A/N: Much apologies for the wait. Hopefully it was worth it.

The nightmare that had started as a dream about the burning stable had been going for what felt like hours. Holly led them through the corridors and servant's passages, wisely avoiding the main thoroughfares and open corridors that would undoubtedly walk them into a mess of Howe men. Many of the torches had not been lit or had gone out, and so much of their way was in deep darkness, broken only occasionally by puddled moonlight through a high window.

In the dark, Nike held her bow and an arrow in one hand and gripped to her mother's tightly with the other. When there was enough light to see by, she released Eleanor's hand and readied the bow for firing again. Her head had cleared some, but her chest still hurt with each drawn breath.

Occasionally outside the narrow passageways they could hear fighting, but the sounds were growing more rare, and Nike was afraid that it was already too late. All their remaining men were now dead, and Howe's men were left to systematically search the castle at their leisure until they found them.

In her mind's eye she could see a vision over and over again, a vision she neither wanted nor could banish. Her father, laughing with Howe, bent over some parchment or map or supply manifest. Howe drawing a dagger from his belt, and driving it into her father's back, between the ribs and into the heart. She could see her father sagging down to his knees, dead before he fully crumpled to the floor, his last expression bewildered.

As they neared the kitchen, they could see a slice of light coming from the open door that separated it from the passageway in which they stood. Holly approached this gap with her head held low, short fur in an angry ridge up her back and over her shoulders, but she uttered no growl. Nike carefully edged up beside the dog, her bow lifted and taut.

When she saw no upright forms, no movement, she gave Holly the slightest tap with the side of her foot against the mabari's leg, then shouldered the door open. Holly rushed in at the same moment, then halted.

No one living was in sight. The cook was sprawled near the door, the lid of a heavy pot and a cleaver near her outstretched hand. There was blood at the edge of the cleaver, and a smear on the doorpost. Nike felt a hollow but grim satisfaction that whomever had killed the cook had paid for it with at least a small amount of flesh.

The two elven servants who had helped her mother taking inventory just a few hours ago were nowhere in sight.

Eleanor gripped Nike's arm gently as she stepped toward the larder door, but Nike softly halted her and then gestured toward the cook. She had fallen in the doorway itself, and her arm and head were blocking the door open. Whispering a soft 'stay' to Holly she padded quietly over to the door, then glanced cautiously outward.

At the end of the corridor there were three men in Howe's colors talking. They all had their swords out and the weapons were blood stained, but they were pointed at the floor. None of the three looked much older than Fergus, and as she saw them they laughed as if they were discussing a rousing game of wicked grace over drinks.

Her shoulders and arms burned with the effort of not lifting the bow toward them, a strong and sharp bile flooding her mouth. Instead she eased back again, then gently slid the cook back just enough to allow the door to shift closed.

Crossing the kitchen back toward her mother, she halted her opening the larder door. "Let Holly go first," she whispered.

The larder door wasn't as quiet as the kitchen door, but Nike didn't think the soft creak it made was enough to carry outside the room. As soon as it was wide enough Holly slipped through and vanished into the dark. Only a moment later she reappeared, ears up but a soft whine in her throat, before she vanished away again. Nike immediately hurried after her.

The missing elven servants were slumped against the shelves of supplies. One of them was very close to the hidden entrance of the escape tunnel. Holly headed toward this one but it wasn't until her mother let out a strangled cry of 'Bryce!' that Nike realized it wasn't one of the elves at all, but her father.

Eleanor rushed past her daughter and to the man's side, gently gripping him, a sob in her throat. Nike felt her entire soul seem to clench, then she started with surprise when he lifted a hand toward Eleanor's face.

"Your nose," he said weakly. Nike hurried over to her mother's side.

"Never mind my nose," Eleanor said, cradling his head. "Nike, we must stop this bleeding!"

Putting her arrow back in her quiver and shouldering her bow, Nike immediately turned and found some empty wheat sacks. They were burlap, but it was the only cloth they had available. Folding one into a thick pad she tucked it under her arm and then flipped open a small container on the shelf. It was about a third full of some finely ground powder- elven root.

Nike snatched a sloppy handful of it then returned to her parents. Reaching past her mother she dumped the handful of root on the horrible wound in her father's side and then pressed the folded burlap against it. He hissed faintly.

Nike was no healer and had very little experience with wounds, but even she could see this one was bad. It was wide and ugly, and if it had been made by the point of a sword, there was no telling how deep the blade had run. Bryce was deathly pale, and seemed to be struggling weakly for every word.

"I knew you'd come here," he said, reaching for Eleanor's face again. She snatched at his hand, clinging to it. "Oriana…Oren…?"

Neither Eleanor nor Nike replied but he must have read their expressions, because he slumped back a little with a pained sound. "Fergus…"

"We're going to get you out of here," Eleanor said. Nike got to her feet. She did not want to leave his side but they could not linger. Hurrying over to the entrance of the tunnel, she found the catch, then slid aside the false wine keg hiding it. The tunnel itself was only about five feet high at the start, though it widened further in. It was also as black as pitch.

"Holly!"

The mabari moved to her side and at a gesture, vanished into the tunnel. She'd make sure it was clear, and she'd be able to sniff out any men lurking close on the other side. Moving back to her parents Nike looked at her mother.

"We'll have to carry him. I'll take his shoulders-"

"No…no…" Bryce looked away from his wife, and this time reached for his daughter. "No, pet…it's no use. This wound is the end of me…"

"No," Eleanor said with an almost frightening intensity. "We are not leaving you behind, we-"

There was the sound of abrupt fighting- dim, but not far. Nike immediately surged to her feet, setting an arrow to her bow and pressing her ear against the larder door. The clash of swords stopped swiftly, but then she heard footsteps.

"They're coming," she said as she backed away from the door, stretching her bow taut. They were too late. They were not going to escape. Nike was going to die here with her parents.

She felt oddly relieved at that idea. She would die with her parents, but she would take down as many of them as she could before that happened.

The door suddenly swung open and she loosed her arrow toward the head of the man in armor that stood there. He was fast, almost as if he expected the attack. He leaned to the side, and the arrow swept past his temple, the sharp edge severing a few strands of iron gray hair as it passed.

"Lady Cousland, hold!" The voice was familiar, and she recognized the grimy, sweat-dampened face.

It was Duncan. The Warden Commander had his beaten and bloody sword in his hand. Nike was somewhat aware that a second figure was behind him but her eyes were fixed on Duncan. The instant she had fired she had snatched another arrow from the quiver and had reset the bow. This second arrow was now aimed at his face as well, and she did not lower it.

Still holding the dying Bryce in her arms, Eleanor spoke when Nike didn't lower her weapon. "Sweetheart, it's the Warden-"

"I know who he is," Nike said, and the ferocity in her voice startled even her. "How do I know he's not helping Howe? Where has he been?"

She heard a faint sound off to the side and realized her father was speaking- or trying to speak. She could not make out what he was saying, nor did she shift her attention away from Duncan. He had not moved forward or given any indication of threat, but neither had he put his sword away. She still could not see who it was that lingered behind him- they seemed smaller and not armored, but they were mostly hidden behind Duncan's broad back.

"Nike, it's all right," Eleanor said, but her shaking voice was not that convincing. "Your father says Duncan was helping to guard the great hall against Howe's men."

"I don't-"

"It is true," Duncan said, his voice that infuriating calm again. "I was helping your men hold the gates, and then the hall. Your father passed through looking for you, with two other men in his company. He told Gilmore that if any of his family were to appear in the hall, send them to the kitchens. I do not mean to rush you, my Lady, but the gates are breached and the hall is lost. Gilmore was wounded and stayed behind to cover me, but it will not be long before Howe's men find you in force. We must get you out of Highever."

"Who's behind you?" Nike asked. Immediately the second form shifted, showing her face. It was the other kitchen servant, the elven girl. She looked pale and battered, a scrape raw on one cheek. In her badly shaking hand she held a bread knife.

Nike finally lowered her bow, though she did not take the arrow from the string. "Father's badly wounded. We have to get him out of here."

As if the room held some safety she was glad to be in, the servant hurried inside the moment Nike lowered her bow, rushing over to Eleanor's side.

"Mistress, what can I do to help?"

Duncan also walked over toward the elder Couslands, and as he did Nike hurried to the door they'd come through, closed it, and then dragged one of the nearby barrels in front of it. It wasn't heavy as it was nearly empty, and would do little more than fall over the moment someone opened the door, but she did it anyway.

"I have some edevas," Duncan was saying behind her. Nike looked over after finishing with the barrel. He was now crouching beside Eleanor, and between the three clustered around Nike could see nothing of her father but one of his legs.

He was trying to speak again. Nike could hear a low rasping sound and her mother trying to hush him. Striding over she saw Duncan slipping a small vial of liquid red back in the pouch at his side.

"What are you doing?" she asked. "Give it to him! We-"

"His wound is too grievous," Duncan said to her. "The amount I have would do nothing but prolong his pain."

"Give it to him," she said in frustration. "Then we can carry him out of here and find more. We don't have any time-"

"You are right," Duncan said, and looked at Bryce. Nike had a sudden image of herself lifting her foot and planting it right in his nose, as hard as she could. "We do not have any time. I am sorry Lord Cousland, but even shifting you at this juncture would do you in."

"My family…" Bryce said weakly.

Eleanor shook her head. Her eyes were red but the tears had stopped, and she had that set, resolute expression on her face again. Nike felt as if the world were narrowing in seeing it there, and she did not have to ask to know what it meant.

"Mama, this is not-"

Eleanor ignored her, looking at Duncan. "They'll be in here at any moment. Get Nike out, use the passage. I will keep them from following you as long as I can."

"No!" Nike said furiously, stamping one foot.

"My Lady Cousland," Duncan said to Eleanor, also ignoring Nike. "I will pledge to keep your daughter safe with my life, but you know what threatens in the south. You know what I must ask in exchange."

Eleanor looked at Bryce who wearily nodded, then nodded herself and looked back at Duncan.

"Keep her safe," she said, her voice stern but faintly trembling. "Find my son and tell him what happened here, warn him."

"I swear it my Lady."

"No!" Nike said again, both horrified at the situation and enraged no one was listening to her. "Mother, I am not leaving you and father here to be murdered!"

Now Eleanor looked at her, and there wasn't an inch of yield in that gaze. "Nike, your father is dying, and we cannot help or move him. He is my husband, my love, and I swore an oath before the Maker and my own soul that I would stand beside him until the end. I mean to keep that oath."

"But-"

"I know this is hard," Eleanor said more gently. "You are a grown woman now, Nike, and for better or worse you must stand on your own, as all children someday must. You need to go with the Warden, warn your brother and tell the king what Howe has done. I love you Nike, and I am proud of you beyond words, but you need to go."

"I won't," Nike said in a low and unconvincing voice. Her cheeks were damp and her eyes were wet. She could feel her cheeks burning, and her wounded head was a miserable red throb. "I won't-"

Just then there was a clatter in the main kitchen. All heads save Bryce's snapped around toward the larder door, and Duncan got to his feet.

"Go," he said to the elven servant, and she rushed toward the tunnel. Holly had returned and now stood near to it, growling low at the larder door as the elf slipped past.

Duncan then headed to Nike and took her arm, gently but firmly. "We must go now," he said. Nike tore her arm away from his grip as if pulling it away from some venomous beast, her eyes blazing at him.

Without speaking, she went over to her parents and drew the few arrows she had left out of her quiver and slid them into her mother's. Eleanor took the bow from Nike's hand and instead gave her daughter her bow, before leaning up and kissing her cheek.

"Live," she whispered. "Stay safe. We will always be with you my love."

Nike's throat felt swollen with molten lead, and all she could do was nod. Her father was as pale as paper, save grey circles the color of old wash water under his eyes. His skin was clammy and damp as she bent and kissed his forehead. He did not open his eyes, but his breath fluttered over her ear momentarily as he whispered.

"…live…proud of you…"

She couldn't speak, couldn't respond. She kissed his cheek instead, leaving a damp smear of tears on his skin behind her.

As she straightened she forced herself to start walking. She was afraid if she didn't keep moving she wouldn't be able to begin again.

Duncan followed closely behind her, and she was suddenly consumed with the idea he was doing so to prevent her from turning around and going back. It felt like a hot coal burned just behind her collar, at the juncture of her chest and throat, and she suddenly absolutely hated the man. She hated everything about him, his very existence.

She hated that he had come here. She hated that he had tried to manipulate her into displaying her skills. She hated that he had wanted her for the Wardens. She hated that he had sought to chastise her like a child, and she hated, hated-that he was alive and unwounded and family was dying around her.

None of this would be happening if it weren't for him, she thought as she reached the tunnel. She knew even as she thought it that it wasn't true. This horror was not Duncan's doing. Still, she clung to that thought and that hate- it was the only light she had left right now.

Holly hesitated to follow them, and for a brief moment Nike was tempted to leave the dog with her parents. With the mabari's help they would last longer, take out more of Howe's men.

And in the end, all that will happen is Holly will be dead right along with them.

So, as she let the dark of the tunnel close over her, Nike spoke in a low and rough voice that was so clogged with grief and hate it barely sounded human.

"Holly, come."

The dog whined, shifted back a pace toward the tunnel, then reluctantly she followed. Duncan waited for the mabari to pass him and then caught hold of the inner rim of the false keg that disguised the tunnel's entrance.

Nike stood hunched and still only a few feet inside the tunnel, Holly now at her side. The sole slab of light that broke up the heavy black narrowed over her face, reflected off her tears and red-rimmed eyes, and then was gone.