As Magnus played to the crowd, Soron decided it was time. He had played defense, blocking the mighty axe at every swing, now it was time to bring the attack to his foe. Soron switched his two handed grip on his sword to a single. Holding the sword in his right hand he pulled out his sword breaker. The short compact weapon was shorter than a sword, but with a wider blade and three grooves on each side of the blade, just above the up-curved cross-hilt. When a sword entered the grooves a twist of Soron’s strong wrists would snap the sword or send it flying out of his opponent’s hands. The large dagger was not a great defensive weapon against an axe, but Soron was not planning to use it this way. Soron was about to go on the attack.
Magnus watched with amusement as his young opponent pulled out his sword breaker dagger and went to a two weapon stance, sword held high with the dagger out to the side. Magnus thought the boy was resorting to the change in desperation. Surely the boy didn’t think he could block one of Magnus’s attacks one handed? Magnus prepared to continue his attack, he would be able to end this quick now. He was surprised when Soron moved forward.
The crowd watched in awe as the tides of battle changed. Now Soron was coming forward, his sword and dagger moving in unison. For the first time that anyone could remember Magnus was not on the attack. He was actually having to use his axe in a defensive pattern, blocking the incredibly fast moving blades of Soron, as he came forward. Soron’s blades sliced through the air in constant motion. Instead of the screams and yells of earlier, now the crowd fell quiet. Never had such a spectacle of fighting skill been seen. Magnus, the greatest warrior of the far north was being tested like never before.
Soron pushed forward, relentless in his attacks. Magnus was an awe inspiring warrior when on the attack, but it had been so long since someone else had been the aggressor that his defensive skills were rusty. The mighty and heavy war axe was an impressive weapon on the attack, on defense the weapon was ponderous and less than ideal. Soron did not let the mighty warrior gain a position where he could transition back to the attack. Each swing of Soron’s sword or dagger was quickly followed by one from the other weapon.
Magnus was shocked. He could not remember the last time someone pushed him back. The boy was strong, even one handed, his attacks had enough strength to meet his own blade without being pushed back. Magnus had to step back and use his axe to block the quick moving blades. Magnus could not believe that such a young warrior, hardly more than a boy was able to match him blow for blow and now was bringing the fight to him. Magnus refused to believe any man could use two one-handed weapons and block one of his full swings, he would win this battle right now he decided. With one last roar he spun, going back on the attack. Bringing his axe around in a wide arc the same way he had started the combat. But this time his young opponent was using two one handed weapons, no way would the boy be able to stop this blow. No way.
Soron sensed Magnus was getting desperate. When the mighty warrior spun around, Soron was ready. He crossed his weapons, allowing the sword to sit in front of the dagger. His sword easily slid into one of the sword breakers grooves. This locked the weapon into place, no matter how hard Magnus swung his sword he would not knock free one of the blades. When the mighty axe crashed into his own weapons, Soron was pushed back by the mighty blow, but his weapons held, blocking the desperate attack. Soron pushed forward with his sword freeing it from the groove of his dagger. He then went into his own spin, pushing down on his sword, forcing Magnus’ axe down while his other arm whipped around in a short arc bring the deadly dagger around into Magnus’s now defenseless upper body.
The dagger sliced through Magnus’s neck. The shower of blood told its tale, as Magnus fell to the ground. The silent crowd watched in horror as their leader fell to the ground. For the majority of the crowd, Magnus had been god like in his ability to defeat any enemy. To have him be defeated was beyond comprehension.
Soron stood and waited. He knew not if the far northerners would honor his right to safe passage now that he had defeated their leader. If they did not, he would die fighting, taking as many of his foes with him as possible.
The lieutenant who had introduced Magnus to the crowd re-entered the circle. He walked up to the corpse of the fallen giant and leaned over to make sure the man was indeed dead. To no surprise he found no signs of life. Magnus Kollrson, greatest warrior of the north, was dead. The lieutenant addressed the crowd. “Soron Stoneblood has defeated Magnus Kollrson. Let no man here deny Soron safe conduct from the battle field.” The lieutenant paused before continuing “tonight we shall have a feast. We shall celebrate Magnus and send him off well to the gods. Tomorrow the clan leaders shall assemble and vote on a new leader. We travel no farther today.”
The crowd muttered, some of them had been under the rule of Magnus so long they had forgotten what it was like to have a choice in leadership. Many of the men looked around, which clan was strong enough to rise to power now that the shadow of Magnus was gone? Soron was now forgotten; they had more important things to think about. The future of the far northern clans was changing and would be decided soon. The individual clans started to break off to discuss the events. The lieutenant led Soron away, while the clans began to discuss life beyond Magnus.
When the lieutenant and Soron were alone the man stop and addressed Soron. “You have done the north a great service. Magnus was mad for power. How he ever thought he could hold the entire north was crazy. Even if we wiped your people out, we would not be able to hold your lands. As soon as our army returned home your people would rise up to retake what was yours. Magnus cared not; he wanted to be a conqueror, a killer of kings.” The lieutenant paused, taking his time to think over the implications of Magnus’ death. “Tomorrow it is likely that I, Sokka Orrikson, or Karl Himmerson will be voted leader. Our clans are the strongest and will gather the most votes. Regardless of who is voted leader, some of the clans will be angry that their leader is not chosen and will break off. Neither Karl nor I will continue on this stupid and senseless attack against Amradin. Tomorrow we shall return to the far north.”
Soron absorbed the words of Sokka Orrikson. War had been prevented. Soron thanked Sokka, “I am glad to hear that Sokka. Many people would have died; way too many people. If you become leader, know that my father’s iron is likely available to you, but you will have to trade for it. We will not be conquered.”
Sokka smiled, “I doubt anyone is going to try conquering Amradin, home of Soron Stoneblood, killer of the mighty Magnus Kollrson, any time soon. Perhaps we shall send a trade envoy to your people next time instead of an army. May you return to your people in peace Soron Stoneblood.” Sokka shook Soron’s hand in respect and then turned to head back to his own clansmen.
Soron flinched at the name Sokka had given him. Soron Stoneblood, killer of the mighty Magnus Kollrson, was not a name he wanted. Nor would he be returning to his people any time soon. Soron was heading south. He was tired of battle and needed change. Amradin was safe now, he could leave without guilt. Soron smiled as he started his journey south. Finally he was headed on an adventure that might not end with sword play.
4
Heading South
SORON WAS ONLY A week’s travel into the south before his wish to avoid sword play was tested. He had passed through the high Applomean Mountain Range pass with no incidents and was traveling down, leaving the mountains for the forests of Southern Solotine, when he came across a situation he could not ignore. A small caravan of traveler’s was being attacked by a large force of men. The caravan guards were outnumbered and would quickly be defeated. Soron did not hesitate; he quickly joined into the fray, siding with the outnumbered traders and their few guards.
Soron charged. He came up quickly on the battle. Rushing into the largest concentration of attackers, who at that moment were attempting to finish off the guards before attacking the less skilled in combat trades people. Soron slew three men before the horde knew what was happening. Large for a northerner, Soron was huge compared
to these southern men. He moved like a wraith, cutting through the attackers. Chaos ensued, as the men found themselves going from attackers to victims of this strange, large and ferocious man. Soon the remainder of the attackers fled in fear.
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 trades men of the caravan were injured but it appeared the guards had taken the brunt of the damage. Soron had saved them.
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, the earnest and honest look of the man made Soron glad he had interceded. “Hello, I am Soron Stoneblood. It looks 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 has 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 that 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 prospects 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 smaller kingdoms had 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 fast. We had hoped secrecy and small numbers would allow us to get their 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 king making 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 his new friend up. When a man made a statement like that, practically guaranteeing their safe passage through hostile territory many would consider it the boast of a loud mouth, 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 forever in your debt and grateful.”
“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 halves. 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. Marin 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. Soron 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. 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 they 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, he easily kept 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 sentries 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. Soron ran 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 the
n 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 shadows. 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 sleeping.
When Marin woke, 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 the northern couldn’t save them then they would likely all be dead by evening. The numbers were too great to overcome and they could not 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. Again he popped 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 this unseen enemy down. That second day four more men died and three would never walk the same again.
Soron's Quest Page 3
