The Antrilii mounted quietly and rode away from Ilowan to continue their hunt.
24
Endric spent the rest of the night in silence. They stayed on the road leading south from Ilowan, the horses moving swiftly. None of the Antrilii spoke, although that was not unusual. There was still a somber sense casting a pall over the ride. Endric was certain the Antrilii felt it even though he couldn’t read them. The merahl ranged ahead, lost in the long grasses and the night, always making their presence known with their calls.
Images from Ilowan kept creeping into his mind. Bodies mangled and broken. Children missing arms, legs, and chunks of flesh. The scent of rot that hung over the town as they passed through it. He couldn’t imagine what kind of creature could do something like that.
It was not just the imagery that troubled him. He had thought the Deshmahne posed the greatest threat; perhaps they still did, but whatever the Antrilii faced was as much or more of a threat. How could the Antrilii wage such an ongoing war without anyone else knowing? Dentoun didn’t seem to want recognition. He spoke with a sense of duty that Endric suspected stemmed from a deeply held belief in the gods. He truly believed.
If only it were so simple.
He was shaken from his thoughts as his horse pulled to a stop. The night was late, full darkness upon them and likely only a few hours until morning. The thin light of the moon, which had been with them until they left Ilowan, had disappeared behind clouds, stealing their only illumination. The air was crisp and smelled of the coming dew; the stench from Ilowan hung in his nose as a malodorous memory. Would they camp sooner tonight?
The merahl called in the distance, farther than they usually ranged when stopping for the day. Camping wasn’t the reason for the stop.
Endric looked up and toward Dentoun. The Antrilii had released his hold on the reins; it was the first time Endric had been put in the saddle without the Antrilii holding the other end of the lead. For a moment, the temptation to kick the horse to a gallop and escape nearly overwhelmed him, but he quickly came to his senses.
Where would he go? He had nothing. No home. No family. Only his friends, who were better off with him gone. Though he might be their prisoner, the Antrilii had shown him no ill will, treating him instead with courtesy. He wondered if they would even stop him if he tried to escape.
Dentoun walked ahead, following the road. Little more than hard-packed dirt, it sloped up the hillside. A few small trees dotted the plain. A larger copse nearby was little more than a darker smear in the night. It was toward this that Dentoun walked. A distinctive snick echoed back to him as the Antrilii unsheathed. His steps slowed and became cautious.
Endric narrowed his eyes, gazing into the distance, trying to see what had caught the attention of the Antrilii, and saw nothing but darkness and shadows. One of the merahl barked twice, its voicing distinct, like it was speaking, and close now. There came a snap, like that from breaking branches or dried grasses, and a merahl burst into the open. Even from a distance, Endric could see its body was tense, its narrow tail pointed, alert. Another merahl called, barking three times, on the far side of the trees.
Without thinking, he reached for his sword, feeling a sinking sensation in his stomach when he remembered he was unarmed.
Could the groeliin be close? Endric had thought the merahl would give more warning if they were, but they had only made noise about the same time that Dentoun had walked ahead. Was this some kind of trap? Looking over at the other Antrilii, they appeared alert, tense, but not worried and not readied for attack. No trap then.
“You can show yourself.” Dentoun’s accented voice boomed into the night. “We have you surrounded.”
The three merahl called, their voices arranged like the points on a triangle around the thicket of trees.
“Your merahl certainly do,” a steady voice answered from the darkness. The voice carried easily. There was a hint of an accent to it as well, one Endric couldn’t place. Most spoke the common tongue, but some regions were more accented than others. Even among the Denraen there were accents.
Dentoun quickly sheathed his sword. Endric saw him shaking his head as he did. “None possess the merahl.” Strangely, he laughed.
A shadow emerged from the line of trees. A man, head covered by the hood of his cloak, carrying a long staff. “That is true enough,” the man said. His voice was melodious, not as deep as Dentoun or his father’s, but still rumbling gently in the night. With the words, he whistled softly, the sound very similar to what Dentoun made, and the nearest merahl suddenly relaxed. It started forward, sniffing the newcomer before wagging its tail once and calling quietly to the others.
“Novan,” Dentoun said, his voice familiar. “I should say I am surprised to see you.”
“Are you?” the man asked.
Dentoun laughed again, a deep sound that rumbled from his chest easily. “The gods know I would be lying if I did.”
The man pulled back his hood, laughing as he walked toward the road and Dentoun. A sliver of moon emerged from behind the clouds, its sudden light enough to see the man’s shorn head and features. His eyes were bright and more intense than Dentoun’s, if that were possible. They seemed to take in everything, noting him sitting atop the horse with barely more than a pause before glancing at the other Antrilii. “A hunting party,” he said and then nodded. “Though small.”
Dentoun grunted. “You think a larger group necessary?”
The man shrugged. “I have seen Ilowan.”
“I have seen worse from only a few groeliin.”
“As have I, old friend,” Novan said. “But this is more than a few groeliin.”
Dentoun nodded carefully. “Aye.”
“I wonder why.”
Dentoun sniffed. “There is no why with groeliin.”
“I know you of all men do not believe that, Dentoun,” he said, saying the Antrilii’s name with the same inflection that Dentoun had.
Who was this man? By his dress, he was not Antrilii, though he was obviously familiar with them. He seemed to have an understanding of the groeliin, knowing the destruction they could cause. And he had obviously seen Ilowan.
Dentoun tilted his head and said nothing, his lips tightening into a frown. With the painting upon his face, he looked frightening. Novan simply smiled.
“Come,” Novan suggested. “The night is long and it is time to camp.”
Dentoun snorted. “I suppose you already have a camp.”
Novan nodded, tipping his head and staff. “Near the Vinriin ruins.”
The Antrilii considered Novan for a moment, then laughed again, the irritation he had shown only moments ago completely gone. “You were waiting for us?”
Novan flashed a quick smile. “I felt it safest for you to find me,” he answered simply.
“Historian. One day you may outlive your welcome.”
“That day is not today,” Novan answered, turning his back to Dentoun and starting off across through the tall grasses and away from the road. He whistled once and the merahl loped off as if following his command.
Dentoun grunted, shaking his head, and returned to grab the rein he had dropped before following after the man. Endric watched as Novan disappeared into the grass.
A historian. Not what Endric would have guessed. The historians he had met during his travels had been mostly freeloaders, hoping for a free drink or night’s rest. This man was different. Urik had spoken of the historian guild, his tone almost respectful, near reverent, and the en’raen had obviously held a deep resentment toward those only pretending at membership. Something told him that Novan, unlike the other historians he had met, belonged to the guild.
They followed Novan into the grasses. They were taller here but dry and made a strange swishing sound as the horse trampled through. The dry scent of the broken blades was pungent, though not unpleasant. Nothing like he had smelled in Ilowan. Endric wouldn’t soon forget that stench. In the distance, Novan stood silhouetted against the hilltop near
a pile of broken rock.
The Vinriin ruins were like the Lashiin ruins of Vasha, only on a larger scale, the remains of an ancient settlement. Whereas the Lashiin ruins were likely remnants from the founders of the mountain city, perhaps even the earliest Magi, the Vinriin ruins were thought to be much older. The ruins nestled into the back of a hillside, mostly hidden from view and overgrown with grasses and weeds. Endric had never seen them up close, passing by only from a distance. Ruins like it were scattered over the northern continent. For the most part, they were left alone. Many held a superstition about the ruins, a fear of disturbing the long departed. Only the ruins of Thealon had been incorporated into a modern city, and then only because the tower was there.
Reaching the ruins, Endric felt a prickling on his skin as he passed into the outermost pile of rock, which marked a boundary of sorts. A low mound of rubble seemed to stretch out in a circle from that point, like a fallen wall. The stone was mostly fragmented, though some larger boulders remained. The horse stepped across, kicking up a bit of dust. Endric saw Dentoun mutter something to himself as they entered the ruins but didn’t hear what the Antrilii said.
The prickling on his skin faded but didn’t disappear. Perhaps nothing more than a chill.
They followed Novan into the ruins. As they went farther in, the stones were stacked, and though fallen, he could almost imagine the shape of buildings once standing. Some stacks were huge. Grasses grew up in clear spaces, almost leading them in a path through the rubble. Occasionally, low walls remained intact. He imagined faint tracings in the stone, like there were in the Lashiin ruins and others, unreadable and interpretable.
There was no record of what had been here, and the people had long since been gone. Only the broken remains of their city remained. Some buildings held. These were smaller, more shelter than anything, and weathered by rain and time so that their original shapes could no longer be seen. Others were simply the outer walls, nothing of the interior of the building remaining. Nothing taller than a single story still stood. Weeds and grasses poked through, and occasionally small, white-blossomed flowers, a contrast to the night. The air was clean and fresh, almost fragrant from flowers both seen and unseen.
It was near a tilted stack of stone that Novan camped. A horse was tied near his campsite. That alone was enough to tell Endric the man was not Antrilii; their horses were trained not to wander. If he needed more confirmation of that fact, Novan had removed his black cloak, revealing a plain dark shirt and pants beneath. No hint of leathers and no weapon other than the staff he held casually in his hand. Endric knew not to take the weapon lightly; he had seen Senda, a master of the staff, disarm men twice her size. Something told him that Novan was at least as capable with the staff.
The Antrilii dismounted. Their horses wandered into the ruins—not far, but away from Novan’s mount—and began grazing. As far as Endric could tell, the merahl had not entered the Vinriin ruins. He heard them calling, still barking the occasional sound, but it was distant.
Was there something about the ruins that unsettled them, or were they simply continuing their usual patrol? The ruins were eerie but he didn’t feel uncomfortable, just as he was never uncomfortable in the Lashiin ruins. Rather, he felt a sense of age and sadness, of wisdom lost.
The Antrilii quickly fell into their typical camping pattern. Soon a fire was lit and the smell of some animal roasting wafted over to him. Endric had stood apart as Dentoun and the other Antrilii spoke to Novan. He heard nothing of their conversation, not even bothering to listen. Instead, he looked around the ruins, making out the lost details in the stone, the piles of rubble he imagined had once been grand buildings, the smattering of weeds along what had likely once been roads. About him was a sense of stillness, like the night waited with its breath held. The strange tingling still prickled his skin, like goose pimples in the cold, though not as acutely as when they had first passed into the ruins. There were no other sounds in the night.
One of the Antrilii motioned him toward the fire, gesturing with a steaming hunk of meat. Endric felt his stomach roll, aware of the pangs of hunger assaulting his stomach. Finding Ilowan had distracted from eating.
He approached quietly, seeing the historian still speaking in low tones to Dentoun. The Antrilii shook his head as they spoke, irritation plain on his painted face.
“Eat. Take your mind off what we have seen,” the Antrilii who had called him over said. He was a large man, nearly as wide as Dentoun, though his face was not lined with the years of the other man. His paintings were mostly black, as were his leathers, turning him into a shadow against the fallen stone of Vinriin. Endric wondered if that meant anything.
He nodded, accepting the meat and then biting carefully, enjoying the savory taste. “Why is he upset?” He didn’t expect an answer.
The Antrilii grunted. “Novan thinks it more than groeliin in that town. Dentoun thinks the result is the same. The town is destroyed.”
Endric turned and watched Dentoun speaking to Novan as he ate. The historian spoke quietly, gesturing with his hands as he did. A dark ring circled the middle finger on his right hand. There was something familiar about it, but he couldn’t place why. Dentoun had sunk into a frown, not responding to the other. Finally he spoke a brusque word and turned to the fire. As he walked away from Novan, a tight smile crossed Dentoun’s face, nearly amusement. It was the most emotion Endric had seen from the Antrilii.
“Nahrsin, come,” he said as he passed. The dark Antrilii raised his eyebrows and sniffed but didn’t say anything, following Dentoun as commanded.
“Novan thinks there were other men in Ilowan,” Dentoun said as he walked away.
“There were many men in that town,” Nahrsin commented.
Dentoun grunted. “He thinks these were gone before the groeliin came. Thinks many were dead before the groeliin.”
“What kind of men would do this?” Nahrsin asked. They neared the fire and Endric didn’t hear the reply.
The historian startled him with a cough. Endric spun, surprised he hadn’t heard the man approaching.
“You’re not Antrilii.”
Endric looked down at his clothing. Dressed in dark pants stained with his blood and a shirt borrowed from the Antrilii, he wasn’t sure how he looked. Certainly not like a Denraen. “I am not.” He licked the last of the grease from his fingers, wiping them on his pants. His stomach still rolled with hunger.
“How did you come to travel with them?”
Endric looked over at the man, meeting his eyes. There was a question written clearly in them, but also wisdom. This was not a man he could lie to. “They found me upon the Tolsii Plains.”
Novan raised a brow and said nothing for a moment. “Do they know why you were upon the plain?”
What did this man know? The question itself was probing, leading, as if Novan already knew the answer. Endric would need to be cautious. “Some.”
The historian smiled. The expression was disarming and Endric relaxed, realizing too late that had been Novan’s intent. Like a predator before an attack. “When will you tell them you are Denraen?” The question was spoken quietly but seemed to thunder into the night.
Endric considered his next words carefully. “I am not Denraen.” Losing to his father had left him expelled. He didn’t know what would become of him, but he was no longer Denraen. Strangely, he felt a hollow sensation in his chest with the thought.
“Perhaps no longer, then,” Novan said.
Endric narrowed his eyes, then shook his head. “Why would you think that of me?” Attempting to make the question casual failed; he was certain the stress in his voice gave him away. He suppressed the urge to reach for his sword, regretting again that he was unarmed. He couldn’t grow accustomed to that fact.
Novan smiled again. “You carry yourself as a soldier, with your back straight and gait confident. And you reach for your sword for reassurance.” Novan flicked his eyes from Endric’s hand up to his face. “There are other tells.
The boots you wear appear Denraen issue. Your hair is cut in the style of the soldiers. And I hear no accent to your voice.” He lifted his eyebrows as he finished.
Endric sniffed. “As you can see, I carry no sword. Reassurance or no, any man would reach for a weapon after seeing Ilowan,” he answered. “As to the others, many men dress the same in Thealon.”
Novan shrugged slightly. “Yet those aren’t really the reasons I think you are Denraen.”
“Oh?”
Another smile, barely a parting of his lips. “You were found upon the plains, near the base of Isalain Peak. From the looks of you, seriously injured. Near death, I would venture to guess. There are few reasons a man would be found in such a state.” He gave Endric a searching look. “Should I continue?” he asked, the question probing but gentle.
Endric closed his eyes. “You have made your point.”
Snapping his eyes open again, he looked at the historian. The man wore a neutral expression. Except for the hand holding his staff, his posture was relaxed. That hand wasn’t tense, but Endric saw a readiness to the way he held his weapon. He was prepared to defend himself if necessary. Endric snorted, shaking his head. He carried himself in much the same way. At least he did when he was armed.
“What is it that you want?” he asked, resignation flooding through him. So many failings lately. Endric was uncertain he could tolerate more. Sighing, he wondered if it would have been better had the laca taken him back on the plain.
Novan smiled broadly. “What does any historian want? Only your story.”
“Not much of a tale there,” he muttered and turned away.
The historian stopped him with a hand on his arm. His grip was surprisingly strong. “It need not be tonight,” he said, “but sometime I will hear that story.” He released Endric and walked over to the Antrilii, his voice a rumbling undercurrent as he spoke to them.
Endric stood apart, lost in thought. Novan had reminded him of how he had failed the Denraen. Days had passed since the Antrilii had found him, and he had allowed himself to forget. Now it all flooded him with painful memories, each stabbing sharper than the next. Boot steps crunched across the stone, and Endric looked up to see the black-clad Antrilii approach.
Soldier Son (The Teralin Sword Book 1) Page 22