He trailed off as he noticed what was in the sack on the desk. He saw hair matted with old, congealed blood. A head.
He looked up at his father, swallowing hard. “Who is it?”
His father shook his head once. “Endric,” he repeated, as if unable to say anything else.
“Who is it?” he asked again. The intensity in his voice was unintentional.
He suddenly knew why Senda had met him at the door and why the men in the great hall had been so quiet. And his heart pounded so hard, it threatened to leap out of his chest. Nausea began building in the pit of his stomach. Everything around him grew muted and distant.
“Father?” he asked. His voice was no more than a whisper.
His father closed his eyes. “I am sorry, Endric. It’s Andril.”
9
Endric fought back the tears that threatened to well up. The general wouldn’t see weakness from him. Not this man who had rarely been more than the Denraen general to him. Nevertheless, he struggled to hide the tide of emotion threatening to sweep through him as he felt the last remnants of his true family stolen from him.
The brown sack pulled his attention, and bile rose in his stomach. Somehow he averted his gaze from the horror the sack held. He fixed his gaze instead on the sword Trill mounted on the far wall. Strangely, Endric suddenly wondered when the sword had last been taken out of its decorative holder. As far as he knew, his father had not seen battle in many years. He now sat comfortably behind his desk and sent his soldiers out to die. Like his brother.
Unintentionally, his hand reached his sword and he squeezed the hilt.
Andril.
His brother was gone. Only his head remained. His throat swelled with the thought.
A sense of hopelessness seeped into him. All that he was, he attributed to his brother. He had been the steady influence Endric’s entire life. His mentor. Teaching him much more than how to wield a sword. Endric had brushed so many lessons off, not wanting to be the clone of their father that Andril often threatened to become. Still, there had been differences between them. Slight, but important.
How could something have happened to Andril?
“What happened?” Endric demanded. His voice was hoarse and he coughed. It kept him from breaking down. He took a deep breath and noticed a musty odor. It was a distraction from thinking about Andril.
Dendril looked at him carefully. His eyes flashed with cold fury for a moment before it faded and they became dull again. His cheeks fell slack and even his beard seemed to sag. The change was brief. A moment later, he took a deep breath and frowned, his face firming and his eyes narrowing.
“He’s gone.”
Endric squeezed the hilt of his sword. “I can see that, Father!” Tears streamed now. He didn’t want to look at the sack but couldn’t take his eyes away. He made no effort to wipe his tears. Let his father know that he hurt. “What happened?” The last was nearly a scream.
The door to the general’s office opened slightly, and the Denraen standing guard peeked inside and was waved away by his father. Dendril didn’t meet Endric’s gaze and said nothing. Instead, he carefully picked up the sack—what was left of Andril—and set it on a nearby table. Endric watched, unable to speak. His hand hurt from clutching his sword. Distantly he felt a strange sense of relief that his father had not set Andril on the floor.
“Father.” Rage was still in Endric’s voice, but he spoke in a whisper. Anger surged through him, hot and steady, such that he nearly shook with it. Endric’s breath quickened as he forced it back, struggling to clear his mind. He would learn what happened. He would learn who was responsible.
And they would suffer.
Dendril moved back to the desk and sat. The papers atop the desk were smeared with blood that had seeped from the sack. Dendril moved them carefully to the side. Then, with his desk in order, he met Endric’s eyes.
“I’m sorry, Endric. He’s gone.” He sighed. His face again softened for a moment.
“I need to know what happened.”
Dendril shook his head. “Need?”
He glared at his father. “Who did this?”
Dendril turned away and inhaled deeply, resting his large arms on the desk. “Does it matter? Your brother is gone, Endric. Mourn him.”
“Of course it matters!” he screamed. “He was my brother! I will know what happened!”
“Why should you know what only the council has been told?”
The question hurt more than any sword could, the implication clear.
Endric’s gaze was pulled back to Andril’s head. Hollow eyes stared lifelessly from his head. Even in death, Andril seemed to admonish him for arguing with their father.
“He was my brother,” he said with a little less venom.
“And my son. You think I do not hurt as well?” he asked, his voice rising slightly before he composed himself and closed the sack, covering Andril’s head. “But he was Denraen. Mourn him as a soldier. It is what he would want. What he would expect.”
Endric looked over at his father and hesitated. Dendril admitted his pain. Suddenly, the rage in him began to slip. His father was right. Andril was Denraen. He would want to be mourned like any other. The Denraen would continue without him.
He slumped into a chair across from the desk, putting him closer to Andril’s severed head. Moments passed. His father said nothing and Endric didn’t hide the tears.
As the anger started to disperse, turning into tears and sorrow, he began thinking more clearly. “Why send you his head?”
Dendril sat back in his chair and closed his eyes for a long moment. “He was your brother. Maybe it’s right that you should know.” He paused and glanced over to the table where Andril’s head sat.
“This was a message,” Endric said as the realization hit him.
Dendril nodded once, staring past Endric. “Andril was sent south. It was to be intelligence gathering only. He should not have met resistance.”
“The warrior priests,” Endric said, remembering what Olin had said. Even Andril had seemed hesitant before he left, and Endric wondered if he had known.
Dendril blinked. “Yes. They call themselves Deshmahne.”
Endric frowned, translating the word from the ancient language. The name itself was a mockery to the Urmahne priests. Perhaps that was the point. “Deshmahne?” he repeated. “That is what Andril was sent to investigate?” How could his brother be killed investigating priests?
Dendril nodded and considered Endric for a long moment. “What I will tell you now is known only to the council. It is only because of Andril that you will hear these words.” He paused, letting the words hang in the air. “It will not pass beyond you.”
Endric nodded, afraid to say anything that would change his father’s mind.
“What we have is mostly conjecture.” The words were clipped. “Andril was led to intervene on behalf of the Deshmahne priests. Last we heard from his men, he had neared the southern border of Gomald. They were to cross Coamdon and into Voiga, where the priests have built their temple. Sometime before they could reach Coamdon, they were killed.”
“All of them?” Endric couldn’t help but be shocked. The idea that Andril was dead was hard enough to fathom, but losing two hundred Denraen was harder still.
A single nod was his response.
“Was it Gomald?” The king had caused trouble for the Denraen in the past but had never been openly confrontational. And Endric doubted Gomald would kill a Denraen squad.
“Not Gomald.”
“How certain are you?”
Dendril turned back to him and stared. “Quite.”
Listain then. The spymaster had ears everywhere and certainly had infiltrated the local militia. What more did Senda know?
“Then who did this?”
Dendril shook his head. “We do not know. It is unusual to hear so little.”
That meant even Listain couldn’t glean information. If that was true, it was certainly worrisome. He did
n’t know what that meant. “There are suspicions.”
Dendril nodded. “Rumors point in only one direction. The Deshmahne.”
“The priests. That is not possible.”
“It is entirely possible.”
Endric’s mind raced. That priests would dare attack the Denraen shocked him. That his father sat here so calmly shocked him more. “When do we attack?”
He needed to be part of that mission. Would Urik allow him to go or would he be held back, stuck on patrol, trying to learn the ideals of the Denraen?
Dendril looked at Andril’s head again before answering. “Action will be taken, but first we must learn more.”
“But this was an act of war!” he said, surprised by his father’s comments. Surely he wanted vengeance as well!
He shook his head. “It is not that simple,” Dendril said, as if explaining to a child. “Over two hundred Denraen lost. We need to know how and why before we plan any counterattack. There may be powers at play we do not fully understand.”
“They are priests, not Magi.” Endric felt the anger that had faded begin to return.
“Priests have their own type of power. They use influence and manipulation.” He paused, as if considering whether to share the next. “There are rumors that these Deshmahne are more than just a simple cult. We cannot plan our next move without knowing more.”
“But this was Andril!”
Dendril stood. Fury raged across his face. Endric barely looked at him before backing down. His father leaned on his desk, and his thick arms tightened.
“The Denraen are about more than Andril,” Dendril said. He didn’t raise his voice, and it made the words all the more menacing. He shook his head. “You still do not understand.”
Dendril inhaled deeply and glanced again at the sack that held Andril’s head. He stared silently for a long moment, frowning. When he turned back to face Endric, his eyes were drawn. He shook his head. “I was mistaken in telling you.”
Endric saw the conviction in his eyes. There was disgust written there as well. Other emotions warred deeper behind his flat gaze, but Endric didn’t know the man well enough to read them.
“Go. Mourn your brother as you would any of your Denraen brothers. Then report to Urik.” He let out a controlled breath. “I believe he has you on patrol. That will continue for now.” He sat down at his desk and pulled a stack of papers in front of him. As he started to thumb through them, he said, “Dismissed.” He didn’t look up again.
Endric said nothing, knowing he would get little more from his father. Andril was gone. Killed investigating priests that called themselves Deshmahne. His head had been sent as some kind of message to Dendril.
He would learn the truth behind the attack.
He swallowed hard, then walked over and looked at the plain brown sack. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and peeled back the fabric to look one last time upon his brother’s face. Decay had already begun to set in, but there was no doubting that this was Andril. His firm jaw was marred now by several small gashes and his nose was broken, but it was otherwise his brother.
Endric leaned down and kissed his forehead. “Goodbye, Andril,” he whispered. His throat tightened and he could say no more. Tears streamed again.
He set the sack down and turned away. Dendril watched him with an unreadable expression on his face. Endric said nothing as he left the room, but his hand moved to find the hilt of his sword and he squeezed.
Though he didn’t know what he would do next, he knew one thing. He wouldn’t rest until Andril was avenged.
10
As he opened the door to his father’s office to leave, he saw Urik down the hall. His face looked pained. Of course Urik knew. The entire Denraen Council likely knew. All the men in the great hall had seemed to know.
Andril was beloved by more than just Endric. His death would affect everyone more than simply losing another soldier, and it would be hard to mourn him as he would have wanted. He was Dendril’s son. More than that, he was Andril, one of the en’raen. The man who would be general.
No longer.
Endric didn’t know who would be groomed for Dendril’s seat and realized that only part of him cared. It wouldn’t be Andril.
He blinked with the thought and pushed away the tears threatening to well in his eyes again. Urik paused in front of Dendril’s door, staring at Endric as if waiting for him to say something. He didn’t want to talk to the en’raen. His throat wouldn’t have allowed it anyway.
Endric walked quickly down the hall. No one met his gaze. He was not sure how he would have reacted had anyone tried. He didn’t stop until he reached his quarters.
The room was as he had left it. Plain. The simple narrow bed pushed against the wall. A beaten trunk sat near the foot of the bed. A small, chipped basin rested in one corner. Standard soldier quarters in the city.
Except for the stack of books.
They were stacked along the wall near the head of his bed. Not neatly aligned as his father would like, but not as disorderly as in Urik’s office. Mostly, they were gifts from Andril.
He froze when he saw them and didn’t stop the tears then.
It was Senda who found him. For that, he was forever thankful. Her soft-soled shoes scuffed the stone floor—no doubt on purpose—and he turned to see her standing in the doorway. He nodded once and she stepped across the threshold before closing the door silently behind her. She said nothing. Instead, she just stood there. Waiting for him. Her face was statement enough.
He turned to her and fell into her embrace. Endric sobbed into her shoulder for longer than he cared to admit. When he stood, he turned away from her to dry his cheeks though he knew it unnecessary. She waited for him as she always had.
“Andril is gone,” he said finally. The statement was unnecessary, but he felt better for having said it.
Senda nodded. She understood. He knew that she would. Her own father had been Denraen and had died when she was still young. That loss had driven her. Still drove her, he suspected. Now she was Denraen as well, serving under Listain. Though she was skilled with the staff, her true calling was as a strategist, making her highly regarded by the spymaster. Her one fault was her tie to Endric.
“I know.”
He blinked slowly and turned to sink onto his bed. He rested his head in his hands. Senda sat next to him. Waiting.
“I could have been with him,” Endric said.
That thought had troubled him the most. Not death. He had been Denraen long enough to know that death was inevitable. There was an unknown quality to death, but he had a sense of something in the beyond. Probably not the same as what the Urmahne believed, yet he felt that there was something after this life.
Rather, what bothered him was the idea that he could have helped Andril in some way. It was folly to think like that. He knew that if his brother and his extraordinary skill with the sword had not been enough to survive, there was likely little that he could have done to help. Still, he couldn’t shake the thought.
“You could have,” Senda agreed.
“I should have been with him,” he told her. He felt the angry bile that rose in his voice and swallowed it back down.
“Then we would be mourning you both.”
He knew she spoke the truth. It didn’t change how he felt. Not the regret at how things were left between him and Andril, nor the anger at his loss. Worse was the growing sense of guilt that he could have done something to help his brother and had not been there for him. As Andril had always been for him.
He swallowed hard and sighed. “His head was sent back.”
She nodded.
“It was a message.” He worded it as a question and looked up. His eyes searched her face for an answer.
“It was,” she agreed.
She reached out and rested a hand on his leg. Her touch was warm through his pants, which were still wet from the rain. He didn’t pull away.
He met her eyes. She didn’t look away, though he
didn’t expect her to. The silence didn’t mask his request.
“What did Dendril tell you?” she finally asked. Letting go of his leg, she brushed her black hair from her forehead as she spoke. It was a decidedly delicate motion for someone who fought to hide her femininity.
“He said they know nothing concrete.”
“That is mostly true.”
“That it was likely these warrior priests that call themselves Deshmahne.”
“Also true.”
He met her crystalline blue eyes. “How?”
She shrugged. “Not sure. Little is known about the Deshmahne. There are rumors. Little fact.”
“Could they really do this?”
“If even some of the rumors are true, then yes.”
“What do you know?”
She shook her head. “If your father didn’t tell you, then you know I cannot either.”
“Senda—” He stopped himself. He wouldn’t push her. Not Senda. It would do no good anyway. He changed tactics. “Dendril says there will be no response.”
Senda frowned and straightened her back. “None?”
“Says we must gather information first.”
She nodded slowly. “The entire regiment was lost. The Deshmahne are suspected, but it’s unknown how. That is the prudent course.”
Endric felt himself tense. “Not prudent. Afraid.”
“You know better than that. Dendril fears nothing,” she said, her respect for the general clear. “More Denraen could be needlessly lost if he rushed into action.”
She looked at him for a moment, appraising him, her eyes narrowed to slits and her forehead wrinkled. He always felt a little uneasy when he saw that expression on her face, uncertain what was taking place inside her head. Senda had an analytical mind, and he knew her intelligence was nearly unrivaled.
“What are you going to do?” she finally asked.
He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose. Andril couldn’t go unavenged. If the Denraen did nothing, then that just might happen. That meant that he would have to go against the Denraen. Or the wishes of his father.
Soldier Son (The Teralin Sword Book 1) Page 7