by Gwynn White
As the attackers fled off into the forest, Soron went to check on the men of the caravan. Most of the guards had died in the initial attack, before Soron had joined in. Two of the guards were alive, but one was mortally wounded and would not live much longer. Several of the tradesmen of the caravan were injured, but it appeared the guards had taken the brunt of the damage. Soron had saved the travelors.
One of the men from the caravan came over to greet Soron. “Thank you, stranger, you came upon us just in time. Another minute or two and we all would have perished.”
Soron looked carefully at the young man. He was of similar age to Soron but held himself well. It was obvious from the way the rest of the people of the caravan deferred to him that he was an important young man. However, it was the earnest and honest look of the man that made Soron glad he had interceded. “Hello, I am Soron Stoneblood. It does look like I came along at an opportune time.”
The young man laughed, “Yes, you certainly did, Soron Stoneblood. My name is Marin Mavane. How far south are you traveling, friend?”
Soron shook Marin’s hand. “I don’t actually know, but I am headed south.”
Marin laughed again, “Well, how about you join us then? We are headed to Venecia and your company would be greatly welcomed.
Soron thought about it, he liked the look of this man and the way he freely laughed despite danger being so close only moments ago. Venecia, the word had an exotic taste to his northern tongue. It sounded intriguing. “I think I shall join you, Marin. Venecia sounds interesting.”
Marin smiled, “Oh, it is definitely interesting. But I must warn you, the men who attacked will likely be back. This was supposed to be a secret trade mission. The kingdoms of Tarnstead are at war and our enemies will try to stop us again.
Soron shrugged, even in the “tame and civilized south” he was right in the middle of war once again. He sighed, wondering how far he would have to travel to escape the prospect of war.
“Explain your war and I will decide to join you, or go my separate way with no hard feelings,” said Soron. He would not commit to traveling with the young man just yet. Not until he understood what he was potentially involving himself in.
Marin explained the basics of Tarnstead, “There are nine, small kingdoms that encompass the majority of the eastern plains of Southern Solotine. Each of the nine kingdoms have gotten along in relative peace over the years until King Wexton of Avalon started to grow in power. Using his own armies and eastern mercenaries, he has conquered two of the other small, neighboring kingdoms and intends to take over all of Tarnstead. The remaining kingdoms have begun to organize, but we are out-numbered and supplies are running short. We are headed to Venecia for supplies and to see if we can get assistance from Venecia. King Wexton has used Avalon’s ports to pirate many trade vessels. Venecian warships could be a difference-maker for the war efforts. If King Wexton knows our intentions, he will stop at nothing to prevent our arrival at Venecia. I’m afraid that this first skirmish could be just the beginning of our problems. We are still many days’ travel from our destination and the goods we carry south cannot be moved quickly. We had hoped secrecy and small numbers would allow us to get there unnoticed, but I’m afraid the king’s spies have found out.”
Soron thought hard about Marin’s words. He was all too familiar with the complex politics of kingmaking and empire-building. He wanted nothing to do with any such scenario. But if Marin’s people were being victimized by an evil tyrant such as King Wexton, then Soron would have to act. It was his nature to want to protect the innocent. He hated the bloodshed, especially that caused by his own hands. But for a just cause, he would do what was necessary.
“I shall accompany you to Venecia. This King Wexton’s men will bother you no more on this journey. When we arrive at Venecia, that will mark the end of my participation in your war,” said Soron.
Marin eyed up his new friend. When a man made a statement like that, practically guaranteeing their safe passage through hostile territory, many would consider it the boast of a loudmouth, or the exuberance of youth. But having seen Soron up close, and having witnessed his quick destruction of their attackers, Marin was a believer. “Friend, if you get us safely to Venecia, you will have contributed more to our cause then any one man ever before or after. I will be grateful and forever in your debt.”
“Okay, I will be back later then,” Soron said as he abruptly turned and headed off into the forest.
Marin stood in wonder, had he said something to offend the enormous man? Marin had met more than a few of the large northerners in his time. Salma, his home, was near one of the mountain passes of the Applomean Mountain Range that divided Solotine into its southern and northern hales. On occasion, northern traders would bring their wares into Salma. Most of the northerners he met tended to be on the large side, slightly taller and huskier than their southern counterparts, but Soron was bigger than any man, southern or northern, that Marin had ever met. And despite his large body, the man moved gracefully, like a large cat. He hoped the warrior would return soon. Marin already felt safer knowing Soron intended to accompany them south.
Having agreed to help his new friend, Soron sought out his enemy. King Wexton’s men had attacked with numbers. Tracking them down was as simple as could be. The men made no effort to hide their tracks, thinking the small number of men from the trade caravan would not dare follow them.
Soron followed the trail until he found the enemy’s camp. The party that had attacked the camp was part of a larger group. Soron watched them from the tree line carefully; he counted thirty, foot soldiers with maybe half-a-dozen archers thrown in for support. The party was mostly lightly armored and the camp was minimal. From the way the men moved, Soron could see this was a well-trained group of elite foot soldiers sent to assassinate the caravan. Marin and his people had been lucky that only about a third of the men had been involved in the initial attack.
Looking up into the sky, Soron noted the setting sun. This group would camp here for the night then hit Marin’s caravan in the morning. Even if the tradesmen fled now, the soldiers looked like they would easily catch them the next day. Defending the caravan against such odds would be impossible. But Soron didn’t need to defend the caravan; he just needed to prevent the group from attacking. He would attack the soldiers here at their camp instead of waiting for them.
Soron stayed in the trees outside the camp waiting for dark, easily keeping away from the sentries who wandered around. The men were obviously not expecting any attacks and were not keeping a close eye on the woods. That would change soon enough.
Drawing his sword-breaker, Soron slipped behind the first sentry, he brought the pummel of the weapon down hard on the top of the sentry’s head. If the man woke at all, he would be useless for days. Soron made his way around the camp repeating this process. It was obvious that the men on first watch were not experienced woodsmen. Soron took each out, in turn, with no resistance.
Next, he waited until he saw one of the leaders, a corporal or some equally low-to-middle rank, addressing a small group of men beside one of the three fires that burned throughout the camp. Soron drew his sword and started to run right through the camp. As he passed by the fire, he swung his sword, decapitating the corporal as he talked. The head flopped down into the fire and pandemonium ensued. Before any of the men could react, Soron was at the second fire, where he chopped the leg off of a soldier before running off into the night once more. The soldier’s screams rang out into the night, as the man flopped over in agony. As the remaining soldiers stood and organized themselves into defensive formations, Soron struck again and again. He would come out of the dark to hit weak spots in the soldiers’ defenses. The camp was poorly constructed for defensive purposes and Soron had multiple places where he could quickly strike then return to the dark before the other soldiers could react.
Like a ghost, Soron worked in the shadows. He circled the camp constantly. Soron kept attacking, then moving back into the sh
adows. All night, he forced the large group of soldiers to stand ready with bright fires to keep the dark away. Not a single soldier slept that night. The next morning, when they should have been making their way to find Marin and his caravan, the group had no choice but to stay camped and take turns sleeping, keeping a heavy rotation of guards so that the men could gain some rest. That night, Soron killed six men, and severely wounded three more.
An hour before dawn, Soron returned to Marin’s camp. He left a note beside Marin then returned into the night. He would not sleep here, but rather out in the woods between the enemy and the caravan, just in case the soldiers realized Soron was gone and decided to attack, instead of sleep.
When Marin awoke, he was surprised to see Soron’s note beside his head. He had not seen or heard the man and there had been guards posted all night. No one had seen Soron enter or leave the camp. Marin read the note.
Keep heading south, I will meet up with you again tomorrow or the next day. Wexton’s soldiers will not be attacking you today.
Soron
Marin shook his head in wonder. He would follow his new found friend’s instructions and hope for the best. The northerner was mysterious, but they had nothing to lose by following his words. If Soron couldn’t save them, then they would likely all be dead by evening. The numbers were too great to overcome and they couldn’t afford to simply flee and leave their goods behind. The caravan must reach the coast.
When the soldiers finally attempted to break camp and follow the caravan, Soron struck again, popping up in the middle of the camp before anyone could react, taking out another of the leaders before returning to the woods. Now that it was daylight, the soldiers attempted to strike back against the ghost-like warrior. They combed the woods around their camp trying to box Soron in, but he kept striking at one group then slipping off. Soon the soldiers realized that any group smaller than four men sent out together would not come back intact. In frustration, the remaining leaders of the soldiers ordered the men back into the camp. It was simply too dangerous to try hunt down this unseen enemy. That second day, four more men died and three would never walk the same again.
The second night went much the same as the first. This time, the soldiers were better prepared, made bigger fires and were vigilant about their defenses. No soldiers died, but again, none of them were able to sleep, for every hour or so Soron would strike out at the camp, reminding them of his presence before slipping back into the night. The next morning instead of trying to sleep, the soldiers started a march south. They could not stay here any longer if they were to stop the caravan before it made it to Venecia. But they moved slowly, in a tight formation, attempting to minimize any spots where Soron could attack.
The soldiers had been marching for an hour through the forest when they heard a large cracking sound. Looking up, the men saw a large oak tree begin to fall right across their path. The huge tree came crashing down as the soldiers scattered. Most made it out of the way of the falling tree, but several were crushed under its heavy branches as they landed heavily into the ground. While the men were distracted by the pandemonium created by the tree, Soron struck again, slicing down several soldiers who had been cut off from the rest of the men by the falling tree.
The captain screamed in frustration. He had not slept in two days and his elite unit of foot soldiers was being decimated. At the current rate, he would have no men left by the time they caught up to the caravan again. Frustrated and angry, the captain wanted to keep going and fulfill his orders, but they were up against an enemy they did not understand and were running out of time. Finally the captain realized the futility in going forward. He ordered the men to gather the wounded and begin a strategic retreat. They would head back to Avalon and face King Wexton’s wrath, as bad as that might be, it was better than being destroyed by an unseen enemy. Almost a full two-thirds of his men had died at the hands of the mysterious attacker, and that did not take into account the many wounded.
The caravan was almost to Venecia when Soron rejoined them.
Marin greeted him “Soron, we thought we might have lost you. You look tired, friend.”
Soron was beyond tired. Keeping the enemy’s soldiers exhausted meant foregoing sleep for himself as well. He did not endure any injuries during his sorties with the enemy, but the physical and mental exhaustion was setting in, after the days and nights of brutal guerilla warfare he had submitted the foot soldiers to.
“Hello, Marin, I don’t suppose you have room in your wagon for me to sleep, I could use a small nap.”
Marin thought the great northerner could use more than an hour or two of sleep. He looked ready to collapse at any second. “Of course, jump up. Get some rest. We will arrive in Venecia late tonight and we will get you a proper bed then. But for now, you just go ahead and sleep in the wagon.
Soron jumped into the wagon and curled into a ball, his large frame did not comfortably fit into the wagon, but he was too tired to complain. Within minutes, he was dead to the world.
The previous day when Soron had not returned, Marin sent the remaining guard back to look for him or sign of King Wexton’s men. Hours after Soron returned, the guard came back to the camp. He had missed Soron but had word of the enemy. He had spotted them heading northeast. The platoon of foot soldiers looked to have encountered heavy losses and was going home. After hearing the guards report, Marin took another look at the sleeping Soron. Marin shook his head in awe. Soron alone had taken on a platoon of King Wexton’s finest foot soldiers and routed them to the point that they had retreated. Marin wondered how one man could do such a thing. He shuddered to think what an army of men like Soron could do. He prayed the north never had reason to invade Southern Solotine.
Venecia came into Marin’s view just before sunset. The coastal city’s lights shone bright as the sun dipped into the ocean waters to the west. The caravan had made it to the city intact. The goods they carried would bring much needed currency for the war against King Wexton, and with luck they would gain the Venecian warships to aid their cause. Marin knew the sleeping northerner was to thank for their good fortune. When they arrived in Venecia, Marin quickly found a suitable inn and arranged for rooms. He shook Soron awake.
Soron woke to Marin’s gentle nudging. He uncurled himself from the wagon and headed into the Inn with Marin. Soron said little, he was still too exhausted for rational thought. Once they made it to the room, Soron collapsed onto the bed. It took a day and half before he woke again.
Chapter Five
Soron’s eyes opened, his nose was teasing him and his tummy was rumbling. While he had caught up on his sleep, his stomach now needed attention and he could smell the scents of food wafting up into his room. Soron looked around, he didn’t remember coming into the room. He assumed they were now in Venecia, but he hardly remembered rejoining the caravan, and he had only the faintest memory of Marin waking him and walking into the inn.
Soron rose and headed downstairs; he found a few of the caravan members eating breakfast. He gladly joined them.
“We have eggs and ham or oatmeal, what would you like?”
Soron looked up at the voice. A cute, little server was standing there, waiting for him to reply. Soron looked at the plates of his fellow travels and then looked at the girl sheepishly, “Better bring both.”
The girl smiled and headed to the kitchen. Soron asked the men about Marin. Apparently, Marin had already eaten and left on business. He had left word that if Soron finally woke up, he was to meet Marin for lunch at the small pub up the road. Soron frowned. “What did Marin mean by ‘finally wake up’?” he asked the men.
One of the men laughed and explained to Soron “You have been asleep for a day and half.”
Soron was startled, Well, that explains why I’m so hungry, he thought to himself. He chuckled “Oops.”
The serving girl brought back a large plate filled with eggs and ham, and a large oversized bowl of oatmeal.
Soron thanked the girl and started to eat.
Brent, one of the caravan men, protested to the girl. “Mariah, how come you gave him so much food and give the rest of us half that?
Mariah just laughed. “Are you kidding me? Look at the boy, he is as big any two of you, and the way his stomach is growling, we had better feed him before he starts trying to take the rest of your meals.”
The men all laughed at the cheeky girl. Soron was too busy devouring his food to notice or care. When he finished off the first round of food, the girl quickly put another plate in front of him. Soron looked up in gratitude. “Thank you,” he said between mouthfuls.
The girl just smiled and gathered up his empty plate and bowl.
After three large plates of ham and eggs along with two bowl of oatmeal, Soron finally felt human again. He smiled and rubbed his expanded belly.
His travel companions shook their head in awe, never had they seen a man eat so much food. Mariah had been right to bring him the large plates.
When Mariah came back and grabbed the last of his dishes, Soron asked what he owed for the meal.
Mariah shook her head, “Marin has paid for your room and board. Although father might want to renegotiate once he finds out how much you eat,” she said with a smile.
Soron laughed, “I don’t always eat like that, I just missed a meal or two lately.”
Mariah nodded, “I’ve heard the rumors. You helped Marin and the caravan out from Salma. It was very brave of you.”
Soron was suddenly uncomfortable, having the girl look at him like he was some sort of hero made him ill to his stomach. What he had done was not heroic. He had done terrible things. Despite the cause being just, Soron still felt a strong wave of regret for the way he terrorized, hunted, and decimated the enemy forces in the forests. He would much sooner people forgot that it ever happened. He was trying to walk away from having a warrior’s reputation, not build another one. He knew at some point word of his northern exploits would follow him here; he just wanted some small reprieve.
