Ethine Ch. 03

"I need something fast, I have to go back and fight, right now - so make it good," Calan said.

She looked over at him, her dark eyes glinting maliciously in the light. "Hm. I have just the thing, so I have."

She placed a glass in the centre of the table, pouring different things into it from a variety of jars and bottled scattered about her. The girl in grey packed a bandage with a collection of herbs, all the while her eyes on the fat woman and her work.

Calan forced himself to sit up, his sabre cradled across his lap, leaning against the wall, each breath laboured, hissing in his chest. Eventually the old woman waddled back across the room, a glass of some foul looking brown liquid in her hand. Calan sniffed it tentatively - cinnamon mixed with oil, he thought.

"Here you are. Drink this," Old Mary said. "Soon have you right, so it will."

She pressed the glass to his lips, he sniffed once more, opened his mouth.

"Stop!" the girl yelled. Calan lifted his head, the old woman spun to glare at the girl. "That won't heal you, she's trying to poison you," she finished, flinching back from the old woman's glare.

Calan slapped the glass away - sending it flying to smash against the wall. "What is this?" he said.

The old woman faced the cringing girl. "Shut up you little bitch," she said.

"It's obvious that Tinklethwaite has tortured you - you must be the traitor - she knows that, she's going to poison you," the girl said, quailing, backing into the corner. "It's true."

"Lying bitch, so you are" Old Mary said.

Gilraen was on his feet his sword in hand. "I believe her," he said.

Old Mary turned to face him, her evil little eyes drifting from him to Calan, his sword unsheathed now, to the girl. Then, her eyes calculating, she screamed and rushed from the room, waddling quickly through the door.

"She'll warn the others..." Gilraen said. Moving to go after her.

"Gil, leave it!" he said. "They'll soon have enough to worry about without us to occupy them." He looked over at the girl, standing afraid in the corner. "Thank you." He smiled. "Can you help me? I have to be able to fight, fight right now. It only has to last an hour or two, but I must be effective - after that doesn't matter."

The girl looked thoughtful, her eyes scanning the shelves. "I have something, but it's dangerous," she said, looking at him. "It'll get you fit but when it drains you - in your state you're unlikely to be strong enough to survive. It will probably kill you."

"Cal, don't," Gilraen said. "You don't even know Ethine's in danger, or where that glass leads - she might be okay, you'd be taking it for nothing."

Calan smiled at him, listened to his heart beating - that knot of anxiety right at its centre. She wasn't fine. She wasn't safe. She needed him and he knew it.

"Give me the potion," he said. "Couple of hours is all I want."

The girl moved quickly, gathering things from shelves, mixing with a fluid grace the old woman had lacked.

"Gilraen, when I'm gone I'll need you to get the prisoners out of the building, understand?"

"Sure Cal."

"Upstairs will be chaos, Terror will know you, as will Monster - but the others will be as likely to kill you as save you. When you go up, glamour yourself a pink outfit - pyjamas or something like that - the exiles will know you're not Sorrow's that way, got it?"

"Pink?"

"Yeah, the sillier the better."

"Sure, okay. What about you?"

Calan smiled. "You already know where I'm going - wherever Ethine is."

The girl finished mixing her potion, approached them with a glass of blue liquid that smelt metallic, bitter.

"Drink this. It won't make up for the damage you've suffered but it will mask it for a while - you'll still be weak, but at least you'll be able to fight." He reached for it, but she held it back from him.

"I know, when it wears off, I'll die," he said.

She handed him the glass with a nod, her eyes unreadable. He drank it down in one long draught. It tasted disgusting in a creamy way, not metallic - like sour milk mixed with wallpaper paste. In moments, though, he felt the warmth seeping into him, flowing around his body, dulling the pain, strengthening his joints. A short time later he was able to stand with confidence, his body responding as it should for once, though his left arm still hung weakly.

Not wanting to waste his transient strength on any glamour, he struggled into his discarded black trousers and white shirt, slinging his sabre over his shoulder.

"The prisoners, Gil, I'll help you get them free before I go," he said, then, turning to the girl, "Lady, come with us - there's nothing here for you now."

The girl nodded, tying the poultice around Gilraen's wound.

Gilraen stood, flexing his arms, his sabre in hand. Behind him the girl quickly sorted through the shelves, gathering jars and vials, placing them hurriedly into a leather satchel that she slung over her shoulders.

"Some of this might be useful, it's quite rare," she said, smiling shyly at Gilraen.

Finally she stood ready. Gilraen and Calan in the lead, the three of them moved down the corridor toward the prison. The corridor remained empty, although Calan expected at any second to come across Old Mary, his eyes alert.

The ogre was patrolling the perimeter of the cage, walking slowly towards them as they approached. Behind him the prisoners sat like ghosts in the shadows, faces anxious, peering through the bars of the cage. The ogre turned, face curious, as Calan and Gilraen approached with the girl.

"Is there any news - does Sorrow want the prisoners?" he said, his voice rumbling.

"Nothing yet," Calan said.

There was a brief whistle of metal and Calan's sword sliced into his shoulder with a jet of blood. The ogre seemed to sigh a little, an exhalation as much of shock as pain, then Gilraen ran him through. Like an oak falling, he crumpled slowly to the ground, thick black blood oozing from his wounds.

Gilraen went to the door, smashing the simple lock open with his sword. In the shadows the prisoners gathered themselves, rising to their feet, Turiel dashing forward.

"Calan, they took Ethine, she's gone," she shouted.

"It's okay, pixie, he knows," Gilraen said softly, pushing the door open. "He knows."

He looked back to where Calan was approaching the guardroom. Some sixth sense must have alerted the guards, that or some of the noise must have leaked further than they'd thought. They were both approaching the door as Calan reached it - the goblin had his whip in hand, the hob his pole and thorn. Neither were a match for Calan's sword. He made short, bloody work of the pair of them - cutting them down with brutal, inelegant chops more akin to butchery than fencing. It was all they deserved, he thought.

By the time Gilraen returned leading the prisoners, they were dead. Calan turned to him, his face and clothing bloody.

The prisoners looked shocked, pitiful, their eyes wide and frightened in the dim light.

"Come on," he said, his voice quiet.

******

The time for subtlety was past, Terror knew that. When he reached the door at the far end of the corridor he didn't even pause, smashing it open with pure brute force - his mass and speed conspiring to make him unstoppable. He surged into the dimly lit hall, the room almost entirely empty. He kept moving, not pausing even as he looked about. Behind him he sensed the exiles pouring through the doorway, their cries turning to screams of triumph as they realised how few knights Sorrow had arranged against them.

They poured across the floor of the hall in an ever expanding crescent, Terror at its head, his face contorted with battle-rage, his twin sickles waving in the air above him - his scream of fury joining with the raucous cries of the exiles - furniture and ornaments were thrown aside, smashed, jumped on or climbed over as they rushed to meet the enemy.

The knights slowly woke to their predicament. Thorn wasn't here, his colourful sergeants absent - but they were still knights. Without leadership they lacked co-ordination, losing the discipline that had made them so formidable before - each one making an individual decision about what to do. Some drew swords and moved to meet the enemy, others tried to unite into bigger groups, still others tried for a tactical withdrawal - seeking a defensive position. Gradually events overtook them - robbing them of options, forcing them to meet the exiles piecemeal - and one by one they drew swords and engaged in combat.

In seconds the hall was a maelstrom of battle - swords, knives, clubs, chains wielded with no thought for tactics or discipline - simply an urge to kill, to draw blood, to hurt the enemy. Screams of fury and anger, of hate and bloodlust, filled the hall. It wasn't a battle such as are written about in ballads, that make up the myths of the Seelie and Unseelie Courts - this was a brawl, a vicious, nasty street brawl fought between people bred to violence.

******

"Sorrow, what have you brought me?" Hafgan said, her voice was soft, soothing - almost like melted butter, thought Ethine, totally out of keeping with her appearance.

Sorrow gestured and Thorn grabbed her wrist, crushing it in his grasp, pulling her into the centre of the circle directly in front of the Witch Queen, holding her helpless.

"This is but a sample of what I have ready for you, Milady," Sorrow said with a bow. "I have all their true names recorded so they will be yours to command, your little puppets."

The Hag was looking at her with hard, glinting eyes. Ethine noticed with a shiver that one was blue, the other black - as if they'd come from two separate fay. Worse than that though was the look on her face as her eyes wandered over her body - she looked hungry.

"Show me."

"As you wish, Majesty," he said. "Memory, the names."

The fox faced man approached Sorrow, handing him a small square of paper. Sorrow looked at it for a moment, then slipped it into the pocket of his suitcoat.

"Now, what shall we have you do," he said, pensively. "Elan Ethine Era," he whispered to her, keeping his voice pitched so that the Hag wouldn't hear. She went rigid, desperately trying to think of what to do, playing for time. "Dance for the Queen, dance until I tell you to stop."

Ethine winced. Embarrassed, beyond thought but not daring to show the slightest hesitation for fear that her only advantage would be lost, she started dancing - skipping and swaying in the utter silence of the night, the eyes of the gathered boring into her.

"You see, Hafgan," Sorrow said. "I have a dozen just like this - ready for you tonight on the agreed terms."

The Hag was watching Ethine closely.

"Have her take her clothes off, Sorrow," she said. "I want to see what I'm buying."

"By the power of your true name I command you, strip off your clothes," he said.

Still dancing, Ethine peeled off her skirt, concealing the knife in the waistband so that nobody would see it, dropping the clothes at her shuffling feet. With a swift movement her shirt followed - its stitching forcing her to pull it over her head - her skin the white of snow, her small breasts naked before them. Last were her panties, dropping to the ground near her skirt to leave her naked before them - her pewter pubic hair like quicksilver in the moonlight. She danced on, trying to forget the people around her, trying to keep close to the blade.

"Very impressive, Sorrow," she said at last. "Are they all as pretty as this one?"

"Maybe not quite as pretty, Milady, but still usable."

The Hag nodded, pulling her robe back to show her mismatched limbs. "I think I like this one's arms," she said.

"Yes, or her legs, perhaps, they are rather skinny I know - but..."

Ethine danced on, trying to tune them out, skipping lightly over the ground as if her feet barely touched it - her sense of revulsion increasing with her fear, the only thing keeping it at bay the thought that she could end her own life with Calan's blade before they mutilated her.

"Alright, Ethine, you can stop now."

She stopped dead, standing still next to her clothes, her breathing only a little heavier for all her exertion.

******

Turiel, the pixie, a troll named Athinas and an ogress called Elderbany led the prisoners, crowding together through the narrow, empty corridors behind Gilraen and Calan. It was only a short distance to the staircase and it passed without incident, the corridor empty before them, but each sound brought new fear of being caught and returned to the cage, the prisoners quailing with each pause so that the three had to repeatedly reassure and usher them forward.

Calan paused at the top of the steps, the door partway open. Beyond was carnage. The battle was in full swing in the hall - a seething mass of motion, screaming and blood. As he watched he saw a knight disembowel a troll in a spray of blood, moving on to the next engagement before the body had even hit the floor. In another part of the room, a knight's sword was caught in a chain swung by a goblin, a second hamstringing him with a glass dagger before he could get it free, leaving him to fall screaming, daggers hacking at him as he fell.

To Calan's eyes it seemed that the exiles were on top of things, their superior numbers whittling the knights down gradually despite their better local knowledge, better weaponry.

"Okay Gil, this is where we part ways. Get them out through the back entrance," he said, gesturing to the door in pieces on the floor and the yawning gap beyond it. "If they have no safe place to go get them to the Unseelie Court, to Roiben. He owes me that - for my life, for Ethine's, it's worth that to him. The old Untermyer Estate, do you know it?"

"I do, I will, Calan," he said, his eyes sad, as if knowing they would never meet again. "Good luck."

They gripped hands tightly, Calan pulling him into an embrace. As goodbyes went, it was pretty good.

Calan nodded once to the prisoners, "Gilraen will get you out, stay with him, listen to him, okay?" There was a general murmur of agreement, a little giggling as Gilraen glamoured himself a pink suit.

Calan turned to Turiel, smiling lightly. "I'll get her back, Turiel. If it's the last thing I do - I'll get her back," he said.

"She believes in you, Calan. Don't let her down," she said quietly. "And thank you - for everything."

For the briefest moment her lips were pressed to his, then Gilraen was running for the open door herding the prisoners along with him, Turiel rushing to keep up. Calan watched them go, crouching near the door. In the maelstrom nobody appeared to have noticed them leave, the chaos effectively covering their escape.

Every moment that passed he felt better, his limbs no longer aching, his strength returning quickly - though his left arm seemed weak, very weak. Couple of hours - that was all he'd asked for, it had to be enough.

Seeing a gap in the fighting, he sprinted for the dais - dodging past a knight cutting down a wounded hob, cutting him down in turn as he passed. A second knight surged up in front of him, business suit splattered with blood and Calan ran him through without pausing, dashing past the falling body for the dais. Briefly he glimpsed Terror and Monster, fighting alongside one another as usual, the exiles surging around them against a knot of knights. Terror looked up as he ran. Even in the brief glance they shared Calan saw recognition dawn - saw Terror realise his direction, calculate the disposition of the battle, alter his battle plans like any good general.

Calan made the dais, falling over the low railing inelegantly, rolling for cover at the centre. The dais itself was an island of calm in the chaos. All about it the room was devastated, the battle having reduced furniture to sticks, or weapons - tables were smashed, chairs and sofas slashed to pieces or home now to the dead and wounded. The bar was littered with bodies where it had been used as a defensive position, knights hiding behind it with crossbows picking off exiles almost at will. From his transient cover he saw Terror urging the exiles to new passion, driving towards the dais, Sorrow's knights falling back - their numbers dwindling, discipline failing as they saw defeat looming.

And standing at the centre before him like a sinister marker was the glass. It remained opaque, its surface swirling with grey mist. Slowly he reached out - his hand passing through with a chill.

With a last look about he stood, facing it for a long moment - steeling himself for whatever lay beyond.

******

While Thorn held her immobile, his fingers like a vice on her arm, Sorrow stroked his hands across her shoulders - his touch cold, impersonal, fingering the buds of her wings on her shoulder blades - Ethine couldn't help but flinch away from him, not that he seemed to care.

"So, Hafgan, do we have a deal? A dozen fay for the service of a dozen of your knights for one year and a day?"

"Oh, Sorrow, you make such pretty deals," she said. "Yes of course we have a deal - bring me the rest of the fay and you will have your knights."

She stretched her arms, scratching at her skin, all the while her eyes drifting hungrily over Ethine's naked body.

"I shall see to it at once, Hafgan," Sorrow said, nodding to Thorn.

Still holding her arm, Thorn gestured quickly to the red and yellow knights who broke off from the main crew and made their way to the glass. Memory joined them, gripping the book of names beneath his arm. With a last nod to Sorrow, the three of them slipped back through the glass.

******

Calan was ready, the red knight wasn't. In the end that was all the difference it took.

Just as Calan was about to step into the glass, burning with violence, the red knight stepped through in front of him. For a moment they both hesitated, but Calan had been planning to step into violence and the red knight believed he was returning home. Calan ran him through, a second blow slashing his throat open just as the yellow knight stepped through the glass.

For a second their eyes met over the red knight's crumpling body, the yellow knight's eyes opening in surprise as awareness of his surroundings reached him. Then he too died, Calan's blade opening his throat even as he struggled to pull his sword from its sheath.

Memory was next to emerge, stepping out only to stumble over the yellow knight's bloody remains. Calan pushed him aside, over towards the side of the dais, standing ready in case any further figures appeared. For a moment the fox-faced man looked startled, then his eyes took in the crumpled body of the red knight and Calan's bloody blade, staring wide-eyed at the surging chaos of the room and he quailed, huddling against the railing with fearful eyes.

After a few moments it seemed obvious that no new figures were about to emerge from the glass and Calan approached him, his blade still in hand.

Memory cowered back against the side of the dais. "Please, I'm not a knight, I'm a bookkeeper - I won't fight you, don't hurt me."

For a second Calan looked at him, murder in his eyes, then he grabbed him by the throat, bloody sabre pointing at his face.

"Oh no, I'm not going to hurt you, Foxy - you're far more use to me alive than dead," he said.

"What are you going to do to me?"

"I'm going to trade you," he said. "So do as you're told and you'll be fine, got it?"

"Yes, yes, of course, I'll be no trouble."

Quickly, using Memory's tie, Calan bound his hands behind him. A cursory search produced a thin bladed dagger strapped to Memory's waist, which Calan slipped into his own belt, and the leather bound book that Memory carried everywhere with him. Calan gave it a brief inspection and tossed it aside.

"Come on, Foxy, we're going for a little walk."

He pulled Memory to his feet, sliding his sword back into its sheath and holding Memory's own knife to his throat. Once again he faced the swirling glass but this time he didn't hesitate. Holding tight to Memory's collar he pushed the fox-faced man through the glass and followed immediately after him.