Stan Nicholls - Quicksilver Rising

Healing salves were quickly pressed to wounds. One or two of the group broke small phials under their noses and inhaled restorative vapours. Then the signal went out to move on. This time, nobody offered to help her.

The depleted band reached the stairs and began to climb again. They ascended four more levels without incident, save for disturbing the odd rat. But they could hear sounds of pursuit from below and hurried their flight. The effort vexed Serrah’s body. It felt like she had lava coursing through her veins.

Finally they arrived at a wide, high passageway marking ground level. The entrance was here, its robust doors standing open. A handful of masked men guarded it. Corpses of militia and paladins had been dragged to one side of the corridor. The guards eyed Serrah, but no questions were asked about their missing comrades.

‘How does it look?’ the leader of Serrah’s group wanted to know.

‘Our luck won’t hold much longer,’ one of the guards replied. ‘We have to move now.’

The leader nodded and steered Serrah to the door. It was night outside and a fine rain was falling. He pointed to the massive wall opposite. Three thick ropes hung down it. ‘Could you climb that?’ he said.

‘Yes.’

He held out a hand. ‘Your weapons.’

Serrah tightened her hold on the blades and shook her head.

‘How will you climb?’

Reluctantly, she gave him the sword and knife, and suddenly felt naked. He passed them back to his crew.

‘Who are you?’ she asked yet again.

‘Now isn’t the time. We’ll explain when we’re away from here.’ He indicated one of his men. ‘He’ll go with you. The rest of us will be right behind. Just keep moving. Don’t stop for anything.’ He took her silence as assent and mustered the others.

‘Go !’ he barked.

Serrah and her attendant raced through the doors. The chill night air jolted her and she took an involuntary gulp. Rain lashed her face. Underfoot, the ground was spongy. She could hear the others thundering along behind.

Somebody shouted. She turned her head. A large party of armed men, including many paladins, was rushing at them from the corner of the building. They were yelling too.

‘Keep moving !’ the leader bellowed.

Serrah slammed into the wall and grasped a dangling rope. Her escort did the same. They began pulling themselves up, feet slipping for want of purchase on the wet walls.

An ear-shattering explosion rang out. There were flashes of light, brilliant as lightning. She looked down. Somebody was letting off magical munitions.

They detonated in great round clouds of green and red and gold, then spewed their deceptions. Grotesque beasts erupted, and dozens of chimera duplicates of the rescuers, designed to confuse.

‘Look away!’ her companion cried.

She understood and averted her eyes. A tremendously intense light bathed them, illuminating the wall brighter than full daylight before it flickered and died. An optical glamour. A light burst that blinded. She wondered which side had used it. Screams and other sounds of combat drifted up to them. They continued climbing.

The edifice seemed eternal. About two-thirds of the way up, Serrah’s arms grew numb and her strength faltered. Her companion, keeping pace, urged her on. Something sliced the air and stilled his tongue. An arrow quivered in his back. Serrah reached out to him. He fell. A downward glance showed her his fate.

Mixed with phantasms and dazzlements, men were fighting in the grounds below. A couple of her rescuers had made it to the ropes and were hauling themselves up. She kept going, fearful of an arrow meant for her.

At length she arrived at a broad ledge topping the wall, fighting for breath as she dragged herself onto it. She crawled to the far side and looked down. Three more ropes hung on the outside of the wall, tied to a segment of crenellation on the ledge. In a side street directly below, a hay wagon had been parked, full of stuffed sacks. Two masked men looked up at her and gestured furiously.

A whoomp and crackle sounded to her rear. In the palace grounds a geyser of purplish smog billowed high. As she watched, it took on the form of a gigantic red dragon, tall as a temple tower, its green eyes ablaze, spiked tail lashing. A glamour, though the fire it breathed was real enough. She saw men engulfed in flame. But the ones on the ropes were still coming, despite arrows clacking all around.

Serrah crossed the ledge and began lowering herself to the street. All she could think about was getting away, and of her revulsion at being so completely at the mercy of others. In that moment she vowed it would never happen again. When she had scrambled about halfway down, she let go of the rope and dropped.

She landed heavily but unharmed on the pile of sacks. One of the waiting men moved to take her arm. She dodged him and jumped from the wagon. Then she ran. They shouted after her.

Serrah discounted her pains and ran faster still. Perhaps they tried following, she never knew. Soon she was in a maze of bustling lanes.

Barefoot, smock tattered and bloodstained, wet hair plastered to her forehead, she limped into streets where nobody stared.

Rain lashed Bhealfa’s eastern region all through the night. But dawn broke sunny and clement.

Kutch Pirathon sat by a swollen brook, idly lobbing pebbles into the rushing water. He was growing restive. For the hundredth time he glanced at the tumbledown stone cottage further up the barren hill. Its ill-fitting door remained resolutely closed.

He sighed and continued bombarding the stream. There was little else to do. The hillside had nothing to offer but dripping scrub, a few withered trees and a lot of rocks. His only company was a brace of circling crows.

In truth, he could have employed himself gainfully. He was obliged to, in fact. More than obliged; bound by an oath. He should be undertaking the mental exercises necessary to advance in the Craft. His time was supposed to be spent honing his will, recognising the vital currents and channelling them. But they were techniques taught to him by his master and he couldn’t focus properly for thinking about the old man. There was no shaking off the feeling that he had let Domex down, that he might still be here if it hadn’t been for his timidity. Neglect of duty added to his guilt. Yet, for the moment, his heart wasn’t in it.

His melancholy would have deepened had the door of the cottage not creaked open. He looked up to see Caldason emerging. Flinging the last of the stones at the stream, Kutch stood and dusted off his breeches. He watched as the Qalochian addressed a few last words to the elderly hermit he’d consulted. Then he waited as he made his way down the crude path to him.

During their short acquaintance, Kutch had found that Caldason wasn’t one to volunteer information. Nor was he easy to read. Now was no exception.

‘What happened?’ Kutch asked.

‘Nothing.’

‘Oh.’

‘But you weren’t to know he couldn’t help. I’m grateful for you bringing me here.’

They began their descent.

Kutch still didn’t know what Caldason’s problem was, beyond the so-called fits. He tried fishing. ‘Did he, er, say anything at all about your … condition?’

‘He didn’t say anything. He wrote his questions on a slate.’

‘Ah, yes. Of course.’

‘Is he naturally dumb?’

‘No. When he was a boy, his father cut his tongue out. To stop him talking about the mysteries of the Craft. It was the kind of thing they used to do in those days.’

‘The world’s just full of delights,’ Caldason remarked cynically.

‘His father would have had it done too, by his father. The knowledge was passed down, generation to generation, and that was the price. It was considered normal in some branches of the Craft until not that long ago.’