Peril & Profit

by M. H. Johnson

  Within minutes morale truly broke, as the frightened and disorganized soldiers struggled to get away from armored knights and nightmarish berserker alike. Caverenoc's men were, for the moment, unhindered by the disorganized and terrified units of crossbowmen. To Sorn it was all viewed through a haze of red, driven forward as he was by his tormented mind still burdened with the despairing screams of Caverenoc's most vulnerable that he knew he could never reverse for all his magic. Sorn could feel the presence of his grandfather seemingly at his side, demanding his wrath and mastery of the sword both, as Sorn roared yet again and rammed into the fleeing swordsmen, sending hapless foes flying, so powerful was his shield bash, hacking through milling soldiers with a terrible ferocity that left a trail of bodies slippery with gore as he tore into their numbers with relentless fury.

  Sorn was dimly aware that his newfound brethren were behind him, that he was the wedge that led the battle and broke through the enemy line.

  "For blood!" Sorn roared yet again as he finally cleaved through the last row of frantically struggling swordsmen who at that point wanted nothing other than to escape the terrible wrath of monsters in their midst. With a mad shriek of joy, Sorn charged the rows of bowmen and crossbowmen even then being organized by a skilled field officer who knew that they had to do to make a stand.

  "Fire!" the grim-faced man roared in a southern dialect, a word understood perfectly by the bloodstained apparition even then charging their hastily formed ranks, and understood soon enough by the knights behind Sorn as scores of crossbow bolts tore through the air. Though he was but one figure, many of those archers had seen firsthand the terrible swath of destruction caused by the blood-spattered warrior running in front of the charging knights, making him a prime target for any number of the archers ahead. His inhuman roar also drew their attention and arrows both, though it served as well to unnerve his foes. Shaky grips, panicked breaths, and sudden flinches caused as many bolts to fly wide of the charging cavalcade as did anything else, yet still scores of missiles flew his way.

  He had, of course, the presence of mind to protect himself with the drilled shield, seeing through the pinholes the rough shapes of the dozens of archers and crossbowmen even then seeking to mark his flesh with their bolts and arrows. Within a split second his missile ward was down and Sorn heard the counterpoint clang to his charge as bolt after bolt sought his flesh, clanking off his solid steel shield like iron rain. Some few shots carefully placed avoided his shield, only to bounce off his thick armor. Only one bolt actually punched through, having found a weak point in the well-crafted plate solely by chance, though not so deep as to knick his skin, protected as he was by the layers of padding and chain that he had had the foresight to wear underneath.

  Indeed, the very energies roaring through Sorn’s flesh, causing his body such terrible strain, was at that moment so great that in all likelihood no bolt would have been able to pierce his flesh more than a copper feather’s thickness in any case. Only his blazing eyes were truly vulnerable, flashes of crimson flickering with his every roar. Indeed, no less than three bolts were wedged into the very perforations that served as eyeholes for his thick steel shield, yet that work of master-craftsmanship remained strong, without even a crack.

  A final bolt hammered into Sorn’s shield at point blank range just as Sorn crashed through. Upon that instant, the rank upon rank of well-organized bowmen were rewarded for their staunch discipline and careful aim with a maelstrom of death. Sorn's heavy scimitar, wielded as it was with a berserker’s fury equal to a dozen swordsmen, cleaved through the terrified marksmen at a frantic pace, tearing through the necks and torsos of dozens of crowded bowmen kitted in boiled rawhide, his fearsome blade slicing effortlessly through toughened armor most footsoldiers could only pierce with a dead-on blow.

  The swords some frantically drew were so paltry a defense that Sorn's blade was not even slowed. The force of his cleaving slash would send sword and forearm flying off in unison before biting deep into his foe’s torso, the stunned crossbowman inevitably collapsing to the ground as Sorn's terrible blade tore itself free of the man's belly, bloody entrails pouring forth in the scimitar's wake. The fallen man's scream would rise to a dying shriek causing his wide-eyed companions to pale with terror, compelling no few of them to break and run as Sorn tore through man after man. This only spurned the blood-soaked avenger on, however.

  The archers' final panicked pleas for mercy were inevitably drowned out by the piteous wails of women and children that still roared silently through Sorn's mind. Innocent families that had themselves begged for mercy from these very invaders, yet had been ruthlessly butchered without mercy or quarter. Just as these monsters had shown no mercy, neither would he.

  Red eyes now fully blazing, armor more crimson than black for all the gore that had splashed upon him from his savage blows, Sorn charged into the fleeing men, mercilessly ripping through the panicked archers with terrible arcing slashes that sliced from neck to opposing armpit. Man after man fell without a sound as they were cleaved brutally in twain. The last of the bowmen fled back towards the warehouse they had so recently come from, and for the moment, as Empire forces sought to reform by the building entrance, the courtyard was clear.

  The knights, of course, roared in approval at their bloody avenger, the living spirit of Caverenoc as they had now all come believe he was, borne in her hour of desperate need.

  It was at that moment that Sorn was stopped abruptly, spun about wildly like a top, and sent crashing to the ground.

  28

  The knights gasped, and one had the presence of mind to look up and note the cheering figures before one of the three siege crossbows mounted on the roof of the warehouse, the other two even now being pointed at the knights. "Charge, men!" their leader of the knights roared. "Get below their range and let us bring this boil to the ground!"

  The men charged past a fallen Sorn with a roar, seeking to avenge their comrade out of legend while knowing also that haste was vital to keeping the initiative and staying out of range. Nonetheless, one of the trailing knights was yanked off his horse entire by the savage force of a three-foot steel bolt that had torn completely through his chest plate and back as if it were no more than rice paper, embedding itself deep into the cobblestones, coated red with the dying man's blood. The knight himself crashed to the ground by the side of the quivering bolt that had torn completely through him, young features set in wide-eyed surprise as he choked to death on the blood gushing forth from his mouth.

  The roars and cries of the battle were only dimly heard by Sorn, and he felt for the first time through his rage fueled haze a faint wrench of pain. He was dimly aware that somehow he had been hurt, and spent a dazed moment collecting himself. His sword he did not see as he groggily got to his knees. The leather straps from his shield, thick as they were, had been torn free. His eyes caught the sight of his bent shield then, noting the steel javelin that had pierced it and was embedded in it still. The blow had spun him around as his shield was torn free, the point of the steel javelin having even pierced his plate armor leaving a gouge through the steel by his left hip. Grimly he appraised himself while instinctively stumbling toward an alley nearby, out of the line of fire, and saw no blood. Whether the chainmail he wore underneath his fieldplate, together with his stoneskin ward and his unnatural resilience had kept the massive steel bolt from penetrating his flesh as it grazed his armor, or whether he had taken injury and could simply not see the blood, he could not tell. Yet he felt nothing save the tingle of ready rage when he tried to sense any injury from the waist down.

  His left arm was another matter, however. His left shoulder felt somewhat wrenched from the terrible force behind the javelin that had torn his shield completely free, though a few seconds slowly rolling it soon abated the worst of the soreness. It was then, as his dazed mind snapped back into focus, that he grimly tore free his backup weapon from the leather straps that held it in place. The long steel rod felt comfortable in his grip. I
t was heavy enough to crash through all resistance when wielded by a normal man of unusual strength, as Sorn recalled Vorbin telling him what seemed like a lifetime ago. Sorn grimly smiled as he contemplated what such a weapon could do in hands as inhumanly strong as his own.

  Momentarily dazed and stunned, his fury once again came to the fore as he gazed upon the wide-eyed countenance of the fallen knight, lying as he was amidst the sea of hacked apart bodies of their mutual foe. Tousled blond locks that were no doubt the envy of many a lady spilled forth from his open visor, his young eyes gazing out in perpetual surpise from his blood drenched face, having coughed his last, but moments ago. A knight whom Sorn had called brother.

  All the terror and anxiety he felt for the innocent people of Caverenoc flared anew once again, his merciless mind's eye hammering him with the graphic descriptions he had heard Halence repeat again and again regarding what the soldiers of the Empire did to innocent women, like Salrie, and their children. What they would do to a girl he cherished, if they could. Soldiers that were even now rallying against his hard-pressed knight companions, Empire forces striving to reform their ranks so as to better butcher his brothers in arms.

  Tormented by all he saw within his mind’s eye and without, Sorn's rage ignited once again to a white-hot fury. Clenching his weapon in a grip so fierce as to slowly etch his handprint into that solid rod of steel, Sorn stormed out of the alley and charged with a roar into the newly formed squads of crossbowmen that were at that very moment steadily pelting his companions with a withering hail of crossbow bolts. Faster than any charger, Sorn crashed into his foes, gleefully wielding his great edged war mace with a two-handed savagery that sent man after shattered man crashing into their fellows as the terrible weapon exploded into their flesh. And so in those frantic moments the monstrous apparition which had so shattered the morale of the first wave of enemy troops once again made himself known, devastating men and morale in equal measure.

  The knights themselves took great heart at Sorn's reemergence, particularly since they were now no longer the focus of the increasingly sporadic barrages of bolts and arrows. Yet the battle had taken its toll nonetheless, despite Sorn's presence, as well over a score of their number had fallen.

  "Attack! For blood and Caverenoc!" Sorn could dimly hear one of the knights calling, and Sorn roared the same rallying cry over and over again as he madly tore through the enemy soldiers before him. He could feel himself sinking into a deep primal state, his strength growing ever greater, his mind ever more focused on the battle at hand. No longer did Sorn even think in words, only in lightning fast strikes, parries, and pummeling blows that obliterated his enemy into crimson smears before a single sword thrust could touch him, his deadly war mace shattering swords and shields like shards of brittle glass.

  He was, at the last, in touch with his true primal self, free of the veneer of civility with which his people had cloaked themselves for but the briefest eye-blink of their history. A raging beast with an aching hunger that could only be quenched by his foe's hot steaming blood.

  With mad glee he strode forward, his terrible countenance as fearsome to behold as his gore-spattered weapon, Sorn showing neither not the least shred of mercy as his terrible blows tore through skull and chest cavity alike, no matter if enemy soldiers faced him or tried desperately to flee. Whimpering in terror, unable to escape Sorn's gruesome weapon, caught as they were in the press of their fellow soldiers still pouring out the warehouses, score upon score died by dint of Sorn's savage swings, ruptured bodies flying in all directions like ragged dolls, such was the force of Sorn's inhuman fury.

  Those soldiers that managed to escape the berserker tearing through their numbers did so only to be hacked apart by the remaining knight companions, following steadily in their champion's wake. Yet still the Empire's legions boiled forth from the warehouses, desperately engaging the knights as the whole cobblestone courtyard by the warehouse became slick with blood and choked with fallen bodies.

  It was only by chance that Sorn caught a view of the scene playing around him, so focused was he in his mad fury, having spun a full circle as his foot slipped on nameless gore after lashing out with a lightning fast sweeping blow that sent a spray of crimson before him. In the split second of that spin he espied a mad disjointed scene of what looked to be hundreds of regular Caverenoc troops, at last coming to reinforce Sorn and his hard-pressed knight companions. All against the backdrop of the still sullenly burning fires in the upper stories of the buildings directly behind them.

  Numerous valiantly fighting knights also caught sight of the desperately needed reinforcements, and in unison they gave a rallying cheer, boosting their morale and helping to wipe away the insidious whispers of exhaustion slowly deadening their arms and sapping their swings, allowing them to charge into their enemy with renewed fury.

  For though Sorn appeared near immortal in his terrible frenzy, Sorn knew the knights by no means shared this gift. No less than a full two score of them had been brought down at that point by crossbow, siege bolt, or simply by the overwhelming number of infantry ever pouring forth from the warehouse that connected them directly to the tens of thousands of soldiers presently laying siege to Caverenoc.

  Indeed, had it not been for their ability to shatter organization and morale alike via dint of martial savagery and arcane magics both, Sorn feared that not even a single knight would be standing at that moment. It was a truth apparent to all. A truth which, should they survive this night, they would preserve in story, telling the tale over hushed whispers and tankards of ale to wide-eyed audiences throughout the city. Their stories creating the tale of the Black Knight, the living spirit of Caverenoc, a legend being forged that very moment.

  Yet Sorn's thoughts, such as they were in his hazy state of near frenzy, focused on different matters entirely. He almost stumbled as he fought to balance himself, the gore-spattered cobblestones made all the slicker by the steady light rain that Sorn only then realized had been falling for some time. The tide of battle had apparently flown away from him, almost as if with relief. Sorn surmised the enemy soldiers were increasingly pouring out of what must be rear exits of the three adjoining warehouses, no man wishing to face the terrible gore-spattered demon that guarded the front.

  It was in those bizarrely quiet moments, his head ringing with sounds other than that of steel on steel, that he espied what appeared to be several of the city's own mages, some fifty yards off still, but surrounded by shieldmen in every direction. He then heard a clarion ring that caused the knights to give a renewed cheer, and to the surprise of Sorn and enemy troops alike, the remaining knights, almost gratefully it seemed, charged away from the warehouses, the stunned Empire soldiers only too happy to let them go. Wise enough despite their passionate battle, the knights soon turned down adjoining roads so as to be out of the range of crossbows and, more importantly, siege crossbows alike, as they went to rally with the main force that had started to cautiously advance.

  Sorn vaguely heard some of the men yell to him to withdraw to the main force, though their comments only registered later, so numb was his mind still from his only slightly dampened battle frenzy.

  His intuition was a fierce thing, and he needed no words to realize what the kingdom's wizards planned, his keen eyes noting from glimpses caught between the shieldmen that each had withdrawn scrolls from silver tubes fastened to bandoleer straps around their chests. Within moments the wizards began chanting arcane syllables pointing their arms in unison at the warehouse before Sorn.

  It was no effort for him at all to sense the modest wards surrounding the confident pair of wizards, wards no doubt enacted to resist any bolt the enemy might fire their way while they chanted their magics, and Sorn wanted to cry out in bitter frustration as the scene unfolded before him.

  For in those instants, a hail of quarrels tore into the mages from the well disciplined crossbowmen who had been lying in wait on the building rooftops above, trained, as Sorn already knew, in the peculia
rities of magics, no doubt having established themselves there in the first minutes of the invasion to guard the warehouses against just such an attack. For though the wizards' wards could, indeed, stop a handful of bolts or arrows, they were doomed to collapse under the rain of concentrated fire focused upon the mages below. Just as bad, the snipers were shooting at an angle that took the shieldmen off guard, their hastily raised shields providing only partial protection against the missiles raining down upon the targeted wizard from above.

  Thus the very crossbowmen that had been able to do so little against Sorn and the knights when they had first made their charge had repositioned themselves away from what sullen fires on the rooftops remained, and were now in a perfect position to wreak havoc upon the mages below them.

  What Sorn had quickly intuited was all too readily proven accurate as one of the mages suddenly crumpled the moment Sorn sensed his warding spell collapse, the best efforts of the desperately covering shieldmen proving unfit the task, two of their number also collapsing as they tried to guard from the awkward angle above, before the rest beat a hasty retreat.

  Near simultaneously, Sorn's exquisite hearing registered the unmistakable twang of several siege crossbows being fired, not at the still retreating knights, nor the main body of Caverenoc's forces, but solely through the one standing mage as well as the shieldman blocking the line of fire.

  The shieldman, having been pierced through the neck, simply collapsed in a heap, though not before the steel javelin tore completely through him, bursting through to slam against the arcane ward of the second mage with what sounded almost like an arcane screech of metal against magic. Against such a massive projectile, the result was near instantaneous and inevitable. The ward almost instantly ruptured under the terrible force behind the massive steel bolt, allowing it to burst through with sufficient remaining force to skewer the mage outright. Against all odds the robed man stiffened upright instead of collapsing immediately, shock freezing his muscles, his spine having been spared as the siege bolt tore through him. At which point the second siege bolt hit him a split second later, tearing through the mage's skull in a rupture of red and gray before embedding itself into the cobblestones behind the collapsing figure with a shriek of grinding steel, such had been the force propelling the metal javelin to and through its target.