Peril & Profit

by M. H. Johnson

  Sorn smiled, despite his exhaustion. He was genuinely happy for his cousins to have been able to savor delicious moment of glory that for most, only lived in dreams.

  "I am happy for you all, cousins. Truly happy for you all. It's just…"

  "Yes, cousin?" Hanz queried eagerly. But it was too late, for his cousin had once more drifted off into sleep.

  It was later that night, his cousins sleeping as they often did, nestled together like cats upon the bedding laid out on the cramped cabin floor, beds ignored entirely, when Sorn's own bodily demands pulled him away from the languorous clutches of sleep. With a throbbing head and aching side, he blindly reached for the pot beneath his bed, disheartened once again by how weak he truly was.

  It was only after he finished his business with no small relief that he noticed something that near made him spill his pot over entirely in his surprise, an act which would have pissed off his cousins to no end, he had no doubt. A dark puckered contrast to the otherwise smooth, hairless, light olive hue of his forearms, Sorn found himself gently touching the raised burn scars that ran up and down both of his arms.

  They were curious marks, like etchings of scales, or waves. The edges were raised, darkened and puckered, yet the centers were the smooth unblemished flesh of healthy skin. It was almost as if someone had deliberately seared his flesh in an outline pattern of waves running up and down his arms using a white-hot poker. Waves, or perhaps, licks of flame.

  It took all his self-control to put away his chamber pot before calling out to his cousins, who woke up instantly at his call, luminescent sapphire eyes once taking in his distress before swarming around him, as if to comfort him with their presence.

  "What is it, cousin?" Fitz asked, face filled with concern.

  "Yes cousin, what is it?" Fitz's brothers cried in unison.

  At which point Sorn slowly brought forth his scar-ravaged arms. "This! My skin! It's so… scarred. What in the name of all the forces did I do?"

  At this point, all three of his cousins shared a long look before once again turning toward Sorn. "The truth is, cousin, no one knows," Fitz said. "We were too worried to care at the time, but this is how your arms have looked since we took your armor off. Your legs too."

  Sorn could only sigh at this, feeling a subtle sense of loss, though he knew not why. "Honestly, cousins, I feel so weak that I can barely lift my arm. A far cry from charging with the speed of a destroyer and scattering the enemy with the strength of twenty men, no?" Sorn laughed weekly at this and began to cough, his concerned cousins gently patting his back, so much so that he almost toppled over once more, before waving them away.

  "It's all right, I just need a sip of water. Thank you, Lieberman." He flashed his worried-looking cousins what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

  "See? No more coughing. I'm feeling better already. But tell me, how long have I been in this state of disrepair?"

  "Oh you've been bed-ridden for over seven days, Sorn," Hanz said. "As long as you had a flask of water near you when you came around, your body would happily drift off back to sleep, once you had drunken your fill."

  Hanz turned to Fitz when he said this, sharing a smirk, and both turned to Sorn, still grinning mischievously.

  "What is it?" Sorn queried, not sure he really wanted to know.

  "Well, Sorn, like I said, you were very good about drinking your fill, even when you were otherwise incoherent, much like a true dragon, no?"

  "It's the other end you had problems with." Hanz snickered, joined soon after by a chuckling Fitz and Lieberman despite themselves, and Sorn could feel a slow blush crawling over his cheeks.

  "Ah, well, never mind about that," Sorn said gruffly. His mind at last focused on what was a definite matter of concern for him. "So tell me, cousins, how fared things at Caverenoc before we left?"

  For a moment Sorn felt his heart skip a beat at the solemn gazes his cousins shared, as if coming to a silent agreement he had no part in. Then Lieberman turned to him, his smile as warm and bright as always, and Sorn's anxiety quickly dissipated, replaced with heartfelt relief.

  "No worries, Sorn," Lieberman began. "It seems that their mages college finally did something useful. They were able to use their magics to help move earth and stone so as to fill in the wall and seal up the tunnels. I just didn't understand why they didn't do any more in the fight. I asked this old white-haired guy..."

  "Old white-haired guy?"

  "Their chief mage, greater mage or something, why they hadn't done more in the fight. He did look a bit embarrassed, I guess because I was asking him in front of the king and all. But still, they hardly did anything, did they? I mean, you led the charge that broke their siege of the palace and took out at least half of the enemy soldieres by yourself, it looked like to me."

  "Yeah, Sorn!" Fitz interjected, eyes alight with admiration for his cousin.

  "You were awesome!" Hanz nodded in enthusiastic agreement.

  "And let me guess," Sorn added with tired amusement. "You guys were behind me the whole time."

  "Well…" Lieberman conceded, shifting awkwardly. "We knew you wanted us to avoid the risk of siege crossbows, so we turned back to human form and stayed invisible. But once you charged under the one we saw and broke through the men, we joined you alongside the knights. It was exciting! But in truth, we hardly got to skewer anyone until the end."

  "Yeah," Fitz sighed. "But by that time you were injured, and it wasn't nearly as much fun because we were worried about you."

  "That didn't break your focus in the fight, I trust?" Sorn asked sharply, belying his earlier exhausted state.

  "No, Sorn," the three said, near snapping to attention in unison. "We stayed focused and our aim was true."

  "Good." Sorn sighed, fighting hard not to drift back into sleep once more. "You were saying about the mages?"

  Fitz nodded. "Oh yes. Their chief was saying they had already lost two of their full mages, I think that just means that they can cast fireballs, trying to destroy the warehouse base. And for a while there, the guild was demoralized, which I think means scared, because the enemy crossbowmen were bringing down the mages by using siege crossbows, or shooting a bunch of bolts at once, so as to break down their missile wards."

  "Basically what Fitz is saying is they got scared and hid like cowards when they started getting hurt," Lieberman chimed in.

  "Exactly!" Fitz concurred. "And that's exactly what Lieberman said to the chief mage right in front of the king, and all the knights, and boy was he embarrassed! Then the guy's face got red and he started yelling at Lieberman, calling him an arrogant little whelp who didn't know the first thing about the dangers mages faced, or the 'delicate task,' as he put it, of casting spells under fire.

  "And this made everyone smile, because all the knights had seen or been told about how we fooled the Empire soldiers holding the king and the healers by sneaking around them invisible while Lieberman distracted them, just like with the torturer! Except this time it was me and Hanz who got them, and Lieberman who distracted them. That's when combat really started, and you should have seen Lieberman fight! You would have been proud, Sorn. Oh, but Lieberman lost a finger."

  At this, Lieberman gave Fitz a very angry look. "You promised not to tell!" Lieberman accused a suddenly embarrassed Fitz.

  Sorn just looked at Lieberman. "Are you all right?"

  "I guess." Lieberman sighed. "I've only had a chance to fix it half way so far, and it really is rather difficult to remake strands one by one, instead of just starting over. Don't worry, I wasn't going to do that," Lieberman assured a suddenly alarmed looking Sorn. "I know how you and grandpa feel about that. Still, it is hard."

  "Be glad your human shape doesn't truly resonate yet. Otherwise, you might find yourself spending weeks regrowing the finger naturally, if you don't shift and heal it relatively soon."

  The three looked curiously at Sorn. "Grampa told you that? Why didn't you tell us before?"

  Sorn sighed. "It's just something I
have been getting a feel of recently, with my own injuries. I fear cousins, that my scars will take months to heal. They might even be permanent. Even as my resonance increases with this form, my ability to heal it becomes an ever more immersive task, for even more than you, I can't start over. I must heal myself from within, strand by strand. And scars, I find, are extremely tricky to mend, since this shape does not normally regenerate lost limbs."

  "Oh don't worry, Sorn, you'll heal!" Lieberman assured his cousin. "Some fresh meat and you'll be up and about, as good as new. It's like with the wounded elder that went primitive back in the animal pens at home. A few dozen sheep and cattle, a good week's slumber, and he woke up good as new. Or at least coherent!"

  "Ah, but it's been a week already for me, hasn't it, cousins? And as you can see, I am far from well. I believe I pushed things rather hard, as Sorn."

  His cousins looked at Sorn solemnly, not knowing what to say.

  "We have learned a valuable lesson here, if nothing else," Sorn sighed.

  "What's that, cousin?" Lieberman queried politely.

  "Never ever enter the dragon rage as a man."

  The three identical youths displayed the same wide-eyed expressions at the very idea, never even thinking such was possible.

  "It appears once the forms resonate strongly enough with each other, that such is possible, as I now know firsthand." Sorn frowned at their expressions. "Come on, cousins, think about it. We are strong, but not so strong as to tear through handfuls of men with a single swipe of a two-handed war mace, let alone flick said weapon around as if it weighed no more than a saber."

  Sorn pursed his lips in thought, crimson memories slowly emerging once more. "At a guess, I would say I had the strength of a score of men, and a resilience of flesh that prevented even a siege crossbow bolt from tearing all the way through me, though it went so deep as to hardly make a difference, I'll grant you. And I'll tell you another thing, too. The power coursing through me, the essence Elthsiss kept hammering into my present form as an instinctive reaction to our growing rage? It almost killed me. Almost burnt every fiber of my being to a fried crisp."

  The three cousins gazed at Sorn in rapt fascination and no small amount of horror to find out how close their cousin had come to the point of self-immolation, and from his own power no less.

  "So that's why you’re so weak!" Hanz said at last.

  Sorn smiled wryly. "Indeed."

  "When do you think you'll heal?"

  "In truth, cousins, I can only hope that I will. Though I will acknowledge feeling a little bit stronger than I did earlier, the wounds I took in the battle, especially from that seige bolt, I had to repair things carefully. My key advantage, great as it was, was being able to force the tissues to line up properly to heal cleanly, and so I didn't immediately die of blood loss. But this also means there will be scarring, and I could tell from what I did that a few nerves, that which is responsible for our sense of touch, were severed in my left side."

  Sorn sighed, though his cousins gasped with horror. "No, fear not, it's healing, just, well, extremely slowly. This body's inclination is to scar, not regenerate like our own, and nerves are far trickier and slower to mend than muscle and bone. And unlike the skin, blood vessels, and muscles at the sight of my injury, where I aligned things and forced healing rather quickly, lest I bleed to death, I can't afford the slightest trace of a scar in my nerves, so I've had to be very diligent, and careful, in coaxing it to slowly regenerate."

  "Don't worry about your scars, Sorn. You'll heal them up in no time, you'll see! And even if you don't, well, that just means you should spend some minutes stretching your muscles when you get up, limbering the stiffness away! Elders do it all the time, you'll be fine!" Eyes showing a deep-felt sympathy, Lieberman nonetheless spoke with forced good cheer.

  Sorn smiled gently. "And you could well be right, my cousin. Perhaps all I will need is a bit of morning calisthenics to limber me up for the day. Have no fear, little ones, I am sure I will still be able to kick your rears most soundly with my blade. I may just need to do a bit of warming up beforehand now, that's all.

  "In any case, cousins, what I have learned at fairly high cost to myself, one which I should like for you to never have to pay, is this: When you feel the heat of true rage coming on, if at all possible, fight in dragon form. Or flee, if you must. Or if you must fight, be careful and break away, and change discretely as soon as possible. Invisibility would help here, of course, though that can be difficult to cast when the rage is upon you. What I am saying is, no matter what, avoid fighting as a man if you feel the hot fury start to consume you. It is just far too dangerous, do you understand?"

  "Sure, Sorn," Hanz said softly. "We understand."

  "So tell me," Sorn said, suddenly desiring to change the subject, "what happened with the chief wizard?"

  "Oh, that." Hanz smiled impishly. "He berated Lieberman for a while longer, calling him a foolish half-wit who had a lot of gall, talking back to a mage, before Lieberman got sick of it and cast a mirror image spell, then surrounded the mage, calling him a coward at the top of his voice. And you know how loud Lieberman can be."

  Sorn nodded with a smile.

  "And the mage looked truly frightened. I guess they have never seen a mirror image spell. Maybe that's why they didn't do so hot against the crossbowmen. Anyway, I think he was going to cast something when the king looked at the wizard and Lieberman, or one of them, anyway, and said 'cease your petty bickering! We are a team here, and we should be treating each other with respect.' Then he asked them both to apologize and Lieberman did so, but for the king's sake, not for this wimpy wizard. Anyway, me and Fitz couldn't help cracking up at the whole thing, and then all the knights joined us, and the mage stormed out without apologizing. I think he was a bit pissed."

  "I'm afraid he was," Sorn agreed, unable to contain his smile of amusement. "Ah, cousins, it seems we still have to work on your diplomacy."

  Sorn couldn't help giving a soft chuckle of his own at the thought of multiple Liebermans heckling the rather pompous sounding mage, and had to give his cousin credit for originality. He had never thought to use the spell to surround an opponent before. His cousins smiled as well, as if pleased to have lifted their cousin's spirit, at least as much as the memory of embarrassing the stuffy wizard allowed.

  "And don't worry about the diplomacy thing, Sorn," Lieberman hastily reassured his cousin. "At the dinner banquet that day, the king made sure to give the wizards credit for destroying the warehouses and sealing the tunnels under the city wall and castle. He went on to commend them for the brave sacrifice of several of their mages, and understood that they had to conserve their resources for when they knew they would be needed most. By the end of the king's speech, the old geezer was preening like a peacock!"

  "That's true, but there's also something else, Sorn," a perturbed looking Fitz said. "It seems the chief wizard was impressed by our spell. He was so impressed that he tried to get the king to order us to stay with him, saying that since we were mages like he was, we were beholden to the 'Oath of Mages' to help each other in times of need. Then he said we would have to stay in the mages tower, as student mages, no less, since we're so young, and spend all of our time reading their stuffy books and teaching them our mirror image spell, which they can't even cast!"

  "Somehow, I can't see you three being too happy stuck in a tower, forced to read books all day," Sorn sympathized with a tired smile.

  Fitz nodded in complete agreement. "Well maybe you could, Sorn. But you're right, we didn't like that idea at all. And there was no way we were going to let this stuffy old geezer who had ducked out of the fight boss us around, especially as we were heroes and had just saved the king! Besides, I wagered that we could have beaten him in a mage's duel, even if he does know some powerful magics. He certainly hadn't displayed any I could see, though he did help seal up the tunnels, I'll give him that."

  "I wouldn't be too surprised to find that you could have," Sor
n allowed. "Though overconfidence is a very dangerous thing, and I would think it equally possible that he might get the best of you. After all, one of your few vulnerabilities to magic does include effects which mimic or magnify your bodies natural inclinations, such as sleep spells, that being something your bodies probably have not gotten enough of since we got here! So the match might be closer than you think. Unless you turned to a dragon, of course, in which case the game is up. And don't get too cocky, cousin, as it is your resilience and immunity to heat and cold and well, magic in general, that gives you the real edge."

  "Whatever," Fitz said, rolling his eyes in exasperation. "The point is that when the king tried to put this to us, he did it softly. You might say diplomatically. Especially since there is, of course, that mages contract thing between all those wizard schools around here that demands that they all work together in times of peril, and the king said the truth was that he dared not break such an old covenant, especially since he needed all the help he could get.

  "Then we told his majesty that we honestly had no idea what this wizard guy was talking about, but the wizard said that was outrageous, that every master in this part of the world had his students swear to abide by the tenants of the contract when they were apprentices, and that there was no way we could slip free of the bonds of our oaths."

  Fitz's animated expression turned grim at that point, his displeasure with the high mage being quite obvious. "And we really didn't like the accusatory tone that he was taking with us. After all, we were the ones who had risked our necks saving the king while he was busy ducking his head in the sand and twiddling his little magic thumbs, yet here he was trying to make us look like cowards! Then Lieberman told him off, saying, among other things, that it made sense that we hadn't sworn this stupid oath, since we weren't from around here. Then the high mage got all blotchy and mad again and demanded to know who our teacher was, and then Lieberman smirked at him, since he was happy to answer this question, and told him that our teacher was none other than you, Sorn. The supposed spirit of Caverenoc made flesh, recuperating in the king's own chambers after having squashed near a hundred men!"