Soron's Quest (2 page)

“I’ve been hunting,” replied Soron shortly. He had no desire to get into another argument about searching for hexin. Theron wanted his blacksmiths building weapons not jewelry.

Theron grunted, “Well at least you are back. We need every able warrior, now more than ever. Magnus Kollrson marches south as we speak.”

Magnus Kollrson, leader of the largest of the far northern tribes, was a legend. It was said that he had slain over a thousand men in battle. His insatiable blood lust normally had the man sailing to the west to attack the western isles. That he was traveling south meant only one thing, Magnus Kollrson had heard the talk of Theron being King of the North and was coming to take the title. Everything Soron feared was coming true.

“How many men does he lead?” asked Soron.

“Five thousand,” replied Theron.

“How many now follow King Theron?” asked Soron, knowing his father would pick up his distaste for the title.

“A little over two thousand warriors swear allegiance to me, another five hundred of the Rennirson clans will join us, but that is all the help we can count on. The other clans are too far away or want nothing to do with fighting against the mighty Magnus Kollrson,” replied Theron.

Soron had to give his father credit, he disagreed with what his father had done, but it truly had been for a good cause. Joining the local clans had already reduced the fighting among them. Unfortunately, Soron had been correct in his prediction of the move bringing the attention of the more war like tribes of the far north. Theron had little choice now. He would bow a knee to Magnus or fight to protect his people.

Bowing a knee to Magnus meant joining him on his raids of the western lands, and ongoing bloodshed. Theron would fight. Five thousand against half that number, the odds were not good, and that was not accounting for Magnus himself who was devastating on a battle field. Things did not look good for King Theron and the people of Amradin. “Well father I will be in my room, I ran into some difficulties in my travels and am in need of some sleep.”

Theron looked at his son in concern, “everything okay?”

Soron smiled, “nothing Holti couldn’t fix.”

…

After sleeping most of the day away Soron woke feeling much stronger. Holti was an amazing healer. Leaving his room Soron headed back to the large open main room of the Great Hall. It was supper time and Soron had been looking forward to this meal for weeks.

King Theron sat at the head of the largest table. He watched carefully as his son walked into the room. The boy was already looking healthier than he had earlier that day. Theron was glad for his son’s return. Despite their arguments on the virtues of unifying the clans under one king, Theron valued his son’s council and no greater warrior could be found among his people. Theron was saddened that his son had to face death so often, but such was life in the north and Theron had to do what was best for all of his people. Soron would have to make his own way.

As Theron pondered his son’s future he ate his meal. The meat tasted strange, not bad but like nothing he had tried before. Theron called for Rurik, the cook.

Rurik, the portly cook waddled into the hall with an amused look on his face. Rare was the times his king called him into the hall to complain about a meal. Everyone knew not to mention Rurik’s cooking without a kind word. To do so was inviting a torrent of foul language and abusive insult that would make the most hardened pirate blush. Rurik was no one to trifle with, especially when it came to his cooking.

“You called your highness?” asked Rurik.

“Yes I have, you old goat. Are you going to tell me what I am eating or do I have to have some chop off your head for trying to poison me?” barked Theron. The king was the one person unafraid of insulting Rurik.

Rurik smiled, enjoying the king’s discomfort for a moment longer before replying, “snow yeti, tonight’s meal is perfectly aged snow yeti.” A murmur went through the hall as everyone began to discuss the cook’s latest culinary creation.

Snow yeti
, thought Theron
. Who the hell would be stupid enough to hunt yeti?
Theron frowned and shook his head. He knew exactly who was crazy enough to do such a thing. Perhaps he had worded his thoughts poorly.
Who the hell was stupid enough to hunt Soron
, was probably the better answer. Theron would bet money that his dinner had tried to eat his son.
Well, that explains the need to visit Holti
.
Surviving a yeti attack, amazing
, he thought to himself. Theron took another bite of the yeti meat, its savory flavor tasted all the better knowing what it was. “Thank you Rurik, it is delicious.”

The cook smirked. “I thought you might say that. Now may I return to work?” replied Rurik.

“Yes, but send another plate of meat out, I am going to have some more, this is a rare treat,” replied the king.

Theron looked over at Soron, who was quietly sitting and eating while everyone around him talked about the unique meal. The content look on Soron’s face confirmed Theron’s thoughts. His son was the one who provided the rare delicacy.

While Soron sat there enjoying his roast yeti, he pondered the dilemma of the impending attack from the great Magnus Kollrson and his five thousand men. Amradin was a small city, but not one built for defensive purposes. The city had started out as a small village but had grown as quickly as tribes gathered under the strong and wise leadership of Theron Stoneblood. Magnus would destroy Amradin, simply to say he had. He would claim the title of king, not because he intended to lead the people of the tribes but because he could. Magnus Kollrson craved conflict, and if he had turned his attention to the tribes of this area he would cut a wide swath through the area, killing and pillaging before returning to his home in the far northern.
Magnus must be stopped
, thought Soron.

When dinner ended and the majority of the people had returned to their homes for the night, Soron went and sat beside his father.

 In silence they sat there, watching the servants clean the other tables. Theron knew his son had something on his mind and would speak when ready, there was no point pushing him.

“When this battle is over, I am leaving the north,” proclaimed Soron.

Theron looked at his son, he knew how all the bloodshed affected the lad, and perhaps he was right to want to leave. The reality was neither one of them would survive the coming battle so arguing about Soron’s future beyond that seemed pointless. “If that is what you wish. Where will you go?”

“South to the lands below the Applomean Mountains, I shall trade and wander. Perhaps I shall find something that interests me there.”

Soron, one of the greatest northern warriors alive, living in the south among the farmers and berry pickers? The idea seemed preposterous to Theron at first but the more he thought about it the more it made sense. Perhaps among the more civilized and tame lands he son could find peace. “Okay, when this is done you head south,” replied the king. He doubted his words had any meaning but was glad to give his son some small piece of mind before they died.

Having told his father of his plans, Soron left the hall and returned to his room. He would need his sleep. He hoped Holti’s boast of full health by morning was going to hold up. He would need to be at his best in the next few days.

When Soron woke, he felt refreshed and better than he had in months. Holti had been true to his word. Soron looked carefully at his armor; he had grown weary of the well-worn leather and what it represented. With a sigh, he once more dressed for battle, wrapping himself in his form fitting leathers with his gauntlets and steel reinforced boots. His weapons of choice for battle were of his own design. Forged by his own hand, they were as fine of weapons as seen in the northern lands. His skills as a blacksmith were only surpassed by his accomplishments in battle. The dull black color of the blades was a byproduct of the unique northern steel, a productive only those with giant’s blood heritage could produce. The strength needed to forge the hardened metal beyond that of normal men.

Soron placed his smaller sword breaker dagger in its sheath, tucked along his backside then place his larger weapon, his trusted sword in its carrier between his shoulder blades. Now armed and ready for what was to come, Soron slipped off to the kitchen for a quick breakfast and a small sack of supplies.

When Soron reached the kitchen Rurik was waiting for him. Rurik always awake before everyone else to prepare the days meals was used to Soron sneaking in early. “I suspected you might be here this morning. Going off to challenge the mighty Magnus are you? Well good luck boy, if anyone can defeat him and save us from the blood shed it is you,” said Rurik as he handed Soron his morning meal and supplies.

Soron’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. Rurik might be the cook, but he was also one of the wisest men Soron knew, that he had guessed Soron’s intent should not have come as a shock. Soron confided in the man often, readily seeking his opinion. “Do you think it is the right course of action? Challenging Magnus? Or should I stand at my father’s side and help meet the enemy at our defenses.”

Rurik scoffed, “You know as well as I that our defenses are pathetic, this town was built for commerce and growth not defense. Our men are valiant warriors, but so too are the army of Magnus. Sheer numbers alone assure us of defeat. While our warriors might find death on the battle field a good death, I prefer living any day. If you are able to defeat Magnus, perhaps his army will retreat; at the very least it would take away their best weapon: fear. Without the dreaded Magnus Kollrson on the battlefield our warriors will at least believe they have a chance of winning, which could be all it takes to change the course of battle. No son, I believe you must go out and challenge Magnus for us to have any chance of surviving the next few days.”

Soron nodded. The cook’s words echoed his own thoughts, that victory could only be achieved by removing the enemy’s vaunted leader. Without Magnus, the outcome of this battle was uncertain. If Magnus survived they would fall to the greater numbers of the far northern tribal warriors.

“Thank you Rurik, for the food and the council. You are pretty wise for a cook,” said Soron with a wink and a smile.

Rurik gave a hearty laugh. “Careful boy, this cook was killing men when you were still a baby. You are not the first northern warrior to grow weary of taking lives, and to seek out a new path that doesn’t involve a sword. Becoming a cook gave me a way to put my sword away. I am proud to be called cook.”

Soron had not known this about Rurik, it did not surprise him though. Rurik carried himself like a warrior, even when in the kitchen. “Perhaps I could join you in the kitchens when this is all over,” mused Soron.

Rurik shook his head, “Boy, you are perhaps the best blacksmith in all the north already. I have seen some of the jewelry you make, your talents don’t lie in a kitchen.”

Soron smiled softly, “Jewelry is not the work of a northern blacksmith,” he repeated his father’s often spoken opinion on the subject.

Rurik nodded, “That much is true, so become just a blacksmith. You cannot tell me you have not given thought to leaving the north for less battle filled lands.”

“Actually I already told father that I would be leaving. He gave his consent, but it was halfhearted, he believes we will be dying soon so he said it to appease me,” said Soron.

“Then do what needs to be done, face Magnus in combat and either go to the gods as a fallen warrior or defeat the great warrior and then leave without returning. Don’t give your father the opportunity to recant his consent. We northerners are not ones for goodbyes so no one will judge you. If you defeat the enemy and leave I will spread word of our conversation, nothing your father can do then.”

Soron thought it over, Rurik was right. He had no reason to return, he would either die trying to defend his people or live and move on. It was time to start a new life, one not build with a blooded blade. “You better add a bit more food to my supplies friend; I plan on going on a journey.”

Rurik lifted a second sack already filled and placed it beside the first, “Already packed boy, now off you go.”

Soron shook his head, Rurik was a cagey one. He clasped the man’s arm in a farewell gesture then took up his sacks and slipped out of the great hall before the rest of the men started to awake. Soron took one last look at the Great Hall as he left. He wondered if he would ever be there again.

As the morning sun slipped over the eastern horizon Soron swiftly moved north.

3

The magnificent Magnus

TWO DAYS LATER, Soron found the first signs of the advancing northern tribe. The advance scouts of the army were working their way south, traveling ahead of the main war party. Soron stood in a thick grow of aspen, he had anticipated that this was the valley the war party would follow down to Amradin. The valley floor was wide and level, easy traveling for large numbers. From his hiding spot deep in the trees along the side of the valley Soron was able to watch the scouts make their way past him on their way south.

Within hours of seeing the advance scouts Soron heard the dull thumping, the sound of five thousand warriors marching together. Soon he could see the men as they made their way south through the valley. He had never seen so many men at once. It was an awe inspiring sight.

Waiting until the men were within a few hundred yards of his position, Soron dropped his packs and walked out into the middle of the valley. He stood in the way of the oncoming army. As the men grew closer he mentally prepared himself for combat. His muscles warm from the mornings walk needed no stretching, he was ready.

A voice rang out and the army’s forward progress halted, with the exception of three warriors that came forward to meet Soron.  Without doubt the one in the middle was the mighty Magnus Kollrson. As tall as Soron, the warrior was thick, burly with bulging forearms. Magnus’ face was a map of scars that marked his numerous conquests.