Quicksilver Rising

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.

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.

6 (#ulink_c906e370-6411-53b7-9ef3-bf878a14e1af)

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.’