Son of Soron

SON OF SORON

STONEBLOOD SAGA: BOOK ONE

Copyright  © 2015 Robyn Wideman

Published: July 2015

Prologue

VELAINA DIPPED HER finger into the drink then slowly ran the wet digit across her lips. An old habit, one her mother’s family had ingrained in her. The dinner was in the royal courts, the drink a simple fruit juice for the expecting mother and her considerate husband. While the rest of the guests drank wine, a servant had filled their goblets with the nectar. Suddenly she felt it, a startling and unexpected tingle in her lips.
Poison
she thought to herself as she leaned over to her husband Soron. “My dear I am not feeling well. Would you take me home?”

Soron gave his young wife a puzzled look, knowing something was out of sorts. “Of course,” he said.

Her mind was racing at the realization someone was trying to kill them. She signaled the servant who had poured their drinks to come to the table.

The young serving girl came over with a smile. “What can I get for you, your grace?”

Velaina studied the girl closely, sensing no guile or sinister intent. “Where did you get the juice you served us?”

The girl replied honestly, “The man in the kitchen said you were with child and would not drink wine, that you would prefer this instead.”

“What man?” asked Velaina.

“I… I don’t know your highness. It happened so fast I never got a look at him. He just put it in my hands and told me you would prefer it instead of wine. He said there was only a little of the juice and to only serve it to you and your husband.” The servant looked at the jug of juice suspiciously, worried she had done something wrong. “Did I make a mistake?”

Again she sensed innocence. The girl was not trying to murder them. Velaina smiled, “It’s okay, the mistake is not yours.” She poured her goblet of juice and her husband’s back into the jug. She handed the jug to Soron as she rose from the table. “Take that with us my dear, we wouldn’t want anyone else drinking it.”

Soron frowned and furrowed his brow as he realized what she meant. His marriage to Velaina had made many unhappy in both families. The impending birth of their child may have awoken old angers. Soron looked about the room. He smiled as if nothing was amiss. His protective instincts were fully aroused. Attentively he helped fasten his young bride’s cloak, as they graciously excused themselves.

The journey back to their cottage was made in silence, with an eye to every shadow, an ear to every noise. Behind their locked and barred door, they collectively sighed in relief. Soron gathered his wife into his arms, hugging her, comforting her. The city of Venecia was no longer a safe haven. Their marriage had caused divisions, created enemies. But, until they knew who was behind the attack all they could do was to be careful and alert. Venecia was now a dangerous city for them.

…

The salty coastal air mingled in with the scents of the market. The blend was exotic and yet familiar, it was one of the things Soron liked most about Venecia. Today as he strolled through the market with his lovely Velaina he smiled, the previous night’s near fatal events momentarily forgotten. Glancing at the blonde-haired, blue-eyed goddess he called wife, he noted the color in her cheeks and the sparkle in her eye. When his glance went down to the protruding belly, he saw an unmistakable sign of her carrying a special package inside. Motherhood suits her, he thought to himself. She is as lovely today as the first time I saw her.

His musings on the bliss and happiness brought into his life by this wonderful woman were cut short by pain in his hand. His lovely wife was squeezing the life out of it. Velaina had always been able to sense the emotions of others, a trait shared among a few of those with magic blood; motherhood had heightened this mysterious ability. Her clenching of his hand was a warning. Someone in the market had evil intentions toward them.

Now aware of her concerns, Soron casually looked around. The multitude of vendors and throngs of citizens mulling their way through the large city market had now caught his attention. He did not need to share his wife’s magical sense to note the pair of men ahead of them, who were trying not to stare as they stalked Soron and his young bride. Stopping at a spiced meat cart, Soron stalled. He inspected the cooking spiced meat, haggling with the vendor all the while watching for signs of other possible dangers. Two more men who had been walking in the same general direction as they were had suddenly stopped walking when Soron stopped at the food vendors stall.

Soron smiled at Velaina as he took a bite of his hot and savory chunk of charbroiled venison. Pretending to make funny observation, he smiled then leaned in to whisper, “I see four of them. What does your magic tell you?”

Velaina gave a half-hearted attempt at laughter, understanding her husband’s ruse. She leaned in close and whispered back, “Five. There is one farther back in the crowd. Are we going to be okay?”

Soron gave her a reassuring smile. “Of course we are my love. I waited my whole life for the joy of having such a lovely wife. Nothing in this world will thwart me from seeing my child born. Besides, five men is not enough, not nearly enough.” Soron was not idly boasting to his wife. On more than one occasion, he had been in a battle where the odds were stacked even higher against him. His being alive today—along with a multitude of scars across his body—were testimony to his battle skills. Knowing the number and intention of his enemies before their impending attack was a huge benefit to Soron. He could now manipulate the circumstances to increase his odds of victory. His first priority was the safety of his wife and unborn child.

Leaving the food vendors stall, he steered Velaina in a new direction. Before, they had been meandering through the markets, heading north towards the city center. Now he veered west toward the nearest stable. As they approached the building, Soron was able to get a few quick glances of the men following them. The assassins were closing in. They could tell the stable was the intended destination and likely thought it was a good place to spring their attack.

Walking into the cool, darker and confined space of the stable, Soron quickly surveyed his surroundings. Against one wall leaned a pair of tools: a pitchfork and a shovel. These would have to suffice, he thought to himself. He was carrying his dagger but other weapons would help. He grabbed the shovel in both hands and drove the handle down across his raised knee, snapping off the end of the shovel off. He handed both parts to Velaina. “If anyone gets close to you use the metal end as a shield and spear them with the jagged end of the handle.” Soron paused, looking around. “Hide in that first empty stall; they won’t be able to get to you without passing me.”

Velaina silently took the makeshift shield and spear from her husband. In the two years they had been together, she had never seen this side of the gentle giant she loved. She knew his history as a warrior but never witnessed the intensity of his anger or any hint of his violent past. She could sense the change in his mood today. The deep inner rage for the unknown assailants plotting to harm his family was disguised by a cool veneer of calm. That calm, a product of training and experience, gave him the level-headedness to harness his internal rage. Velaina no longer felt fear, only pity for the families of the men about to die. The assassins deserved no mercy.

Closing the thick oak door of the stable stall behind Velaina, Soron turned his focus to the coming battle. First, he took out his dagger and whittled the bottom of the pitchfork until it was sharp. The stable tool so handy for moving hay was now a two-sided weapon as deadly as he would need against most foes.  Then with the loose soil and hay of the stable floors hiding the deadly pointed addition he had made to the already dangerous tool, he stood waiting.

The stable doors slowly opened. Carefully, four men slid into the building. Silently they stalked closer, pulling out clubs and swords, making no pretense of being in the stable other than to deliver death. As they approached Soron, they formed a horseshoe around him. The stall door protected his back but he now had attackers on both sides.

“Gentlemen, tis a fine day that brings us here together at this moment in time,” said Soron in a solemn voice. “If you don’t mind I would like to say a small prayer for those about to leave us for the next world and whatever gods occupy it,” with his head slightly lowered as if in prayer.

The thug to his left gave a grunt of dismissal before replying. “You can save the sermon, your highness. Northern prince or not, you are about to die and your body will be thrown to the pigs. No royal burial for you.” The would-be assassin smirked as he shifted his sword between his hands.

Another of the men spoke, “Now Rory, don’t be so hasty. This is a nasty bit of business no matter how you look at it. Having the gods’ mercy might not be a bad thing. Someone
is
going to die any moment now. Only the number remains in question. Let the prince say a word or two.”

Soron scanned the faces of the other two men. The first seemed to be nodding in agreement with the second man, while the last warrior’s stoic face showed nothing. Soron took the silence as a sign to continue. “Right then, may all the gods witness this. As we stand here today, four souls are going to the beyond. The crime they attempt: murder of a woman and unborn child. May the fate they suffer in the next realm be slower and infinitely more painful than the end I bring to their worthless existences today.”

The attackers were taken aback. They had thought the prince would ask for mercy upon himself and his family, not say words to damn them. As they realized the significance of his words and started to react, it was already too late.

As the grunter to his left moved to attack, Soron flew into action. With his left hand holding the pitchfork, he blocked the swinging sword. As the tines of the pitchfork caught the incoming sword, Soron smoothly, with practiced hand, pulled his dagger out and stepped into the assailant. His dagger slid into the man’s belly. The attacker’s eyes bulged as the blade worked its way through his innards. While the man slumped forward dying, Soron reversed his direction, pulling back hard on the pitchfork.

As he lunged backwards, Soron stabbed the second attacker in the throat with the sharpened handle of the pitchfork. The assassin had not noticed the deadly modification before the wood punctured his throat. Using his momentum Soron spun around towards the stoic attacker, throwing his dagger into the man’s chest. The man looked at the blade in his chest then up at in Soron in disbelief. Without delay, Soron quickly grabbed the sword out of the hand of the second dying warrior.

The fourth warrior already had his sword speeding through the air towards Soron. Soron was able to raise his borrowed sword in time to partially block the attack. His enemy’s sword sliced into his shoulder before his blade rose to counter. Soron pushed the attacker back. The man stumbled back, unused to dealing with the extraordinary strength of a northerner, he was caught off guard by the forceful push. Soron surged forward, bringing down an overhand attack. The off balance mercenary tried to block the attack, but the mighty force continued down into the man’s head despite his attempts to stop it. Pulling the sword out of the assassin’s skull, Soron took a step back and recovered his dagger from the body of the once stoic third man. Despite the four dead men at his feet, Soron stood ready, weapons in hand, waiting.  Finally, slowly entering the stable, the fifth attacker made himself seen.

  The man wore a long grey cloak with a hood; the cloak hid the man’s face and body well. The mysterious man undid his cloak, letting it slide to the ground. Although the cloak was gone, the man’s identity was still unknown; however much could be told from his physical appearance. The well-toned muscles, encased in a honey-brown skin, hid behind a veritable map of tattoo’s covering the man’s entire body. Even his face and clean-shaven skull were covered with intricate designs. Soron had seen many sailors with tattoos and had heard of the tribes of island warriors that would celebrate the death of an enemy with an additional marking. The tattooed warrior stood there, his eyes going over the scene in the stable, looking at the carnage of blood stained hay where the four bodies rested. He then looked at Soron standing defiantly before the stable stall that he was blocking. Finally the warrior spoke in a low and surprisingly warm voice. “The man who hired me said he was sending these men and I would just make sure the job was done. I told him these men were a waste of time. He should have sent for a half dozen of my tribesman. He laughed and said these men had never failed and I should not worry so much.”

Soron was not fooled by the friendly tone of the warrior’s voice. He knew from experience that when a snake is rattling its tail is not when it is most dangerous. When the noise stops, that is when it attacks. This warrior, like a deadly viper, would soon strike.