the door standing open that cast its spell on time, nor drew the strength suddenly out of Nike's legs. It was the sight of the crumpled heap of cloth she could see through it. A figure was sprawled on the carpeting in the main room, covered in blood.

Heart thundering in her ears, Nike reached the door. Her hand seemed to push it further open of its own volition.

Another of the elven servants lay dead in the main room, in front of the merrily crackling fire place. Blood formed a small lake around her, and though she lay face down, Nike could that her throat had been slit so violently her head had nearly been severed. Nearby a tray had been cast aside, shards of broken porcelain strewn about it.

A few feet away, near to the open door of Oren's bedroom, lay Orianna. She was in her dressing gown, soaked deep crimson from her own severed throat. From how she lay and the splashes of blood sprayed over the door and its jamb, it was all too plain what had happened.

The marauders had not needed to break in her door. The elf had indeed come with some tea for Orianna, and they had simply strode in after her. They had caught the poor girl and slit her throat, possibly before she had even known they were there. Orianna had witnessed the brutal attack and had tried to run toward the only thing she wanted to protect; her son.

Orianna was not a screamer, as most melodramatic highborn women tended to be. In times of sudden surprise or terror, she was far more likely to lose her breath and thus her voice. Seeing the men murder the servant would have instantly rendered her mute, and she hadn't made a sound as she went for her son.

Oren had made a sound, Nike thought in some distant, echoing cavern of her mind, even as her legs were carrying her forward. Orianna had gotten far enough to open the door to his room. Oren probably hadn't been asleep- tired but too keyed up to relax. Perhaps he had even sneaked out of bed to play with his new toy bow. When the door had opened, he would have looked over immediately, expecting his mother to chastise him for being out of bed.

Instead, he would have seen those men murder her- and he had screamed.

I heard it, in my dream. The scream as I saw him burning, and then the second one…

The second one had sounded choked and wet.

Nike stumbled down to her knees as she reached poor Oriana's side and her eyes fell into the bedroom. Oren was a tiny limp heap at the foot of his bed, a waterfall of red staining the quilt Eleanor had made him when he was born.

For a moment, the world seemed to draw away into a muffled smear of light dwindling into darkness. Nike felt a numb and yet oddly heated rush prickle over her, crawling over her scalp, and she wavered on her knees. Her hand almost instinctively caught the edge of the door frame. The only thing about the world that seemed to remain in perfect, horrible clarity was Oren.

The way he was crumpled there like a forgotten bundle of laundry, so immeasurably tiny he seemed little more than an infant. Surely, such a small body could not have contained all that blood on the quilt. His limp little hand was draped over the edge of the mattress. She could see his pale little fingers, the creases of the knuckles, the infinitesimal fingernails. Below it on the floor, stained in his blood, was his new little toy bow and arrow. Someone had stepped on it, a heavy thoughtless boot had snapped it in half.

She knelt there in Oriana's blood, fingers digging into the doorframe, staring at him with no thought of time or danger. When a soft, muffled sound came from behind her, it seemed to ring like a gong through her head and her entire body jumped so violently it was almost like a convulsion.

Time and reality surged back to the fore of her mind as she stared at her mother, who had entered the room behind her. Eleanor was still wearing the dress she had been in all day, but there was a strap across her chest holding her quiver, and her own wych-wood hunting bow was in her hand. Despite the scene before her, she looked at first as stoic as ever- until one noticed her face was pale, and her eyes were unfocused.

"Mama…" Nike said, and managed to get up to her feet. Eleanor started to move, taking a few steps and then picking up speed as she neared her daughter and the body of Oriana. Her eyes were fixed past them, into the bedroom.

Nike managed to catch hold of her mother before she strode over the threshold, and for the briefest of moments, Eleanor wrenched in an attempt to break free. A soft wail escaped her and then, for the first time in Nike's memory, her mother's strength shattered and she sagged downward. Nike fell back to her knees to keep hold of her. Sobs escaped, and Eleanor gripped hold of Nike as if afraid she was about to tumble over a precipice, her eyes never leaving Oren.

"Oh, no…oh nooo…my poor little baby!"

"Mama," Nike said again, tears filling her own eyes, her body shaking. "Mom…"

Eleanor seemed to physically take hold of herself again, wrenching her eyes from Oren to Nike's face, her grip on her daughter changing.

"Nike!" she said, struggling the sobs back and steadying her voice. "Nike, are you hurt?"

Nike shook her head. "They broke in my door but Holly went after them, and I got out the window," she said. "Brigands masquerading as Howe's men-"

"No," Eleanor said, her eyes visibly steeling again. She got to her feet, Nike moving with her, and mopped the tears from her cheeks with swipes of her palms. She quickly looked about, then moved hurriedly over toward a locked cabinet in the corner where Fergus stored some of the arms he'd collected over the years.

"No?" Nike heard herself say as she followed. Eleanor didn't bother trying to find the key to the cabinet. Instead, she picked up a small stone sculpture of Oriana's off the side table and began slamming it into the decorative panel.

"They are Howe's men," Eleanor said as the thin wood splintered and broke. "He held back his forces deliberately for this action. The moment they arrived they attacked. Our men managed to close the gates before the bulk could press through into the courtyard, but dozens got inside and it will not take long for the rest to manage it."

She dropped the sculpture, reached inside the cabinet, and unlatched it. Pulling it open she pulled Nike over and stepped aside. "Arm yourself, love."

Eleanor then hurried over to the door, carefully checking the hall. Nike felt so completely detached from herself that she may as well have been dreaming again. Numbly, she rifled through the cabinet, taking one of her brother's smaller swords and a sheath, buckling it around her waist. She was not adept at sword work, really, but her options were limited. She found her brother's small hunting bow and snatched it, quickly fishing around and praying that her brother kept bowstrings handy. Moments later he found a small leather pouch and two or three strings stored inside.

"The hall is empty but I can hear fighting getting closer," Eleanor said over her shoulder. "Darling, please, hurry."

Nike hooked out a string and quickly strung the hunting bow, then tucked the pouch into the sword belt. Fergus had his skin quiver in the cabinet too, but of course it was empty of arrows. On the rare occasions he wanted to go hunting, he would have just gone down to the armory and filled his quiver there.

Slinging the quiver over her shoulder she ran over to Eleanor, pulling five of the arrows from her mother's collection and dropping them into her own. There were only ten arrows altogether, and they wouldn't last long if they didn't find more.

She was doing her best to just focus on each action, one at a time, and nothing else. A mingle of fear, grief, confusion, and anger was hammering her heart against her ribs, and if she let all of it in right now she was worried she'd go mad.

That these were truly Howe's men who had done this pushed the feeling of anger to the fore, and it seemed to consume the other feelings into itself, growing hot and sharp edged.

Howe was her father's dearest friend. They had been at each other's weddings. Their children had played together, nearly grew up together.

He supped at our table, she thought over and over again. He was laughing and joking with my father earlier today, smiling at him while at the same time plotting the deaths of his family-

Her anger was so great she felt she might vomit merely from the force of it. She didn't know it was even possible for a person to feel such a way about another.

"Where is father?" she said in a voice that sounded hurried and breathless, her words tasting weak and dry in her mouth.

"I don't know," Eleanor replied. Her eyes were worn and red, her face still edged with white, but her usual resolve seemed to have steeled. "He was with Howe-"

"We have to find him," Nike told her. "Gut Howe for what he's done-"

Eleanor suddenly turned on her, grasping her arm tightly and giving it a sharp shake. "Look at me, Nike. Look at me!"

Nike blinked stupidly as she met her mother's gaze. Eleanor was peering at her just as intently as if trying to determine if she had a fever. She spoke swiftly, and softly.

"Howe has an army about to break down the gates. They cannot stand against it. There are twenty or thirty already in the castle. Howe planned this well. We cannot stand. Do you hear me? We cannot stand. We need to flee-"

"Flee?" Nike said, her anger making her outraged. "I am not going to just run away-"

Eleanor slapped her. It wasn't a vicious or punishing blow but one that might be given to wake someone up who was drowsing. Feeling as if she had just been doused with a bucket of cold water, Nike gaped at her. Her mother had only slapped her once before, but she had been eleven, and had said something rude she'd heard a stable hand say in the yard.

There was fear behind Eleanor's eyes. An intense and almost pointed fear. If the slap had been a sudden dash of cold water, the fear was a chilling bath.

"We cannot stand," her mother said in a low, intent voice. "My grandson lies dead behind us; I will not see you the same. Rendon planned this very well, and our only hope is getting out alive so that he can pay for this appalling treachery. Someone needs to warn Fergus. We need to flee."

There were only a dozen or so men left in the castle. Good men, to be sure, but taken by surprise as they were and outnumbered, they would not last long. They would hold the gates best they could, but the army outside would break them down, and once that happened it was over. She and her mother had only ten arrows between them. Even if Nike planted every single one in the eye of a cowardly traitor, the end would be the same.

Howe didn't want hostages. The deaths of Oriana and Oren proved that, even if Nike hadn't seen the look in the eyes of the men who had broken into her room. He wanted the Couslands nothing but dead. He wanted Highever. That was the only reason he would have to murder a little boy- because that little boy would retain a claim on the teyrnir and the title of Highever. It was only if Howe was after those two things would killing Oren make any sense.

Which means Fergus is in danger as well, Nike thought. Is a Howe lackey waiting for his opportunity to stab my brother in the back, or is Howe just counting on the Blight to do his dirty work for him?

No…Howe's smarter than that. A Blight could be survived, and if news reached Fergus of what happened here, he'd return with the King at his side. Cailan would not stand for a betrayal and a bloody coup. The Blight might delay him but in the end he'd come- and Howe would be drawn and quartered for his crime. With all of us dead Howe can tell the king any tale he likes, and there would be none to contest what he says.

So, a traitor likely laid in wait for Fergus as well. Maybe under orders to make it look like a darkspawn took him down?

Her mother was right. If they stayed, they died, and then Fergus would die too. Howe would have Highever, tell his stories, and never pay for what he had done. For a moment at this realization, her grief separated from her anger and she lowered her head, throat closing on a sob. Eleanor hugged her tightly.

"I know," she whispered. "I know, my sweet love."

"We have to find father…" Nike said weakly.

"If he lives…" Eleanor's voice trembled faintly. "If he lives he knows where we will go. He will meet us there."

They heard a muffled shout from further down the corridor, drawing both their attentions instantly. Eleanor hurriedly urged Nike forward and the two women moved quickly down the corridor away from the sound, toward the staircase in the western corner. Nike knew as well as her mother what was the only way out afforded them- a small passage that lead from the larder of the kitchens, into a corner of the track yard just on the other side of the castle's northern wall. The exit looked like a boulder.

It had been built ages ago, when the castle itself had been constructed, to allow a messenger or the family's escape in case of siege. It was a closely guarded secret in the Cousland family, and even the Cousland children were not told of it until they were grown, to prevent the temptation of sneaking out or playing in it. Nike knew her father would not have told even his dearest friend. Howe would be oblivious of it, but if they did not hurry the castle walls would likely be surrounded and their route made useless.

As they went toward the stairs, Nike set one of the arrows to her string and held her bow loose but ready. She was a very adept archer but she had only ever fired her bow at targets, or animals. Still, she felt no hesitation in her sudden resolve that the very first man she saw wearing Howe's colors was going to get an arrow through the eye.

They neared the stairs. This was not one of the public stairwells but was intended for service use. As such it was small and narrow, spiraling downward. It was far less likely to be guarded than the main wells, but if there was someone waiting upon it they would not see them until they were nearly on top of them.

A sudden commotion whipped their heads around. A man in Howe armor, sword in hand, had rounded the far corner of the corridor and was rushing toward them. Instantly both Nike and Eleanor brought their bows up. He was wearing a helmet far too low over his eyes to make a sure shot but he had either lost or neglected his gorget, and his throat was exposed.

Nike loosed her arrow a breath after her mother did. Eleanor had clearly sought to stumble him, because her arrow appeared like magic in the crease of his groin. Nike had aimed for the hollow of the bastard's throat, but he twisted at the last minute and the arrow implanted in the side of it instead, spearing through muscle.

When he twisted Nike realized he was not charging them but was instead being chased. Holly, painted with blood and eyes alight like one demon possessed, had belted around the corner after him.

As the two arrows struck him he did indeed stumble, his hand flying up toward the one now sticking out of the side of his neck. His mouth opened in a horrified gape and blood flashed from his lips. His momentum was too much for his stumble and he crashed to the ground, dropping his sword and throwing his hands up frantically as Holly bore down on him.

Instantly the infuriated mabari savaged him, her snarls mingling with the choked sounds of the man's voice before his cries were crushed into silence.

"Holly!" Nike started forward a pace, lowering her bow a bit. She was relieved to see the dog, and not just because having her along would increase their chances of getting to the larder intact. "Holly, come!"

Her prey now dead, Holly dropped the man's throat from her jaws and padded toward them, her head lifting and her tiny tail starting to wiggle in a pleased fashion.

"Let's go," Eleanor said, taking Nike's arm as they both turned back toward the stairwell.

A metal clad fist looped out of the well and slammed into Eleanor's face with a sickening crack. Nike felt her mother's fingernails clutch into her arm before she fell aside, thrown to the ground by the force of the blow, blood already spilling from her nose.

Keeping momentum from the strike, the moving wall in armor caught hold of Nike by the neck and shoved. White flashed over her vision for an instant as her head struck the wall by the stairwell. Fingers that felt like knotted steel dug into her windpipe, instantly cutting off her air. She was no longer holding her bow. She must have dropped it, but it felt as if it had simply vanished from her grip.

She flailed toward the bearded face of the man who was throttling her, her swimming eyes focusing on his face.

The man wasn't wearing a helmet, and his greasy hair flopped over his forehead. His beard glimmered with spittle and flecks of blood as his lips split into a yellowed grin. He shifted a little, and she heard the rasp of a dagger being drawn. He spoke in a low, almost eager growl.

"Hello…pretty."

She flailed again desperately, and her fingers managed to tangle in his beard. Even as she yanked, the thunder from her dream rang through her head again, and Holly rose up behind him.

The dog's two bear-like paws slammed against the wall on either side of Nike and her attacker, her chest slamming hard into the man's back and driving him forward. While this served to break his grip on Nike's throat, having a man who was wearing armor and outweighed her by more than a hundred pounds driven into her while pinned against a wall was far from pleasant. Heat and pain flashed through her chest, she felt the dagger blade tear through her blouse and skid over her ribs.

She saw Holly's mouth wide open, her teeth gleaming, her jaws poised on either side of the man's head. The sight of Holly clamping those jaws shut around his skull was lost in a white flash as the back of her head hit the wall again.

The soldier gave a surprisingly high-pitched scream and was torn off of her. Nike, struggling to breathe, her head spinning, slumped onto the ground. She heard a strange grinding, like someone trying to chew on a rock, and the scream grew louder.

Then a crunch. Air wheezing through her throat, Nike's eyes cleared enough to see Holly still had the ugly soldier's head in her jaws and was shaking him violently, his body shuddering and limbs beating the ground like a ragdoll. The soldier was clearly beyond caring about such treatment. His neck had obviously broken, and from the look, so had part of his skull.

Her watering gaze turned away from the dog and she tried to shift, to push herself to her feet. Nearby, her mother was slumped but moving. She pushed herself weakly into a sitting position, her back to Nike.

She saw Eleanor's shaking hand reach out toward the bow she had dropped as she looked toward Holly, who was still shaking the dead corpse of their attacker as if the dog enjoyed how it made him dance. Then Eleanor immediately start looking around frantically.

"Nike!" she cried, her voice sounding thick and stuffed.

"Mama," Nike said, but her voice was little more than a thin and rusty whisper. How Eleanor heard it over Holly's snarling was beyond her, but her mother's head snapped around toward her. Eleanor's eyes were already starting to turn black, her nose swollen and out of place, thick smears of blood painting her chin.

"Nike! Sweetheart!"

Then she was there, griping her tight, frantically searching for the source of the blood on her blouse. Nike got herself into a bit more of a sit then managed to catch her mother's shaking hands. Speaking was all but impossible, but she managed to wheeze out a '…all right…not deep…have to go…"

Determined, she somehow managed to get to her feet, finding and lifting her bow with her. Her head immediately stabbed with pulsing pain that threatened to make her eyesight go white again, but it dulled down after a few beats and she kept her feet. Eleanor as well seemed a little dizzy but was trying to steady herself the same as Nike. Quickly as she could, she found her own bow and picked it up. Miraculously, both weapons were intact.

Holly had lost interest in making the body jump and dance any more, and had dropped him when she saw both women on their feet again. Whining worriedly, the dog moved over and lapped at Nike's hand. She gripped the mabari affectionately around the ear.

"Good…girl…" she said, but both words felt lit with flame.

"Holly, we need to get downstairs, to the larder," Eleanor said softly. The dog's ears pricked and she immediately moved to the stairwell, peering down it for a moment before looking back over their shoulder and giving them an encouraging tail wag, before moving into the darkness. Steadying each other, Eleanor and Nike followed.