Peril & Profit

by M. H. Johnson

  "And so you see what we must do to all those who would enslave, abuse, and torment the innocent people of this city, my cousins. We must show them our wrath. We must show them no mercy. We must make them pay in blood and tears for wishing to cause such horrors to the people of my city!"

  It was not until later, after the searing fog of his rage had dimmed, that Sorn realized that when he thought of the cold Empire callously destroying Caverenoc, it was not thousands of innocent women and children he saw being led in chains so much as one particular young lass looking back at him with her desperate pleading gaze. Elissa. Princess of this city-state he now felt so protective toward. It was the thought of harm coming to her that put him on the brink of a bloodrage; a wild, frenzied, state of mind heretofore uncharted territory for him.

  "Come," Sorn roared, his voice now a strange baritone, and the three identical youths followed their rapidly moving cousin as he scoured the house. They encountered the two surviving witnesses of the battle at the front door holed up in a study and made very short work of them indeed. Crossbow bolts once again flying harmlessly away from Sorn’s wards as he burst through the rather flimsy door, the two men were too terrified to do more than parry Sorn’s fierce blows. With Hanz and Fitz lunging at their flanks, it was all over in seconds. They were fortunate only in that their demise was mercifully quick, despite all the terrible declarations Sorn had made when he had been seeking to undermine their resolve.

  And so they scoured the upper house entire, with an invisible Lieberman guarding the front door, in case any Empire soldiers doubled back. Such actions were necessary, for all that Sorn ached to rush to his friends’ aid in the cellars below. For Sorn knew that none, absolutely none of these soldiers of the Empire must be allowed to warn their companions nestled within the very heart of Caverenoc that any knew of their plans.

  They found only two more crossbowmen hiding in the attic. The stance of the two soldiers had been as sound a one as they could make. They hid behind several wooden crates stored a dozen feet from the trap door, firing their bolts with careful accuracy at the emerging head of Sorn as he cautiously raised the trap door.

  Only by dint of his supernatural reflexes was he able to duck his head reflexively back from bolts that would have pierced all but the sturdiest steel helms.

  Knowing they were single shot crossbows, Sorn's response was to flip himself with catlike grace back into the attic, emitting a spine curdling shriek that froze the men for precious moments as he burst upon them. He shattered their barricade with a single well-placed kick, lashing out with his blade and beating back one soldier's furious onslaught, lashing out to cleave completely through the closest swordsman's suddenly exposed forearm.

  The man's screams were abruptly cut off as Sorn rammed his blade into the man's open mouth before tearing it free with a furious wrench, the soldier instantly collapsing in a spray of crimson gore, eyes wide with shocked disbelief as he choked to death on his own blood.

  Sorn did not even spare his foe a final glance, merely kicking aside the writhing body, his hunter's gaze upon the second swordsman. Sorn's steps were implacable, his blade steadily dripping the viscous fluid of his latest kill as he slowly approached his shuddering opponent.

  The man's horrified gaze locked upon Sorn's own.

  The man began to whimper, stumbling back, pressing against the brilliant stained glass window at his back, shaking his head and moaning, his sword clattering to the wooden flooring, no longer having the strength to hold his own blade.

  "Please... mercy. Mercy!" the man cried.

  Sword's icy smile, void of mercy or warmth, was too much for the man. With a final despairing wail, the soldier abruptly pivoted around, diving right through the glass window. His shriek mingled with the tinkle of shattered glass as he plummeted to the cobblestones far below.

  With a final cursory glance about the attic, Sorn left the way he came. Lost in his own brooding thoughts, he gave no response to his cousins' wide-eyed stares as they made their way down finally to the cellars of the mansion, the place they had saved for last, and where Halence was certain to be found.

  Sorn's cry of rage and frustration sounded more like a raving beast than a man when they were confronted by the thick reinforced door nestled to the rear of the cellar amidst dozens of wine racks and casks of ale. The door was reinforced with a face of solid iron and bands of steel and looked sturdy enough to withstand a siege all on its own. Even the door joints were of solid metal. As the cellar was otherwise void of any human presence or passageway, their quarry could only be through that imposing door.

  "The bastards have Halence, and they are probably torturing him as we speak. I will make them pay for this! I will make them all pay for this!" Sorn's chest started to heave and he began to take on a fierce red cast, as if his whole body was being engorged with blood, and Sorn let loose a terrible roar so great even his cousins were chilled.

  Fitz gently patted his cousin's trembling shoulder. "Um… Sorn? I think they probably locked it because of you. I doubt Vorstice would want them to lock it since he wanted to get back to his, um, entertainments. So if they're, well, trying to keep away from you, I think they would be too worried to really enjoy their torturing. They probably stopped."

  "Yeah, Sorn, they probably took a break and are waiting for you to go away or something," Hanz soothed.

  Sorn, however, appeared lost in a dark world all his own. If his cousin’s placations had registered, he gave no sign.

  "Back up,” Sorn said softly.

  "Um… what are you going to do?" asked Lieberman.

  Sorn's intention became apparent when he used the short distance from the stairs to the bolted door to build up momentum as he repeatedly smashed against the reinforced door. Even the triplets shook their heads at the futility of this. Supernaturally strong they might be, but this door was obviously made to withstand a battering ram to say the least. Faced with iron and barred with steel, the door was fit to guard a fortress. A far different affair from the relatively flimsy front door Sorn had burst through earlier.

  Vainly Sorn's cousins tried to tell Sorn this, gently of course. Even pointing out that with sufficient time they might be able to make a hole or two with their magic missiles, but no more. This of course went unheeded by their berserk cousin, as, still roaring, he crashed his frame against the reinforced door time and time again. Soon it became a steady sharp rhythm, the crash of Sorn's body against the unyielding iron door. This continued for several minutes. It was only then that Sorn's awestruck cousins realized via the loud cracking sounds and steadily bending iron supports that the door was actually giving way.

  Sorn himself was too immersed in the hot rush of wrath he could feel coursing through him with the sweet intensity of his own dragon's blood to even consider the impossibility of his task. Indeed, for the sake of his own curiosity, he had once measured just how strong his frame was compared to other humans some months ago. Had he the calm state of mind he had been in when he had completed his experiment, he would have known the utter impossibility of his task, for all that his frame normally held only the strength of half a dozen fit men.

  That, of course, had been months ago, far before the last hectic weeks wherein he had been forced to channel so much of his power through this form. Acts that had only increased the link between his forms, allowing Sorn's frame to contain yet more of Elthsiss's power. Indeed, his own inner flame, the conduit of his power, that he had thought to gaze upon just that morning in his mind's eye was noticeably brighter than he remembered it being even just a handful of days ago.

  His rage and focused intensity, his desperate drive to save his friend were even at that moment honing and deepening his two forms resonance beyond anything he had attempted before.

  On some level, he knew he was taking a terrible gamble. His bitter fury and desperate need were forcing Elthsiss's essence into Sorn's saturated form, beyond all past precedent. Yet for all the terrible power lent to Sorn by his desperation, ther
e was a price to be paid for his actions, with far more at risk than simple exhaustion. For any vessel put under too much strain must eventually burst.

  At that moment, however, all Sorn felt save for his white hot rage was an exhilarating sense of triumph when the metal faced door burst inward with a crash of shattered wood and twisted metal.

  Sorn did not hear his cousin's gasp as the realization of Sorn's present vulnerability hit them. It only occurred to Sorn in the split second that he registered the twang of multiple bowstrings that the force of his crashing several dozen times into the heavily reinforced door, though leaving his essence drenched body free of any mark, had nonetheless involved kinetic forces so great so as to have dissipated his protective spells several times over.

  In short, he was vulnerable.

  It was only by the grace of his preternatural reflexes that he ducked before the bolts struck, his arms instinctively raised to ward eyes and neck alike. Had he not ducked, two of the three bolts would have struck him dead center, fired as they were at point blank range. As it was, the two bolts struck his protecting arms instead. One pierced his left wrist, the other his right arm just above his elbow. Their narrow heads, little more than well-sharpened points made for piercing steel plate, wedged themselves firmly into both of Sorn's arms. Only the incredible degree to which his draconic essence had saturated and strengthened his flesh kept the bolts from burrowing deeper.

  Though momentarily taken aback by the surprise attack, he still managed to survey the room before him in those split seconds. Three crossbowmen kneeled at the front of the large chamber, empty crossbows still pointed at Sorn, their wielders just beginning to register surprise at the fact that Sorn was still standing. One looked terribly shaken, gazing at Sorn in wide-eyed horror. Probably why only two bolts hit, a cool corner of Sorn’s mind observed. The third crossbowman appeared too unnerved to shoot straight.

  Though partially concealed behind their ranks, Sorn’s discerning gaze did not fail to take in the sight of a familiar figure behind the crossbowmen. Hair still tied in a familiar ponytail, Halence lay supine upon a slab of granite, hands and feet restrained by manacles. Chest heaving, it appeared that Halence was very much alive.

  Behind the restrained Halence stood a fourth crossbowman. His crossbow still loaded, unlike the others, and pointed directly at Sorn, though his shaking arms and chalk white face made him an uncertain shot at best. All of this Sorn noted almost in passing, his eyes instinctively locking on to the one man alone who did not appear unduly alarmed by Sorn's entrance. For all that the man wore no armor, indeed was completely bare-chested, this figure alone did not stink of fear. His chest was large and well muscled, and he wore nothing save leather breeches and boots. A pair of pincers were in one hand, and a wickedly curved knife in the other.

  The tools of this torturer's trade looked almost as nasty as his smile.

  These figures noted, Sorn's eyes were compelled to take in the rest of the chamber in its gruesome entirety. To the right side of the room were the dungeon cells Vorstice had spoken of, apparently situated so that his 'guests' would have full view of the vicious horrors the torturer would no doubt inflict upon them eventually. Sorn squeezed his fist, catching a glimpse of several of the sailors from the ship who had no doubt accompanied Halence to Vorstice's mansion. Their faces were turned towards Sorn in an odd mixture of terror and hope in equal measure.

  Upon the left wall, as if mounted specifically for better viewing, was an upright slab with a man still manacled to it. The body was utterly still, as when death takes hold.

  Where the eyes had once been, were now gaping sockets seared with a poker. His torso was a mass of hideous burns, and a vicious cut had been just wide enough to allow a truly sick individual, the torturer, one could only presume, to yank out portions of the poor man's intestines. This last horror evidenced by the loops of entrails even now draped about the victim's neck. Sorn couldn't help but vividly picture the poor man's final moments, frantically writhing and screaming as his organs were viciously yanked out and draped about him, left to spasm his way to an excruciating death. As horrific as these dark deeds were, what truly stoked the fury of Sorn and his cousins alike was the fact that they recognized this poor man as one of their own.

  Sorn's eyes blazed, and seemingly without a moment's thought for the crossbow bolt still wedged cruelly in his wrist, he barked a curse and snapped his left arm out, letting loose a forked stream of magical orbs, phosphor-white in their brilliance, shrieking through the air before smashing into the chests of two of the crossbowmen before him, sending them crashing to the floor in boneless heaps, armor shredded as badly as the flesh it had been guarding.

  Yet another stream of missiles from one of Sorn's cousins raced off towards the third crossbowman desperately attempting to parry the spell. Having successfully raised his crossbow laden arms in time to protect his head from the missile stream, he now had to deal with the consequences of his success, as the spell vent its energy upon that which had interposed itself from its true target. Both arms were obliterated in a crimson smear, and the soldier was smashed to the ground by the force of the explosion. The terrified man howled as his blood spurted in torrents from the shattered stumps of both his shoulders. His wide-eyed horror was almost piteous as he spent his last moments rolling about desperately, futilely, perhaps trying to somehow staunch the blood, perhaps too shocked to even comprehend what had happened to him. Futile gestures that they were, the dying guard continued to writhe and keen all the same.

  It was then that the bare-torsoed man, apparently unfazed by the instant carnage that had befallen his de facto comrades, calmly made his move. With the ease and speed of long practice, his arm darted out to gently but firmly place his wicked looking knife, honed to a frightening keenness, against Halence's neck. The twisted smile he gave the four blood spattered youths indicated that he was not at all fazed by their terrible countenance. The one remaining guard behind him, however, had fallen to his knees, cradling his still loaded crossbow to his chest, whimpering softly all the while.

  "Nice show, lads. Oh, nice show," the bulky man said, smiling grimly as one well-muscled arm continued to rest the tip of his knife oh so gently upon a grim-faced Halence's jugular.

  "Proper sorcerers you are, I'm sure. You had best listen to old Hankro, though. You may be fast, I'll grant ya that, but there's no way you can hit me with your magics before I tear out your poor friend's throat here. You may kill me. Indeed, you may well blow out my chest as soundly as you did poor Fezbit's there. But rest assured, your friend's lifeblood will be kissing the stone tiles here, just as surely as mine."

  Hankro chuckled as he glanced down at one of the fallen crossbowmen, as if his acquaintance's death, far from horrifying him, was for him something to be appreciated in terms of macabre artistry and nothing more.

  "You all have a talent for the killing, I'll give ya that," Hankro said, giving a bemused glance at the third poor guard with his arms blown apart, still sobbing desperately as he continued to roll around on the blood-slicked tiles at their feet, before his cries abruptly turned to a choking gasp, body suddenly spasming, back arching as the dying man emitted a final guttural whimper before col

  lapsing at last in a pool of his own blood.

  Hankro had, of course, watched the man's death throws as raptly as the four youths, though his expression, unlike the glittering hatred of Sorn's, or the slightly troubled countenances of the three identical youths, was one of immense pleasure. It was as if he had savored his companion's slow death like the sweetest of victuals, the richest of wines. He was the first one to break the silence that had fallen, save for Halence's angry heaving.

  "As I was saying, boys, you've got a talent for the killing. But if you approach me, lads, or point your arms at me, I promise you that sweet Bessie here will be the last girl ever to kiss Halence's pretty throat before he heads for the land of shades himself. Then you boys will all get the pleasure of watching your friend's bug-eyed horror
as he gasps for air like a fish before he dies, though somehow I don't think you would enjoy the sight nearly as much as I."

  Hankro gave vent to a roaring bellyful of laughter, his eyes positively tearing with jollity. The man seemed to be relishing every moment of this drama, concern for his own life only adding spice to the feast. When next he spoke it was soft, coaxing.

  "Well lads, it's time we made a deal, no?"

  Halence glared at his captor, his chest visibly heaving as he struggled futilely against his bonds. He could be heard muttering furious, near incoherent curses that widened even the eyes of the triplets and sent Hankro's nasty countenance into a twisted smile.

  "I like this one. He's got spirit. It would be a shame to kill him so quickly, or as you would have it, lads, at all, no? Well, boys, I'm waiting."

  Sorn's smile was chill, his eyes glittering like shards of tinted ice.

  "So," Sorn spoke, his soft tone belying his mounting fury. "You are Lord Vorstice's assistant in these matters, I see. Tell me, have you been with the lord for long?"

  Hankro grinned. "Since he first inherited his house from his father a score or so years ago. We formed a fast friendship, him and I. And truth to tell, I'll be sorry to see him go. We had an understanding." He sighed with a smile, caught for a moment in nostalgic memories. "Those were good years. I'm not quite as young as I look, lad, I'd like to think my work keeps me fresh." He laughed cruelly at that, eyes glimmering with a savage malignancy all their own.

  Sorn found his hand rhythmically squeezing the hilt of his blade. He counseled himself to icy stillness. "I take it the two of you enjoyed torturing any number of girls over the years."

  "Girls, boys, take your pick. Always so many homeless whelps about the docks, wide-eyed and desperate, willing to do anything for the coin to buy a few bowls of soup, or shelter out of the rain." Hankro's smirk was a nasty one. "Oh yes, they certainly had to do a bit more than they bargained for, when they came all trusting to Vorstice's carriage. Well, at least we kept them out of the rain."