"And should anyone think to imprison me in any of my cells, perhaps thinking it a fitting punishment to lock me in with a rotting corpse in the most decrepit room, even this I have a contingency plan for. For I also have a panel concealed just outside the cell over the overhanging rocks that hides a key none would ever suspect. Thus in no time at all, I could unlock the cell and go to the hidden panel just past the torturer's chamber that conceals a tunnel leading to the sewers nearby! What is truly brilliant is all think my low ceiling cells are to make it more uncomfortable for my victims. The truth is that such facilitates gaining access to the key, should one be strong of arm and know not only what lever to pull in the cell, but where to find the key by touch alone above the rim once the lever is pulled!
"It is ingenious, I must say. In twenty-five years of imprisoning and torturing youths foolish enough to accompany me from the docks to my demesne, not once have any escaped!"
It was only then, it seemed, by the expression of surprised disbelief on Vorstice's face that he was beginning to comprehend just how much he had said, finally realizing to his mounting horror that something was terribly amiss.
"How, how?" a shocked Vorstice whispered, suddenly at a loss for words.
"The wine," Sorn said with almost pitying contempt. "The wine."
It finally registered upon Vorstice that Sorn's stance was not that of a wounded and befuddled invalid, but rather that of a cat who had just gotten his fill of the cream.
"You know, Vorstice, in addition to being something of a braggart, you're really not half so clever as you think. Your gambits are pathetic, in fact, and you really played into our hands quite predictably. Didn't suspect a thing."
Sorn sighed melodramatically. “Really, I suspected better of one who held himself in such high regard as you obviously do. Obviously based on nothing but delusions of grandeur." Sorn's smile was a nasty one, taking no small pleasure in Vorstice's shocked countenance. "So tell me, Vorstice, are you truly so oblivious to your own obvious failings, or do you simply puff yourself up with delusions of grandeur to compensate for being the castoff runt of your childhood brood?"
Sorn's laughter was cruel as Vorstice screeched in outraged incredulity. "Why Vorstice, don't tell me I hit the mark? I'll bet I did, at that. It explains the hatred that burns in you for your fellows. Perhaps even as a lad, everyone understood the loathsome creature you would one day become."
Sorn's look was chilling in its abrupt shift from contemptuous baiting to outraged fury of his own.
"And now, you disgusting wretch, I will take exquisite delight in witnessing your downfall. Cousins, NOW!" Sorn roared, only a bit taken aback when nothing happened save voiceless whispers, and then he sighed, knowing exactly what was occurring.
Sorn immediately flipped back from his chair as the crossbowman by the table turned and fired, his look of outrage showing what he thought of Sorn's having duped them so expertly, the bolt bursting through the tipped over seat to be deflected harmlessly away from Sorn by his missile ward.
Though ready for an unexpected attack in turn, the guard was more than a little bit startled by the lightning speed with which Sorn bounced to his feet to leap atop the table, hands still constrained by silks Sorn had not had time to remove. Sorn made a slashing motion through the air with his hands that puzzled the guard he faced who was just then drawing his broadsword. Yet the guard’s puzzlement lasted only an instant before fading along with everything else. For suddenly the guard’s body jerked savagely before falling to the ground in a gory heap, his head and left arm separated from his torso entirely by the now quite visible and very bloody sword an enraged Sorn wielded in a two-handed grip.
Sorn locked his furious gaze with the men who dared oppose him, doing nothing to mitigate his furious snarl. His silken bonds parting with a snap as he roared from his stance on the desk itself, towering over everyone else in the room. The sudden stink of piss and fear, a now terrified Vorstice having wet himself in his rather expensive woolen garments.
Though momentarily stunned by Sorn's sudden savagery, two of the crossbowmen nonetheless managed to shoot their quarrels, and with a fair degree of accuracy. It did not help their confidence to see them bounce off Sorn's countenance, standing as he was on top of the desk, chest heaving, giving the now terrified crossbowmen the full force of his manic grin.
"I just want you all to know that you are about to die rather horribly, I suspect, as your flesh is pierced by mithril blades from quarters unseen." The full force of Sorn's gaze held them for some moments, his maniacal laughter chilling them to the bone. "In case you are wondering, having no doubt delivered death so often yourselves, how does it feel when the blade of your foe rips into your own flesh? I shall tell you! A blade doesn't freeze when it pierces your flesh, it burns."
It was a credit to Sorn's shocking presence that the crossbowmen froze as long as they had, only snapping out of it when their commander finally unleashed his own bolt with careful precision.
It was a shot aimed well enough not to be deflected, aimed rather precisely for Sorn's meridian, in fact, his center point, the one minute point of weakness in his missile warding spell. Strange it was that the guard, not himself a wizard, knew of that one weakness to the protective charm, and it seemed as well that his crossbow bolts just happened to be narrow enough to penetrate the point. It was, however, a shot that a crossbowman would most likely never be able to make unless the bolt was fired at point blank range, and the target almost perfectly still.
With force much reduced, the bolt did, in fact, penetrate Sorn's missile ward. Though the force remaining would normally have been sufficient to penetrate deeply, even fatally into the flesh of its target due to its narrow head, such was not the case here. For the crossbowmen hadn't counted on Sorn's additional ward of protection, being as it was a fourth order spell, which would counter at least a few more bolts or blades, before the protective energies were drained. That Sorn's own essence-laden flesh would have denied the weakened bolt more than a cut was almost beside the point.
"Ooh," Sorn said, looking down at the bolt as it clanged to the ground. "So close." He then looked up, manic facade gone, now staring at them with a cold hatred that caused all three of the crossbowmen to instinctively step back. "Meridian weak point. I'll have to remember that."
"Attack the bastard!" Their leader finally rallied, throwing his crossbow to the ground and drawing his own broadsword and buckler. "His ward won't block a sword blow!" With that, he and his two compatriots charged a grimly waiting Sorn. His own broadsword held almost lazily, Sorn awaited with catlike poise for the first man to enter the range of his quick saber-like blows, when suddenly two of the three men charging him screeched near simultaneously, curling in heaps as mithril sabers pierced their chests, shuddering horribly as Sorn's now visible cousins tore free their sabers. Dozens of cousins. The leader of the quartet of guards had time only for one horrified whimper before his head was cleaved from his neck, mithril blade biting effortlessly through flesh, bone, and steel, the body collapsing in a spray of crimson, head rolling across the rug, eyes madly blinking, his final expression one of uncomprehending horror.
"See?" Sorn said with a cold smile to the two guards still twitching their death spasms. "Told you it burned."
Sorn then turned his reproving stare at the twenty odd twins now facing him across the desk.
"What took you guys so long? You could have attacked immediately without the mirror images, you know. Just scoot behind them and cleave at my signal, no?"
"That's hardly fair, Sorn," Eight images of Lieberman said reprovingly. "You said, quite specifically, that unless they were actively swinging a blade at you, to await your signal and make mirror images before we jumped them. And that's exactly what we did!"
"Yeah, Sorn," Fitz chimed in. "Besides, it's hard trying to cast a spell when you're all excited! So it took us longer than we thought, okay? And anyway, we did get them when they charged you, right?"
"You're right of c
ourse," Sorn acknowledged. "Shows what happens when you micromanage too much." Sorn shook his head at that point, before turning to glare at the nobleman gazing at them all in horror. "As you heard, cousins, Caverenoc has a very serious problem, thanks to this wretched little worm, and we had best make sure none of these vile bastards gets free of Vorstice's mansion to warn their compatriots about it. So you all know what that means, right?"
"Yes, we do!" His cousins said in unison, madly dancing eyes and manic grins mirroring Sorn's perfectly. "Kill every guardsman in the keep!"
Sorn's smile widened. "My thoughts exactly! Except for Vel. We let Vel live. He's not such a bad sort."
His cousins nodded in unison, twenty odd heads bobbing at once. "And then we get the treasure!"
"Indeed we do. But first, we kill the bad guys, rescue Halence and the sailors, and bring this squealing pig to the king, no?"
Sorn and the triplets then turned their gazes to a shaking Vorstice. So fiercely arrogant and contemptuous atop his proud pillar but minutes before, it was a now badly stunned and disbelieving Vorstice whose pale countenance gazed upon the twenty odd blood-spattered youths in fascinated horror, covered as they were by the crimson spray from their terrible savagery, the red drops speckled across face and hair alike, no doubt showcasing their glittering eyes to chilling effect.
Like a bird caught by the hypnotic stare of a snake, Vorstice found it impossible to turn his trembling gaze away from them, even as he desperately backed into a corner. As they approached, the now utterly demoralized Vorstice started to whimper.
"Oh, what's wrong?" Sorn said with condescending mockery, "you don't like it when the big bad shoe is on the other foot? I thought you got a kick out of terrorizing the vulnerable and helpless, particularly children."
Sorn sprung towards Lord Vorstice, who shrieked at Sorn's savage expression and terrifying speed both. Sorn's voice was so cold it caused the shaking lord to moan when he heard it.
"I really, really, don't like people who hurt children," Sorn whispered into Vorstice's ear. And then, almost delicately, he bit into Vorstice's right shoulder, cracking bone and severing tendon and muscle both, so terrible was the strength of his jaws.
Vorstice's scream tore through the air, causing the two crossbowmen down the hall to finally investigate the ruckus, bursting through the near soundproof doors.
Sorn smiled as his cousins rather quickly took out the two guardsmen. Their expressions of shock at being faced with literally dozens of opponents where they had expected but one quickly turned to horror as they stumbled back, spewing blood and collapsing moments later from savage blows that had ripped clean through their jugulars. They uttered not so much as a whisper as they died, their faces mute testament to their brutal demise, contorted in horrified, silent screams.
"Worked perfectly," Sorn whispered softly into the still whimpering Vorstice's ear. Sorn knew the manic grin fixed upon his blood-spattered face gave him a countenance beyond horrific, his expression utterly inhuman, his ruby red lips covered with Vorstice's own blood. For too long Sorn had worn his humanity like a mask. It was time to let the dragon shine through.
The shock was such that it caused the overwhelmed lord to shake spastically, giving vent to the terror welling inside him with a fresh bout of panicked shrieking. A sudden sharp and unwelcome scent told Sorn that this was not all Vorstice had given vent to in his panic. In response, Sorn wrinkled his nose and casually slammed the screaming man against the wall. The blow was of sufficient force to stun Vorstice as he bounced back from the wall, blood spraying from shattered nose as well as shoulder. Collapsing into a heap, the broken lord was too physically stunned and emotionally shaken to even twitch, though he did whimper.
Sorn coolly surmised that though the shoulder wound was quite messy, it was hardly life threatening. The damage was extensive enough, however, that it was unlikely he would ever regain full use of the limb again, even should the king let him live. The thought of Vorstice crippled was hardly a troubling one for Sorn.
"Uh, Sorn?" Said a hesitant Fitz, cleaning his blade.
"Yes, cousin?" was Sorn's muffled response.
"You know you're still chewing, right?"
Sorn smiled and swallowed. "Better?"
"Err… I guess."
Lieberman, however, looked quite peeved. "I thought you didn't want us to eat our foes here, Sorn! You went to an awful lot of trouble warning us away from eating those bandits attacking Lord Canterbier's cart."
"That may be true," Sorn said, eyes still glimmering with a mad fury of their own. "But I really, really, don't like this man."
"Whatever," Lieberman said, rolling his eyes, "you're about as consistent as every other elder of our clan. Why should you be any different?"
"Besides," Sorn said reflectively, "back in Famil Duchy, we had Lord Canterbier and his whole family to make a good impression on. And had we eaten the fallen soldiers on the cutters, we wouldn't have been able to shift for hours, and Halence needed us just as we are, present and accounted for, upon gaining admittance into Caverenoc's port. Here, there are only bad guys and our friends, and somehow I doubt Halence would be surprised by much of anything we did, or care, for that matter. Well… maybe some things."
All twenty odd images chuckled wryly at the thought of what Halence would think, if he ever realized what Sorn and his cousins were really capable of.
Hanz snickered. "He'd probably try to find some way to make a profit on it."
"Why, cousin, I do believe you're right," Sorn said with momentary amusement. "Now let us be off! We have a captain to rescue, and house guards to capture!"
"I thought we were going to kill them?"
Sorn's bleak smile told Fitz all he needed to know regarding that query. "Rest assured, cousin, no Empire soldier is leaving this estate alive. Their vileness can only be paid for in blood. What I am speaking of are Vorstice's original men-at-arms. I know that in all likelihood the men are as foully compromised as Vorstice is himself. Still, no servant can control the actions of his master, and it could possibly be true, however unlikely, that men follow him simply because they know that should they try to leave, it will be the last action they ever take. It would be best for the king or his court to judge their innocence or guilt. Furthermore, they may be able to help us better understand the methods of the Empire in these matters."
"But, Sorn, how do we tell them apart?" queried Fitz.
"Well, look at the evidence before us, guys." Sorn prodded one of the fallen bodies before them that had turned Vorstice's study into a place of carnage. "Note the high cheekbones, glossy hair, and the shape of their eyes. The cast of their features is slightly different than that of your typical citizen of Caverenoc, and their skin is considerably more bronzed. Most importantly, obviously, is their arms and armaments.
"Note the overlapping thick scales of boiled rawhide that comprise these men's armor. Nowhere near as fine as elvish armaments, but quite well constructed, nonetheless. Their broadsword and buckler is not an unexpected combination, their weapons balanced for deadly cleaving blows with a shield or buckler leading for defense. Much better for wounding even armored foes, but not to parry and slash in the same beat, like your sabers."
Sorn flashed a smile. "Save for beings with our strength, of course. No, none of that is what's remarkable about these soldiers. It is the very looking crossbows they wield that most sticks out, to my mind. I haven't seen its like anywhere else in Caverenoc or York, have you?"
He lifted one of the crossbows, examining it carefully. "The crossbows on Halence's ship, and those wielded by the bandits were simple affairs. The steel bow or prod, if you will, was not that flexible, cocked back by a simple pull lever, only going back a few inches before the string catches over the nut, locking it in place. Dangerous, but no deadlier than the typical bow, really. They could pierce boiled rawhide, but a gambeson underneath could then catch the bolt. And they can't pierce steel mail, save for quarrels with the slimmest of heads to get through l
arger rings.
"These weapons here have a wider bow or prod than do the other crossbows we've seen, and the steel bar is actually recurved, gaining it the advantages of the recurved bow, and they appear to be cranked back by a windlass, if this is anything like the design I studied in grandfather's tomes."
Fitz grinned. "You know an awful lot about these crossbows, Sorn, considering the fact that you can't even hit the ship you are on!"
Sorn blushed at that. "Just because I recognize the design doesn't mean I ever shot the bloody thing, and Halence's simple pull-lever crossbows I had never even seen before our lesson." Sorn shrugged. "Perhaps his crossbows were too simple a design for a book of engineering to have diagrams of."
Sorn frowned, looking at the quarrels embedded almost completely into the hardwood walls. "You can see how deeply these bolts embedded themselves into the walls of this study, even after being deflected by my spell. I have no doubt that it would take many minutes to crank the prod so as to latch the string over the steel nut, but when you consider the bow's design... if the stored power is similar to the ones in Grandfather's tome, these weapons are capable of piercing even steel plate armor, should it not prove too thick."
Sorn shook his head. "Honestly, save for Halence's ship, this weapon is far and away the most advanced piece of technology I've seen since we arrived here. The quality and tempering of the steel needed to assure this prod doesn't snap speaks of considerable metallurgical skill. It is far and away more advanced than Halence's crossbows, and even if each soldier only gets off one shot per engagement, a knight not expecting a bolt to penetrate the thinner plates of his armor could be in store for a horrific surprise."
Peril & Profit Page 25
