A face appeared in the back window, a man's face. At first she thought it was one of the army, but the body set too high and the proportions all wrong. He was too large to be anything other than a centaur, and he pointed right at her.

"Look you, Your Highness, and Rhovanor Of Rayacre, help the wounded into the trapdoor, I'll take care of these traitors." 

He galloped away as fast as he appeared. She turned to the heir apparent, who was already formulating a plan. His plan was risky, but it would have to do, it was all they had. While Ridlen and his elven companion assisted the others to a bed, she slid her desk to the side revealing the trapdoor. 

The screams and cries were coming closer. Sounds of chaos echoed in the streets as orcs and men clashed iron with the foolish few who stood against them. A mixture of orcish and common tongue now become distinguishable through the chaos. They were just outside.

She aided the two into the trapdoor and without a word shut it and slid the desk over just enough to conceal it. Glass shattering filled the air, it was from next door. It was now her turn. Thinking quickly she grabbed her sword and then the half empty ink bottle on her desk. 

She quickly poured the ink on the wooden floor in a viscous puddle, the dim light from the fire gave her just the effect she wanted. The front door rattled, no time. She tossed the bottle aside and threw herself to the floor halfway onto the pool of ink. The sword slipped from her hand as she lay looking, or so she hoped, as if she had already been slain. 

The door burst open sending splinters of wood from the now broken hinges, several large orcs squeezed inside, their heavy axes drawn and ready to strike someone down.