Then there was the tie to the miners. Could the miners be working with the Deshmahne, or was something else behind that? Someone had coordinated the attacks. Listain seemed the likely one to do that as well. But why would Senda make it seem like they had been fighting the Deshmahne if Listain was involved?
So many questions. And none made the decisions he had made any easier.
“What comes next?”
He had been so worried about Senda that he hadn’t bothered to learn what he needed to do to satisfy the challenge now that it had been offered. If any would know, it would be Urik.
“Next, you and your father will meet for combat. Tradition dictates that it be open to the public, though either of you may request otherwise. I would suggest the barracks yard. This satisfies tradition by being open, but the walls grant a semblance of privacy to this spectacle.” He shook his head slightly. He really was unsure what to think of this. “The challenge must be observed by members of the Denraen Council and the Magi Council. Beyond that, any may watch who wishes to do so. The weapons are of your own choosing. Most prefer the sword.” He spoke matter-of-factly and without emotion. He watched Endric as he said the last.
Endric only nodded. Of course he would choose the sword. Would his father? Trill had sat, unmoved, on its decorative holder for so many years. Could his father prefer a different weapon?
Urik nodded. “The challenge is complete when either combatant yields. Or dies. Either satisfies the challenge. The last piece is perhaps the most important. The winner must then be affirmed by the council.”
“Denraen?” he asked, though thought he knew the answer.
The en’raen shook his head. “Magi. That is why they must be present at the challenge. The council affirms all ascending generals, regardless of how they are promoted.”
“Has anyone ever not been affirmed by the council?”
“Once. That was long ago.” Urik’s mouth turned into a tight frown. His eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed in concentration. “The challenge has been so rarely used. The Denraen are peacekeepers, and holding combat for leadership is the opposite of that. Only in extreme cases has it been justified.”
“Do you feel it is justified now?”
“I cannot deny that this is an extreme case. Never before in this city’s history has it been attacked like this. Never have the Magi been so openly defied. No longer are the Deshmahne some distant threat. And no longer can we claim they are but a cult.” He shook his head, and his words grew more heated as he spoke. “The Denraen have already been called upon to protect the city. There is little doubt that we will be called to protect others as well. We must be ready to answer that call.”
Urik paused, collecting himself, and Endric waited for him to continue, but he didn’t. Urik had not answered his question, not really, but the passion that he spoke with was answer enough. “When will the challenge take place?”
Urik frowned. “Has no one told you?”
Endric shook his head. He had been sitting with Senda waiting for her to wake since that night. It had been nearly two full days. Now that she had woken, a sense of relief filled him, as well as a tinge of regret. Their relationship would change whether he won or lost. Just when he had come to the realization that he wanted a relationship with her.
“Once offered, the challenge must be satisfied within three days, else you forfeit.”
“Three days?” he asked. “That means—”
“You must meet your father in combat tomorrow.”
20
Endric was standing with his hand on the door when he heard the knock. He had been expecting it, but was still startled. Squeezing the hilt of his sword briefly, shifting the scabbard as he did, he pulled the door open. Pendin stood dressed in his formal gray uniform. Crisp and clean. Endric wore similar gray clothes, typical Denraen attire, though his were looser fitting. He didn’t want to be restrained by his uniform.
His friend didn’t wait for an invitation before pushing past him and into the room. “You don’t have to do this,” he said without preamble. “There is no shame in withdrawing the challenge. I have checked; it can be done. It will be up to your father if there are any consequences, but he has been lenient with you for so long—”
“I will not withdraw the challenge.” He spoke softly but firmly.
“Endric—”
“You know I cannot.” He frowned at Pendin, who closed his eyes and shook his head while he sighed. “You know me. You know this is not about me.”
“I thought I knew you.”
Endric narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean?”
“The problem I have with this is that none of this is you. Since you first saw the Mage in Stahline, you’ve been acting strangely. And that was before Andril’s death. Since then, you have been acting more like him than yourself!”
“That may be true. He was a better man than I will ever be. I can’t change the way things were left between us, but I can stop being the selfish boor I had been. That was one of the last things he asked of me.”
“Andril wouldn’t have done this. He wouldn’t have wanted you to do this, either.”
“He wouldn’t have had to. My father listened to Andril. If only he listened to me.”
“Then make him!”
“I tried. And failed. This is the only way.”
Pendin sank onto his bed. His face was forlorn. “There is always another way, Endric. You didn’t even bother to look.”
“Pendin—”
He leaned forward and shook his head, saying nothing for a moment. When he looked back up, his eyes were tight and reddened. “I had to try. One last time. I knew it wouldn’t matter.” He sighed again and then stood. “Let me stand with you at least.”
Endric smiled sadly at his friend. “It would be better for you if you didn’t. I don’t want to give him any reason to expel you if I lose.”
“You’re my friend. I won’t let you face this alone. I can accept whatever consequences may come of it.”
Pendin reached out his arm and Endric grabbed it, pulling him into a hug.
“Thank you. You’re more than a friend, Pendin—you’re my brother,” he said. Separating from Pendin, Endric swept his gaze around his room and turned, walking quickly into the corridor.
The hall was quiet, almost eerily so. A few doors were open as they made their way through the barracks, but Endric didn’t look into the rooms. Most were curious if Endric would actually go through with the challenge. Some stood in their doorways and nodded as he passed. He didn’t offer any response, trying to keep his mind focused.
They hurried down the stairs leading to the main hall. More men were congregated here. Most seemed to be idling, but he knew better. They waited. Watched. He swept his gaze over them, not letting it linger, trying to avoid anyone he might recognize. As he did, he realized the mistake he was making.
The Deshmahne attacks hurt all the Denraen. The challenge had been offered because the voices and needs of these soldiers had not been met. Endric suddenly stopped and looked over the men standing around the corridor.
The faces of many were neutral. Their lives would be changed somewhat if Endric were to assume command, but not enough that this mattered much to them. The challenge was more a curiosity. Some, though, smiled as he looked at them. A few of these nodded. He recognized men he had trained with, fought alongside. Men who had shared with him the worst assignments the Denraen could ask. These were men who would fight at his side because he was Denraen.
Slowly, he nodded in return. These were the men he fought for. These were his soldiers. With a sudden flash of insight, he suppressed a laugh. For so many years he had fought the leadership offered to him, yet all along a part of him had never fought, instead having claimed men as his own. Now he stood for them.
Pendin touched his shoulder and he turned. A smile split his mouth and Pendin frowned. “What is it?”
Endric shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Come.”
The
hall grew more filled with men as they made their way. Despite the crowd, a path opened for them and the Denraen stood back. He made a point of looking at each as he passed. Pendin hurried him from behind, a gentle hand on his shoulder pressing him forward. And then they reached to door to the barracks yard.
Propped open, it let hazy gray light filter into the hall. The day was overcast, then. Not that he expected anything else. Rare was the sunny day. “It will probably rain too,” he mumbled.
“What was that?” Pendin asked.
Endric shook his head. “Nothing.”
He stepped past the doorway and into the grassy yard. There were more Denraen here, though most lingered along the walls, keeping the ground otherwise clear. He saw more men that he recognized here. Many were higher-ranking soldiers and likely to be on his father’s side, though that wasn’t a given. Urik flashed a tight smile. The en’raen stood at the center of the lawn near a taller figure. As he neared, Endric recognized Mage Alriyn from the night of the attack.
“That’s Alriyn,” he whispered to Pendin.
“I know.”
“Must be the council representative.”
“Will that be a problem?”
Endric shrugged slightly. “Only if I win,” he said and continued forward. The Mage watched him as he approached, his face unreadable. Just like every other Mage face he had seen. He towered over Urik, who was only average height, and was noticeably taller than Dendril. His father stood with his back to him, speaking to Rold, one of the fen’raen. He had wondered what weapon his father would choose and was mildly surprised to see the greatsword Trill sheathed at his side. The pommel was unmistakable.
A few other men of the Denraen Council stood speaking to Dendril, but they didn’t command his attention. Standing next to Urik, hands entwined and a nervous expression upon her face, stood Senda.
He stopped when he saw her, pausing briefly before continuing forward. He had not expected to see her out of the healing ward so soon. She hurried over to him and placed a hand on his arm. For her, it was an extreme show of emotion before others in the Denraen.
“Please do not try to talk me out of this, Senda.”
She smiled. There was an edge of sadness to her face as she did. “That was never my intent.”
Endric hesitated. “Then why are you here? You should be recovering with the healers.”
She glared at him. “There is little more they can offer me at this point. And I am here for the same reason as Pendin.”
Pendin laughed lightly. “Probably not quite the same reason,” he said, trailing off as she turned her glare upon him. He shrugged and stepped away, giving them a small bubble of privacy.
“Are you ready for this?” she asked.
She stood close to him, her smell clean. As she looked up at him, her dark eyes held his. The lines around them told him everything about the worry she felt. Still, she managed to keep her fears out of her voice. The question she asked him could hold so many meanings, but the most direct was her intent.
“I’m not sure that I can be truly ready,” he said.
“You wish to proceed?”
He nodded slowly. “It must be done.”
She watched him as he spoke, and hesitated to say anything. Finally: “Regardless of what happens, I will be—”
He cut her off by touching her cheek.
She turned into his hand, closing her eyes, and nodded. “Good luck then.”
He took his hand away reluctantly and turned back toward Pendin. A wry smile lit his face and he only shook his head as he rejoined Endric’s side. They strode forward together and reached Urik. Senda stood to his left, Pendin his right. If Olin lived, he would have been with them as well.
Urik looked at him a moment, his flat eyes unreadable, then nodded. “Endric, son of Dendril. Do you present yourself for the challenge?”
“I do,” Endric answered.
Urik tilted his head briefly to Endric, then turned to Dendril. “Dendril, commander of the Denraen. The challenger presents himself.”
With those words, Urik stepped away. The other Denraen standing nearby followed suit. Senda and Pendin each waited a moment before they stepped back, leaving only Dendril and Endric. Mage Alriyn stood apart from the soldiers, watching with a strange expression on his face.
Dendril stepped forward but didn’t unsheathe his sword. Endric had expected more formality, but there appeared to be none. His heart hammered and his hand hovered over the hilt of his sword. He didn’t squeeze it though.
His father was dressed simply. A gray shirt. Dark pants. The sword Trill.
Endric had dressed comfortably, but more formally. His father had not afforded him that honor.
“You still press forward with this folly?”
Endric shook his head at his father’s choice of words. “You have left me with no other choice.”
Dendril grunted and started slowly pacing in front of him. “Still a child who thinks fighting is the only option. There is always a choice.”
Endric frowned at his father’s words, feeling a brief moment of panic. Pendin had said something similar as he tried to talk him out of the challenge.
He forced it down, needing to maintain his focus. “There comes a time when fighting is the only remaining option.” He threw his father’s words back at him, an explanation once given for the role of the Denraen in a world of Urmahne.
“You know half of what you think you do, son.” The words were almost sad. Dendril shook his head, still pacing. “You could have made a fine leader in time. Like your brother in so many ways.”
“But different in all the ones that count. At least to you.”
His father shook his head again. “Still a child,” he said quietly.
“How much longer do you intend to insult me?”
Dendril sighed, closing his eyes for a long moment. When they reopened, his expression had hardened. “I am not insulting you. Just stating facts. Were you not so blinded by your anger and desire for revenge, you would be open to doing the same.” He suddenly stopped pacing. “If this must continue, then come. See if you can best me, my son.”
With that, he unsheathed Trill.
The sound rang across the barracks yard, a pure note unlike any Endric had ever heard. He felt another moment of uncertainty but pressed it down as he unsheathed his own sword. “I will not go easy on you.”
“Nor I on you,” Dendril answered.
Endric narrowed his eyes as his father stepped back into a defensive stance. Waiting. He would let Endric begin the challenge. Fine. With a slight nod, Endric leapt forward. He had worked with the sword long enough that attacking was something he did easily. He didn’t attack recklessly. Or carelessly. Not against a swordmaster like his father.
Dendril blocked easily with a few fluid swipes of Trill, each time stepping back into a defensive posture. And waiting.
Endric wasn’t sure what his father was playing at by not attacking, and it forced him to step back and circle. He kept his sword tip up in a ready pose as Andril had taught him, though he tried not to think about that. His father kept him in view and maintained a slight distance. He had the advantage of the longer reach, but Endric had speed on his side.
Endric attacked again, sweeping his sword rapidly through several forms. Dendril blocked each attack methodically, barely exerting himself. Each time, he returned to his defensive stance. Though Trill was a greatsword, his father didn’t seem to struggle with its weight, moving it fluidly.
Endric pressed forward, slicing quickly in an upward attack toward Dendril’s face, moving the sword down at the last second toward his arms. His blade slid down Trill and Endric flicked it forward, biting Dendril’s forearm. Dark blood seeped through his shirt. Endric bounced back and out of the reach of Trill. Moving warily, he watched his father.
A slight murmur from the Denraen watching came at the sight of Dendril’s blood. Endric knew most had not given him much of a chance. Not against his father—Dendril had once
been the most feared swordsman in the Denraen—but Endric knew that years had passed since he had held a sword. Those years would have taken off speed and reaction. Andril had almost beaten Dendril the last time they had practiced, and that had been nearly five years ago. He was not his brother’s equal, but he counted on the fact that Dendril wouldn’t be anymore, either.
Still, dueling with his father was harder than he had expected. Not physically. Endric practiced nearly daily. The stakes were higher, but he was no more fatigued than he would be working with Pendin. Emotionally, however… Regardless of what had happened, Dendril was his father.
If only that made everything better.
Staring at his stern face, the ease with which he blocked his attacks, it was hard to forget that this was the man who had taught him his first sword forms. That was so long ago, back before he had tasked Andril with his training. Memories of how helpless he’d felt when he was first learning how to swing a sword came flooding back. He remembered how easily his father had blocked his attacks. Even as he gained skill, he had never been much of a match for his father. Now he fought for something greater than his pride.
His father toyed with him, still not respecting him. Shoving the memories away, clearing his mind, Endric slashed forward with rapid movements. Trill blocked each attack easily. Dendril stepped back into a defensive stance once more.
Endric struck again, a flurry of movement, as fast as he had ever attacked. Each blow was blocked. His father’s movements were easy, as if Endric never threatened to harm him.
A surge of anger flooded him.
It was unwise to fight angry. That was a lesson Andril had tried to hammer home time and again. He couldn’t help it. His father’s face was wrapped in a condescending frown. The same expression had adorned his face during every one of their practice sessions.
Endric leapt forward, swinging angrily, pressing through one form after another. Trill met his sword, clanging loudly, and each impact shuddered up his arm. Endric stepped back, watching his father. His face remained unreadable.
Soldier Son (The Teralin Sword Book 1) Page 17
