Ethine Ch. 03

******

Ethine watched as twelve of the sinister, cloaked figures separated themselves from the Hag's entourage, moving to stand adjacent to Sorrow and his knights, their sinister natures causing Sorrow's knights to unconsciously draw back. From the group gathered before the house she watched in cold dread as a further cloaked figure shuffled forward, his robe falling open to reveal sets of elaborate manacles in golden metal hanging from his belt.

"Here, give me her wrists," the figure said, his voice a sinister hiss in the dark, his face hidden in shadow.

Thorn grabbed her forearms, forcing her wrists outward.

"No, please, don't..." she pleaded, hating herself for how she sounded but so frightened that she couldn't help it.

Thorn opened his mouth to speak, just as another voice cut across the gully: "LEAVE HER ALONE YOU FUCKING GHOUL!" It cut across the silence, full of anger and hate and rich with the promise of violence.

As one every eye shifted to the source.

Calan stood by the glass, dagger in his right hand, a petrified Memory helpless before him - battered, bruised, cut, covered with blood - but alive, definitely alive! Ethine gasped, her heart suddenly jumping in her chest. Thorn released her arms, pulled his sabre from its sheath instead.

"What, who is this, Sorrow?" the Hag said.

Sorrow looked from Thorn, to the Hag, to Calan and Memory, his face furious.

"This is a nasty little traitor, Hafgan, who will be dealt with shortly," Sorrow said, looking balefully at Thorn.

Quailing at Sorrow's look, Thorn took hold of her once again, squeezing her arm so tightly she gasped with the pain. With a quick glance at the Hag, the hooded figure retired quickly to the ranks of Hafgan's court.

"Forgive me for interrupting you, Hafgan," Calan said, his eyes on Ethine. "But he doesn't have anything left to trade."

"What do you mean, little man?" she said.

"Don't listen to him, Milady," Sorrow shouted. "He's nothing but a traitor."

"No, if there is one thing I know it's that fay don't lie - let him speak, Sorrow," she said.

As if on cue there was a loud ring of metal as each of the cloaked figures drew their swords, the gully suddenly alive with shining blades. Sorrow's knights looked about unsurely, so obviously outnumbered that they felt utterly helpless.

"Thank you, Hafgan," Calan said, his eyes briefly flicking over the figures before him. "In Sorrow's absence there have been a few changes back in the mortal world. All his prisoners are gone for a start - so he has nothing to trade with you. Furthermore, my allies amongst the exiles are slowly reducing his knights to dog food. I wouldn't be surprised if, by the time he gets back, he doesn't even have a court."

Ethine could see he was wounded, damaged. His whole body appeared bruised, his left arm hanging awkwardly by his side, his eye swollen. What was keeping him up? she wondered. She desperately wanted to go to him, to see to his wounds, but Thorn was holding her tight and it was clear that this was far from over. Instead she kept her eyes on him - looking for any signal, any sign indicating what he wanted her to do.

"You lie!" Sorrow said, his voice angry, the knuckles on his fell-sword white.

"I'm fay, I can't lie, Sorrow," he said calmly. "But I came here to make a deal of my own."

"Go on, little man, I'm listening," Hafgan said, her voice hard.

"It seems that I am in love with the woman being so cruelly treated in front of you here," he said. "I will trade Memory for her."

Ethine jumped. In love? With her? She blinked, staring at him harder than ever, her heart pounding. Did he mean it? Or was it a ploy? Instinctively she looked at him, found his eyes on her before they flicked away - taking in his surroundings, his enemies. No, not a ploy - he was fay, he couldn't lie; he meant it, of that she was sure. Looking at him with new eyes she could see it, could read it even in the brief, tender look he'd given her. Despite everything - despite her surroundings, her nakedness, the nearness of death itself - she felt herself suddenly hopeful, a new respect for herself dawning as she tried to be worthy of his affection, to see herself as he saw her.

"I fail to see how that deal is attractive to me?" Hafgan said.

"The offer is to Sorrow," he said, prodding Memory with the end of his knife so that he jumped slightly. "Memory for Ethine."

Sorrow looked across to where Thorn held Ethine by the arm, then up to where the Hag sat in her macabre throne, her inhuman gaze sweeping across the frozen tableau, to the block of mist behind Calan that represented the only way home.

"I have a counter offer, traitor," he said easily. "I'll fight you for the life of your woman." His eyes flicked sideways to the Hag. "If I win, Hafgan, our deal proceeds as normal. If you win, traitor, you leave here in peace with your woman."

"If I refuse?" Calan said.

Sorrow shrugged. "Then I shall trade Ethine to Hafgan as planned. You may kill Memory, of course, but then you will also die. You gain nothing."

Calan thought for a moment, standing quietly, feeling the feverish energy of the potion coursing through him. "I accept," he said at last.

Hafgan laughed, a sound rich with amusement. "You are both fools. Do you imagine that either of you has any say in what happens here in my lands?" she said, chuckling.

As if to illustrate her point the mist rolled back, exposing more of the crooked figures standing as still as death all about them - standing as if waiting for some instruction, then it boiled back over them, obscuring them and the threat they represented.

"Nevertheless, it is not often that I have such diverting company," she continued, "and I am inclined to allow you to spill your blood for my own amusement." She leaned forward in her chair, her voice dropping, all trace of amusement gone from it now. "However, I have a caveat to add to your little deal before I allow this charade to continue," she said, "if you lose, Sorrow, those members of your court here with you are mine - they will never leave."

Ethine felt Thorn flinch at her words, his grip, already a vice on her arm, suddenly pinched tighter. She fingered the blade she still concealed - it may still come to that, she thought. For once she felt she had an advantage over Thorn: if Calan lost she was dead anyway - she had no desire to live to be offered to Hafgan and her mercies - but at least she could take Thorn with her.

With a last glance at Thorn, Sorrow nodded to Hafgan, drawing his fell-blade from its sheath - the blackness of the blade like a wound in the fabric of the world about them, a slash of absolute darkness against the night.

"Good," Hafgan said. "Then let's make some room so that these little men can kill one other."

The mist boiled forward again, silently shrouding the figures surrounding them, then, as quickly as it came, it drew back. In its wake the figures, the faerie dancers, were all gone, the land about them clear once again. Sorrow's knights moved more slowly, enlarging the perimeter, making an expanded circle of about fifty paces, its circumference just inside the swirling walls of mist. Thorn pulled her with him, manoeuvring them so that they were only about ten paces from the surface of the glass, the way home. She saw Calan following her with his eyes, Memory held in front of him. Quickly she turned her hand, exposing the blade to his eyes - saw him nod imperceptibly - his eyes flicking to Thorn. She knew what he meant, readied herself.

Calan pushed Memory away, watching as the fox-faced man stumbled and ran awkwardly over to the far side of the circle, his hands still bound. Quickly he slipped the knife back into his waistband and drew his sword, stalking around the cleared area. He looked again across at Ethine, saw her try to smile encouragement at him - saw it die, stillborn on her lips, choked with fear.

Sorrow stood relaxed at the far side of the circle, his fell-blade held almost casually, but his eyes were alert, shining in the moonlight, and Calan was not fooled. He dropped into his guard, saw Sorrow do the same - the pair of them circling slowly now, measuring one another. Calan could feel the potion working, could feel its strength burning through his veins, supporting him, masking his body's damage but he knew he was far from his normal fitness. Worse, he knew that even this partial fitness was no more than temporary - that it could fail at any moment to leave him weak and vulnerable. He needed to finish it and finish it quickly, for Ethine's sake.

For just a second Sorrow glanced sideways, looking at Thorn, and Calan lunged - flying across the open space between them - his sabre slashing for Sorrow's head. Sorrow blocked it with ease, his fell-blade faster than Calan would have believed possible. Then it flashed back in a swift thrusting counter that Calan barely got his blade to in time. For a second they traded blows, Calan giving ground as Sorrow's greater speed forced him on the defensive - then Calan disengaged, dancing back out of range and the circling started again.

Ethine watched with her heart in her mouth, Calan was hurt, she could see that. He didn't move with the same fluid grace she'd seen in him before and his left arm hung awkwardly at his side - obviously badly hurt. She was frightened, but frightened for him, not for herself. Sorrow had seen it too, she knew, reading Calan's weakness - a triumphant smile on his face as Calan had spun away at the end of their last engagement.

Calan glanced about the circle, the terrain was uniformly flat, damp grass over earth, a slight slope down towards the Hag's house but not enough to be a serious advantage.

The fell-blade flashed towards him, as quick as thought - he parried, going for a quick riposte that was easily turned aside. All too quickly he found himself forced back, Sorrow advancing in a blizzard of blows from which only his instinct saved him. Desperately he parried and twisted, drawing on every last part of his experience to make up for his injured body, only just keeping Sorrow's evil blade from his skin as he danced back about the circle - the sound of Sorrow's knights loud as they urged Sorrow on with mumbled encouragement.

They broke apart, Calan breathing hard, his joints aching with the exertion. Sorrow looked fresh, smiling, almost taunting him as he moved easily about the open space. Calan knew he was tiring fast, his abused body unable to take further punishment, even with the potion's effects.

He dropped into his guard again, his sword held lightly before him. Once again Sorrow came on, faster than ever this time - his blade seeming to appear almost as if from nowehere. Desperately Calan locked the blades, catching Sorrow's on his own, lashing out with his foot at Sorrow's knee - felt it connect, a grunt from Sorrow - then he pushed him back disengaging his blade and slashing high for Sorrow's throat. Sorrow was faster, skipping away, his parry knocking Calan's blade aside and his riposte coming on quicker than Calan could react. He felt it slice into his side, twisting with the cut, a streak of fire shooting through him even as he crabbed aside, blood staining his shirt.

The cut burned, burned like ice. It was as if Sorrow's blade had frozen his body - weakening it further. Calan rubbed distractedly at the wound, feeling the blood oozing from it - put it from his mind.

Before him Sorrow smiled triumphantly, dropping into his guard.

Calan glanced across at Ethine, standing on the far side of the portal. The anguished look on her face galvanised him. She looked so helpless, so frightened. She was counting on him. He had failed her before, he was not going to fail her this time. He had bargained his life for a few hours to help her... He drew strength from that, his life was forfeit, he had nothing left to lose. With that realisation he felt a terrible kind of freedom soak into him - the freedom of the damned.

He straightened, feeling the blood trickle along his skin, a vicious, feral smile meeting Sorrow's triumphant grin - saw the beginning of doubt in Sorrow's eyes.

"Come on then, Sorrow," he hissed, his anger flaring white-hot, "think you can take me?"

"Oh, I can take you, traitor," Sorrow said.

Calan's blade flashed out, reaching for Sorrow. Once again the clearing rang with the chime of blades - Sorrow's fell-blade flashing for his face, Calan blocking, riposting. He felt sudden heat as Sorrow's blade nicked his shoulder, a moment later a second cut to his left arm - but he didn't pause, his anger clamping down on the pain, driving him with only a single goal - kill Sorrow. He felt a third nick, a shallow wound on his right arm - barely noticed, his blade cutting savagely for Sorrow's eyes - and saw nervousness there for the first time. Uncertainty taking root as he came on and kept coming.

Sorrow gave ground, falling back before the onslaught, and Calan drove him, pushing him toward the perimeter - a wild exultation taking hold, driving his blade onward, pushing all thoughts of pain, of the state of his body from his mind. There was just Sorrow and him. And Sorrow was going to die. He knew he was grinning, grinning like a madman - as if he was sure of his victory.

Finally it happened. Sorrow knew he was being backed toward the perimeter but couldn't take his eyes from Calan to look, to find out how close he was to the edge. Each step he took only increased his nervousness, his desperation. Calan drove him on, his blade flashing, until Sorrow couldn't retreat any further.

Desperately Sorrow tried to reverse his progress, his blade beating Calan's aside, flashing for Calan's head. Calan blocked, thrust for Sorrow's gut. Sorrow parried, his riposte faster than Calan could meet - slicing towards his face. Calan dropped, feeling the wind of Sorrow's blade as it passed over his head, falling to one knee. Sorrow leapt forward - his blade thrusting for Calan's throat.

Calan's attack came from nowhere - launching himself forward with no regard for any parry or block. Even as he moved he felt Sorrow's blade slide into his left shoulder but he was already moving. He threw himself from the floor, screaming at the top of his voice - driving his sword into Sorrow's chest even as he felt himself falling, the pain in his shoulder exploding through him.

They fell together, a collective moan rippling around the circle, Ethine's scream piercing the night.

Calan groaned, Sorrow's body lying across him, his face mere inches from his own.

"Traitorous bastard," Sorrow said, his voice little more than a breath, his grey eyes flashing their hate. Then blood bubbled from his lips, poured over his face and he died.

Everything happened at once.

Thorn cursed, releasing Ethine's arm to draw his sabre, his eyes intent on Calan's prostrate form trapped beneath Sorrow's dead weight. Ethine stabbed him, driving Calan's small blade into his neck with frantic, desperate strength - knowing she had to stop him, kill him before he killed Calan. All around the outside of the circle the mist suddenly boiled up, sweeping over the knights on the perimeter, reaching into the clearing.

Desperately Calan struggled to push Sorrow from him, the fell-blade still protruding from his shoulder. All around him the mist boiled, filled with the panicked shouts of the trapped knights - calling to one another in fear.

Thorn looked startled, staring at Ethine in surprise even as blood poured from his neck. Then, he glanced quickly about at the rapidly encroaching mist and, hands both pressed to his wound, he turned and ran for the portal. Ethine ignored him, running for Calan's side.

The body was too heavy, he couldn't shift it. His left arm was useless, his right was aching, weak, and he couldn't seem to get the energy to struggle any longer - his body had finally had enough. He watched the tendrils of mist sweeping around his feet, could make out the movement of shadowy figures in it. Even as he watched the shouts of the knights turned to screams, the sound chilling as the others called more desperately now, their numbers slowly dwindling.

Ethine grabbed his hand, her slender fingers wrapping around his.

"Calan, come on," she shouted, her face frightened, her eyes looking fearfully into the approaching mist.

"Ethine, it's no good," he said. "I can't move the body. Go on, go! Save yourself."

"Not without you!"

Desperately she pushed at Sorrow's body, trying to roll it off him. All the while the mist closed in, tendrils sweeping between them and the portal. Slowly, painfully slowly, Ethine rolled Sorrow's dead weight off his body. Calan struggled to rise, the effects of the potion all but gone now - weakness sweeping through him so that he could barely move his limbs. She grabbed his hand, tugging him, pulling his right arm over her shoulder, the fell-sword still standing obscenely from his left.

"Come on, Calan!" she screamed.

With strength born of fear and desperation she succeeded in helping him to his feet, the two of them staggering like drunks towards the almost hidden portal, his weight leaning on her slender body. She knew that any slip, any stumble would send them both falling to the ground and she knew she wouldn't be able to get them up again. One step, two steps, his weight was dragging her down. The screams of the knights were tailing off now, the silence all the more eerie for their absence. The mist between them and the portal was thickening perceptibly.

Two more paces, she thought, just two more. The portal was there, right before them. The mist surged toward them, tendrils reaching for them, gathering between them and the portal. The clearing was almost completely hidden now, the mist obscuring everything. One more step, she thought. Calan staggered, falling to his knees on the damp earth, blood pouring from his wounds, staining her skin, staining the ground.

"Calan!"

He looked up, his eyes meeting hers. He looked awful, his pale skin white now, filthy with blood and grime - blood covering him, oozing from his wounds, dripping from his hand.

"I love you," he said, his voice no more than a breath. "I always have."

Then, with strength she didn't think he still had, he pushed her through the portal, the mist parting as she was flung backwards into the glass.

******

Terror stood before the glass, Thorn's body at his feet, blood soaking the dais. Around him the exiles stood uneasily, casting furtive, unsettled glances at the swirling surface of the portal.

Sorrow's court was no more, a handful of knights had fled but most would never leave this hall, their bodies lying crumpled all about the smashed room. With their victory absolute, many of the exiles had already left, a mere handful remaining with Terror and Monster, waiting for Calan, for Ethine. With them stood Gilraen and a mortal girl dressed in grey who had returned only a short time ago, entering even as the exiles were leaving.

Moments before, Thorn had come running through the portal, his hands held to his bloody throat, blood soaking into his pale suit. For a moment he had stared about, aghast, at the exiles gathered before him - then Monster had killed him, stabbing his silver blade into his exposed heart. His arrival, however, had sparked a new debate. Should they try to pass through the portal and help or should they wait, and if so, for how long?

"We don't know what's happening - if we pass through we may make things worse?" Monster said.

"How?" asked Terror. "There's obviously some kind of fight going on for Thorn to be wounded - Calan may need our help."

Terror looked about at the handful of exiles still remaining. In truth not many would be willing to pass through the strange portal. Something about it was deeply unsettling, standing next to it was like the feeling you got just before a heavy storm struck - like static electricity running over you.