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.

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.