Soldier Son
The Teralin Sword
D.K. Holmberg
ASH Publishing
Contents
Map
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
About the Author
Also by D.K. Holmberg
Copyright © 2017 by D.K. Holmberg
Cover art by Damonza
All rights reserved.
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Map
1
Endric glowered at his father, but the man had already started off, his wide back deflecting the gaze. Endric’s hand itched and instinctively found the cold hilt of the sword hanging at his side. There was a momentary urge to unsheathe the blade and attack, but he suppressed it as he took another deep breath. Still, his shoulders didn’t relax.
Instead, he stared until his father disappeared, only turning away when he heard the deep roll of far-off thunder. Dark clouds gashed the sky overhead, inky and black, and flashes of lightning flickered distantly. The coming weather did nothing for his mood. Rain was a constant annoyance in the city, but then, they were high enough that they were practically in the clouds, so it shouldn’t be a surprise.
Why had his father forced this conversation here, in the middle of the street, shops on either side of him? People had given them a wide berth, not wanting to distract the general as he chastised a soldier, let alone his son, leaving the street strangely empty. The second terrace of the city loomed overhead, the sheer rock wall rising toward the barracks level, a reminder of the role the Denraen soldiers played in the city. Above everything rose the Magi palace on the third terrace. He couldn’t see it today; the thick clouds obscured it.
A quiet scuffing from behind him—too close to be accidental—startled him, and Endric spun, his sword half out of its scabbard before recognition halted his motion. He resheathed more harshly than necessary, snapping the blade back into place. It should not surprise him that Andril still tried to soothe him, yet it did.
“What?” Endric asked.
Andril snorted as he ran his hand across his chin, scratching idly at a small scar—his first. “That’s all you can say?”
Endric met his older brother’s eyes—defiance flashing through his—holding his gaze steady as long as possible before turning away. Andril had known he would turn away first.
“What?” he asked again, his tone softer. His shoulders sagged, releasing the tension he had been holding since their father first found him in the street.
“You should listen to him. There is much you don’t yet know.”
“You heard.”
Andril nodded. “I did.”
Endric scowled at his brother, and a moment of uncertainty passed through him. “He doesn’t understand.”
Andril snorted. “He’s the general. It’s not for him to understand. He asks because you are Denraen. And his son.”
“You know I can’t be what he wants.”
Andril cocked an eyebrow and his mouth twitched in a small smile. “How do you know you aren’t already?” He paused, and the words hung heavy in the air. “Besides, he’ll find a way to mold you into the Denraen he needs. He is the general.”
“Are you to help?” Even to him, the question sounded like he sulked.
Andril shrugged. “I’m Denraen as well.” He blinked slowly and sighed. “And your brother. I will not lose sight of that.”
“That’s why you watched.” Andril had known of the difficulty Endric had with their father and had not intervened. There was little Andril would have been able to do anyway.
His brother nodded and stared down the dark street.
“Does he know?”
Andril shrugged his wide shoulders. “Probably,” he answered. “If not him, then his Raen. Either way, he knows.” He slid forward with the dangerous grace of a mountain wolf, and Endric’s hand twitched again. The corners of his brother’s mouth tugged again, not quite a smile as his eyes flicked to the motion.
Endric inhaled deeply. Andril was not the problem. It would serve no purpose to challenge him. Not that he could win if he did. “What do you want of me?”
Andril again glanced down the narrow street that had swallowed their father. “Father is not your problem.” He fixed his gaze on Endric.
Endric grunted, unable to meet his brother’s eyes any longer. “Not to you. You will succeed him.”
Andril shrugged. “Someday.” On another man, such a comment would come off as arrogance. From Andril, it was simply a statement of fact.
“Then I will no longer have a problem. Then you can release me from that obligation. I’m no officer, Andril. You know that as well as I. Let me be the soldier I want to be. Let me fight.”
“The issue will not go away so easily.”
Endric frowned. He should know better than to argue with Andril. “Does he truly need for me to follow you in this? Is it not enough that I am simply a soldier?”
“You are much more than a simple Denraen,” Andril said as a small smile threatened to crack his face. “You fight what you should embrace. One day you will learn.”
Endric grunted and shook his head. “Or one day you will realize the same as Father.”
Andril’s face almost became sympathetic. Almost. “He doesn’t blame you for Mother leaving. Neither do I.”
Endric had to look away. Andril knew him too well. “You can’t say it wasn’t my fault she left.”
An uncomfortable silence settled over them. Endric knew there was nothing he could say. Their mother had left shortly after his birth, leaving their father to raise them. Endric had no memories of her, nothing like the years he knew Andril still savored. Neither Andril nor his father ever spoke of her departure.
Finally, Endric broke the silence. “You still haven’t answered why you watched if you weren’t going to help.”
Andril hesitated, his blue eyes piercing and so much like their father’s. “I had thought to discuss something with you.” He considered Endric for a moment, then shook his head. “Another time, I guess.”
Endric felt his frustration grow. “Now you just taunt me.”
His brother spread his arms and smiled, barely a parting of lips. There had been a time that he smiled easily, but no longer. Now he commanded men and directed them in battle. Endric once knew him as happy, but much of the joy that had been a part of Andril was no longer there. That alone would have been reason enough to despise his fath
er.
“There will come a time when you will become more than a simple soldier,” Andril said.
“Pray to the gods that day is far off.”
“And yet I pray for the opposite.”
Endric’s eyes wandered, looking past Andril’s head to the replica of the Tower of the Gods, which loomed over the first terrace. On this level, there were shops and taverns and temples, including the replica. “I stopped praying long ago,” he said softly before turning and meeting his brother’s eyes.
A flitter of irritation crossed Andril’s face. “Perhaps you are right.”
Endric frowned. “About what?”
“I had thought…” He shook his head slowly, not trying to hide his disappointment. “There is much you don’t understand.” He glanced back at the sword hanging at Endric’s waist—his hand still hovering near the hilt—and frowned. “Are not ready to understand,” he muttered.
A moment passed and Endric waited, knowing his brother well enough not to press. Andril said nothing. Thunder rolled again, closer, a flash of lightning casting his brother’s face in a mask of frustration.
“I had hoped…”
Andril never finished. He shook his head before turning and moving silently down the street, disappearing into the shadows.
Endric watched for a moment. It was not like Andril to show hesitation. The man was infuriatingly confident, and deservedly so, excelling in everything he did.
And Endric pushed him.
A wave of shame flushed through him. Their entire life, Andril had been nothing but short of the ideal brother, mentoring him in a way their father never had. He should not take the frustrations he had with their father out on Andril.
For a moment, he considered chasing after him. Another peal of distant thunder echoed and he took a deep breath, pushing the conversation out of his mind. The anger filling him after meeting with their father had disappeared during their talk, leaving him more troubled than annoyed. He didn’t know what he would even say if he caught his brother.
Stepping quietly along the stones of the street—not quite with the silence Andril managed—he moved quickly past the row of drab stone buildings until he reached the one he sought. A muted cacophony of sounds seeped through the stone and heavy wooden door, flooding out onto the street.
The Scented Lover was typical for this part of the city and catered mostly to the Denraen soldiers. Heavy smoke filled the tavern. The sharply pungent aroma of rumbala mixed with the thick scent of the hickory log burning in the fire along the far wall. Flames jumped and cast flickering shadows, leaving the room obscured in swaths of darkness. Tables crowded the floor, solid and worn with grime and spilt drink. Some few rested in the pools of darkness that were coveted in places like the Scented Lover.
Endric pushed his way through the patrons, ignoring the brief glares he received. Most men frowned only briefly, turning away when they recognized him. He might not have Andril’s skill and certainly not his rank, but he still had earned a reputation, and it inspired more than a little fear, though as he thought about it, Endric wasn’t sure that was a good thing.
Reaching the back of the room where the darkness stretched the deepest and the flickering light of the fire barely penetrated, Endric paused and looked down at the small group sitting around a table. No one looked up, though he saw from the stiffness of their posture that they were aware of him.
“Well?”
“You’ll have to sit on me for my seat,” the man nearest said. He was stout and his head was shaven, leaving the heavy scars across his head shining even in the low light of the tavern.
Endric grunted and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, sliding him over and sitting alongside him. “One day I will sit on you, Pendin.”
Pendin laughed and looked up. “Another scar then.” Scars were respected among the Denraen, worn like badges of honor. A playful glimmer crossed his face for a moment while he eyed Endric, disappearing as their gazes met. “Something’s wrong.”
Endric shook his head, but the others knew him too well. They had been friends since their earliest days in the barracks. Those first months of training bonded men—and women, he decided, glancing over at Senda—in a way few outsiders would understand. “It’s nothing.” He looked away as he waved for a drink, hiding his eyes.
“Looks like nothing,” Senda noted.
The waitress brought a mug over for him, leaning over to reveal a flash of cleavage. Endric ignored it as he took a long drink. The waitress scowled, stalking away with a sway to her hips that turned a few heads. She looked back, the scowl replaced by a satisfied smirk.
“Looks like someone else will need to order my drinks tonight,” Endric said.
“Maybe you should at least speak to her since rolling her last week,” Pendin said and laughed.
Senda frowned at him and sniffed. Olin, a man whose long face matched his height, smiled tightly but said nothing. He rarely did.
Endric shrugged. “There is that.”
“Why the mood?” Pendin asked.
He sighed. “The usual. The weather. This city. My father.”
“Those never change.”
Endric closed his eyes. They are friends, he reminded himself. And good ones at that. “I argued with my father and took my frustration out on Andril.”
“And yet you still live.” Senda still frowned at him, and Endric knew that she would be irritated by his treatment of the barmaid longer than necessary. She flipped her tight braid over her shoulder as she looked away from him.
Pendin chuckled, smiling briefly at Senda. “How is that unusual?”
“Something about him was different tonight.”
“Perhaps it’s because he’s been sent from the city,” Olin said, barely looking up from his drink.
Senda shot Olin an unreadable expression.
Endric finished his drink and looked up at Senda for confirmation. Her face was blank, and even though she worked with the spymaster Listain, she would say nothing. She looked away from his gaze, and he knew better than to press.
He turned back to Olin, wondering how he knew about it and wondering why Andril had not said anything.
Olin stared back and shrugged. “Rumors. Skirmishes in the far south. Supposedly some kind of cult of warrior priests. Denraen are deployed to investigate.”
And Father sends Andril.
His brother had only recently assumed his command and had yet to lead his men in anything more than simple training drills. Was this Father’s way of testing Andril’s leadership? It wouldn’t be out of character for the general to do so. Something about that felt wrong though, and Endric couldn’t place why.
“You could ask to go with him,” Pendin said, tracking Endric’s line of thinking. He pushed his mug of ale over to Endric and winked.
“Not after tonight.” Was that why Andril had found him? To see if he was ready for assignment to his regiment?
Endric closed his eyes and visualized his brother, remembering the hesitation he’d shown before leaving. What had his brother intended to ask him? Knowing that he was being sent from the city cast their conversation in a different light. Disappointing his father was for sport; disappointing Andril was agony.
He downed another mug of ale. “I need to find Andril,” he said, deciding it couldn’t wait.
“Give it time, Endric,” Pendin said.
Endric glanced at Senda.
She sighed but answered. “I’m not sure when he’s to leave.”
“I can’t wait,” he decided. “I need to know what he wanted.” He stood, knocking his chair down as he did. The man behind him hollered and Endric turned, an apology on his lips, but he never got to say it.
The man swung.
The attack was quick. Nearly too quick. Endric ducked and stepped back. “Listen, friend—”
“You damn Denraen are all the same!” the man spat.
Endric took in the man’s soiled clothes and thick arms and noted the dirt ground under his nails.
A miner.
The mountain city owned one of the few known active mines for teralin, and the mines twisted throughout the mountain. The metal was precious to the Magi, supposedly because it was necessary to speak to the gods. Most who worked the mines did so because they had no other choice.
“Easy, man. It was an accident.” He was annoyed but knew better than to attack one of the local miners. The Denraen had a hard enough time with them as it was; it was surprising that these miners would patronize a tavern mostly filled with soldiers. Besides, he had enough trouble from fights he had started. Better to avoid this one.
The man looked down at Endric’s sword and sneered. “An accident like the way you pushed me over getting into the tavern?”
He frowned. Perhaps he had pushed a little more than was necessary.
Chairs scraped roughly over the wooden floor, and Endric didn’t need to turn to know his friends stood to support him. “No need. I’m going,” he said and looked over at Pendin.
And was hit.
Endric didn’t know how the man was able to hit him so quickly. If not for Pendin’s widened eyes giving away the attack, he would have taken it harder. As it was, he managed to pull away and absorb some of the blow. Still, he felt as if hit by stone.
He reacted as a man trained by Denraen would: he attacked.
Endric lunged forward, closing in on the man. Another quick blow caught him on the shoulder, but he had leapt soon enough to miss the worst of it. He jabbed quickly, catching the man in the stomach, and twisted, throwing his arms out to catch him in the throat and knock him down, hoping to end the fight. The man somehow eluded him.
Movement behind him put him on edge and the attacker took advantage, swinging hard toward Endric’s face. He twisted and dropped, grabbing the man’s arm as he spun. He pulled it down and over his shoulder. Instead of the expected crack of bones breaking, he was left with a handful of sleeve as the man tore his arm away, revealing a heavily tattooed arm. Endric frowned at the markings, tried to make sense of the dark patterns swirling up his arm, but couldn’t.
Soldier Son (The Teralin Sword Book 1) Page 1
