Stan Nicholls - Quicksilver Rising

Her trance was broken by noises outside the cell. They were coming for her again.

Serrah was halfway to standing when the door flew open. It framed one of the men who had beaten and threatened her. His expression was unreadable. Serrah backed away, meeting the bed.

The man took two faltering steps in her direction. He stopped, swayed, then fell head-first. A dagger jutted between his shoulder-blades.

There were other people outside. Serrah blinked at them, bewildered, as they spilled in. Their faces appeared blank at first. She thought it must be more glamours to cheat her, then saw they wore fabric masks, quite crudely made.

‘Who are you?’ she challenged.

‘Friends,’ one of them responded crisply. ‘Come on! We’ve no time!’

The thought that this might be her unit flashed through her mind. She soon realised it wasn’t. ‘Where are we –’

‘Out of here.’

He took her arm. She winced as they bundled her into the corridor.

There were four of them. One went ahead, one took the rear; the other two stuck by her. They began moving down a long, low-ceilinged passageway. It was badly lit and the men at front and back activated soft illumination glamours.

She asked again, ‘Who are you?’

‘We’ve a way to go before we’re out of here,’ her escort told her, ignoring the question, ‘and likely to meet opposition. Stay with us, keep moving.’

‘Give me a blade,’ she said.

‘You’re in no state.’

‘If I have to defend myself I’ll need it. You want me out of here, don’t you?’

After a brief hesitation he passed her a long-bladed knife. Its cold, firm gravitas reassured her.

‘Use it only if necessary,’ he cautioned. ‘ We’re here to do the fighting.’

She shook loose their steadying hands and walked unaided. They said nothing but stayed close to her. Hobbling from her pains, Serrah had to work hard to keep pace.

They came to two bodies sprawled in their path; one a warder, the other wearing a paladin’s red tunic. That meant real trouble. If it was possible to be in more.

Stepping over the corpses, they warily approached a corner. Once round it they were in another passage, much like the first but shorter. Three more masked rescuers lurked at the end of it. Serrah’s group hurried to them, and she ached with the effort.

They were guarding the foot of a winding staircase. There was a quick, whispered consultation. Then together they started to ascend, weapons ready, with Serrah in the middle of the pack.

Five or six turns brought them to another level. This proved to be an axis of corridors, each following a point of the compass. All looked empty. The party continued climbing.

The level above saw the end of the stairs and a single passageway. It wasn’t much more than a tunnel. With whispers and signals the one who seemed to be their leader explained that the next stairwell was at its far end. By drawing a finger across his throat he indicated that it was a particularly dangerous stretch. As they began walking, she saw why. Other corridors branched out from theirs, but at oblique angles, meaning the mouths of several were blind to them until they drew parallel. They crept past two such without ambush.

As the stairs came into sight they found another body, lying in a scarlet puddle. He was one of theirs, no doubt left as a lookout. His mask had been pulled up to his hairline and his body bore numerous wounds.

They all glanced around nervously. Serrah gripped the knife tighter, her senses heightened. Twenty or thirty paces ahead were two more side passages, one to their left, one to their right, almost facing each other. There was a flurry of handsignalling among Serrah’s party. Then they quietly spread out and began a slow advance. A pair of her unknown companions shadowed her, not touching but close enough to.

About halfway there, the pathfinder motioned a halt. He knelt and picked up a small piece of stone. This he pitched ahead of him. It landed mid-corridor, clattering.

The echo died. Nothing happened.

They decided on the simplest stratagem: a rush en masse for the stairs. The company readied themselves. Serrah’s escorts looked ready to drag her if necessary. Their fingertips brushed her arms, within grabbing distance.

The leader gave his sign and they started to run.

A dozen swift paces on, disaster struck.

Armed men poured from the tunnel mouths. Warders and militia mostly, with a smattering of paladins. Serrah reckoned their number at above a dozen. At least half as many again as her side.

The rescuers’ dash became an unplanned charge. They had no choice. The two groups’ leading edges met. There were cries and clashes of steel.

Serrah allowed herself to be steered through the initial chaos. As the mob distilled into a series of separate fights, she shook free. Her escorts stayed close but their attention turned to the advancing melee. Whoever her mysterious allies were, they fought like maniacs.

The tide rolled in and Serrah found herself at the centre of the brawl. For a long moment, incredibly, it engaged everyone but her. She seemed to exist in a bubble, with duels raging on every side. Her abused body throbbed. She was sucked dry and disoriented. But all she felt was fury. Blistering resentment and hatred of her persecutors smothered any other thought.

She needed to kill something.

The battle had drawn her bodyguards away. As she moved, she heard one of them calling out to her. She ignored him and plunged into the scrum.

A blade scythed the air above her ducking head. Another cleared her ribs by a hairsbreadth. The twisting and dodging was excruciating. It didn’t matter.

She picked a target. A stocky militiaman, fencing with a rescuer and getting the better of it. Serrah had no taste for honour or subtlety. She buried her knife in his back. As he went down she took his sword. Her victim’s opponent turned away and piled into another foe.

One of the masked rescuers collapsed in front of her, his chest ribboned. She leapt over his corpse and into the path of a warder with a rapier in play. Deflecting a blow with the knife, she thrust her sword into his belly. Nearby, one of his comrades lost his footing on the dank flagstones and fell heavily. A masked rescuer impaled him, delivering his broadsword two-handed to the heart. Bathed in the catharsis of violence, Serrah looked for more trouble.

It found her. Moving with liquid agility, a paladin laid siege. He was a head taller than Serrah and powerfully built. Like her, he wielded sword and knife. Their legendary fighting skills and savagery made paladins opponents to be avoided at the best of times. But in the worst of times, and impelled by bloodlust, caution had no hold on Serrah.

Their swords collided. The strength behind the paladin’s blow sent a spasm through Serrah’s knotted arm muscles. She took a swipe at his face with the knife, forcing him back a pace. Swift as thought he retaliated, sending a downward slash that could have split her to the waist. She replied with a combination of jabs and swipes that briefly staved him off.

They joined again in a flurry of scathing passes and grating blades. It seemed his defence was impenetrable. Then with will and luck guiding her hand, Serrah battered through. He tried to block a side-swipe. Her momentum was too great and snapped his sword in two. The paladin brought up his knife. She evaded it and planted steel deep in his guts.

He slumped to his knees, mouth agape, eyes wide. Serrah drew back her sword and sliced into the side of his neck. Blood sprayed, the paladin toppled.

Breathing hard, she backed off and looked around. The frenzy was decreasing. Her allies had downed the last of the enemy and bodies littered the corridor. Two of them were rescuers. Several others had light injuries. Some of them were staring at her, but nobody said anything.