Soldier Son (The Teralin Sword Book 1)

by D. K. Holmberg

  If the Deshmahne succeeded, few would know peace again.

  His jaw clenched as he looked back in the direction of the Deshmahne. As he took a deep breath, he felt an overwhelming need consume him and a decision was made suddenly. He would no longer fear the Deshmahne.

  He would see them destroyed.

  The desire came from his very core, raging through him and nearly shaking him from the saddle. Not for simple, selfish reasons, though he knew that was a part of it. He wanted to destroy them for what they would do if they gained even more power.

  He had spoken with Urik about the meaning of the word Deshmahne. The translation of the ancient language spiting the peace that the Urmahne believed in. As he thought about the translation, he recognized something he had not considered. There was more to it. The ancient language was layered, and this was no exception. A deeper meaning could be gleaned from the word.

  Urik had translated it as “power to know the gods.” So similar to Urmahne, or “peace to know the gods.” But even that translation had faults. The ancient language was complex, and few knew it well. He was no scholar, but Andril had seen to it that he was well versed in the language.

  Another meaning, one just as likely, was “power of the gods.”

  With a flash of insight, he realized the Deshmahne were not priests at all. They didn’t celebrate the same gods the Urmahne worshipped. There would be no prayers for their return.

  He thought he knew what it was the Deshmahne wanted.

  They sought to gain strength to throw down the gods. To replace them or for another reason, he didn’t care. The effect would be the same. Death. Destruction. Devastation.

  Novan had said that a war had been waged with the Deshmahne. Now he thought he understood why. And he would join.

  He inhaled deeply, sensing a shifting of his mindset, and suddenly knew a different kind of peace.

  Novan turned to Endric as if sensing the change that had come over him. His gray eyes glimmered with a question plain upon them. The question went unanswered as Nahrsin returned. Though he had only been gone a few moments, Endric felt as if hours had passed.

  The Antrilii stared at them for a moment, a flash of curiosity crossing his face. He grunted once, shaking his head slightly. “Come,” Nahrsin said, turning his horse quickly away and trotting over the hillside.

  Endric chanced a glance behind him. There was no movement. The air was silent and still. That didn’t change the itching he felt along his shoulders, the dark, nervous sensation he felt.

  “They’re close,” he said.

  The comment was not really directed at Novan, but the historian answered nonetheless. “They are. Can you feel them?”

  The question was strange, but Endric nodded, suddenly aware that was what he sensed. It was an irritant, almost like an unpleasant burning of his skin. “What am I feeling?”

  Novan shook his head, not looking back as he tapped the horse. The motion was similar to what Nahrsin had done to signal the horse and nothing like the traditional signals with reins. This was not the first time Novan had ridden an Antrilii mount. “Some are attuned to it.”

  With the comment, they crested the small rise. The Antrilii circled the darkened forms of the fallen creatures. Endric couldn’t make out any details from his vantage, the wide Antrilii blocking his view. One of them, Dentoun it appeared, knelt before the creatures. As Endric watched, he stood, tucking something into a small pouch. He couldn’t be sure, but it looked like a bloody hunk of flesh.

  He frowned, wondering if the Antrilii collected prizes from their dead. That would fit with the rumors. The Antrilii were called savages, yet that didn’t feel right to Endric. Although he had not ridden with them long, he knew there was more to them than that. They lived with a purpose, feeling that the gods directed their fate. They cared deeply about their animals—horse and merahl—as well as their dead. Endric shook his head; they were not savages.

  The opportunity to question passed. Suddenly the bodies of the dead groeliin burst into flame. The Antrilii stepped back, most watching. Only Dentoun turned away, a satisfied expression on his face. In the flames, Endric couldn’t make out much of the groeliin, seeing only masses of flesh. He couldn’t help but wonder about the creatures the Antrilii hunted. And feared.

  The merahl stayed away from the fire. Each appeared unharmed, though Ishi licked at a small gash on her foreleg. The others lay resting, long ears twitching. He still didn’t know their names and wondered if the Antrilii kept them secret for a reason.

  Each of the creatures turned to look as they rode toward the Antrilii before dismissing them. Endric was still amazed at the intelligence behind their eyes. They quickly decided the newcomers were no threat, but still their ears continued to twitch, swiveling to listen to sounds too low for any other ears. One the merahl bared its teeth briefly, hackles raised along its back and only relaxing as Nahrsin broke away and knelt nearby. He seemed to whisper softly as the merahl calmed.

  Brohmin stood apart, barely breathing hard. He carefully cleaned his sword, wiping blood from the blade upon the ground before cleaning it with a strip of cloth. He looked up at Novan as they approached, nodding once, a searching question in his eyes.

  “They are behind us,” Novan answered.

  Brohmin grunted.

  “Your estimate was accurate.”

  Brohmin turned and looked out toward the Deshmahne, as if he could see through the hillside. “That is what I feared.” He turned and looked at Novan. “You must reach Ur and warn Dendril. If this is truly about teralin, then he must be told.”

  Endric shook his head. “Dendril doesn’t want to believe the Deshmahne are a real threat.”

  Brohmin turned to him, darkness ringing his eyes, almost swirling about him. His youthful face twisted in fury. “You think you know the mind of the Denraen general?”

  Novan reached out and put a hand on Brohmin’s shoulders. The Hunter turned his angry expression to the historian. His hand crept to the sword at his waist. Novan squeezed, restraining Brohmin. “He should,” he said gently. “Endric is his son.”

  Brohmin blinked slowly and took a calming breath. “I’m sorry. These swords…” He shook his head and pointed toward the bundle of teralin-forged swords strapped to Novan’s horse, as if that was an explanation.

  Novan nodded. “I know.”

  “Dendril must be warned,” Brohmin repeated.

  Novan sighed. “He has been too long from the conclave.”

  Brohmin narrowed his eyes. “If anyone can bring him back, it is you.”

  Novan considered the comment and then nodded. “I may need help.”

  The man shook his head. “I am needed here,” he said, looking out again through the hillside. “Besides. You have the help you will need.”

  Endric shook his head. “I can’t return,” he said. “Not like this. Not so soon.” He followed Brohmin’s gaze. “Let me stay. I’ll fight the Deshmahne.”

  Brohmin snorted. “You will fight them,” he agreed. “But you will go.”

  “You can’t fight fifty Deshmahne on your own!” Endric countered.

  “Do not presume to tell me what I can do,” Brohmin said. His voice went soft but no less dangerous. Darkness seemed to swirl around him, nearly a palpable heat.

  “Brohmin!” Novan said sharply.

  The man flicked his gaze to Novan. In that predatory gaze, Endric understood his title. The man was the Hunter.

  “Our time is short, old friend,” Brohmin said quietly. “You know as well as I that they cannot be allowed access to the teralin. You must raise the alarm. I will do what I can to delay them.”

  Novan tilted his head as he considered, then closed his eyes and nodded slowly. “Peace of the Maker.”

  “Peace,” he agreed.

  Novan pulled Endric away and started toward Shinron’s horse, quickly climbing into the saddle. He reached out a hand, motioning to Endric to join him. After considering for a moment, he did. His stomach twisted, a sen
se of nausea flittering through it. He felt more afraid of returning to the city than he would have facing the Deshmahne.

  Dentoun stepped up to them. His face was unreadable. The paint, like that on Nahrsin, had become badly smeared.

  “I would borrow this mount,” Novan said.

  Dentoun laid a hand on the horse, patting its side. He leaned in and whispered something to the horse before nodding. “You will take care of her.”

  “I will.” He glanced at Brohmin before facing Dentoun again. “We ride to Vasha.”

  The Antrilii nodded. “That is wise.”

  “You should send a rider to your home as well.”

  Dentoun smiled. “My son prepares.”

  “The rest of you?”

  Dentoun grunted and turned to Brohmin. He smiled, flashing his teeth. “Your man fought well,” he said, as if in answer.

  Novan nodded slowly. “That is the task given to him.”

  Dentoun seemed to hesitate. “It seems the gods brought us here for another reason.”

  “Dentoun—”

  The Antrilii shook his head. “This must be done.” His voice was resolute. “I have seen what these Deshmahne do with their dark magics.” He glanced at the fire where the groeliin burned, shaking his head slowly before sighing and turning back to Novan. “Your man is skilled, but it will not be enough. We can help, though I think all we can pray for is strength to slow them. Nahrsin will bring warning. You will warn Vasha.” He nodded, his jaw clenched and steely determination in his eyes. “We will give you time.”

  Novan looked away, unable to hide the moisture that suddenly appeared. “May the gods bring you peace, friend.”

  28

  Endric couldn’t take his eyes off the Antrilii as Novan turned the horse from Dentoun. Nahrsin approached his father, speaking to him quietly. More emotion washed over his painted face than he had seen from the Antrilii before. The younger man nodded, his jaw clenched and breath held, before grasping his father in a tight embrace, lingering for long moments. The affection between father and son was clear—a sharp contrast to Endric’s relationship with his own father—making him wish things could have been different.

  Nahrsin took the time to stop and speak quietly with the other Antrilii. Each man grasped his arm in a firm shake and Graime, like Dentoun, pulled him in for a quick embrace. There was resemblance between them, he suddenly recognized. Could Graime be a brother?

  “Are they—”

  Novan nodded. “Brothers. Nahrsin is the eldest and will lead his people when Dentoun is gone.”

  Their departure had a formal air to it. After speaking with Nahrsin, each man turned away, unsheathing swords and staring into the distance.

  The young Antrilii looked at his friends before turning away. He walked quickly over to Endric and Novan, nodding once to the historian. “May the gods grant you strength and speed.”

  Novan tipped his head toward Nahrsin. “And to you as well. You must warn your people. I fear you will soon face more than groeliin.”

  Nahrsin sniffed and nodded, clenching his jaw again as he pushed away emotion. When he spoke, his voice was flat. “We will be ever vigilant. If these Deshmahne seek to attack, they will find the Antrilii a different foe than any they have faced.”

  “There is no doubt in my mind.” Novan searched the Antrilii’s face. “Trust in your father’s wisdom and you will do well.”

  Nahrsin closed his eyes. His painted face twisted in a flurry of emotions before he opened them again, calm acceptance written across his flinty features. “You are always welcome among us, historian.”

  Novan smiled. “The Antrilii are always welcoming.”

  Nahrsin looked at Novan for a moment more before turning his attention to Endric. “The gods brought us together for a reason, so I feel I must say something. Do not let past mistakes define you. Use them. Learn. No man is without fault.” He smiled then, his face softening. The tone of his words, so brotherly, reminded him briefly of Andril. “Out of failure can come great success. Out of weakness can come strength. But only if you choose to learn and grow. Or so says my father,” he added, laughing.

  Endric laughed with him and wished he could have known Nahrsin better. “Thank you.”

  Nahrsin nodded. “Perhaps one day the gods will bring us together again.”

  Endric nodded as well. “I hope so.”

  “For now, may you also find strength and speed.”

  “And you.”

  With that, Nahrsin turned and ran to his horse. He rode quickly away from the clearing, moving north. The merahl Ishi went with him, loping alongside rather than ranging ahead. Nahrsin didn’t look back as he disappeared from view.

  Brohmin stalked over to them, carrying the bundle of teralin-forged swords. Stopping before Novan, he paused and pulled two of the dark blades from the bundle before holding it up and offering it to Novan. “You must take this. Protect it. They cannot reclaim these blades.”

  Novan nodded, carefully taking the sack of teralin swords. “You should not—”

  “I have no other choice,” Brohmin said softly. Even then, his words held an ominous inflection. “If I survive this, you can see that I am healed.”

  Novan blinked slowly and nodded. “This will not be the first time you have used them.”

  Brohmin smiled. It was the first time Endric had seen that expression on the man. Even his smile was dark, twisted. “How do you think I have survived this long?”

  Novan closed his eyes. “I had suspected.” He sighed, his eyes opening, and tied the bundle of swords to the saddle. “Do not let them—”

  “They will not turn me, Novan.” His voice surged with anger, and the darkness threatened to shroud him.

  Novan stared at Brohmin for a moment before nodding once. “Then fight well and know that you will be remembered.”

  Brohmin smiled again, and a little of the darkness receded. “I am not dead yet.”

  “No. You are not.” Novan turned, glancing briefly toward Dentoun and the Antrilii before looking back at Brohmin. “Peace,” he said, tapping the dappled horse and starting off.

  Brohmin tilted his head in acknowledgement but said nothing. He turned, the two dark blades clutched in his hands. He spun them and shadows coursed around him, enveloping him. Soon he was barely visible, a smear of shadows.

  They rode swiftly and left Brohmin and the Antrilii behind. As they disappeared from view, Endric glanced back and saw a convergence of shadows and knew the attack had begun. He didn’t know how Brohmin and the Antrilii hoped to slow the Deshmahne but had a growing suspicion that they would be little more than a delay.

  Novan remained silent as they cantered onward. Wind whipped around Endric, whistling in his ears, flapping the sleeves of his shirt. He held tightly to the historian, squinting to protect his eyes. As they rode north, the grassy plain was increasingly dotted with trees. The heavier forests of the lower mountain slopes were still far in the distance, the huge white-capped peaks only beginning to become visible.

  “The mountains in the north also contain teralin, don’t they?” he asked, finally putting voice to the question troubling him since their departure. He had to yell to be heard over the horse’s hooves.

  Novan nodded, giving all the answer that he would. He tapped the horse twice with the flat of his hand and they slowed a bit, the rush of wind easing as they did.

  “Do the Antrilii mine it?”

  Novan shook his head. “They know of teralin, but no. They consider protecting the teralin part of their obligation to the gods,” he said, twisting in the saddle so that Endric could hear.

  “Nahrsin rides to warn his people?” he asked, and the historian nodded. “The others?”

  Novan turned away. “They buy time. For Nahrsin. For us.” He shook his head again. “There is little chance they will survive.” He voice was soft, strained.

  Endric knew the sacrifice the Antrilii made but had hoped he was wrong. Swallowing hard, he asked, “Brohmin?”


  “He will pay whatever price is asked.”

  Endric glanced back but saw nothing. There was no movement in the distance, nothing that said they were followed. Not even shadows.

  Exhaustion was starting to overwhelm him. He had no idea how long he had been awake—most of the night at least. Even, now he struggled to keep his eyes open. The wind making them water did little to help. The historian showed no signs of fatigue; his back remained straight and his head swiveled constantly as he searched the terrain as if expecting an attack. It was much like the way the Denraen were trained to ride, and Endric wondered about the historian again before pushing the questions away. He was too tired to think about them.

  After a while, they slowed. Open grassland had been replaced by copses of trees. They closed in on the lower forests quickly—more quickly than he had expected. The Antrilii stallion still moved swiftly, his endurance amazing. Endric licked lips that had grown dry from the constant beating of the wind and wondered if they had even stopped for the horse to take a drink.

  Novan glanced back at him. “We can have no delays in reaching Dendril. None. Else the Deshmahne may reach the city before we can prepare its defenses, or reach us before we can make it.” He considered Endric for a long moment, his body contorted so that his waist faced forward, guiding the horse with his knees, his chest and head twisted to look at Endric. “So we will take the most direct route to Vasha.”

  “Faster than the road?”

  “There is. One the guild discovered long ago.”

  Endric knew what he intended. “Through the mines.”

  “The mountain has been mined for years. Thousands of shafts run through the mountain. Many are little more than dead ends. But centrally, there is a shaft running through the mountain like a maze. Most of the mining branches from this central shaft. If we can reach the main shaft—and stay on the right path—we have a nearly straight shot up into the city.”