Sorn sighed. "With thousands of men shooting those bolts in unison... it is no wonder this Empire has been so successful, even if this invention alone was the source of their success."
Lieberman's many eyes lit with excitement. "I'll bet Sebrie would pay us a pretty penny to bring along some of these crossbows!"
Sorn nodded. "Perhaps. We'll see. Remember, Sebrie's a good man, but first and foremost he's a sailor, and unlikely to have more than a bit of silver on him. Still, for the sake of our ship, it certainly makes sense to bring some along. As soon as we gather Vorstice's treasure, of course."
A score of hungry grins mirrored Sorn's own. "Of course!"
Sorn smirked, turning back to the fallen soldiers. "The native house guards, like Vel, appear as do any other citizen of Caverenoc. Brownish hair or sometimes blond, lighter eyes, more aquiline features. Vel himself wore only light leather, and the blade he wore was a fencing saber, basket-hilted, only slightly shorter than your own blades."
Sorn then spared a glance for the incapacitated Vorstice, still whimpering and bleeding in equal measure.
"I suppose someone should tie up his shoulder so he quits leaking all over the place. I, however, can't stand the thought of aiding that piece of trash. Any volunteers? Okay, Lieberman, that means you."
"But none of us volunteered!" cried a half dozen affronted Liebermans.
Sorn grinned. “Exactly.”
"Sorn!" the real image of Hanz called abruptly some moments later, the other images having gently faded but seconds ago with the dissipation of his spell. "I see two Empire soldiers jogging for the front gate."
Sorn nodded in acknowledgment. "You all done, Lieberman? All right, then, let's get them!”
13
Moments later the four youths roared and charged out the front entrance, inhuman strength and speed eating up turf as fast as any stallion. It was a pair of rather shocked looking crossbowmen who turned to gaze upon the harbingers of their doom, roaring like lions taken human form, launching themselves towards their prey.
Professionals that they were, the crossbowmen forced their apprehension aside. With cool precision they shot their crossbows as one, dropping them automatically after doing so, quickly drawing their dark steel broadswords and bucklers to put down the survivors.
Only then did the two men register the fact that the bolts appeared to have bounced harmlessly away from their targets. The men blinked in surprise, no doubt certain their shots had been dead on.
Sharing a quick glance, the two men fled for the gatehouse in unison, calling for their companions on duty to come to their aid.
With inhuman speed the two men were overtaken, however, and though they bravely tried to put up a fight, their slower broadswords were no match for the mithril sabers they faced, snapping about as fast as the lightest of fencing blades, terrible slashing strokes biting through armor and flesh with equal ease.
The battle was over in seconds, as short as it was brutal. Yet the chase and battle had been long enough to rally the guardsmen at the gatehouse.
Light leathers, fencing sabers and lack of any crossbows at all served to mark them as house guards only. Yet they had seen enough in their mad sprint toward the terribly brief battle in which two of their master's latest hirelings had just been effortlessly butchered to realize that this was one foe they should not underestimate. At least, that's what Sorn inferred from their suddenly cautious gazes. The four guardsmen stopped in mid-sprint and approached tentatively, sabers raised.
In but instants the battle was joined, the guardsmen proving themselves far better at defending themselves from the dizzying series of feints and strikes from the trio's mithril blades with their own light sabers than had the Empires troops with their slightly shorter and considerably heavier broadswords had.
However, though their saber skills brought them a few more precious seconds, it did nothing to assure victory. For their defensive skills, considerable as they were, availed them little when their opponents had the strength to batter through any parry, landing cuts where a normal man would have been deflected entirely, cuts that cleaved through limbs like butter, if the defender didn't dodge back desperately, as bloody screams soon did attest. So too, the guardsmen's own hard-earned competence was put to the ultimate test when skillfully executed feints and strikes were effortlessly batted away, failing to penetrate their opponent's armor or even give them pause, the few times a hit was scored.
Only a blow that just barely scratched the temple gave even one of the youth's pause, the blade near wrenched out of the guardsman's hand so fast did it snap back, as if he had struck not flesh and blood at all, but hardest stone.
Only the faintest trickle of crimson did the man earn for his trouble, but it was enough to send Sorn into a fury at seeing his cousin injured, blasting through the stunned guardsman's desperate parry with a cleaving overhand strike, the man's skull exploding in a shower of blood and bone.
And there, suddenly gazing at Sorn with stunned disbelief, was Vel. Surprise turned instantly into a frenzy of panicked blows backed by desperate speed, and Sorn could help but exult in the challenge of countering every probing slash, every desperate swing, his grin growing wider as Vel's look of disbelief turned to horror, realizing just how deadly the serpent was that he had brought into his master's lair.
Even in the midst of his battle-fury, Sorn found himself enjoying playing with his prey. It was only when Vel stumbled back, his awed terror at it's greatest, that Sorn's broadsword lashed out with what seemed effortless speed, and with a peculiar lurch Vel saw the hilt of his shattered sword flying out of his numbed hand in what appeared a slow motion pirouette as it slowly spun to the ground.
Vel sobbed once, closing his eyes as if expecting to be run through in that instant, before wheezing in sudden surprise, stumbling to the ground, suddenly unable to catch his breath, Sorn's snapping kick having sent him flying.
But an instant later, the guard facing Fitz was also put down. Perhaps unable to accept the terrible nature of his opponent's strength, the guardsman had over-committed on his lunge, trying desperately to pierce his opponent's defenses. Fitz, of course, had simply darted to the side, snapping his mithril saber against the guard's own. Fitz's strength and speed were such that the guard's blade was almost torn from his hand, the guard himself left badly off balance. At which point Fitz's flashing saber had left the man disarmed, quite literally, mithril blade slicing through the guard's exposed forearm like a knife through jam. The stunned man shouted a horse cry as he stumbled back, his other hand desperately trying to cover his spurting stump.
It was at that moment that the other two guardsmen broke off from the engagement and fled. With a wordless nod from Sorn, Hanz and Lieberman gave chase. Fully expecting to be given a mercy thrust, it was with some surprise that the maimed guardsman saw one of the fierce looking figures raise his hand abruptly when the guardsman's erstwhile opponent prepared for a coup-de-grace.
"Stay, Fitz. We don't need to kill him."
"Come on, Sorn," Fitz sighed. "You remember what happened last time, and we hardly have time to bandage him."
Sorn gave his cousin a measured look. "You are really being awfully critical today, aren't you Fitz?" The disarmed guardsman slowly sank to the ground, barely cognizant of Sorn tightly wrapping his cloak around his stump, even as he cried out in pain.
"Sorry, I don't have time to sterilize it, I'm sure a healer will look at it later. That is, if the king lets you live, of course. Now stop struggling! Your bandage is still leaking. A lot. I know, let me just tuck it under you. Why are you screaming? Ooh... look at that shoulder. I guess I forced that under your back a bit too firmly, hey? Well, one more thing for the healer to look at, I suppose. Now try to lie still! You're still leaking."
Sorn judged the man's sudden pallor and the odd tremble to his limbs had effectively put him out of the fight. Besides, he'd probably slip on the growing pool of blood underneath him even if he tried to get up.
Wa
sting no more time, Sorn dashed after his cousins.
"Well, that didn't go too badly," Sorn allowed some moments later, as he made his way to Hanz and Lieberman and their fallen opponents. "At least we have taken care of all the guardsmen at the gatehouse here, so no one can give warning to our enemies as of yet.
"Good point, Sorn," Lieberman allowed. "Actually it was pretty fun. And the whole time our opponents didn't criticize our technique even once!" Lieberman's smile was so innocent that Sorn knew he should smack him on general principle, but settled for just shaking his head as his other cousins snickered.
"Okay, okay," Sorn harrumphed. "Enough of that. Now we have three captured men…"
"Err Sorn?"
"Yes, Lieberman?"
"Make that two. I guess I hit my man on the head just a bit too hard with my hilt, though I did try."
"Try?" Fitz’s look was one of incredulity. "Lieberman, look at the guy! You caved his head in! Look here, you can see his brains squirting out his ears. And look at his eyes! He looks like a fish!"
"Whatever," Lieberman scowled.
"Err, Sorn?"
"Yes Hanz?" Sorn grimaced, just knowing what his cousin was going to say.
"You know the man you bandaged?”
"Yes?"
"Now don't take this the wrong way..."
Sorn appeared suddenly a bit crestfallen. "He's dead, right?"
"Well, he's stopped breathing at any rate. Yup, he's a goner. Sorry, Sorn. But look at the bright side, at least you didn't kill the guy you felt sorry for… Vel was his name, right? Though I think you might have broken a rib or two."
"Oh well, what can you do?" Sorn said philosophically, though he was more than a little bit disappointed that his patients kept dying on him. "It was your blow anyway, Fitz."
"Hah!" Lieberman cried in triumph. "And you fault my blow!"
Fitz snorted. "Look, all I did was cleave the guy’s arm. Plenty of one-armed guys around somewhere, I'm sure. At least my guy doesn't look like his head was run over by a cart! And Hanz, did you even try to capture your guy? Not too many races I know of that can survive without their head!”
To this, a suddenly red-faced Hanz could only grin sheepishly and shrug his shoulders. "Sorry, guys, got caught up in the heat of the moment, you know? And after all, we didn't want them to warn the bad guys at those warehouses, right? Small price to pay for added piece of mind! Well, not a piece of his mind," Hanz allowed with a smirk toward Lieberman's brained opponent.
"I don't believe this!" An exasperated Lieberman huffed. "At least I tried to capture my guy, unlike Mr. Overenthusiastic here, always trying to get ‘ahead' of his opponents!"
Sorn's hand raised sharply, the silent command unmistakable. His good-natured amicableness of but moments before was stripped away like a mask, as if it had never been. The Sorn before them now was fierce, cold, predatory. His cousins, far more familiar with Sorn's natural thinking than they were the mindsets of the creatures they pretended to be, understood exactly what Sorn was thinking. Mercy had been given to those who might deserve it, and for the Empire's soldiers, festering in the heart of Caverenoc like a deadly wound, no mercy would be given. Now was a time for vengeance.
"I can still hear them," Sorn said softly. "A bell is ringing back in the house. What forces remain will soon organize themselves. We need to hit them fast, and we need to hit them hard." Sorn turned to face his cousins, protective concern warring with his simmering rage. "How are your missile wards holding up, guys?"
"Oh, we're fine," Fitz assured, "don't worry about us, cousin. Enemies far more worthy of our concern await us inside!" A discrete glance at his brothers showed that they were of similar sentiment.
Yes, we're fine, cousin," Hanz said. "You were the one they took most of the shots at."
"You're right," Sorn conceded. And with a look of grim concentration, he quickly whispered several harsh words before closing his eyes and opening them moments later with a smile of satisfaction, his missile ward spell once again fully renewed.
"All right, cousins, here's the plan. When we make visual contact, we blast them with arcane orbs. I'll take point, the rest of you fire only if there is more than two. Fitz, you take left wing, Hanz and Lieberman, you take right wing, and I'll take the center of any force we encounter. Fair enough?"
"I hate this, why do I have to take out the tip?" Lieberman grumbled softly to himself, catching Sorn's look a moment later. "Yes, okay, Sorn. You don't have to be so hardheaded about it."
Sorn only nodded, smiling fiercely. "Well then, cousins. Let's charge the house!"
With that they all roared, dashing madly for the house. As hoped, their yelling brought out a fair portion of the remaining Empire soldiers holed up inside. With military precision, a line of eight crossbowmen formed up in front of the main entrance, taking careful aim for all that more than a few paled and trembled as Sorn and his cousins closed the distance.
"Ready… now!" Sorn roared, have judged the moment as best he could, suddenly stopping for the benefit of his cousins' concentration as his arm jerked out, fingers forked, unleashing a forked stream of magical missiles that tore through the air towards his targets. But a heartbeat later, his spell was joined by the whistling shrieks of arcane orbs flying forth from each of his cousins' outstretched arms.
The crossbowmen responded with a volley of quarrels in turn, though their aim was thrown off in some cases by the alarming sight of the brilliant orbs streaking toward them. Orbs that exploded but moments later into five of the men, sending them crashing to the ground in a shower of blood and shredded flesh.
Witnessing the near instant obliteration of over half their number was too much for the surviving soldiers. Morale shattered, the three men left standing fled back into the house in a panic, stumbling over the grizzly remains of their fallen comrades as they did so.
The youths, of course, all but ignored the bolts that had fallen harmlessly to their feet, protected as they were both by their magic wards as well as what had been, in some cases, just bad aim.
"All right, cousins, let's finish this!" Sorn roared with a chilling enthusiasm.
With that, once again venting their spur of the moment battle cry, the four youths made it to the house in mere seconds, Sorn slamming into the solid oak door with such force that the wooden crossbar shattered into jagged chunks of wood as the front door burst open. Sorn, taking point, was met with the desperate cries of several men fighting madly like cornered rats, swords flailing violently at him. He thus had to spend several moments in fierce concentration, parrying their blows long enough for his cousins to charge in behind him before riposting with vicious strikes of his own. Wielding his broadsword like the lightest of fencing sabers, Sorn deftly beat back one opponent's sword before cleaving through his opponent's exposed arm with a near effortless snap of his wrist. The man stumbled away in shock as he desperately tried to staunch the flow of lifeblood shooting forth from his stump, spraying the desperately battling figures in the room with his dying crimson stream, the air suddenly alive with the stench of copper and violence.
The second frantically fighting swordsman unfortunate enough to meet Sorn's implacable onslaught sunk to the ground moments later with a piteous groan, Sorn's sword embedded deep into his belly. His whimpers became a shriek as Sorn viciously tore his blade free, the man flapping like a gutted fish for several moments, blood gushing out of abdomen and mouth both.
Endless seconds later, after a final terrible spasm, the man stilled, his face locked in an eternal rictus of agony. It was a sight sufficient to chill even the hardened soldiers who witnessed it, Sorn having deliberately paused to give his opponents sufficient time to fully appreciate the horror of the death that awaited them.
Use any tool in battle, Sorn's grandfather had once told him. And the ability to break morale, to sap the strength and effectiveness of a disciplined fighting force by turning it into a terrified disorganized mob all too aware of its own mortality was a powerful tool indeed.
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Glaring with icy fury at the foes he faced, Sorn slowly approached the armed swordsman facing him from across the room. Two other soldiers stood behind Sorn's chosen targets, just now dropping their ineffective crossbows, their bolts having bounced harmlessly away from Sorn but moments before.
Visibly trembling, the crossbowmen had been too shocked to do more than stare at their companion's horrific disembowelment, the dead man's stench even now filling the air, even as the other panicked soldier’s jets of blood continued to wash over them all, shrieking his terror all the while, before finally collapsing to the ground with a piteous moan, panicked cries and crimson spray both dying out with a final gasp and whimper.
Sorn captured the foremost soldier's frantic eyes with his own predatory gaze, favoring the man with a terrible smile. "And so you see what happens to the traitors of Caverenoc, those who would attempt to enslave my people. My city. There will be no mercy. Your cries will go unheard. For your crimes, I will reward you with agony and pain undreamed of. Come, little soldier, quit your shaking! Raise your blade and prepare to die!"
Sorn's graceful countenance became a blur of fury, closing the distance between himself and the soldiers in but an instant, raining such savage blows upon the swordsman even then shrieking in terror that by the third strike the man's blade had shattered at the hilt, the terrified soldier not even having seen the blow. Stumbling back, the soldier raised his hands, though whether in mercy or supplication Sorn never knew. His face a granite mask of implacable hatred, Sorn slowly plunged his sword deep into the belly of the pleading soldier, withdrawing equally slowly, leaving the man to shriek and writhe, hands madly grasping at the entrails bursting forth from his ruptured abdomen.
Sorn had the soldier's measure, terrifying them so utterly that the man's companions had not even tried to assist their comrade, having instead fled the instant Sorn's eyes met their own.
Peril & Profit Page 26
