Soldier Son (The Teralin Sword Book 1)

by D. K. Holmberg

  The man smiled. Stained teeth gleamed dully.

  He darted suddenly forward, bringing his arm up and out toward his throat.

  Endric turned and ducked, punching up and into the man’s flank as he passed. A quick kick knocked the man forward to sprawl on his face on the rough floor.

  Endric pounced. He landed on the man’s back and grabbed the still-sleeved arm and twisted it back. The man pushed up with his free arm, but Pendin was there, forcing him back down. Olin and Senda stood around them, Olin with his sword unsheathed and staff in hand. Their stance dared others in the bar to interfere.

  Most turned away and returned to quiet conversation, sliding out of reach of the Denraen. Two men remained. One was short and thin and covered in dark rags somehow holding together. He stared for a long moment at Endric, pushing ratty hair out of his black eyes before he turned. The small man disappeared without a word and was quickly swallowed by the thick throng of patrons.

  The other man waited. He was meatier, heavy in the face, and his thick forearms looked perpetually stained with dark smudges glimmering strangely in the muted light. While he was not as raggedly dressed as the other man had been, his dark clothes were nearly as well worn. He stood staring slack faced at them and scratched his arm absently.

  Endric pulled up on his attacker’s arm and twisted him to face the other. “Is he with you?” he asked. The words were little more than a grunt and thick with the anger he felt.

  His father would hear about what had happened. His brother. Another fight. This time, he had done nothing other than protect himself, but it wouldn’t matter. The warning after the last one had been clear. Now they wouldn’t be pleased. Further disappointment.

  Endric shook his head, not waiting for the man to answer, and thrust his attacker forward. The thick man caught him clumsily, then lifted him. The attacker shook him off and twisted, turning quickly to face Endric. A dark smile simmered on his lips and his mouth parted again slightly.

  “Go,” Endric said, his voice ragged.

  The man paused and Endric noted his shoulders tensing as he slowly eyed the sword and staff held ready. A dangerous glint passed across his face, and for a moment, Endric was sure he would try his luck.

  Olin slid forward, just a step, but it was enough.

  The man nodded slightly. “Another time,” he whispered.

  “Go,” Endric repeated.

  The man turned, pulling his solid friend with him, and they pushed through the crowd. Endric watched until the heavy door opened and then slammed closed, a gust of wind whipping in as it did and sending the dark shadows in the tavern spasming with new life.

  “What was that?”

  Endric turned to look at Pendin, who stared at the doorway. His eyes were slightly widened and he shook his head slightly from side to side. Senda’s face was troubled, her brow furrowed, and she stared at the place where the men had stood. Olin held his sword limply, the point resting carelessly on the floor. The soldier in Endric wanted to admonish him for resting his sword in such a way, but he wouldn’t do that to his friend.

  “I don’t know. Miners, it would seem. Not sure what I did to upset him.”

  “Tipped your chair back, as far as I can tell,” Pendin said.

  “You walked into the bar,” Senda said, the troubled expression now gone.

  Endric watched her for a moment, wondering what she knew, knowing she would say nothing. Her work with the spymaster taught her to keep her lips sealed, so he let the thought go. He needed to find his brother before he left. Perhaps now was a good time to be out of the city.

  “I’m leaving,” he said.

  “We’ll go too,” Pendin said.

  The crowd parted for them as they made their way to the door. The other patrons in the tavern had ignored the disturbance. Nothing was broken, and they had been hidden in the darkness of the back corner. And fights were not that uncommon in the tavern. Especially this tavern. Still, a faint hush met them as they passed on their way out.

  The others went out before him, but Endric paused. A strange drumming started behind him, and he turned to see what caused it. He barely saw the heavy board as it whistled toward him, cracking him on his forehead, and he dropped. Something wet dripped into his eyes—tears or blood—and he blinked to clear the sudden flashing lights. He heard the door open again, a muffled whoosh of air.

  A dark shape hovered over him briefly and laughed, and then he heard Pendin. His voice was distant, as if coming through the walls, and he heard “Endric—” as he passed into darkness.

  2

  Endric awoke to a throbbing head. He blinked slowly, fighting through the dried crust clinging to his lids. A sliver of light overhead barely pierced the darkness. He was on his back, resting on something rocky and cold, and staring at the slight illumination, hoping his eyes would adjust to the darkness. They didn’t.

  Loose rubble beneath him stabbed into his flesh like dozens of small knives. He focused on his body to ensure that everything still worked, carefully moving his toes and fingers. When he found that he could, he slowly sat up, ignoring the pounding pressure in his head. A momentary wave of nausea threatened to knock him back, but he fought through it.

  He couldn’t remember what had happened. They were leaving the tavern, and then something had hit him. Or someone. He tried to remember the face of the person who had stood over him laughing, but couldn’t. Could it have been the miner? His head hurt worse trying to think, so he stopped.

  Though he couldn’t remember what had happened, he could guess what had come next. The all-too-familiar cell he now found himself in was answer enough. It didn’t explain why, though.

  Endric turned to the thin beam of light marking the upper edge of the door. When he could stand, he pounded forcefully upon the door, ignoring the pain in his head that mirrored the movements of his fist.

  When the door opened suddenly, Endric nearly fell backward in his surprise. He hadn’t expected anyone to answer, hoping mostly to take his frustration out on the door of his cell. A familiar figure stood framed in the doorway, his face shadowed by the lantern hanging on the far wall.

  “Listain.”

  The man nodded slightly. Endric couldn’t see the expression on his face but imagined a slight sneer. His father’s Raen had nothing but disdain for him, likely sharing the general’s assessment. Listain stood a head shorter than he did and was reed thin, but he still filled much of the doorway.

  “Where am I?”

  Listain snorted. “That should be obvious. Even to you.”

  He paused, and Endric imagined him peering into the darkness with narrowed eyes. If Listain was here, that meant the barracks jail. Probably better than the city jail, but not by much. Unfortunately, he had known both.

  “Perhaps especially for you.”

  Endric started forward, unwilling to listen to Listain’s comments and intending to push past him, but an iron hand gripped his shoulder. Listain squeezed harder than necessary, and Endric stopped and pushed him off.

  “That’s what got you into the cell in the first place,” the spymaster said in warning.

  “I didn’t start it.”

  Listain snorted again. “Witnesses say you did.”

  “Then they weren’t watching.”

  Endric tensed again, thinking about trying again to push past Listain, but reason got the better of him. Like it or not, Listain was the Raen and far outranked him. Only fear—or respect—of the general had prevented the Raen from punishing him more severely in the past. With his father’s current attitude toward him, Endric was uncertain he would be protected.

  He took a deep breath and stepped back. “What do you want?”

  “Restraint,” Listain said, a hint of surprise entering his voice. “It’s a start.” He took another small step, sliding just past the doorway. His posture was relaxed, but that was deceptive. The man was nearly as dangerous as his father was rumored to be and at least as dangerous as Endric knew Andril was. He resisted th
e urge to step back.

  “The general thinks you should stay another night in this cell.”

  Endric bit off the first thing that came to mind. “Then why are you here?”

  “Your brother thinks you should be allowed to speak on your behalf.” He paused for several heartbeats. “Fortunately for you, the general puts much stock in what your brother thinks.” The emphasis to his words was clear.

  Andril knew he was jailed. That thought bothered him the most. He could deal with his father’s disappointment. And Listain was right—it wasn’t the first time he had been arrested. But something about this felt different. Especially after how he had left Andril earlier.

  “When does he depart?” he asked, not sure if Listain would bother to answer. The thin Raen cocked his head and his lips tightened. “Sir,” Endric added.

  Listain stared a moment longer before answering. “Two days.” He paused another moment, as if considering his next words. “It would be better if you went with him.”

  The fact that he was right didn’t make his words any easier to hear. The chance to join Andril’s regiment had probably passed. That he had followed up their argument with a tavern brawl made it even more likely. Endric’s shoulders tensed and his hand instinctively slipped to his waist, feeling for his missing sword.

  “Better for who—my father? The Denraen?”

  “Yes.”

  The word seemed to echo in the small cell.

  Endric shook his head, closing his eyes and sighing. It would be, he knew. Perhaps then his friends wouldn’t carry his stigma with them as well. None had ever said anything, but he knew. Pendin—such a skilled and promising soldier—would no longer be held back by his best friend. Olin might find his assignments less unpleasant. Only Senda seemed unencumbered by him, rising to work alongside the spymaster, her analytical mind carrying her beyond the handicap of her friendship with Endric. Occasionally, he wondered if she spied on him to Listain.

  “I would go,” he said.

  Listain cocked his head and furrowed his expansive brow. Endric imagined the Raen smiling at the prospect of him leaving the city, but in the subdued light he couldn’t be sure.

  Listain grunted and motioned to the doorway. Endric stepped past him and into the dimly lit hall. A few of the other cells were closed, and he worried that his friends had been jailed as well. They had gone out before him and none had been more than incidentally involved. For a moment, he considered asking Listain but thought better of it.

  Guards stationed near the end of the hall blocked another door. Behind the door were steps leading to another guardroom. Beyond that, the offices of the highest-ranking Denraen.

  His father. Listain. And his brother.

  His steps faltered. He couldn’t help it.

  He felt Listain’s eyes on him. The man had a way of seeing and observing fear among the Denraen. Most feared his network of spies, which seemed to miss nothing. Endric knew he was weighed and measured—as he was every time the Raen looked at him—and dismissed as no more a threat than the ash beetles that came out each spring. An annoyance. Little more.

  His brother stood waiting at the top of the steps but didn’t meet his eyes.

  “Listain,” Andril said, acknowledging his Raen.

  Listain nodded. “You may take him. The general is expecting you.”

  Andril thumped his fist to his chest in salute. He paused a moment, expecting Endric to do the same. He didn’t. Andril ignored the slight and led him off.

  They had only gone a few steps before Andril slowed. “You started a fight with a miner.” The words were laced with heavy layers of disappointment.

  “I didn’t start it,” he said quietly, knowing the comment wouldn’t matter. His history of fighting was damning enough. Worse was that this was not his first run-in with the miners.

  Andril turned and faced him, his face the fury of a Denraen officer. Little of his brother remained. “His uncle is Mageborn.”

  Endric blinked slowly. He had not expected that, though many were born to the Magi without the Mage gift. It was only logical the Magi would have miners in the family as well. “I didn’t know.”

  Andril sighed and turned away, starting forward again. “Would it have mattered?”

  Endric couldn’t say anything that would sway his brother, so he changed tack. “You didn’t tell me you were leaving.”

  “You are not of my regiment.”

  “I am your brother.”

  Andril tilted his head but didn’t look back. “I tried,” he said after taking a few more steps.

  “I would join your regiment if you would have me.” For some reason, those words were hard to say.

  “I tried,” Andril repeated, then shook his head. Then sighed again. Endric saw it as a slow heave of his broad back. “You are not ready. Or I am not ready. I’m not certain which.”

  “Ready for what?” he asked.

  They had reached their father’s office. The door was closed and Andril rapped twice upon it before answering. “For the discipline necessary to be Denraen,” he finally said.

  The door opened and Endric didn’t have a chance to counter, though he was uncertain what he would have said anyway. There was no arguing the fact that he was not the ideal soldier. He was skilled with the sword—few were his equal—but that was nearly all he offered the Denraen. Perhaps Andril was right.

  Still, it didn’t change the fact that he would support his brother. He would rather follow him and act the Denraen Andril needed than remain stationed in the city. Only Andril would know that he simply pretended. And now he didn’t want him.

  The door opened fully and their father faced him. He was tall—nearly a full fist taller than Endric—and as broad of shoulders as Listain was slender. His bearded face was scarred and worn, and his gray eyes stared at Endric for long moments. He imagined a fleeting look of disappointment crossed them.

  “Come.” The word was a command, not an invitation.

  Andril pulled him through the doorway and closed it after them with a solid thud. Endric suddenly felt more confined than he had within the cell. Months had passed since he had last been in the office—then on somewhat better terms—but little had changed.

  The huge map still hung on the far wall, with small dots marking something Endric never understood. Beneath it and facing the doorway was a massive desk. Years had worn away most of the stain, but rather than looking old, it simply appeared more rugged. More fitting of its owner. Papers stacked neatly atop the surface hinted at the amount of work the general sorted through. Rows of bookcases lined the wall to his left. No open space remained on the shelves. The books upon them were all neatly arranged. A huge table rested along the wall to his right, where the senior council of the Denraen met.

  Endric looked away. Once, his father had dreamt that both his sons would sit around his table with the council. That dream had died long ago. Only Andril sat among them now.

  Few things in the office caught his attention any longer. He had seen it since he was a child and, other than the location of the dots on the map, little changed.

  Rather, it was the huge broadsword hanging on the far wall that always commanded his attention. The sword Trill was nearly as renowned as its owner. And just as feared.

  Endric wrested his eyes away to focus on his father. The man simply stared at him with eyes of stone. The rest of his face showed nearly as much emotion.

  “Were you any other man, you would have been expelled from the Denraen by now,” he said finally.

  The words were soft, but his father’s rasp sliced through him. Endric had not expected the conversation to begin like this. Though they had argued only the day before, it had been about his willingness to lead rather than his desire to remain Denraen. He knew nothing other than the Denraen.

  All of a sudden, his heart started hammering in his chest. His throat swelled and he feared needing to speak.

  Their father turned away to sit at his desk. His broad forearms rested on t
he surface and he stared at something on a corner of the desk for a moment before looking up again, his face now wearing the weight of his office. “I am undecided as to your fate. Another fight. And with a miner.” His father blinked slowly and shook his head. “You of all soldiers should know the struggles we have had with the miners, and now this!”

  “General,” Andril interjected. “He is a skilled soldier. The Denraen need men of his skill. I believe he can still be rehabilitated.”

  His brother didn’t turn as he spoke. There was a distance to his tone, as if he were speaking of a warhorse rather than a man. His flesh and blood.

  The general turned his hard expression upon Andril. “You would take this task upon yourself?”

  Endric allowed himself to hope that Andril had had a change in heart. That he would be willing to let him join his regiment as it deployed.

  “I think our relationship would make his discipline ineffective,” Andril said, dashing Endric’s hope.

  Their father blinked again and nodded, sighing deeply. “It should not have to be like this,” he said, sounding like a concerned father for once. He crossed his thick arms in front of his chest. Then he straightened his back, furrowing his brow as piercing eyes narrowed, once again the image of the stern general. “Andril. You are dismissed.”

  Andril nodded and thumped his chest in salute. He turned and left without looking at Endric.

  “Endric.”

  Endric turned his attention back to his father. He had been watching Andril leave, hoping his brother would turn, that he would meet his eyes, but he didn’t. “Sir.”

  The general snorted. “Andril speaks truly. Discipline is needed, though I am uncertain what course to take. Because you are my son, it needs to be someone who can act on my authority and not fear repercussions. I had hoped Andril would be willing to see to your discipline, as he saw to much of your training. Perhaps you have burned even that bridge.” He glanced down at his desk, shuffling a few papers. “Listain would relish the discipline too much, and that will serve no purpose. That leaves Urik.”

  Endric said nothing. At least his father acknowledged that it was Andril who had trained him. And that Listain would enjoy disciplining him. Urik was strict—a typical Denraen—but a good man.