Soron's Quest by Robyn Wideman Page A

can chew.”
    Despite his outburst of bravado, Soron knew he was in trouble. His breath was coming slowly. His wounded ribs were sapping his energy fast. But his own words were giving him ideas, if he was going to end up as yeti lunch, the very least he would do was make sure he gave the beast the indigestion he had promised. Soron lowered his sword slightly, and stumbled forward.
    The beast reacted quickly. It tried to take advantage of Soron’s weakened state by launching itself as him in a quick rush, before Soron could swing his sword in a defensive maneuver. The rush worked, within fractions of a second the beast was too close for Soron to swing his sword around.
    But Soron’s stumble was a feint; he had no intentions of swinging his sword again. This time when the beast rushed him, Soron pushed forward, using his faked stumble to gain momentum. When he was almost about to collide with the beast he grabbed his sword blade, held it like a spear and thrust it deep into the yeti’s belly.
    The blade went deep. Slicing into the large predator until the tip of the blade protruded from the beasts back.
    The yeti howled in agony, its dying scream could be heard for miles. Soron stood against the animal’s chest, Soron could feel the beast’s claws against his back, where they had sliced through his leather tunic. But the monster’s claws no longer tore into his back, nor did the animal move.
    Exhausted, it took Soron a moment to realize the monster was dead. The only thing holding the large beast up was Soron’s weight against it, leveraged by the large sword running through its stomach. Soron slid to his right, pushing sideways on his sword as he did. When the monster started falling, Soron yanked free his sword. The dead Yeti collapsed on its side.
    Soron slowly sat down next to his vanquished foe. He felt no jubilation or exhilaration from his victory. He was simply content that he would live to see another day. Not yet twenty, Soron was a veteran warrior, one tired of bloodshed. There had been a time when Soron relished battle. He had enjoyed the rush of adrenaline that accompanied having an enemy attack. The test of manhood had intrigued him as a boy. But as he grew older, the intrigue died off, few if any of his enemies had the skills and strength to defeat him. As word of his exploits grew so did the number of warriors that wanted to test themselves against the young prodigy. Soron could hardly stay in his father’s town longer than a week without some warrior coming to test him.
     Other northern tribes attacking Amradin, the small city home to his father’s tribe, provided another constant source of battle. Theron, his father, was a mighty chieftain and now some were proclaiming him King of the North. Theron saw this as a way of unifying the local tribes, a way to bring peace to the volatile region. Soron knew better.
    Peace was not the northern way. War was in their blood, proclaiming a king might bring together the local tribes but it would also create a prize for the large tribes to the farther north to reach for. Creating a kingdom in the north would not bring peace; it would bring battle on a larger scale. Soron could not see a way to convince his father to end this folly. Instead, he wandered the north, searching for the rare minerals he could use to make jewelry. He sought activity as far away from war as he could. He longed to create rather than destroy.
    His search for hexin was a success, if not for the minor inconvenience of the yeti attack. As Soron sat there beside the corpse of the once mighty beast, he reflected on his own past and his future. Was this the way he was to die, wandering the mountains alone, victim to one of the many predators that roamed the harsh land? It is ironic, Soron thought , I came out here to avoid battle. Yet here I am, once again about to tend to battle wounds.
    Perhaps it wasn’t just the people of the north that he needed to avoid. The very land itself was a harsh