Soldier Son (The Teralin Sword Book 1)

by D. K. Holmberg

  “You fight well,” the man said. His voice was rough and smoky, like a man twice his age. It was a tone he had heard from a half-dozen aged soldiers. Veterans with years of training and experience behind them. Combined with his obvious youth, the effect was surprising.

  “Almost not well enough,” he admitted, finding it hard to take his eyes off the Deshmahne lying dead around the man. Even the Antrilii had struggled against them.

  The man grunted. “The Deshmahne are never easy opponents.”

  Endric frowned and tilted his head as he thought. “You’ve fought them before?”

  The man nodded and then sheathed his sword. “More often than I would like.”

  “Why were they attacking you?”

  The man grunted but said nothing. Endric frowned again. Could it be the man had attacked them? After what Endric had just experienced, the idea seemed to be suicide. If not for the merahl helping and the Antrilii riding to his aid, the man might have been dead.

  Novan walked over, standing in front of the man as he shook his head. After a moment, he laughed and then pulled him into a hug. “Brohmin!” he said, familiarity clear in his voice. “You should be dead.”

  The man shrugged, running a hand down his pants and flicking his gaze at the Antrilii before looking at Novan again. “Probably.”

  “What happened?” Novan asked.

  Brohmin shook his head. “There were twenty of them, perhaps more. I ambushed half near the Ralstol Gorge. Couple escaped. The rest chased me here.”

  He spoke simply, his tone matter-of-fact, but the idea of attacking ten Deshmahne alone—even in an ambush—seemed more than a little far-fetched. Yet Novan nodded, accepting the tale without question.

  “The gorge is a day or more from here,” Novan commented.

  The man tipped his head. “More. I’m on foot.”

  Novan laughed and shook his head again. “Of course you are. Come. We’re camped in the ruins.”

  “Good place,” Brohmin agreed. “Need to collect the swords first. They need to be destroyed.”

  Endric looked at one of the black-bladed swords lying on the ground near the stranger and saw that the grasses and ground near this blade were charred as well, just like they had been near Novan. As he looked, he saw that each place the blades touched the ground was the same.

  “What are they?” he asked.

  Brohmin looked at him a moment before flicking his eyes to Novan in an unspoken question. Endric was again unsettled by the age and wisdom written in his eyes, belying the rest of his features. The historian nodded once in assent.

  “They are as dark as the Deshmahne who wield them. And as tainted. They should never have been forged.”

  Endric knelt before one of the swords. He found it hard to believe there was something inherently wrong with a sword. Even one used by the Deshmahne. Reaching forward, he felt a firm grip on his shoulder. Novan held him back from grasping the hilt. Heat radiated from the sword, and a nauseating realization overcame him.

  Looking back at the historian, he blinked slowly. “What reason could they have for teralin-forged blades?”

  26

  His question hung in the air unanswered. Everything around him was still. Even the breeze, the cool northern wind ever present since he began on his days on the plain, was unusually absent. He didn’t remember when it had died. The night itself was otherwise silent, the merahl nursing wounds near the Antrilii. He had grown accustomed to their constant calls and found the quiet unsettling.

  Endric turned to Novan. The historian slowly blinked at him as he considered what to say, his gray eyes seeming to weigh him. The Antrilii clustered nearby, Dentoun inspecting the dead Deshmahne, picking carefully over the bodies, examining the markings upon each man. The frown upon his face deepened the longer he looked.

  “The Magi are not the only ones who have found a use for the metal,” Novan said.

  Endric narrowed his eyes, not understanding. “What use could there be?”

  The historian shrugged. “Why do the Magi use teralin?”

  “To speak with the gods,” Endric answered, the words coming quickly. All who studied Urmahne learned the power of teralin and that the Magi were the only ones able to utilize it. That made it both valuable and useless at the same time.

  Novan smiled, barely a twisting of his thin lips. “Is that all it is used for?”

  Endric shook his head. Teralin decorations were said to dot the palace. Not that he could claim to have seen them. Few outside the palace staff and the Magi were allowed within its walls. Much of the metalwork surrounding the palace was wrought from teralin, but that was more decorative than useful barricade. Other than ornamentation, he didn’t know what else it could be used for.

  “I cannot say if it truly helps them speak to the gods,” Novan said. “None but the Magi can answer that question. I can tell you that teralin has long been known to have very curious properties. Long ago, it was valued for a different reason than it currently is.” He sighed. “The world would be better had the Deshmahne not discovered this.”

  He turned and moved to speak with Dentoun, leaving Endric, with more questions than answers, staring at the teralin swords. Brohmin grunted nearby and silently moved to begin collecting the dark-bladed swords, not trusting Novan or the Antrilii with the task. Dentoun pushed the Antrilii away from the swords in any case, giving them a wide berth as he continued his examination of the Deshmahne.

  Brohmin wrapped the swords with a bright metal cable that he pulled from a pocket, binding them together, and then stuffed them into a deep sack he had worn strapped to his back. The still-living grasses seemed to push away from the burned areas. Teralin was strangely warm and had been known to burn, but not that fast, not like that.

  Novan offered to help, but Brohmin shooed the historian away with a firm shake of his head. Novan didn’t argue, instead turning away and moving to speak with the Antrilii. Brohmin handled the swords delicately, his hand practiced but covered, careful not to touch any part of the sword, as if even that would taint him. Endric watched for a moment and then turned to Novan but didn’t follow, occasionally squeezing the hilt of his borrowed sword. He was thankful to have the familiarity, even if it was not his own blade. He regretted that he had lost his grandfather’s sword, though likely his father still had it. While not as impressive as his father’s sword Trill, it was nevertheless a well-forged blade and had been in his family for centuries.

  They remained in the clearing only long enough for the teralin swords to be collected and bound, leaving the Deshmahne dead or dying upon the ground. The Antrilii had lined up the bodies, turning faces to the ground. He speculated at the significance of the positioning and then wondered briefly what the Deshmahne custom was for their dead, knowing this gesture to be an insult to the Urmahne, who were taught to bury the dead face up, looking toward the heavens and the ascended gods.

  Eventually Dentoun led them back to the ruins, riding at a steady pace. Endric rode with Novan again, and Brohmin doubled with Nahrsin. Shinron’s body was lashed to his horse to return with the Antrilii. Endric had not questioned as they reverently lifted him and tied him to his horse. The Antrilii didn’t speak as they worked, instead humming softly, barely audibly. The merahl picked it up as well, their voices a faint howl, mixing their sound with that of the Antrilii. The overall effect was haunting.

  As they rode back, the merahl did something Endric had not seen from them during his time with the Antrilii—they ran alongside the horses, never straying far. One had sustained a more serious injury, limping as it loped along, but didn’t have any difficulty maintaining speed with them.

  Nahrsin had attended to the merahl’s injuries as diligently as to the injured men, rubbing a poultice into the wounds and bandaging the worst of them. The merahl simply sat as that was done, not making a sound, only flattening its ears in obvious pain. The other injured merahl had more superficial cuts, the blood now cleaned from its fur, care taken by one of the Antrilii i
n seeing there was nothing more serious. Ishi had been unharmed and now ran ahead like a scout, returning periodically to growl in a low whine that Dentoun seemed to understand. Endric wondered if he did.

  They passed into the ruins in silence. The prickling upon his skin returned, almost something palpable. He relaxed, not realizing until now that the muscles in his arms and back were tense. He clenched the borrowed sword in his hand and inhaled deeply. Even still, he couldn’t shake the edge of nervousness. The sky lightened as they neared the campsite, a hint of orange rimming the horizon. The air, still cool, weighed heavily on him, a hint of rain to it as it swept in with the gentle breeze from the west.

  Endric was exhausted. Whether it was the long night or the effect of the battle, he didn’t know. Or care. From the silence of their ride, he was certain he was not the only one who felt that way.

  They reached the camp and dismounted. The merahl sat as if waiting. The Antrilii moved over to Shinron’s body and pulled it from the horse, quickly carrying it out of sight. The merahl flanked the Antrilii, one on each side and Ishi in the rear. They remained uncharacteristically silent. Even the merahl understood the solemn mood.

  Endric hesitated. He considered following after them but decided to leave them to their grief. Part of him was curious about the Antrilii tradition, but he decided he wouldn’t have wanted a stranger bothering him as he grieved Andril.

  As he turned, he realized Novan had been watching him. The historian nodded slowly, as if acknowledging the decision Endric had made. He realized Novan probably did understand; his curiosity as a historian probably drove him to want to observe as well. With the obvious comfort between him and Dentoun, he may well have been welcome, yet he refrained.

  The small fire only smoldered now. The newcomer, Brohmin, tended to it, adding a few dry branches before sprinkling a dark powder overtop. Flames sprang suddenly to life, heat piercing the cool of the night. Much of the remaining tension Endric had been holding eased in a near-instant relaxation.

  “Sit, Endric,” Novan said. Even his voice soothed.

  Endric nodded as he took a seat atop one of the stones ringing the fire. Could it have been the same evening that he’d sat around the fire, explaining his troubles with his father? After the battle with the Deshmahne, it felt more like a week ago rather than mere hours. In that time, his perception of many things had changed. Especially of himself.

  He had thought himself a skilled swordsman. So much of his identity had been tied to that. Even after losing to his father, that had remained; Dendril was known as one of the finest swordsmen alive. After what Endric had seen tonight, he no longer could claim similar skill.

  There was no question in his mind that every one of the Antrilii warriors would best him. Brohmin too. Perhaps even Novan could beat him with his staff. It was a humbling experience to suddenly be the least skilled with the sword again; he had not felt that in many years, yet there was no denying that truth. And that was before he counted the Deshmahne. He had been lucky to survive his fight with one of them.

  “You are wondering what happened back there,” Novan suggested, shaking him from his quiet reverie.

  Endric nodded, turning to look at Brohmin. The man sat apart from them, staring at the fire with quiet contemplation.

  “I cannot promise that it can be easily explained,” he continued.

  “Brohmin hunts the Deshmahne?” Endric asked, putting words to the question that had been troubling him.

  “He is the Hunter.” Novan spoke the title casually, but a bit of awe entered as he spoke.

  “What would have happened had we not arrived to help?”

  Novan glanced over at Brohmin. The man had not moved and his eyes still held an unfocused look as he stared into the fire. One hand rested on his hip, brushing the hilt of his sword as if expecting an attack. The other curled into a tight ball, only his thumb working, rubbing in and out of his palm. Endric realized that he twisted a dark ring on his middle finger. He stared at it, frowning in recognition before looking over to Novan and seeing a similar ring upon his finger.

  The historian saw him looking and smiled slightly. He turned to glance at Brohmin, shrugging. “I have learned not to doubt that one.” He sniffed softly. “He sets his mind on what must be done and does not look back.” Respect edged Novan’s voice.

  “I don’t understand. What is it that needs to be done?”

  Novan turned back to him and frowned. “You have seen the Deshmahne, Endric. Tonight was not the first time, if what you told me is true. I doubt that it will be the last.”

  He leaned forward, his gray eyes reflecting the firelight. The waning shadows of night were pushed away by the bright fire, which cast a faint glow about him. His mouth pulled tight into a thin line, his lips nearly disappearing. Novan pushed the sleeves of his cloak up, exposing long, thin arms. Endric glanced at them briefly, realizing as he did that he searched for markings of some kind before shaking his head at the foolish thought.

  Novan was watching him carefully, his face unreadable.

  “I’m sorry,” Endric said, feeling his face flush with embarrassment. Now he was jumping at shadows, thinking the historian could be Deshmahne. The unfamiliar sense of inadequacy made him question more than he should have.

  “There is no reason to apologize. Caution is imperative when dealing with the Deshmahne.” He sighed, closing his eyes and leaning away from the fire. The dispelled shadows didn’t immediately return. “I offered an explanation, and after what you saw tonight, you certainly deserve one,” he said, his eyes still closed. “The Deshmahne are destruction. Not only do they seek it out, causing it, they wish to embody it.” He shook his head and opened his eyes, fixing Endric with an intense stare.

  He could only nod, remembering what Urik had once said. “They celebrate destroying that which the Urmahne would protect,” he quoted. The Urmahne cherished peace, claiming that through peace, man could learn to understand the gods. That ideal was the reason Endric had long struggled with the religion.

  Novan frowned and nodded, considering Endric for a moment. “Spoken like one of the guild.”

  Endric shook his head. “I only repeat what I have heard.”

  “Hmm.” Novan said nothing for a moment. “You mentioned the Deshviili. There are few known Deshmahne ceremonies. The Deshviili is one. Those who know of the Deshviili fear it. It is their most destructive celebration. The earth shakes. Buildings collapse. Entire towns have been leveled in a Deshviili. You are lucky the one you witnessed failed. None, save the Deshmahne themselves, have ever seen the Deshviili. Sometime, you will have to describe for me what it is that you saw. And how it was foiled.”

  Endric squeezed the sword he was holding as Novan spoke, thinking of his city and the effects of the earthquake. He had thought the Deshviili had failed. That was what he had told the Magi, thinking that whatever he had done had disrupted their ceremony. Only now he was not so sure. Could the damage to the city be the true purpose of the Deshviili? Or had he only redirected it? Had he caused Senda’s injury?

  Novan studied him, his face slowly softening in response to what Endric was feeling. “You are no longer certain it failed, are you?” he asked, his voice taking on a somber tone.

  Endric closed his eyes as he took a deep breath. He had thought the attack on the palace the primary target. Mage Tresten had even agreed, but what if it was not? “I came upon three Deshmahne on the palace lawn. They were performing some sort of ritual.” He shook his head, remembering how the shadows seemed deeper, darker than they should have been, and the jerky movements of the men he now knew to be Deshmahne. Everything about them was cloudy—even the memories seemed shrouded in darkness. “I can’t fully explain what I saw. The markings on their body seemed to move with a life of their own, writhing as the power built.” He felt foolish for what he said, but he could think of no other way to explain the ceremony. “I could feel it building and feared it. I knew it needed to be stopped.” He looked at Novan as he struggled
to find the right words.

  “How did you stop it?”

  “I threw my sword at them.”

  A deep laugh erupted from Brohmin. Endric looked over and the man still stared at the fire, an amused smile crossing his lips.

  “Did it work?” Brohmin asked without looking up.

  “I thought it did,” he answered. “The sword hit something—not one of the Deshmahne—and bounced away. And then there was a loud cracking sound before they disappeared.”

  Novan was shaking his head, the amusement Brohmin displayed not evident. Rather, a look of concern contorted his mouth into a worried frown. “No,” he said. “I do not think it worked. Only displaced the focus. There was other damage then?”

  Endric nodded. “The city. I felt it first in the barracks, after we thought the Deshmahne had gone. Nearly an hour had passed since they disappeared. The shaking soon spread to much of the city. Some thought it an earthquake. Others thought it related to the miner rebellion, some sort of staged explosions. Few would believe it was Deshmahne.”

  “The miners staged a rebellion?” Novan asked. When Endric nodded, his frown deepened. “That is worrisome.” He turned to Brohmin. “Have you not wondered how so many of these swords have suddenly appeared?” he asked the man, motioning to the sack by his feet.

  “As often as I’ve wondered why there have been so many Deshmahne,” Brohmin answered. “And wondered why they built their palace in Shinvi in the first place.”

  Novan nodded. “Shinvi first. Then Coamdon and Voiga. Now the Magi,” he said. Worry crept into his voice as he spoke, though from the tightness to his words it was obvious that the historian tried to keep it out.

  Endric frowned, furrowing his brow. Shinvi. Coamdon. Voiga. There was a connection, he was certain. Novan obviously saw it, leading Brohmin to make it as well. The man glanced over at the wrinkled sack near his feet.