Quicksilver Rising

‘Look at me; I’m your daughter. How can you disown me, Mother?’

‘Don’t call me that. All I see is a fraud.’

‘Sign the confession. Save us both.’

Serrah had ceased to believe in the illusion. ‘I deny you,’ she hissed.

The girl saw her expression. She began edging away. Serrah noticed that the door was slightly ajar.

They moved at the same time. Despite her aches, Serrah was faster. She caught the pretender by her arms. They struggled. Serrah loosed a hand, drew it back and delivered a hard slap across the girl’s face. A tingling sensation suffused her hand, like transient pins and needles.

‘You stupid bitch!’ the impostor wailed. Her voice was changing, dropping to a lower pitch.

Transfixed by what was happening, Serrah let go of her.

It was as though a seething swarm of golden bees covered the girl’s face. Then the myriad glimmering shards dispersed, flying out in all directions and dissolving.

A partial glamour, designed to enfold its host’s face, and in this instance imitate a dead child. Advanced magic, worth a small fortune.

When the dazzle cleared, Serrah was facing a stranger. A plain woman, not a girl, and quite different to her daughter. Only her build matched. She looked frightened.

Serrah lunged at her. She met a blow to the abdomen. It knocked the wind out of her and rekindled the fire of her earlier thrashing. Gasping, she went to her knees.

The woman was through the door in a flash, slamming it behind her. Serrah scrambled to it and started hammering with her fists. She raged and cursed until her hands were bloody and her voice gave out.

At some point her passion spent itself. She had sunk to the floor, and remained there. The door was bloodstained from her pounding.

Now she hugged her knees to her chest and gently rocked. And due to her masters’ deceit, grieved again. Physical brutality she might withstand. She didn’t think she could take much more of their artifice.

For some while she had been staring at the top of the door frame. The cross-beam projected like a narrow shelf. If her smock was torn into strips and wound together, the makeshift rope could be looped over it. Then she just had to tie a noose, haul herself up, wriggle her head in and let go. There wasn’t enough of a drop to snap her neck. It would be a slow choking. But even that seemed preferable to her present state.

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.