Soron's Quest Read Free Page A

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