Soldier Son (The Teralin Sword Book 1)

by D. K. Holmberg

  “You keep yourself apart when the gods have brought us together,” Nahrsin said.

  Endric blinked slowly. The words were unexpected. “The gods?” he asked. “I have trouble believing our meeting the work of the gods.”

  Nahrsin shrugged, shadows from the fire playing strangely across his painted face. “No man can know their plan. We can only work in their honor.”

  Endric shook his head. He had prayed to the gods while lying near death upon the Tolsii Plains, and the Antrilii had come. Who was he to think it was not part of some grand plan? Still, there remained the nagging doubt, the questions he long had felt, and he knew he couldn’t believe. The gods, if they existed, didn’t intervene for one man. His prayers had been selfish and had changed nothing.

  “Do you honor the gods when you fight?” Endric asked.

  Nahrsin laughed. The sound was carefree and surprising coming from the imposing warrior. “How would you suggest we honor them otherwise?”

  “The Urmahne teach that the gods demand peace. That is how the gods are honored.”

  Nahrsin shrugged. “I know little of the Urmahne,” he admitted. “But then, I am Antrilii. The gods gave us the bneiin to protect.” He shrugged again. “When you see groeliin, you will understand. In this, we honor the gods.”

  Endric frowned. “What is bneiin?” The word sounded familiar, like a twisting of the ancient language, but Endric couldn’t place its meaning.

  “That is our home. The north. Mountains.” His face slackened and his eyes lost a bit of focus as he spoke. Nahrsin obviously missed his home. “We are here now,” he said, his gaze gaining intensity. “The groeliin will not escape our hunt. This is the gods’ will,” he finished with a quiet ferocity.

  Endric realized the Antrilii sacrificed much by traveling south, hunting the groeliin, but to them it was a simple matter. They acted because they believed. How must it feel to have such faith? He looked at Nahrsin, watching the faint firelight flicker over his painted features. These were not simple warriors.

  “Come. Sit by the fire. Tonight is not a night for solitude,” Nahrsin said. He turned and walked away from Endric, leaving him standing alone, considering whether to follow and staring at the man’s broad back.

  Endric looked over at the other Antrilii. Dentoun still spoke to Novan, though the conversation appeared more relaxed. A few of the other Antrilii sat nearby, listening. The rest sat near the fire, eating and talking quietly. The smoke from the crackling fire wafted over to him, a welcoming scent, and Endric was drawn to them. Dentoun looked up as he approached, narrowing his eyes briefly before looking back at Novan. The other Antrilii ignored him. Only Nahrsin had seemed welcoming.

  He was growing to realize that whatever else he was, he was not a prisoner. Not really. And yet there was no place else for him to go.

  What was he now? So much of his identity had been tied to being a soldier. That was all he had known. Now he could no longer even claim that.

  Endric blinked slowly, telling himself it was the smoke from the fire that burned his eyes. He took a seat atop a small boulder. The stone was mostly smooth, though there were deep lines still present, grooves in the surface, and he wondered what the rock had once been. The flames from the fire licked the night, and the crackling as the green branches burned pushed back the darkness nearly as much as the light. In the distance, the merahl still called.

  Nahrsin brought him a steaming mug. “This is jor. We drink on nights such as this.”

  He took it, enjoying the warmth from the cup. “Such as what?”

  “On nights when we are reminded why we must hunt.” Nahrsin took a seat next to Endric, a cup in his hands, and took a long drink, sighing deeply as he did. He said nothing and stared into the flames.

  Endric sniffed the steaming liquid, uncertain what to expect. Hesitantly, he put the mug to his lips and took a sip. It was surprisingly sweet. And good. Taking a long draw, he felt an immediate flushing in his head and found himself mimicking Nahrsin, sighing as he stared at the flames. Long moments passed. Only the murmuring of nearby voices and the steady crackle of the fire counted time.

  “I was a soldier,” Endric said. He took another long drink from the mug, savoring the flavor. He had never tasted anything like the jor before.

  “You do not stop being a soldier,” Nahrsin said, nodding. He had not turned from the flames, staring into the fire as if finding an answer to some unasked question.

  Endric closed his eyes. “After what I have done, I must.”

  Nahrsin tore his eyes away from the fire and looked over at Endric. “The gods will always forgive.” He spoke solemnly and with a reverent tone. Endric recognized the inflection, having heard it before; Andril had spoken with a similar tone. Nahrsin believed.

  Endric sniffed. “I don’t know if the gods will forgive, but I know my father will not.”

  Nahrsin laughed, startling him. “That is all you fear? Your father?” He laughed again, deep and hearty. A few of the other Antrilii looked over, and even Novan paused in his conversation with Dentoun to watch. “Fathers want us to grow. Make mistakes. Become our own man. Missteps are necessary on this journey.” His laughter had died off and his painted face took on a neutral expression. “There is never a need for forgiveness if you learn from your mistakes.”

  Endric shook his head. “You don’t know my father.”

  Nahrsin chuckled. “He cannot be any worse than my own.”

  Endric cocked his head and narrowed his eyes, following Nahrsin’s gaze. “Dentoun is your father?” he asked, making the connection. The Antrilii nodded, and Endric saw the similarities. The same width to their build, the same angular cut of the jaw, and the same dark hair. “I can see how that would have been challenging.”

  He knew very little about the Antrilii culture but had seen enough of Dentoun to know that he reminded Endric of his own father. It was easy to imagine what Nahrsin must have experienced. Both were sons of soldiers, warriors. Both were driven, Dendril by the Denraen and Dentoun by the groeliin.

  “He pushed me, as was needed. I couldn’t lead my people if he had not.” Nahrsin spoke softly, obvious warmth entering his voice. Endric wished he could feel the same for his father.

  “My father couldn’t be bothered to participate in my training,” he said quietly. It should not still hurt, but he couldn’t shake the knot of emotion he felt at saying the words. Dendril had trained Andril, but his own father had not wanted to assist in his training. Even after all these years, he still hated his father for that.

  “Perhaps he knew he was not the best instructor for you.”

  Endric shook his head slowly and said nothing. His father was the best swordsman the Denraen had. His quick defeat was testament to that. What could he have been had he access to that knowledge?

  “You think Dendril was not interested in how you were raised?”

  Endric spun at the comment and was surprised to see Novan standing behind him. The historian sat on a nearby rock, not waiting for an invitation. He still grasped his staff.

  “How do you—”

  Novan’s eyes seemed to flash for a moment. “I am a historian,” he answered, as if that was enough. And maybe it was. “I am a seeker of truth, of knowledge. Perhaps we were brought together for a reason. You seem to carry a fallacy with you that must be corrected.”

  “You think you know all about me?” Endric asked, biting back the surge of anger he felt. He could do nothing anyway. He was trapped. Weaponless. Surrounded by strangers with nowhere to go.

  Novan was not baited by his comment, speaking evenly when he did. “You are Endric, son of Dendril, Lord General of the Denraen army. You are his second son, Andril the first, and from the condition you were found in on the Tolsii Plains, I must presume that you challenged your father for leadership. And lost.”

  Endric looked away, unable to meet his eyes. He felt Nahrsin staring at him from the other side. He kept his gaze locked on the fire. A dark shadow moved in front of his field
of vision. Dentoun didn’t say anything to announce his presence. He didn’t need to.

  Blinking slowly, he looked up at the large Antrilii. The man stood, frowning, a look of concern etched upon his face. The shadows seemed to flicker upon him, slipping strangely over and off the paintings on his face. The effect was disturbing.

  “Son of Dendril, it is time that you tell your story,” Dentoun said.

  25

  “You have not said why you felt compelled to challenge your father,” Novan said, twisting the dark ring on his finger as he spoke. His breath misted the cool air and in the distance, one of the merahl cried out as if punctuating what the historian said.

  The sky had lightened a bit by the time Endric finished speaking, no longer the inky black of deep night, yet still dark. The fire crackling nearby cast everything in flickering shadows, and a fragrant smoke whispered out in a thin haze. Endric had not spoken long, keeping the story brief and focused only on his disagreement with his father. He left out the reason why. Some details just were not his to share; he would protect the Denraen in that.

  “That is Denraen business,” he answered. Should he tell them about the Deshmahne—how they had killed his brother, attacked the town, and still his father was unwilling to respond, unwilling to even consider that his son told the truth?

  Blinking slowly, he knew he couldn’t, so he pushed the thought away. He was no longer Denraen, yet it was still hard to let go of the anger he felt at the dark priests. They had killed Andril. Olin. And nearly Senda. They had attacked the Magi and destroyed part of the city. As much as he wanted to let go of that anger, he couldn’t.

  Shaking his head slightly, he recognized the irony. After years of his father trying to get him to care about something other than himself, when he finally did, he was thrown from the city.

  Dentoun grunted and nodded as if satisfied by the answer. The man was a warrior—a soldier of sorts—and it didn’t surprise him that he understood.

  Novan, on the other hand, was not placated. “You have said nothing of your brother.” The hood of his cloak pooled around his neck, menacing shadows flickering upon his face.

  Endric closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the cool night air, trying to push away images threating to overwhelm him.

  “What happened to him?” Novan asked, his voice softening, though no less intent. He leaned back, and the fire lit his face. Concern etched into the wrinkles around his eyes.

  Endric shook his head, exhaling. “Andril is gone. Lost during a mission.”

  “This is Deshmahne then.” Novan’s face was flat, but his eyes had tightened. His voice carried the heat of anger as he spoke of the Deshmahne.

  “What do you know of them?” His hands clenched unconsciously at his side as he thought of the dark priests. He had to consciously relax them and still felt the itch to reach for a wished-for sword.

  “So the rumors are true.”

  “What rumors?”

  “I had thought the stories spread by the Deshmahne. Still could be, I suppose. They claim great strength, stating there had been a demonstration of their prowess. When the rumors spread of the destruction of a regiment of Denraen, I had thought it idle boasting.” Novan shook his head. “That, unfortunately, was wrong.”

  “What are these Deshmahne?” Dentoun asked. His face had deepened into a frown as Endric told his story. He sat, his back rigid, upon the stone as he listened. Somehow the painting on his face had lost its mystique, leaving the man looking fierce but not frightening. Still not someone to take lightly.

  Novan glanced at Dentoun and nodded. “They are dark cultists. Nobody knows when they were truly founded, though the guild speculates they have been around for hundreds of years.”

  “How is that possible?” Endric asked.

  Novan shrugged. “The fact remains that they have existed for many years. It is an intricate religion, one that seems to have evolved over time. They are led by a high priest, made powerful by his dark magics.”

  Dentoun scowled as the historian spoke but Novan ignored it, simply raising his eyebrows as if shrugging. There was a strange rapport between the two men. Endric wondered if the Antrilii distrusted magical abilities. So little was known about the Antrilii and their beliefs that he couldn’t know, but the man had made comments about the Magi that left him wondering.

  “Though we know of the high priest, none has ever seen him. For many years, they have remained secretive and gained membership slowly. Lately, this has changed. Men seek them out now, wishing to learn the secret of their power, and they have grown quickly in numbers. And boldness.” He sniffed, spitting the last out as if it were distasteful.

  “You say these priests are powerful?” Dentoun asked, leaning slightly forward. Nahrsin sat across from him, silent, taking in the conversation.

  Novan nodded. “They practice an ancient and arcane art tied to markings upon their bodies.” He looked to Dentoun as he said that.

  The Antrilii’s eyes widened a moment before he frowned.

  Novan nodded again, as if answering an unasked question. “These marking imbue them with unnatural abilities. Many have tried to study the extent of their powers. All have failed. Or died.” Novan sighed, fixing each with a firm stare. “Never has there been open confrontation with the Deshmahne. They have gained influence by moving in the background, through manipulation and small demonstrations of their strength. Outright defiance of the Denraen would imply a different tactic has evolved. I worry what it means.”

  Endric knew what it meant, having seen the attempt upon the Magi. He still didn’t understand the purpose. “I saw an attack firsthand. They infiltrated Vasha and tried to attack the palace. One of the Magi named it a Deshviili.”

  Novan’s frown deepened. “You say it was tried?”

  Endric nodded. “It was unsuccessful.”

  The historian considered him for a moment, his eyes focusing as if seeing something visible only to him. “This does not bode well,” he finally said. His voice was soft, edged with a hint of worry.

  “What do they seek, Novan?” Dentoun asked.

  The historian shook his head. “I am uncertain.”

  Dentoun laughed, startling them. “It pleases me to see you this way.”

  Novan narrowed his eyes at him, irritation plain upon his face.

  Dentoun didn’t mask his emotions but did seem to hide them better than the historian. “But you are more than uncertain. You are worried. If you worry, then others should as well. You may not know what they seek, but I think that you have an idea.”

  Novan nodded slowly. “Some.”

  “Hmm.”

  The Antrilii’s comments and the way he questioned Novan surprised Endric. Dentoun obviously held the historian in high regard. It was clear the men had met before, and he was beginning to wonder how much history they shared.

  Novan blinked slowly, taking a deep breath. As he exhaled, the air misting around him, his dark eyes sparkled with intensity. “The palace was not the only recent target.”

  Endric shook his head. “Why do you say that?”

  “There have been other attacks in the past few months. With each attack, the Deshmahne grow bolder. In Coamdon, only a few men were injured. The Deshmahne attacked quickly, more like thieves in the night, and disappeared. At first it was not clear who had attacked. Few believe it was the Deshmahne.” He grunted with irritation. Clearly, there was more to that story than he shared.

  “Voiga was different. The attack seemed as well planned as in Coamdon, though the intent hazier. Dozens dead. Almost as if that was the purpose of the attack. Most think it was the intended purpose.” He shook his head and then scratched at his scalp. “There was another aim in that attack, I think. Diversion.”

  Endric tried to think of what could connect the two other attacks to the attack on the Magi but wasn’t able to come up with an answer. The historian didn’t say where in Coamdon the attack occurred; the southern nation was large—nearly as large as Thealon—and s
tretched from the forests of Voiga to the hot desert of Siinan. The nation was known for several valuable exports, each reflective of its different regions. From the iron and silver of the mountain mines to cloth and wool of the plains, each was valuable, but nothing he could imagine the Deshmahne wanting. That was what Novan implied.

  Voiga was stranger still. The forested nation was known for its lumber and fishing. Novan implied the attack masked an ulterior motive, but Endric couldn’t think of what that could be. Yet the historian tied these attacks to the one on the Magi. There must be some connection.

  “Coamdon, Voiga, and now the Magi.” Dentoun looked at Novan as he spoke. Endric realized the Antrilii saw the connection. Nahrsin, at least, looked as lost as he felt.

  Novan nodded carefully, his fingers still fidgeting with the dark stone ring on his finger. “If I am right, I fear you must hurry, old friend,” Novan said quietly. “Hunt the groeliin, but return to your home.”

  Dentoun nodded and then stood, turning and walking away from the fire. Endric watched the man leave. His heart fluttered as he wondered about the connection between the attacks. Did Novan think the Antrilii homeland was at risk for attack? He had not realized there was a true Antrilii settlement, thinking that they roamed the north.

  “What is this, Novan?” he asked. “What do you think the Deshmahne are after?”

  The historian didn’t have a chance to answer. At that moment, there was a sharp howl in the night, different than anything he had heard before. There was no questioning its source. One of the merahl.

  “Ishi?” Nahrsin said softly, standing suddenly. He turned and stared into the darkness, his body suddenly tense. The Antrilii’s hand reached for his sword instinctively. When no other sound followed, Nahrsin turned, looking to Dentoun. The large man shook his head once before tilting it in the direction of the sound.