Soldier Son (The Teralin Sword Book 1)

by D. K. Holmberg

  A flurry of attacks came. Endric could only react. With each blow, he managed to move the teralin rod just in time to block. Each attack came closer, the heat of the sword nearer, pushing against the warmth flowing through him. At first, the rod simply stopped the blows. Then it seemingly repelled each attack, as if pushing the teralin-forged sword away from him.

  Urik narrowed his eyes, a dark intensity filling them. Endric recognized the expression. He had seen the same on Brohmin’s face. And the Deshmahne. And he wondered—was it the darkness of the sword tainting the carrier, or the other way around? Suddenly, one of Urik’s thrusts slipped under Endric’s defenses.

  And was stopped a mere hair’s breadth from his chest.

  Urik pushed, straining, but couldn’t advance the sword any farther, as if meeting some unseen resistance.

  Endric didn’t have time to think, reacting only. Swinging the rod, he struck toward Urik, hitting his arm and then back, a barrier stopping his strikes as well. The blows were enough to knock the sword from Urik’s hand, and Endric spun, striking him along the legs and back once more. Urik fell in a heap, grunting with the motion.

  Behind him came a gurgling sound followed by a ragged cough. Endric spun, teralin rod held in front of him, only to see Listain sagging forward, no longer able to support his own weight. Endric staggered over to the man, pushing through the thick heat radiating from the throne.

  “Listain?” He reached forward but his hand burned as he neared the throne, and he was unable to tolerate moving it any closer. How could the Raen still live?

  “Endric?” Listain whispered. His head tipped back, hanging weakly and lolling to the side, nearly limp on his neck. His dry mouth hung open, crusted blood on his lips. One eye opened, sunken and lifeless. The other didn’t move.

  “I’m here, Listain.”

  “Urik?” he asked.

  Endric motioned toward where Urik had fallen, turning to look. The en’raen was gone. He froze, scanning the room for movement, any sign of Urik, but there was none. He kept the teralin rod held before him anyway.

  “Gone,” he answered, not looking back at Listain as he cursed himself for his carelessness. He should have secured the man before seeing to Listain. Now he had no idea where he had gone. Possibly back into the city. Or worse—to guide the Deshmahne to the room.

  A gurgle of a moan escaped Listain’s mouth, followed by a soft whine, so much like an injured dog.

  Endric turned back to Listain. “How do I release the restraints?” he asked, staring at the strange bands of teralin coiled around his wrists and ankles. They were tight, pulling deep into the flesh and tearing through the sleeves of his cloak. Endric didn’t want to see what the skin looked like beneath the bands, just as he still had not looked at his throbbing hand, which had opened the solid teralin door to this room.

  Listain tilted his head slightly, barely able to move it. “Can’t. Need to trigger the teralin.”

  Endric grunted in frustration. He could barely tolerate being this close to the heat of the chair, let alone figure out how to access the teralin. “Can you do it?”

  Listain shook his head once, the slightest of movements. “Wrong polarity,” he said, his voice little more than a croak.

  Endric frowned, not completely understanding. Novan had tried to explain teralin to him, discussing freshly mined and neutral teralin. “Can you show me how to access it?”

  Listain opened one eye, staring at him before flickering his gaze to the long teralin rod Endric still held. Then he shook his head again. “Wrong polarity,” he answered again, then sagged into the chair, unmoving.

  Endric stared at him, tempted to reach toward him and shake him awake, but didn’t think he could stomach the searing pain of the chair. Instead, he tried to reach toward Listain with the length of teralin he held but couldn’t push it past the haze of heat surrounding the throne. It was as if he reached a barrier and was rebuffed.

  “Listain!” he shouted, but the man didn’t move.

  Endric walked over to the nearest alcove, searching for something, anything, which could help free Listain while there remained a chance the man might live. He needed to know what happened. The Denraen needed to know. For once, that last was the more urgent of the two.

  Teralin in various shapes and lengths filled the alcove. The one next to it was much the same. Nothing was sharpened. Nothing he could use to try to cut through the restraints. Listain wouldn’t survive.

  He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. There was little time, he knew. The Deshmahne were not that far behind him and would likely catch up. How long remained until they reached this room? With Urik escaping, there was probably even less time. There was nothing he would be able to do alone. He needed to reach the city and warn his father, somehow convince him of the reality of the threat. And then lead the Denraen back here.

  The entire idea was overwhelming. How could he hope to reach the city in time, let alone lead the Denraen through the caves back to this room? He had overestimated his sword skill time and again. Nearly falling to his father. Getting captured by the Antrilii. Nearly losing to the Deshmahne. And now even with Urik.

  Hopelessness filled him. A tinge of recognition came with it, like a warning. As it did, he pushed back the dark thoughts, feeling them give way, slipping from his mind. Almost as if they were not his own. A surge of confidence followed, strengthening him, pulling him straighter with each thought.

  He had recognized the real threat of the Deshmahne. He had managed to defeat the Deshmahne in battle. And he had survived in the tunnels and found the stockpile of teralin.

  As the thoughts came to him, he remembered the night he had faced the Deshmahne. The same doubts and hopelessness had come then.

  He scanned the doorway, expecting the Deshmahne, the length of teralin held in front of him like a sword. What came next startled him.

  Another hidden door between alcoves slammed open. A figure staggered in with hands held in front of his face. Endric flinched before frowning with recognition.

  “Novan?” he asked, taking a hesitant step toward the historian.

  Novan moved his hands from his face. A dark expression mixed with confusion covered his eyes. Then he blinked slowly. “Endric?” he whispered.

  Endric hurried over and led him into the room. His cloak was ragged and torn and much dirtier than when Endric had seen him last. A dark teralin blade was tucked into his belt. The sack containing the rest of the swords was clutched tightly in his hand. “Are you all right?”

  “I think so.” He looked around, his body shaking. “I lost myself for a while.”

  Endric sniffed at the understatement. “How did you find me?”

  “You?” Novan asked, his voice distant, then shook his head. “Not you. The teralin.” He stared at the alcoves, the door, before turning and staring at the throne. Darkness passed across his eyes along with a look of longing. Novan blinked, visibly pushing the expression away.

  “Can you help him?” Endric asked.

  Novan stared at the chair rather than Listain and seemed surprised by the comment.

  “The bands around his wrists and ankles are teralin. I can’t open them.”

  “Who is it?” Novan’s voice was still distant.

  “Listain. Urik captured him and trapped him here. I do not know why.”

  “Urik did this?” he asked, his tone hinting at familiarity. He shook his head as he walked straight up to the chair, ignoring the heat radiating from it. Novan touched the bands circling Listain’s wrists and murmured a word. The bands snapped open and fell away. He did the same to his ankles.

  Novan gently lifted Listain from the chair and handed him to Endric. Listain was light and his flesh hot, like a fever ran through him, and he hung limp in Endric’s arms. Novan stared at the chair for a long moment and then shivered again.

  “Don’t,” Endric said.

  Novan looked at him, a question crossing his distant eyes.

  “I don’t think you sh
ould sit upon it.”

  Novan sighed and nodded slowly. “You are right. Of course you are. I knew the sword was a mistake, but there was no other way…” He looked up suddenly.

  Endric looked at him, frowning again. As he opened his mouth to ask Novan to explain, he felt a deep burning sensation suddenly across his shoulders, painful and sharp, as if sliced by a sword.

  The Deshmahne had arrived.

  31

  “Novan!” he said, urgency in his voice.

  The historian glanced at him before shaking his head.

  “The Deshmahne are close.”

  Novan closed his eyes, breathing slowly for a long moment.

  The pain across Endric’s shoulders intensified. Somehow, he knew they were close now. He held the teralin rod out in front of him, prepared for anything. Finally, Novan opened his eyes.

  “I do not feel them,” he said. He sounded worried and glanced at the teralin-bladed sword tucked into his pants. “Are you certain?” The inflection to the words implied that he believed what Endric said.

  Endric nodded. “I sense them. Strongly.”

  He carried Listain to one of the alcoves and set him inside. The Raen still breathed, though it was shallow and irregular. He had not stirred since Novan had freed him. Endric wondered how much longer the man would live. There was little question that he would die.

  He turned back to Novan, who considered him for a moment before sighing and pulling the teralin sword out from his belt. He swung it through an arc as if loosening his muscles and the sword whistled through the air, making a muffled and deadened sound. Deep shadows suddenly fell around Novan, obscuring his features.

  “Are you sure that’s wise?” Endric asked, frowning at the sword.

  Novan snorted. “I gave up wisdom when I sought to access this teralin,” he said with a laugh. The sound was disturbingly similar to Brohmin.

  “Why do it then?”

  “No choice. Once we realized what the Deshmahne were after, I knew our initial plan wouldn’t suffice. This was the only option remaining.”

  Endric nodded, knowing they needed speed, but he had managed to find the storage room without accessing the teralin. There had been an element of luck, but had Novan truly needed to access the tainted teralin?

  “What has it done to you?” Endric asked.

  The historian shrugged, though Endric saw through the shadows surrounding him well enough to see the concern upon his face.

  “I don’t know. I had not thought it possible,” Novan said.

  Endric expected more of an explanation, but he didn’t elaborate.

  “I hold out hope that any effects can be reversed.”

  Endric swallowed. Thoughts of the darkness enveloping Novan as it had Brohmin were disturbing. Between that and the increasing burning sensation along his back—more painful than the last time he had seen the Deshmahne—he began to worry he wouldn’t survive to warn the Denraen. What would happen if the Deshmahne accessed the teralin stored here?

  “They will be here soon,” he whispered.

  Novan nodded, his breathing slow and steady. The teralin sword in his hand was held defensively and shadows seemed to swirl around him, enveloping him almost protectively. Did the teralin rod do the same for him? He still felt the warmth under his skin, almost flowing as if alive, but it was a distant sensation now. Endric’s heart fluttering in his chest was more prominent; whether in anticipation or fear, he didn’t know. Either was appropriate.

  “Why Urik?” he asked quietly. There were so many questions he had regarding that betrayal. If only he had restrained Urik after incapacitating him, he would have had some answers. Now he was left only with more questions.

  Novan looked over at him, the darkness to his face temporarily flaring before being replaced by sadness. “Urik was once a member of the guild. A great man whose intelligence was nearly unrivaled. Had he not lost his family, he likely would have risen to lead the guild. Their loss was nearly his undoing.”

  “Did the guild know he was Denraen?”

  Endric wouldn’t learn the answer. At that moment came a confluence of sensations. The burning along his back became nearly unbearable, a sharp and stabbing sensation. A loud explosion thundered into the room. The lanterns within the room seemed to dim, darkening. And a soft undercurrent of decay wafted into the room.

  “Endric!” Novan yelled. “They must not acquire the throne!”

  Endric chanced a look over his shoulder, looking at the solid teralin chair. “That is what they seek? What of all the teralin in the alcoves?”

  “A bonus. The throne is the prize. If we survive, I will explain.”

  Endric stared at Novan a moment more before turning his attention down the length of the room. At first glance, nothing moved. The pain in his back continued to intensify. Staring deeper into the room, he saw subtly shifting shadows and overlapping darkness. Beneath that, dark-tattooed Deshmahne moved.

  He couldn’t count their numbers. The darkness that came with them, which he attributed to the teralin, oozed and flowed like a living thing. And perhaps it was.

  “Stay near me,” Novan directed. “Shift your focus beneath the shadows. They are just men. They die like any other!”

  Endric nodded. He knew what Novan said was true but recognized that they were men who had gained attributes he didn’t have. He had been lucky the last time he faced the Deshmahne. That had been but one. Now he would stare down possibly dozens.

  There could be only one outcome.

  He vowed to hurt them as much as possible before falling. He let the anger, the hatred he felt toward the Deshmahne well up within him and push back the hopelessness that threatened him. Faces flashed quickly through his mind. Andril. Olin. Senda. Countless others had fallen to them. Many more would likely die as well, but for today, he would do what he could to slow them.

  “We should move back!” he told Novan. The shadows were nearly upon them.

  Novan glanced at him briefly and then realized his intent: The room narrowed near the chair. Though the heat would be nearly intolerable, the Deshmahne would be less likely to get past them. They would fall quickly if they were surrounded.

  He backed up, feeling the heat from the solid teralin chair almost pushing him forward. Novan stood to his right, holding forth the teralin-forged blade, its shadows encircling him.

  Then came a flicker of movement. Endric parried, thrusting the teralin rod forward. Heat surged up his arm, slipping quickly through his body again. The sensation was not uncomfortable. The weariness and stiffness he had felt only moments ago seemed to burn away with the warmth. In its absence, he felt something unexpected, even a little frightening. He felt strengthened.

  He thought fleetingly about the teralin contaminating him as it had Brohmin and Novan. A twinge of fear skimmed the edge of his mind, causing his heart to beat faster. For a moment, he worried about what would become of him if the darkness overwhelmed him as it had Brohmin. Only a moment.

  Then the warmth surged again within him and those thoughts slid away.

  The darkness surrounding the Deshmahne made following their attacks difficult. He could see at least two distinct men facing him, each coming at him with a teralin-forged blade. Both were skilled. He dared not glance over at Novan, hoping the historian could continue to hold his own with the sword. With the staff, the man was amazing, but there wouldn’t have been space in the room for that weapon.

  Endric attacked. He couldn’t see well enough to defend, so he pressed forward instead, feeling somewhat giddy with the knowledge that he was only an errant strike from death.

  Whipping the length of teralin around, he spun it through forms as he would his sword, moving as quickly as he could. The rod moved more fluidly than it had when he faced Urik, almost lighter. He felt each blow as the teralin blades blocked his attack. Endric fought more quickly than he had ever managed before. The effect of the teralin, he knew. Yet without it, he had no doubt he would already be dead.

 
When the first Deshmahne fell, he felt a small surge of pleasure. The sensation was brief. Another Deshmahne replaced the one who had fallen. Endric acted as if the first had not gone down, attacking with abandon. The heat beneath his skin continued to swell, growing to the point where he felt that he must glow. Still, there was no pain.

  Another Deshmahne appeared before him. He didn’t know how many he faced at once. At least three but possibly as many as five. There was no way he could maintain this. All it would take was one lucky strike and he would be slowed or killed. He would fall. The Deshmahne would win.

  For a moment, he felt his movements falter, his attack slow.

  In the distance, he heard a soft whistling. The sound was vaguely familiar, but he didn’t risk shifting his attention to consider why. The fear threatening him dissolved with the distraction. The Deshmahne suddenly pressed with renewed frenzy, their dark swords slicing at him in a blur. The teralin rod managed to deflect each attempt. They moved more quickly than any man he had ever seen, but then—for now—so did he.

  Endric didn’t know when his vision had cleared, but the shadows had lessened so that he could clearly see the Deshmahne and their swords. Suddenly, one of the Deshmahne managed to get behind him. Then another. He sensed a dark satisfaction from them. The attacks now came from all directions. He spun, now only on the defensive, the saving grace his renewed vision and speed.

  It was only a matter of time before he fell.

  Then came a low growl and a snarling attack.

  Endric recognized the sound.

  Merahl. Here, in the tunnels.

  Could the Antrilii have survived?

  The mere idea was almost too much to consider, but why else would the merahl have come?

  The Deshmahne were forced to press harder, faster.

  Endric couldn’t keep up. He had all that he could handle simply deflecting the now half-dozen teralin blades slicing toward him, synchronized like some deadly dance. The teralin grew warmer in his hand, and the heat spreading through his body intensified.

  There was a flash of pain that left him quickly.