Gold & Glory

by M. H. Johnson

  "Sorn, if there was ever a time we needed you, now is it! Can you hit them from here?" Halence asked, pointing to the boat over two hundred yards away.

  "As to whether I could hit them? Not quite at this distance, but thirty yards in or so, the answer is yes. As to whether it would do any good… Captain, how can I sight a point on the hull if I can barely see the ship?"

  "To the bloody hells with whether or not it's not a perfect shot, Sorn! Just hit the point of light for all I care! We've to do something!" Halence's tightly wound control seemed to be cracking under the strain, the futility of combating a deadly nemesis he was helpless to counter. Yet the captain had a pretty good idea, at that.

  "Okay, Captain. I will aim for that point of light. With luck, it should cause the ball of pitch to explode in the faces of whoever's manning it, and maybe make them a bit hesitant about their firing. At least, it should slow them down."

  "That's the spirit!" Halence enthused, giving Sorn a mighty clap on the back. "He's going to give it to them, boys!" Halence called to his crew, who gave a ragged cheer. Sorn understood the need for the declaration. The morale of the crew depended on them being able to do something.

  "But we need to get closer, Captain! And Captain?" Sorn said, thinking fast, "I need a minute to gather my focus to be able to mount an effective attack out here under fire. Okay?"

  "As fast as you can Sorn, as fast as you damn well can!" The captain turned to his men. "All right, boys, hold her steady for a few moments, get ready to turn on my mark… now! Turn into her!" After half a minute of holding steady, time enough they hoped for Sorn to prepare himself, the ship slowly turned to face the cutter, both ships now facing prow to prow.

  For the first time, Sorn found himself having to find his center while under considerable stress. Fortunately, his long practice allowed him to achieve the necessary stillness of mind near instantly as always, and moments later the sweet rush of power roared through him as potent as ever. He suddenly found himself in tune with that deeper part of himself that swam those seas of arcane energies, through which he could channel his own storms of magical power. In that moment's stillness, he gently tapped into the fierce torrent of energies coursing through him, directing it to fill the matrix constructed in his mind's eye as deeply as it could. It took only a moment for the matrix to saturate with power, and with a gently whispered word Sorn released the web, the potent forces of the protective spell immediately enveloping Sorn in their comforting embrace, protecting him in that complex kinetic shield colloquially referred to by some practitioners as 'Wardskin'. He then visualized and cast several other defensive spell matrixes, in this case able to summon forth the less complex spell webs with such exquisite clarity that they seemed to literally draw in the magical energies needed to complete them of their own accord, making the casting of the spells missile shield and mage armor near effortless.

  "Sorn!" Halence roared. “We need you now!"

  Fortunately, Sorn's concentration was unbroken by Halence's near panic, his connection with his own inner flows now too strong to be easily severed. Grateful for the half-minute's respite he had been given to find his center and cast his protective wards, he gave a curt nod by way of acknowledgment to the captain, and far quicker than the time it took to visualize and bring forth the complex protective matrices of before, he near instantly brought to mind in all its shimmering intensity the basic web construct for arcane orbs, which immediately filled with shimmering potency and was released by Sorn with one curt guttural word and the snap of his wrist, streaking toward its target, the dimly made out silhouette of the siege-crossbowman and the flask of pitch with the lit trailer that at that very instant was fired.

  The first of the stream of magical missiles Sorn released tore into the spot the flask had been the instant before launch, doing little against the solid steel frame save releasing a thousand sparks, and perhaps denting the metal. The other four missiles tore into the triggerman, hitting their mark dead center with explosive force far beyond what even Sorn had expected, as attested by the ruptured mass of shattered meat and bone that had but moments before been the triggerman. No doubt the resulting gore-streaked mess would make the remaining soldiers far more cautious about using their siege-crossbow, Sorn thought with hot satisfaction. And that's when he became aware of the screams around him on the deck of his own ship.

  Apparently the triggerman's last shot ever had been a hit. Sorn spun around and with no small amount of horror saw one of his own crewmates burning alive, slapping frantically at the burning pitch splattered over his body, searing through flesh and clothing alike. Though he didn't know the man personally, Sorn felt for him all the same. All the man's hopes and dreams transformed to hideous pain. Catching the man's desperate gaze, Sorn could sense all too well the overwhelming horror of the screaming sailor, yearning for succor from his brutal fate as his companions finally got over their shock and slapped him to the ground, trying to pour sand over his struggling form. All that, and Sorn knew it was too late. He knew burns too well.

  In too much torment to think or reason, still burning, still screaming, the man with a last act of tragic, futile strength threw his companions off and ran straight over the railing like a fiery comet, to plunge with a hiss into the sea below.

  And that’s when Sorn felt a terrible rage well up within him, rage for that poor sailor whose fragile existence had ended in so terrible a death, rage at himself for not having acted sooner. Most of all, what he felt was raw anger turning into a blistering hot fury at this despised enemy that would dare to harm his companions, to bring pain and despair and death to his men. He could feel his fury pounding through him, could feel the storm of his outrage whip his own arcane might into a towering cyclone of hot, pulsating power. How hard it was not to give into the sweet searing pull of his wrath. How hard it was to keep control of the maelstrom of flame at the very core of his being that screamed for release. He could feel his jaw stretching in a manic grin, could feel his breath come in short gasps as he started to heave, and could barely, just barely, keep it in check.

  At that moment he heard the crashing below as his three cousins rushed up on deck through the shattered bulkhead, themselves wild eyed, chests heaving. "Cousin!" roared Fitz, once again triggered by the hot caustic pheromones that Sorn was releasing in his barely controlled fury, instinctively wanting to lash out in unison at what was causing his blood relative such rage. "Enemies approch!" Sorn gasped after a moment, controlling his guttural voice as best he could. "Missile the hell out of that thrice-damned cutter!"

  Fueled by the raging maelstrom roaring through him, Sorn shot a second series of missiles, white hot, which slammed into the soldier at that moment trying to load another container of pitch onto the siege crossbow, tearing man and pitch flask apart and briefly lighting up the night as flaming pitch splashed all over the frantically rushing cluster of people on the front deck. Moments later three smaller streams of blazing missiles streaked forth, shrieking their white-hot fury through the air as they too tore into the silhouettes of their targets, soldiers literally torn apart with the release of such fiery hot energies as they went down in mangled, burning heaps.

  Yet despite the chaos on the enemy cutter's prow, the ship was still heading straight for their own, the smacking sound of bolts hitting the main cabin all too clear a signal that they were now in crossbow range. Captain Halence, only momentarily taken aback by the youth's display of arcane powers, immediately roared for his men to grab their crossbows and helmets and take cover behind the barrier on the top deck. All this Sorn and his cousins were only dimly aware of, focused as they were on the enemy before them, each sending a follow up volley of magic missiles at the line of well-disciplined crossbowmen firing from the side of the enemy vessel that was even at that moment turning to face starboard to allow for as many crossbowmen to fire on Captain Halence's ship as possible.

  Five men in all went down with that second fiery hot volley, Sorn having long ago taught himself how to
split his stream. Two missiles hit one man, three the second, and Sorn could hear the shrieks even from here as their torsos erupted under the white-hot flare of the missiles exploding into them.

  Silky dark hair billowing wildly from his fey countenance, Sorn's face lit up with a savage glee at the sound of his enemies suffering. A terrible grin that was matched, had he but known it, perfectly by his cousins. For theirs was a deep and terrible hunger. A gaping maw, vast as the chasm of death, freshly awoken and craving blood.

  Sorn suddenly sensed a warm wave of heat brush by him and felt the brightness that indicated a ball of pitch had exploded by his feat. "Captain Halence!" came Bates's unnecessary scream. "Second cutter!"

  All unawares, it seemed, a second cutter had sailed in along their rear, Halence's ship made easy to spot after having been hit twice by burning pitch, embers still being put out by the frantic men on the front deck pouring on sand. One man went down at that moment with a strangled cry, a crossbow bolt having torn through his neck, driven with such force that the bolt went completely through, sailing straight into the sea on the far side of the ship as the poor man slumped in wide-eyed shock to the deck, his neck, fountaining blood, quenching the last of the flames that the sand had not.

  It appeared, Sorn found himself reflecting in some cool part of his mind underneath his searing hot battle-rage that was growing ever stronger, that they had made the blockade. At that moment a wild-eyed Halence was charging up to the upper deck, his own crossbow in hand, though where he had gotten it from Sorn had no idea. Sorn could hear him roaring for someone to get down, saw a wide-eyed Bates looking at Sorn and didn't know if the captain meant him or Bates, and Sorn felt the ever so feint tug and heard the wine of a crossbow bolt being deflected by at least one of his three wards. He was halfway to signaling for the captain not to worry, to just get down himself, when he caught Bates's curious wide-eyed stare. His innocent expression was like that of a surprised young child's, Sorn thought, framed by his tousled dirty blond hair, and it was only as Bates stumbled to the deck that Sorn noted that Bates was holding something. His stomach, Sorn noted with almost clinical detachment, as something inside him boiled over into an incoherent fury. Bates was definitely holding a stomach. Captain Halence, however, rushed to cover Bates, blocking him from view. But it had been enough for Sorn and his cousins, whose roars of outrage matched his own.

  "Don't change!" Sorn screamed over the chaos of the night. "Don't change, or you'll rupture the boat and everyone on board will die! Fireball the bastards!" Sorn roared, barely coherent before he finally gave into the throbbing searing hot pulse of his fury, feeling almost as if he were floating in a terrible dream, as he leaped in a fifteen-foot arc to the lower deck, hearing at least one plank crack as he raced to the top deck to spot the second boat. And spot it he did, amidst the wide-eyed crew all kneeling below the defensive barrier around the top deck. Sorn didn't bother, near hyperventilating in his fury.

  Sorn felt himself crackle in the dimness, as if lit by a terrible heat from within, and two crewmen began to whimper when Sorn uttered words that seemed to sear the very air. A small green pulsating ball streaked forth from his finger, tearing through the night sky with a terrible roar to hit the ship at their rear and erupt into what looked like a maelstrom of white-hot fire that exploded from the point of impact, forming a perfect incandescent dome of roaring flame before flaring up and away, leaving behind a furiously burning ship, lower mast and deck looking like a pillar of flame roaring toward the heavens, men near the stern and foredeck of the doomed cutter screaming where scalding embers and flames had licked them with their heat, while the middeck was nothing but a mid-sea inferno, no trace of any of the dozen or so crossbowmen that had been taking carefully aimed potshots at Halence's crew moments before.

  "Do you like that, bastards?" Sorn roared. "Do you like that? Well, there's more where that came from!" And with several more harsh words of power that seemed to hiss through the air long after being uttered, a second pulsating ball of condensed green fury shot forth from Sorn's fingers to smash into the foredeck of the enemy ship, washing it and the group of men huddling there in a second whirling white-hot maelstrom of flame. When the dome of fire dissipated, all that was left were the charred remains of a furiously burning foredeck, the entire boat a blazing inferno, the top mast at that moment breaking free and crashing like a shroud to the embers below. Several helpless wails could be heard as those few pitiable souls who had clung to the very lip of the so far unseared stern of the ship jumped off as the heat became too great to bear.

  At that moment a brilliant flash could be seen from the stern of Halence's ship, and Sorn caught a glimpse of the first cutter also being consumed in a roaring ball of flame that left the mid deck ablaze, much as had Sorn's first fireball. Shortly thereafter two other fireballs exploded into that ship, resulting in what were now two furiously burning pyres gently sinking into the sea.

  Far from being fatigued from his arcane feats, Sorn felt a furious exultation roaring through his veins, as if he had partaken of the most luscious and forbidden of fruits, energized by their nectars in some unspeakably hideous way. Hideous? Nay, glorious. The screams of his enemies shrieking their death knells, the sea crimson with pitch and flame.

  As it had always been. As it would always be. Battling against all foes, embracing forever the hot cauldron of victory.

  Meeting his cousins on the middeck, stinking as it did of pitch, burnt wood, and less savory things, Sorn, eyes dancing with a savage glee, gave his cousins a terrible smile. "Nice work, cousins. Excellently done."

  "It was fire!" said Hanz, eyes sparkling with a madness so terribly unlike his normal innocent expression, savage glee having utterly replaced good cheer.

  "Yes, the rage is good for fire!" Lieberman voiced with a manic grin. "It makes it hot!"

  "Sorn, I'm hungry!" Fitz said, fierce eyes belying the puppy-like wail to his voice. "I'm so hungry! When do we eat?"

  "Not here cousins, not now! The captain will bring us food. We need to wait until we get to shore, then we will find something more filling than ship rations. We have to move quickly, cousins," Sorn said, not without aching in sympathy as their eyes gazed upon the wide-eyed survivors desperately gripping scorched planks and other remnants of their shattered ships, countenances illuminated by the flicker of the burning pyres that until so recently had been their deadly war cutters. "We have to think of Bates. Remember, as terrible as the hunger is right now, we can fill it later. If we don't get Bates to a healer, there will be, for him, no later."

  Sorn's cousins nodded at this coldly sobering realization, their countenances gently shifting to normal as the last embers of their terrible rage, enemies vanquished, gently faded away.

  It only was then, in that unusual post-battle quiet, with nothing but the lapping of waves and the crackling of searing embers from the blazing pyres slowly sinking nearby, that Sorn and his cousins noted the wide-eyed stares and expressions of awe, wonder, and yes, in some cases fear that the sailors were, to a man, directing their way.

  "Come on, men," Halence cried, "raise the sails and the white flag! Others might soon be coming. We're sailing for the port gate now!"

  Immolated cutters and dark saviors forgotten, the sailors worked with frantic speed, amazingly efficient for men who had but moments before feared they were on the losing side of a battle for their lives. The thought of a friendly shore probably helped in no small part as the ship rapidly made its way to the fortified port just ahead.

  The outline of Caverenoc's massive walls and the tops of buildings vast and grand could be seen in all their glory, bronze domes and pristine marble shimmering like a dream as the brilliant moon tore free of billowing clouds. A beacon of hope upon the northernmost edge of a continent overrun by an enemy so potent that not even a whisper of their conquests had escaped the vast Casroth Sea.

  Sorn saw his excited grin mirrored upon the faces of all three of his cousins, a silent nod shared between them. As viol
ent and perilous as their journey had become, it was only the beginning. Unknown peril and adventure awaited them in this mysterious city, and if they played their cards right, perhaps a fortune in gold as well. Sorn turned to catch Halence's hungry gaze as they approached their destination, feeling a delicious shiver of excitement, somehow just knowing their captain was dreaming up masterful ways of netting them a king's ransom, even now.

  Caverenoc and all its mysteries lay straight ahead, and Sorn couldn't wait to embrace the adventure once more.

  The adventure continues in Dragonsign: Peril & Profit!

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