Peril & Profit

by M. H. Johnson

  It was only as he wondered why Caverenoc proper was so stripped of her defenders that enemy stragglers were able to wander at will that the significance of the mad clanging of the bells finally began to register upon Sorn's awareness. Upon that instant, Sorn felt the twin mind-numbing fogs of pain and exhaustion wash away under an icy jolt of sickening fear.

  It was outrageous. Improbable in the extreme.

  It would imply enemies and resources far beyond a single jaded noble, implying a degree of treachery or simple resourcefulness that even Vorstice, thinking himself a player, had been but the smallest of pieces. A feint when he had thought himself the main thrust.

  As horrible as it was, as unlikely as it was, Sorn forced himself to consider the grimmest of possibilities, even as his heart began to pound as terror took hold.

  Who was to say that the tunnel dug to the warehouse was the only one? Who was to say a second one hadn't been dug through to the palace itself? Worst of all, what if the warehouses had been little more than a feint? What if the real objective was to overtake the palace entire, the very head of the state, home to king and marshals alike, and subsequently take a disorganized, demoralized Caverenoc apart, piece by bloody piece?

  A city that would subsequently be easy prey, broken and demoralized by the loss of their leaders and military commanders both.

  The very idea filled Sorn with a terror so dreadfully cold, it washed away the previous pain and experiences of the night like the last glimmerings of a fading dream as he awoke to the terrible reality unfolding itself in the palace at that very moment.

  Almost without thought, unaware of even the gut-wrenching cry that tore from his lips, chilling all who heard it, Sorn's limping shuffle immediately turned to a ground eating trot. For the agony of his limbs quickly numbed to insignificance by the terror inspired fury coursing through him anew. He ran forth with greater and greater speed as dread slowly consumed him, to the palace that had been left so vulnerable to attack by none other than Sorn himself.

  31

  Sorn's panic-fueled fury went from red to white hot as his terrifying pace soon put him in sight of the palace once again, all in the time it had taken him to lurch six blocks before. He could feel every fiber of his being saturating with his rage inspired essence, Elthsiss's form instinctively pouring his fury into Sorn's own. Sorn knew he was at grave risk of being stretched to the breaking point, able to feel every strand of his being throb with the terrible power coursing through him. Strangely, he found that he didn't really care. These were perhaps Sorn's last coherent thoughts for a time.

  Only vaguely was he aware of the battered open front gate of the palace, the row upon row of Caverenoc soldiers trading fire with the hundreds of Empire marksmen shooting both from every facing palace window, as well from the well-disciplined ranks lined up in front of the very palace itself, even as ever more archers and shieldmen spilled forth from the palace entrance to join them.

  As for the large siege crossbow that the Empire’s soldiers had somehow managed to secure to the facing palace roof, perhaps having been warned by messenger of some terrible threat that seemed immune to all else, Sorn’s only thought was to zigzag as he leaped an astounding dozen feet, clearing the rows of Caverenoc archers even then exchanging fire with the palace.

  With a deafening roar that caused many a bolt to fire wide from the grip of a suddenly shaking crossbowman, Sorn raced to the front entrance of the palace, and the score upon score of marksmen and shieldmen guarding it.

  As one they focused upon his charging form, either with wide-eyed looks of terror or with focused determination. Sorn's left arm, still holding his terrible rod of edged steel as if the massive weapon weighed nothing, instinctively went up to guard his face as he rushed the palace, even as waves of enemy quarrels hammered into his sprinting form.

  His exceedingly thick steel armor, forged specifically so as to be able to withstand steady crossbow fire, was more than proof for the wider quarrel heads that crashed into him. The narrow, armor piercing bolts smacking against him like hailstones were a different matter, however, some few lucky shots wedging deep enough so as to embed themselves into the chinks of the forge-hardened steel. One bolt actually managed to penetrate deep enough at wrist joint that they would have pierced his very flesh, had it not been so tightly bound with Elthsiss's energies that even now were slowly consuming him from within.

  Sorn tore these bolts out with his free hand almost without conscious thought, and the roar he gave vent to as he charged the now visibly shaken troops of the Empire was nothing less than the roar of Elthsiss himself. It was a cry so monstrous it could be felt jarring one's very bones, shattering every palace window not already broken in, sending many of the men before him flinching and screaming to the ground as their very eardrums burst, spewing vomit as their guts roiled with the terrible sound. Temporarily at least, all present save Sorn had been deafened by his terrible roar.

  Every man, friend and foe alike, froze for one heart-stopping second as Sorn effortlessly leaped over the row of shieldmen before the palace to silently crash into the first wave of archers behind them. The men did not even have time to draw their broadswords before Sorn's terrible war mace tore into their panicked numbers. His furious two-handed blows sent countless soldiers flying, heads brutally torn free, chests rupturing forth viscera as the mangled bodies soared into the laps of their brethren, so great was Sorn's white hot rage. Disciplined morale instantly transformed into disorganized terror as the Empire's crack troops were now forced to face the wrath of a creature beyond their ken.

  Tormented Sorn was, by the unshakable realization that the enemy had penetrated into the very heart of his queen's nest, as such were the terms his primal mind envisioned Elissa, whom he yearned for desperately. Thus every shred of instinct screamed for him to do all he could to come to her aid, stand by her side, defend her layer against all aggressors. Sorn's rage transcended anything human, and the dreadful fear that he had come too late added a panicked frenzy to his devastating blows. He gave no thought to defense or eloquence, each terrible strike of his bladed steel rod carrying all his force behind it, whistling through the air with unbelievable speed for a weapon so heavy, solely serving to tear away all the milling men who barred his way to the side of his princess. Men whom he savagely ripped into like an axeman cleaving his way through sacks of tomatoes that reeked of blood.

  It mattered not when well-disciplined shieldmen came to reinforce terrified archers, no shield could withstand the force of Sorn's terrible blows. Shield and soldier alike would shatter before the ferocity of Sorn's berserker fury, washing Sorn and his enemies in continuous sprays of crimson gore as Sorn relentlessly smashed his way through the now panicked soldiers before him.

  It made no difference that said soldiers were now for the most part only struggling desperately to flee this nightmarish creature in their midst. For due to the press of men on all sides, and still flowing out from the palace doorway itself, they were still blocking Sorn’s pathway to the palace proper, and so all were targets for his terrible wrath.

  In fact, so deep in his madness was he, that Sorn took no note of the clarion trumpet call and cries of the knights, his erstwhile companions, as they took heart at his mad charge. Taking his coming as a sign, they had galloped forth at his heels, once again inspired by their living legend, flying into the now demoralized archers with lance and longsword alike to devastating effect. Indeed, Caverenoc's forces quickly rushed forward in the main, those troops soon overwhelming the remaining resistance that had but moments before been pouring forth from the palace entrance. For the chilling flood of Empire soldiers formerly reinforcing the troops outside had been suddenly staunched by the roaring figure drenched in crimson that even at that very moment was cleaving a bloody path into the palace itself.

  Grimly, Sorn made his way in. All was dark and dim, fluttering torches giving flickers to the men at all sides who were without question Sorn's enemies. His arms tingled with the power coursi
ng through them, a tingle he instinctively knew would soon turn to burning, as every fiber stretched taught with the concentrated fury of Sorn's hot wrath.

  The exquisitely rendered ceiling mosaics, their rich purple and tan patterns maintained and polished for countless decades, soon began to take on a rich patina of crimson as a roaring Sorn tore his way ever deeper into the enemy infested palace.

  He felt his fury mounting to panic at the first intersection, not knowing where to go. It was a moment wherein no less than five men, yelling with desperation born of terror, charged Sorn in unison, taking advantage of the wider opening at the intersection, no doubt desperately hoping to overpower and kill this hideous creature encased in gore covered steel.

  The soldier's desperate charge was broken near instantly, however, as Sorn's terrible mace tore through the top of one man's richly embossed shield and his head both. Skull rupturing with a sickening crack, the body flew into the terrified arms of one of his companions, who was himself unable to do more than scream before Sorn's blistering series of two-handed blows pounded through the remaining soldiers, slamming their shattered bodies against the once elegantly bedecked corridor walls.

  The one surviving soldier's face froze into a rictus of horror, his deafened ears unable to hear his own insane shrieks as he watched the now near unrecognizable pulpy masses that had just moments before been his hale and healthy companions slide to bloody mangled heaps upon the floor, leaving slick trails of red gore on the walls behind them.

  As the horrific nightmare destroyed the last of the man's brittle sanity, he became no more than a desperate animal, seeking to flee the monstrous being before him. Indeed, so great was his terror spiked desperation, he had managed to backpedal with sufficient speed to avoid suffering the full fury of Sorn's terrible blow, only losing his left back foot as Sorn's down-handed stroke tore into it with such force that it was completely sheered off into a pulpy mass, mixed in with the shattered fragments of stone mosaic that had been pulverized by Sorn's terrible blow. The shrieking man, all semblance of coherent thought utterly forgotten, stumbled away before falling to scrabble across the blood-spattered floor as best he could, his own lifeblood spurting from the mangled stump of his ankle, leaving a grisly trail behind him.

  The enemy soldiers pouring fourth even at that moment from the leftmost corridor gave pause to Sorn's terrible countenance, and the hideous scene of shattered bodies strewn all about Sorn caused the men to instinctively step back. A curt order from the commanding officer whose words Sorn understood perfectly directed the now shaken swordsmen to hold fast as crossbowmen reinforcements were coming. It was an order they were all too happy to comply with.

  Like the crippled soldier, Sorn ignored them, having deduced, even in his primal state, where the princess was likely to be.

  The Royal Guardsmen's barracks. Sorn charged down the rightmost corridor, barely registering the twang of bolts bouncing from the corridor walls at his back.

  Within moments Sorn caught sight of a score of Empire men even then overwhelming what looked to be a mere handful of Royal Guardsmen, as they valiantly fought a desperate struggle for survival several yards from the shattered doorway that had no doubt been forced in by the bronze battering ram near the enemy soldiers' feet.

  His heart filling with a desperate rage, agonized hope warring with white-hot fury and despair, Sorn gave vent to a cry terrible enough to freeze every soldier where he stood, before plowing into the back of the enemy squad, sending disciplined soldiers flying in pulverized heaps as he desperately made his way to the broken doorway. Sorn heard a scream then that chilled him to the bone as he saw the flash of an all too familiar spell, and in a near frenzied panic cleaved through the few remaining enemy soldiers by the shattered doorway.

  One skilled swordsman had actually managed to land a cut to the sliver of Sorn's exposed nose before Sorn's terrible blow ruptured the man's skull in an explosion of crimson gore. Yet all this was as naught to Sorn, looking beyond the dazed countenance of a half dozen of the King's Guards, seemingly as wary of Sorn as the very enemy he had just obliterated. "Elissa!" Sorn roared in a voice not quite his own. "Elissa!"

  Sorn rushed past the few surviving Royal Guardsmen into the central council room beyond. The sight before him was a grim one indeed. Two of the marshals were splayed upon the floor, glassy-eyed countenance declaring their true state, as well as the crossbow bolts sticking out from their backs.

  The mage Eloquinon, who had cut such a dashing figure with his saturnine features and sharp intelligence but hours before, was even now gasping his last. Face chalky pale, all pretense gone, trying only to stave off the inevitable as his body struggled for each dying breath. Even as Sorn watched, he could see the glistening blue-white entrails oozing forth between the mage's desperately clamped fingers like terrible snakes inevitably slithering free of life itself, disemboweled as he was by a brutal gut wound suffered what must have been only seconds ago.

  Several fallen soldiers gave evidence to the fact that poor Eloquinon had not been downed without exacting a dear price, given the telltale signs of multiple magical missiles having put an end to at least four of the foe.

  "Eloquinon," Sorn whispered, the desperate ferocity in his voice causing the dying man to at last focus on something besides his own terrible demise. "Where is Elissa, Eloquinon? Where did they take her?"

  "Back…" Eloquinon tried to speak, his voice no stronger than a breathy whisper. "Took her back to where they came from… couldn't save her…"

  He gave vent to terrible wracking spasms as he coughed, whimpering as the spasms resulted in yet more of his innards bursting past his desperately clutching fingers.

  The agony must have been beyond comprehension. Even through his white-hot fury Sorn felt sorrow for this man. Yet he could spend no more time with him, dared not.

  "May the Phoenix take you swiftly on your journey, Eloquinon." Sorn said solemnly before charging back the way he came, past the shattered bodies of the fallen Empire soldiers he had dispatched only moments ago.

  "Well? which way did they come from?" Sorn roared at the still dazed looking Royal Guardsmen, all snapping to attention at the command in his voice, gaping at his blazing eyes and gore-spattered countenance.

  "They boiled up from near the armory we believe, sir. They came out of nowhere, shortly after the majority of our troops left for the warehouses."

  The soldier who spoke was pale and in obvious shock, hands pressed against an injury to his side even as he spoke. He started to cough at this point, the pink flecked sputum signifying a grave injury indeed.

  "We could hear them tear through the palace, and half our men went to head them off. Their numbers and weaponry were far more than what we were prepared for. It seems that another tunnel had been dug right under the palace proper. I don't know what happened to our fellows, but I assume they fell." The man broke into a second spasm of coughing before continuing, oblivious to the fresh spray of crimson upon his already gore-spattered mail.

  "They smashed through our door and felled over half of our remaining number with a volley of crossbow bolts. They swarmed in, overwhelming us with sheer numbers, taking the King and princess both. They left just moments ago."

  The injured man collapsed, and Sorn only vaguely noted one of his fellows coming to his aid as Sorn immediately tore back the way he came, heading towards the armory as rapidly as his frantic pace could take him.

  "Elissa!" he called, his powerful voice echoing down the hallways. His anxiety had heightened to a fevered pitch, filled with a cold sick dread at the thought of his princess being torn away from everything she had ever known and loved, thrust into the hands of the very enemy that would destroy her home and enslave her people. With chilling certainty, Sorn knew that unspeakable acts would be committed upon her sacred person. Not only to snap the resolve of the very individuals that fought against the Empire’s awful regime, but simply because the depraved men of that regime so loved tormenting innocents, turning joy
ful purity into sick self-loathing, pain, and terror.

  It was a thought so awful that it ripped at his aching heart, and he swore to himself in that white hot moment that he would obliterate every single foe who stood between him and Elissa, even if that meant surrendering all secrets and attacking the army in its massive entirety.

  At that moment, the rows of Empire soldiers pouring into the intersection ahead snapped sharply into focus. They were positioned so as to guard the left-hand corridor, leading to the armory, and in all probability their hidden tunnel as well. The very corridor down which some of their number were no doubt dragging the King and his daughter back into the dark depths from which they had come, even at that very moment.

  Sorn's screech was a terrible one as he forged all of his panic and terror into one white-hot point of fury, focusing all of his wrath upon the men deliberately blocking his way. Over half the soldiers had flinched back with an involuntary cry, many dropping their weapons to clamp their ears as Sorn's terrible shriek washed over them, no few collapsing entirely, eyes rolling back as blood poured forth from their ruptured ears.

  Yet the discipline of these crack troops was readily evident. Almost half stood fast, despite Sorn's terrible shriek, its power only magnified in this enclosed corridor, and they unleashed a terrible volley of crossbow bolts in turn. All were fired at point blank range, their carefully aimed bolts hammering against Sorn’s breastplate and helmet, a disproportionate number also striking his upraised greave, instinctively raised to protect his eyes. Indeed, a number of those calculated shots that had been fired so close to their target did manage to wedge themselves into his armor, aimed at grooves and joints as a fair number had been. Some few even punctured deep enough, particularly on his less protected forearm, to draw forth drops of Sorn's blood. It was a substance which hissed and bubbled as it etched a track through the steel it touched.