Peril & Profit

by M. H. Johnson

  "But, Sorn," Fitz interjected anxiously, "the surviving Empire troops have swords to the throat of the king and the other hostages, and they are threatening to kill them if we interfere with their retreat!"

  "Remember… the dungeon," Sorn whispered, then with a final sigh, collapsed utterly as even the pain of his wounds proved unable to hold him fast against the roaring tides of exhaustion sweeping him into their dark embrace.

  33

  "Sorn!" Fitz's voice was panicked, and the arm shaking Sorn only caused him to groan softly, horribly. "You have to change to Elthsiss now or you'll die!"

  "Fitz," Lieberman said, "look at how exhausted he is. there is nothing we can do to help him right now. I doubt we could wake him if we tried, and if we did it would probably do more harm than good. I doubt Sorn could change even if he were out of his armor and wide awake right now. He is just too… drained."

  Fitz’s gaze was an unspoken plea. "But Lieberman, you saw how awesome he was! He sent those soldiers flying with every blow like the time Tovoc let that mad bull stray into the sheep pen! How could Sorn be so weak now that he can barely move?" Even in his anxiety, Fitz's admiration for his cousin's terrible battle prowess was evident, an admiration and worry that were both reflected in equal measure in his tear-filled sapphire eyes.

  Lieberman shook his head sadly. "I wish I knew, cousin, I wish I knew. But look, we have to keep our word! We have no choice. Right now, we got to focus on saving the king. And with the king are the healers, and maybe they can save Sorn!"

  With that, all three cousins focused their attention on the three soldiers holding the king, Salrie the healer, and a second woman dressed in robes similar to Salrie's. The grim-faced soldiers were roughly forcing their hostages toward the shaft entrance, even as they watched.

  Though Fitz and his brothers were some of the few who could make out their actual words in the room, their meaning was clear to all.

  "You're right, Lieberman," said an intent looking Hanz, eyes filled with a passionate fire of their own. "And we don't have any time to waste." Hanz flashed a daring smile. "Everyone know what to do?"

  Lieberman nodded. "I'll do the talking. Just like the kitchens back home, remember? And don't forget how we protected ourselves from the cook's tomatoes!"

  His two brothers shared a desperate grin, quickly running out of the enemy soldier’s line of sight.

  "Hey, pigheads!" Lieberman called out harshly to the Empire's soldiers in their own tongue. The hostage taking men had made little further progress against the bustling mill around the tunnel entrance, as they were in effect the rear guard, making sure everyone else could flee while they followed. The swarming body of fleeing soldiers was otherwise surrounded by the still fired up knights, men who were at that moment keeping their battle fury in check for fear of harm coming to the king as his peril was made blatantly clear to all.

  Indeed, Lieberman could well see the glistening ruby drop of crimson on the king's neck as the near hyperventilating hostage taker held his blade a little too closely to his captive's neck.

  Everyone turned towards Lieberman, invaders and knights equally surprised to hear Lieberman insult the hostage takers in their native tongue. By the furrowed brows he spotted, some few of the better educated of Caverenoc's troops were actually able to follow what he said.

  Lieberman gave forth a bleak smile, once he saw that he had everyone's full attention. "I have a deal for you! I will pay you a thousand gold Caverenoc royals if you hand over the king! What do you say?"

  The hostage takers shared a brief glance, their looks one of surprise and disbelief. One answered Lieberman with a harsh laugh tinged with scorn. "How could we trust you?" The man holding the king asked, though even his eyes lightened at the promise of so much wealth. "And what proof do we have that you even have such wealth?"

  Lieberman smiled at the man. He could see the terrible hunger lighting up in some of their eyes, warring with their fear, and he knew just what to say. "Tell me, soldiers, does the name Lord Vorstice ring a bell? You know, the traitor who helped you build your tunnel under the city to the warehouse?"

  The eyes of the trooper holding the king at dagger-point widened, but most of the other enemy troops looked blank. Obviously, it was a secret kept to a select few troops, Lieberman surmised.

  "Think it through, you morons! How else did we know about the tunnel under the warehouse? We captured your agent in the city, and in doing so, we took his fortune in gold and jewels while we were at it! I offered you a thousand royals, no? Well, let's say I make it an even five thousand? The man had ten thousand crowns worth of gold locked away in his dungeons. I will split it with you and your companions, if you will surrender the king and those healers right this second. And that is a promise, and my people never break their word. Do you agree?"

  The soldier holding the king gave this a second's pause. His fellow men gave the soldier sideways looks, perhaps surprised to see by the man's startled expression that the story about the lord being their agent must be true. And so, perhaps, might be his gold as well. The king himself was gazing at Lieberman very intently as he spoke, seeming to pay no mind at all to the fiercely gripping soldier and the cut on his neck. His mouth was gagged, but his eyes spoke volumes.

  "Even if I did believe you, and I don't know that I do, what good would it do to take your gold?" The soldier queried. "I could not return to the Empire, and your city will surely fall."

  Lieberman couldn’t help smiling. "By the very ship that got through your blockade to begin with. Surely you've heard rumors to the effect that a ship broke through your blockade, burning your cutters to cinders in the process?"

  This time all the soldiers' eyes widened at Lieberman's lure. This rumor had indeed flown like wildfire through the rank and file despite all their commanders’ efforts to suppress it, as the hastily whispered comments between the invaders, inaudible to all lacking Lieberman’s acute hearing, soon evidenced.

  "Why, yes," The soldier holding the king so tightly acknowledged, "we have heard of these rumors. What you say about the boat and the agent might both be true. This only proves you have knowledge. Not that you have the gold you..."

  At that point the man's dark almond eyes widened in sudden shock as the dagger he pressed so tightly against the king's neck was wrenched away with a terrible yank, while six inches of mithril steel suddenly appeared, as if by magic, jutting from the man's temple.

  Said mithril blade was expertly torn free an instant later by a now fully visible Fitz as he raced past the collapsing guardsman whose mouth was still gaping open, as if for some final word to say. Everyone stared in momentary shock at the boy in silks and blood spattered mithril who had appeared out of nowhere as he hastily propelled the startled but fully compliant king forward with one hand. His other hand, still gripping his gory blade, was held behind him as he ran sideways, trying to maintain the shimmering shield of force guarding the king's back and his own.

  "Hanz? Come on!" Fitz called out urgently as he raced with the king back to friendly lines away from a momentarily surprised but now very angry and panicked group of soldiers. At that moment, however, Lieberman was relieved to see Hanz appear behind a second hostage taker who had of a sudden collapsed in a heap, frantically rushing a dazed Salrie ahead of him while also keeping a shimmering shield of force between them and the now near panicked mob of enemy soldiers. A good thing too, as Lieberman noted at least one crossbow bolt slam into the shield at shoulder height, before clanking to the ground.

  “Hah, see that, morons?” a grinning Fitz exclaimed. “Against our shields, neither tomatoes nor crossbow bolts shall prevail!”

  Lieberman was filled with a sense of exhilaration by their brilliantly executed plan. He intuitively knew in that instant, however, that they now had to prevent the Empire’s forces from charging forth once more to overwhelm Hanz and Fitz and retake their hostages.

  His next words were inspired by no less than the legendary charge of his wounded cousin, and thou
gh he knew he was putting himself in a situation that Sorn would scold him for, Lieberman was too filled with glory, exhilaration, and battle lust to care.

  "For blood and glory, fellow knights of Caverenoc, charge!" Lieberman cried, raising his mithril sword up high, the blade seeming to shine like a flickering jewel from the torchlight in the well-lit smithy.

  Truth be told, the knights of Caverenoc were indeed moved by the figure Lieberman cut at that moment, with his luminous golden hair, shining mail, and unearthly beauty. His face, blessed with the unblemished innocence of youth radiated a pristine glory captivating to behold, his graceful form so like that of the noblest of paladins. It was as if the spirit of the city itself was once again rallying her troops by dint of the majestic youth before them.

  "For blood and Caverenoc!" The knights roared in unison, and as Lieberman ran head-on into the seething mass of Empire soldiers, the knights charged in with a roar right behind him.

  Almost instantly Lieberman found himself swallowed in the frenzied melee of close quarter combat. It was all but impossible to make use of elegant footing and graceful sweeping parries that were the forte of the fencer in the crushing melee he currently found himself in, enemies rushing before him before being swallowed up once again by the tides of battle once more.

  He found himself increasingly needing to rely on a fierce barrage of interweaving slashes to protect himself, every sweeping snap of his blade defending even as it aggressed, the razor sharp mithril and his own fourfold human strength serving time and again to break multiple soldier's mad rushes.

  When his opponents went on the aggressive, it did little good, for Lieberman would allow their furious swings to slide along his blade, power lost, before whipping his own saber underneath their over-extended guard, the mithril blade cutting through boiled rawhide, chainmail, sword arms, and vital organs with equal proficiency, sending soldier after soldier collapsing to their deaths.

  Men who often as not spent their last moments gasping at him in wide-eyed disbelief after his mithril blade tore through heart, lungs, and everything in between. They were completely unable to comprehend, perhaps, how the slender figure before them had so easily slipped his blade past their heavier, slower broadswords, nor the strength that had allowed him to brush past their parries so easily before sending them crashing to the ground.

  As often as not, however, Lieberman found himself increasingly using his mithril sheathed left arm to block any number of vicious blows that he was in no position to parry or dodge, when multiple men attacked him at once. Thus for all his strength and skill, all that was preventing his blood from coating any number of savagely swung blades was the armor that had, for all its strength, been intended as little more than a ball costume.

  Still, for all his supernatural resilience, the aches and pains Lieberman could feel up and down his forearm gave mute testimony to the desperate nature of the battle that he was immersed in.

  More troubling, Lieberman could feel his arm beginning to stiffen up as it became steadily harder to raise his aching forearm to parry each consecutive wild swing launched his way. At last he could see why Sorn had placed emphasis on learning basic shield work. As clumsy as the tool had seemed when fencing with a saber against a single opponent, in a pitched battle it was an absolute necessity. How much he found himself wishing for a shield at that very moment.

  With a jolt of savage pain and a scream from his own lips that he was not even aware of uttering, Lieberman paid a fierce price for his growing fatigue and stiffening arm. For one of the few enemy soldiers not yet brought down by the knights, roaring his contemptuous defiance, had aimed a savage two-handed blow at Lieberman with his heavy serrated blade. It was a blow Lieberman could not bring his forearm up fast enough to parry entirely, the blade instead slashing full force into his hand. Eyes widening in horrified agony of his own, Lieberman could feel the blade cut cleanly through his flesh.

  Inhuman resilience aside, the blow landed by the hulking figure was so terrible that though his bones were near unbreakable, the force behind the savage swing was still sufficient to literally tear the finger bone clean out of its socket as the serrated blade proceeded to cut the rest of the way through Lieberman’s first finger, slicing to the bone of the second one as well.

  "You bloody bastard!" Lieberman screeched as the force of the blow sent his unbalanced form stumbling to his knees. His fierce looking opponent, eyes wild with delight, laughed madly as he swung his blade backhanded with all his strength, seeking to decapitate Lieberman with his savage swing. The frenzied invader looked more than a bit surprised, however, giving a quick shake of his head in disbelief, when Lieberman deftly avoided this fate. For though Lieberman had stumbled to one knee, the same space that had opened up sufficiently in the frenzied melee to allow the man his savage two-handed swings also allowed Lieberman sufficient room to bring his fencing skills to the fore, instantly bringing his blade up at the angle the to counter the man's frenzied strike, bracing his blade with both of his hands, and his opponent's fierce swing slid off Lieberman's blade with a steely ring, the mithril saber moving not an inch.

  The giant man's look of frustrated disbelief soon turned to a surprised gasp of pain as he jumped away reflexively from Lieberman's lightning fast counterstrike, though not before Lieberman's mithril blade had scored a deep gash to the man's massive thigh. Lieberman himself had leaped back to his feet, his blade slicing effortlessly through flesh and boiled rawhide alike.

  "Now, let's try that again, shall we?" Lieberman asked the now wary bear-like swordsman as the two cautiously circled each other, the larger man clearly favoring his uninjured leg.

  Lieberman could feel his heart pounding with outraged fury in time to the painful throb of his mutilated hand, and he felt a curious roaring deep inside his mind. It felt like every fiber of his being was tingling anew with a fierce energy just waiting to be released.

  Lieberman suddenly found it harder to focus on anything save his enemies all around him, especially the one circling him now. With what felt like almost effortless ease, Lieberman deftly beat back the suddenly charging soldier's savage two-handed blow. The great bear-like man roared his frustration, the pungent sweat of his exertions alone scoring a hit, splashing against his youthful opponent’s brow.

  Nose wrinkling ever so slightly, Lieberman's own blade streaked forth in a blindingly fast riposte that near effortlessly cleaved through the suddenly screaming soldier's left wrist entire. Lieberman took a moment's savage satisfaction in the man's look of horrified incomprehension before lashing out once again, his blindingly fast mithril blade cutting cruel and deep, sending the man crashing to the ground in shrieking agony.

  Futilely, the invader's one intact hand desperately sought to stave the flow of his steaming intestines spewing forth between his fingers as he kicked and writhed and shrieked away his last seconds, his lifeblood shooting forth from his severed wrist all about him as he did so, until his writhing body finally stilled with a last gurgling sigh.

  Lieberman gave vent to a fierce cry of victory over his opponent who had so wounded him, only then noting the uniform stares of Caverenoc soldiers and knights alike. Some appeared shocked by his savagery, others smiled in mute kinship, their eyes alight with their own savage passions that had been brought to the fore in the battle so recently finished. It appeared, then, that the battle was at last over.

  All enemy soldiers were either to be found lying in grotesque bloody heaps upon the ground, eyes already glassy with death, or huddled in a corner at sword-point, their expressions one of cowed defeat. Even now men quickly leveled planks and sheets of steel from this very armory over the tunnel entrance, weighing it down with several of the many anvils in this very room. Of course, even Lieberman knew that far more would have to be done to secure the tunnel, and soon.

  On some level Lieberman knew he should be sickened by the terrible savagery wrought in this room, the copper tang of spattered blood that covered floor and ceiling alike so thick th
at it seemed to coat his very tongue. He should feel sickened, he knew, as had been taught to him by the cynical doctrines Sorn had read to him long ago regarding the terrible fruits that war inevitably brought to its victims. Yet for all that, what he really felt was a fierce exultation, an exultation he could see mirrored in the expressions of his brothers on the far side of the room. Twin countenances that were gazing at him, Lieberman was touched to see, with admiration of their own, before turning their eyes back to the still form of their wounded cousin who was at that moment being looked at by the two healers and the king himself.

  His fierce rapture of but a moment before was all but forgotten in a flood of worry for his cousin, and a suddenly weary Lieberman stumbled over to the figures surrounding his cousin's still form. "Well?" he demanded anxiously, "is he going to be okay? Can you help him?"

  Salrie raised her careworn pretty face to meet Lieberman's own. Though she looked both exhausted and numb from her own ordeals, having no doubt been in fear for her very life as a prisoner of the Empire but moments ago, nevertheless she seemed, like her companion, focused and alert when measuring the extent of Sorn's injuries.

  34

  "I am afraid the situation is grave for Sorn,” Salrie said softly, pointing to the siege bolt sticking straight up from his backplate even as they spoke, faint streamers of metallic green smoke emanating from the wound accompanied by the faintest of hisses.

  "I would think that the spear tore through his kidney and perhaps even cleaved his spine, and in any normal man would have assumed him doomed for the grave within seconds of so severe an injury." Here she paused to collect herself, as if rechecking what she had observed in her own mind’s eye.