Around the camp, the other Antrilii had frozen. Each looked out into the night, waiting. Another howl came, similar to the last. It was not the sound of the merahl hunting. That was an eager sound, one demanding to be followed, the sound of a challenge offered. This was much different. There was pain to it, a sharp edge, ripping at the night. Endric felt his heart beat fast as the echoes faded.
“Is it groeliin?” he asked. The question was directed to no one in particular. He knew the answer even as he spoke.
Novan shook his head. “This is not groeliin,” he said, his voice soft. The historian was on edge, his hands tense. Like Nahrsin. “Something has happened.”
They waited a few more moments, but no other sounds came. Endric realized they had been expecting the voices of the other two merahl. Nothing else disturbed the night.
“Shinron. Graime,” Dentoun said, nodding to two of the Antrilii. He whistled low and the horses came galloping into the clearing. The Antrilii responded immediately, leaping atop the horses. Dentoun climbed atop his own, patting the sleek horse as he did.
“Dentoun. That was not the call to attack. Use caution,” Novan said.
The Antrilii leader cocked his head, considering what the historian said, then nodded. “We all ride.”
The other Antrilii quickly mounted. Even Novan’s horse was saddled without much delay. Endric stood among the others, unarmed and feeling conflicted. Part of him longed to see what had happened to the merahl. Another hoped for an opportunity to slip away.
“You will ride with me,” Novan said, settling his internal debate. He reached out to help Endric into the saddle, his grip surprisingly strong. He pulled something out from beneath his cloak and handed it to Endric. “I suspect you know how to use this.”
Endric barely had time to grab the item as they surged forward. He clung to Novan with one hand. His other held a leather-sheathed sword. Strangely, a hollow sensation in his chest seemed suddenly filled. The hilt was solid and the weight reassuring in his hand. His injuries had mostly healed; only a little stiffness remained across his chest.
They rode quickly. The horses’ hooves made a low rumble. Dentoun took the lead. Endric was wondering how the man knew which way to travel when another pained howl erupted, guiding them forward. Dentoun had one hand on his saddle and his curved sword unsheathed in the other. The other Antrilii followed suit. They made no other sound as they rode. Each man’s face was tight and grim.
Topping a rise, Dentoun halted them as the pale moonlight revealed the cause for the merahl’s distress.
Nearly a dozen men, each armed with dark-bladed swords, circled another man. He held his own sword spinning in front of him. He was skilled—it was obvious even from a distance—but no match for a dozen opponents. The merahl, Ishi he presumed, stood by the man’s side. The creature was obviously injured, favoring one leg, yet the two of them still managed to hold back the attackers.
Novan swore under his breath as he surveyed the scene.
“What is it?” Endric asked.
“Deshmahne,” he spat.
“Here? Why?” Then a different question came to him. “How can you tell?” A seething anger at the dark priests began to rise from deep in his gut.
Novan shook his head slightly, ignoring the first two questions. “The swords.” He sniffed derisively. “Only the Deshmahne carry such blades.”
Endric stared at the swords, wondering what it was that offended Novan. From the distance, he saw nothing other than the dark blades. The man they attacked continued to sweep his sword in a quick circle, faster than Endric could have imagined. And he had thought his father a skilled swordsman. The merahl protected his back, snapping and snarling at the other attackers. Endric knew they couldn’t hold out much longer.
Dentoun apparently realized the same thing and suddenly surged forward. The other Antrilii followed. A deep battle cry erupted from Dentoun as he rode down the slope. The sound startled a few of the attackers, giving enough pause that the man managed to drop one of them in a dark spray of blood. As the Antrilii streamed down the hillside, the Deshmahne spread out, their movements coordinated, and turned to face them. Four Deshmahne still surrounded the lone swordsman, pressing forward with renewed fury.
And then they were upon them. Endric had thought the cavalry charge would scatter the Deshmahne, but they managed to slide out and away from the horses, streaking in as the horses passed and attacking their flanks. One of the horses screamed and stumbled, throwing its rider. Shinron, Endric thought. The man stood slowly, shaking himself.
He was too slow.
The Deshmahne reached him before the other horses had turned. They were impossibly quick, attacking with precise ferocity, and though the Antrilii was skilled with his blade, he couldn’t counter the number the Deshmahne threw at him. He fell, a bloody snarl on his lips. With the last of his life, he cried out and slammed his sword forward, catching one of the Deshmahne in the stomach and pinning him down.
“Dismount!” Dentoun commanded.
Endric recognized the wisdom of the decision. The Deshmahne were too fast; whatever dark arts they possessed, speed was among them. The horses would be a detriment. Endric wondered how they hoped to counter the speed of the Deshmahne. The dark priests moved so fast as to be nearly impossible to stop. It was a wonder the other man had survived.
Dentoun whistled twice. The sound was shrill, urgent, and suddenly the other two merahl appeared out of the darkness. Dentoun leapt forward, using the distraction to launch his attack, his sword swinging in a whistling arc. At the same time, the merahl attacked, fangs bared and snarls erupting from their throats. Endric leaned forward instinctively, as if to attack.
The Deshmahne had killed his brother. Attacked his city. Injured Senda. They were the reason he’d argued with his father. Now the focus of his anger stood before him.
He wanted to fight them. Needed to fight them. Hatred burned through him with a force unlike anything he had ever felt.
Novan held him back. Endric tried to shrug his hand off his shoulder but couldn’t shake the man’s grip. He turned away from the historian and glared at the Deshmahne, watching in awe as Dentoun attacked.
The man was a blur with his sword, moving so quickly that Endric could barely keep up. Two Deshmahne dropped before they realized the attack was on, both beheaded. He was not bothered that he felt a hint of pleasure.
Nahrsin followed his father only a moment later, sliding into attack, his sword moving as quickly as his father’s. Whereas Dentoun attacked with a combination of strength and speed, Nahrsin moved with a lithe grace, twisting and thrusting. Both men were astounding swordsmen. Endric recognized a few of the forms Nahrsin used. Only a few. Instinctively, he compared his skill to that of the Antrilii and knew he would last barely a few heartbeats against them.
Still, the Deshmahne were faster. Their black blades nearly sizzled in the night. They collided with the Antrilii swords in a dull clang, the sound nearly as unnatural as the movements of their wielders. Endric was not sure how the Antrilii saw where they were attacking; the swords became nearly invisible as they moved, seeming to suck in the darkness around them and covering the Deshmahne with a deeper blanket of shadows, as if the night itself strove to hide them.
Nahrsin and Dentoun were pressed back. Only their speed and skill kept them upright. Endric struggled even to follow the course of the fight. He heard an angry scream, nearly human. One of the attacking merahl had snarled in pain as it must have been struck. The sound unsettled Endric.
Then the other Antrilii reached the fight, their battle cries mingling with that of the merahl. Novan stayed back, watching, and let the Antrilii lead the attack. Five Deshmahne remained, facing five of the Antrilii. As Endric watched, he realized they were evenly matched. The Deshmahne moved with more speed, but the incredible skill of the Antrilii evened the fight. The merahl tipped the scales, surrounding the Deshmahne, their angry roars pushing the Deshmahne toward the Antrilii.
A sharp t
ug on his shirt startled him, nearly tossing him to his back as he spun. Stumbling, he barely caught himself when he heard the loud crack of the historian’s staff striking something nearby.
He looked up to see Novan facing one of the Deshmahne, having thrown him out of the way.
The historian spun his staff in a blur, snapping out in quick attacks that were stopped by the strange dark blade. Novan tired quickly, but his attacker didn’t slow, pressing him steadily back and away from help. A dangerous smile plastered the face of the Deshmahne.
A flickering shadow was all the warning he had that he had not been left alone. Endric dove to his left, rolling and coming up as quickly as he could manage. The injury to his legs stiffened them, though there was not much pain, so he moved more slowly than he would have liked. He unsheathed the borrowed sword, spinning into a defensive stance as he faced his attacker.
The Deshmahne before him was slight of build. A dark cloak covered his thin frame but didn’t hide the bony figure. Dark markings streaked up the exposed skin of his neck and onto the edges of his face. Endric frowned; there was something familiar about the markings that he couldn’t quite place. There was no time to consider as the dark blade flashed toward him.
He reacted. The sword he held was similar enough to his own and he was able to move quickly, blocking the attack a mere hand width from his face. Endric pushed him off, turning to put his back toward Novan. He was not sure what had happened to the man the Deshmahne initially were attacking, but there were at least two of the dark priests not accounted for.
Endric whipped the blade through his sword drills, the familiarity of the forms quickly returning. His body was still stiff from the injuries he had sustained when facing his father, his left shoulder nearly creaking, making every movement a little jerkier than it should have been. Not nearly as fluid as he was accustomed to being. Still, that was not the reason for his difficulty.
The Deshmahne was quick. Too quick. Endric felt hot pain on his arm as the dark blade slipped through his defenses. He leapt back and the Deshmahne smiled again. Endric felt his heart hammer as an uncomfortable realization overcame him.
The man knew he had Endric beat. Endric knew it too.
The Deshmahne darted forward, the strange blade slicing toward him. The movement was a bit lazier than his previous attacks, but even it was barely stopped, deflected away at the last possible moment. As the dark blade neared him, heat radiated from it.
Stepping back, Endric quickly thought through his options. Around him, the sounds of the struggle raged, barely registering in his mind. He heard screamed challenges from Antrilii mixing with low growls from the merahl. The Deshmahne made occasional grunts. There was the sharp smacking of Novan’s staff as he swung it, the air whistling, though even that sounded as if it were slower. Atop it all was the unnatural clanging of the Deshmahne swords.
Still, all that was a hollow sound. His heartbeat thudded urgently in his ears, overpowering the other sounds. His chest heaved and he struggled to catch his breath as he inhaled deeply of the crisp air. And his mind raced.
He was not as fast as the Deshmahne. And, unlike the Antrilii, he might not even be as skilled as the Deshmahne. That bothered him. He was unaccustomed to being so overmatched, having only truly experienced it when his father had simply dominated him. This Deshmahne was handling him easily. He had little doubt the others would as well. Not to mention the fact that each of the Antrilii would best him if he were forced to face them. He might well be the least skilled swordsman fighting.
The realization was jarring, nearly pulling him out of the fight.
He had no choice but to shake the thought out of his mind. Something to consider later. If he survived. There must be an advantage he could find, some edge he could use, but his panicking mind struggled to find one, holding on to the fact that he simply was not good enough.
And he would die for it.
The Deshmahne smiled again, whispering something Endric couldn’t hear. The dark markings on his neck seemed to swirl, moving as if alive, but he knew that to be simply a trick of the shadows. The dark priest watched him, almost enjoying the realization that had overcome him. Relishing in Endric’s anguish.
Distantly he began to wonder why he had even thought himself capable of challenging his father. He didn’t have the skill to lead the Denraen, yet he had thought himself ready. Truly, he was still a child, as his father had said.
Another mistake made. One of many in his life. There were so many things he couldn’t take back, mistakes that couldn’t be forgiven. The fact that he had never gotten to apologize to his brother was the most agonizing.
The Deshmahne feinted but didn’t attack, remaining just out of reach. A dark excitement clouded his face, parting his lips into a twisted smile. He was enjoying watching Endric, almost as if aware of what he was thinking. Like he was feeding off it.
He wondered if that was what Andril had faced in the moments before he had died. The ease with which the Deshmahne attacked made clear how so many Denraen had died.
Still, he was not sure the Deshmahne had even attacked the Denraen. They might not have needed to. Endric had seen the power of the Deshviili. Even abbreviated, there was no doubting the potential destruction the Deshmahne were capable of creating. And he had seen the effects of the attack on the city.
The Denraen could have died without even seeing their attackers. Andril might have died without knowing what it was he faced. That, as much as anything, hurt him.
Endric didn’t know why these thoughts troubled him. He was losing focus on the fight in front of him, though he knew it only a matter of time before he succumbed to the Deshmahne attack. The sounds around him grew ever more faint, leaving him lost with nothing but his dark memories. Shame and sadness overwhelmed him.
It would be these emotions he felt as he died. And there was no doubting that he would die here and now. He felt his sword lowering as if his arm grew weak.
Strangely, a lesson from his past drifted into the forefront of his mind. Not one from Andril’s lessons, which surprised him. This was something his father had actually taught him. He heard his deep voice in his memory, almost as if speaking to him.
Speed can slow. Skill can fade. But if you lose your mind, the battle is lost.
Endric took a deep breath, slowing his breathing. The dark thoughts moved to the background. Like a mist clearing, he realized what had almost happened. He had nearly given the Deshmahne exactly what he wanted.
The dark priest sneered and attacked with a frenzy. Endric was forced to deflect a few quick thrusts and found it easier to do the more he cleared his thoughts. Always, he fought on instinct; it was one of the flaws his father had found in him. Rightfully so, it would seem, seeing as how easily he had beaten him. Yet his instinct had carried him far. Perhaps it was more than a flaw. Could he intentionally use his instinct to guide him?
As he parried with the Deshmahne, he realized a pattern to the attack. He couldn’t quite see what the pattern was; instead, he sensed it at the edge of his awareness. There was a coordination to the cacophony of the battle.
As he became aware of it, he found it easier to block the Deshmahne attack, almost as if anticipating what he would do. When the dark blade thrust forward, Endric parried, knowing where it would be. Another thrust, another block. Then another. And another. Each somehow blocked as he anticipated where the dark blade would be rather than reacting.
And yet he couldn’t keep this up. His recent injuries made his joints tight, and he grew tired.
So he surged forward as he felt another quick thrust coming, turning where he didn’t think the Deshmahne would be. He stabbed upward with the sword, sliding it suddenly into the dark priest’s gut before spinning and pulling the sword free. Hot blood spilled onto his hands, dripping from the wound. The Deshmahne stood, his mouth agape for a moment, and then fell to the ground in a heap.
Endric stumbled, fatigue overwhelming him. As he steadied himself, he realized the din of
the battle had ended. The Deshmahne were all down, dead or dying.
The Antrilii stood. A few looked bloodied and one of the men, Graime, limped, leaning on his sword for support. Dentoun kneeled before a headless Deshmahne, staring at him with a curious expression. He reached out tentatively and touched dark markings on the priest’s arm, pulling up a sleeve to reveal extensive tattoos. Suddenly he spat and stood, kicking the dark-bladed sword away from him as he did.
Two of the dark-furred merahl sat off on the side, licking wounds, looking like enormous house cats as they did. Blood stained their fur, and Endric wondered just how much of it was their own. Now that he had seen them fight, he felt even more impressed by them. The other merahl prowled around the Antrilii, circling them, ears alert and flicking at sounds too low for Endric to hear. A low growl occasional erupted from its throat like a quiet warning.
Novan stood off to the side. His chest heaved visibly and he leaned on his staff. Otherwise, he was uninjured. One of the Deshmahne lay near him, an arm bent awkwardly and his spine twisted beneath him. He still breathed but wouldn’t be attacking anyone soon. His dark-bladed sword lay gripped in his hand. The ground around the sword burned, the long grasses trampled during the battle and singed by an unseen fire.
Finally he turned to the man the Deshmahne had attacked. He felt a hint of surprise that the man still lived. Attacked by a dozen Deshmahne, only the aid of Ishi had kept him alive. When the Antrilii joined the fight, the man had still had four Deshmahne to contend with. Each of the dark priests lay dead, three of the four beheaded. The fourth was mauled to a bloody mess. That would be the merahl. That meant the man had killed three Deshmahne on his own. Even remembering the speed with which the man moved, that was surprising.
The man caught him staring and nodded. Dressed simply in a brown shirt and breeches, he wore his gray hair long, pulled back behind him with a leather thong. He still gripped his long sword, though the blade had been wiped clean. A couple of days’ growth peppered his youthful face. As he nodded, he considered Endric with a long gaze. His eyes carried the knowing look of a man who had seen many more years than his face would admit.
Soldier Son (The Teralin Sword Book 1) Page 24