Soldier Son (The Teralin Sword Book 1)

by D. K. Holmberg

  “This is about teralin?” Endric asked.

  Novan closed his eyes as he nodded.

  Brohmin narrowed his gaze, pursed his lips for a moment, and then reached down to finger the sack. “How long have you known?”

  Novan shook his head. “Not long. It was what Endric said that clarified it for me.”

  Brohmin glanced at him and nodded thoughtfully. “There is more to this than teralin.”

  “I fear there might be,” Novan agreed.

  A deep frown marred Brohmin’s youthful face and he turned back to the fire, staring into the flames and falling silent.

  “What do you know?” Endric finally asked Novan, leaving Brohmin to his thoughts. He felt a certain uneasiness about the man, fearing to disturb him. Something more than the man’s sword prowess could explain it, but a strange darkness seemed to circle about him, nearly an aura that Endric could sense. “You said there were other properties to the metal. What is it the Deshmahne know?”

  “The answer to your question is too complex for me to explain. And I am not convinced the knowledge should be so readily available.” He tapped a finger on his upper lip for a moment, shaking his head. “Long ago, teralin was valued for different reasons. Today it is not common, but more so than it once was. Fewer mines were known, and what existed was nearly priceless. Many studied it, trying to understand its properties.” He sighed. “And wars were fought over it. Over time, knowledge of teralin was lost. That is until the Magi revived it, using it in their ceremonies. To them, it was an interesting ore found in their mountain home. I don’t think they even know the full history of the metal.”

  “And you do?” Endric asked.

  Novan shook his head, his eyebrows lifting as he did. “None in the guild can claim to fully understand that history. Too much has been lost. But there are those who study it still, seeking to understand what made it sought after so long ago. I had not thought the Deshmahne were among them.” His eyes darkened for a moment, his face twisting in brief irritation, nearly anger. “Now it seems that teralin has started another war.”

  The historian looked over at Brohmin. “Make no mistake, son of Dendril, a war has begun. Some have waged it longer than you know, fighting the Deshmahne from their very beginnings. Others are just now joining the fight. The Deshmahne grow stronger. More bold. And they seem to have gained the ancient knowledge of teralin.” Turning back to Endric, he fixed him with an intense stare. “This is a fight that must be won.”

  The historian fell silent, glancing at Brohmin and the sack of swords before standing and walking away. Only the quiet crackling of the flames disturbed the waning night. The sky was nearly gray, light enough to see Novan’s worried face as he left. Brohmin still stared, slack-jawed, looking into the flames. Even then, the darkness around him persisted.

  In the distance, a mournful howl pierced the quiet dawn, echoed by two more voices. The merahl. Their haunted sound reflected the unease he felt at the historian’s words. A chill ran through him. The Deshmahne had not been stopped in the city at all. Destruction might not even have been their true intent. They were after the teralin. The mountain mines were known to hold some of the largest veins of the metal ore. Others were known, but were not as large.

  Coamdon. Voiga.

  Teralin mines scattered throughout those countries held small deposits. Nothing like the Magi possessed, and not enough to attract the attention of the Magi if it were to go missing. Only the priests would be upset when it went missing.

  He wondered where else teralin was found. That would be the next target, he knew. After what he saw tonight, it would take skilled soldiers to even slow the Deshmahne. Stopping them might be nearly impossible.

  There was a presence at his side and he jumped as he looked over. Brohmin stood near him, staring after Novan, an unreadable expression plastered on his dark face. One hand hovered near his sword, his finger anxiously working back and forth.

  “What happens if they’re not stopped?” Endric asked Brohmin.

  The man didn’t look over at him as he answered. When he spoke, his voice was hushed and coarse. “Peace will fail. Many will die.”

  “The priests will not let the Urmahne fail.”

  Brohmin turned to him then. “You think that is their only goal?”

  Endric looked into the man’s blue eyes. A mixture of anger and hopelessness hid in his gaze, and Endric wondered what drove him to fight the Deshmahne. He wondered what else the Deshmahne could want and had opened his mouth to ask when he was interrupted by a sharp sound piercing the night.

  The merahl suddenly howled. Their voices were angry, biting. Endric found that he recognized them and shivered involuntarily.

  They had found groeliin.

  27

  Endric looked over at Brohmin, but he was already moving, grabbing the sack of teralin-forged swords and the saddle for Novan’s horse. Within moments, he was mounted. One hand gripped the reins of the tall stallion, the other squeezed the hilt of his long sword. Darkness framed his face, his furrowed brow twisted in fury.

  Novan stopped him, grabbing the reins before the man could leave the ruins. “This is their fight, Brohmin.”

  Brohmin shook his head and shot a heated glance at the historian. “This must end quickly, Novan. I can help.”

  He turned and glanced toward the south as if hearing something. The furrow to his brow deepened. His hand clutched the hilt of the sword at his side. Darkness seemed to swirl around him. When he looked back at the historian, his eyes were troubled and nearly black.

  Novan closed his eyes and nodded slowly. “You’re right. Of course you are.” He sighed, releasing his grip on the horse. “I fear for you, Brohmin. Fear what this does to you.”

  Brohmin shook his head. “I do what is necessary.”

  “There are none who doubt that. Only the consequences.”

  The man grunted. “The alternatives are worse. You made sure I understood that.” He paused, checking to see that the bundle of swords was secured to the horse. “Now it is your turn to be reminded.”

  Novan narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips, biting back his first response. Then he sighed again. “I still do not like it. But it cannot be helped.” He inhaled, pulling himself up, touching Brohmin on the arm. Some of the darkness around the man faded. When he spoke again, his tone softened. “Be prepared for the questions this brings.”

  Brohmin answered with a single nod, pausing for a moment and cocking his head as if listening, then kicking the horse forward. He disappeared from the ruins quickly, darkness trailing after him like a cloud.

  “I could go with him,” Endric offered when the sound of his leaving faded. “I can fight.” He had strapped the borrowed sword to his waist and found that his hand moved toward it, much like Brohmin’s. For some reason, the idea made him shiver.

  “Not this time,” Novan said. His words were hushed and he stared after Brohmin. He turned to the fire and used a long branch to move the logs within the fire, stirring up the flames. The morning was cool, but Endric suspected it was not the heat the historian desired.

  Long moments passed. They both stared into the flames. He couldn’t help but think of the Deshmahne. They had killed Andril. Attacked his home. And nearly killed him. He shivered, unable to push back the fear the priests had instilled in him. He was unsure he would be able to face them again. Once, he had sworn vengeance.

  His father was right—he was a child. He was just not skilled enough.

  Even Andril had not been skilled enough. What had made Endric think he was different?

  Endric tried to ignore the memories of his brother and the feelings they brought forth. It still twisted his stomach like a knot that wouldn’t loosen, pressing at the pit of his gut. He swallowed again.

  The historian stared into the flames, much like Brohmin had earlier. His face was lined and wrinkled, and his long finger scratched at his chin. Endric wondered briefly what he thought about.

  “What do you fear?” End
ric finally asked. With the way he fidgeted, looking after Brohmin as if waiting for the man to return, the historian’s anxiety was clear.

  Novan stood and leaned on his staff. His face appeared more wrinkled than earlier in the evening. Then, it had been firm, full of purpose. Now, he seemed aged. Even his eyes, which had been clear and bright, seemed dull. The man’s fatigue was evident. Endric wondered how much the fight with the Deshmahne had taken from him. Or was there something more to it?

  “I fear for him,” Novan admitted, closing his eyes.

  “Why? Who is he?”

  “He is the Hunter,” he said, repeating the title he had given him earlier. “There is a toll to what he does. We had thought the price must be paid.” He shook his head. “I am no longer certain.”

  Endric frowned at the comment. “What price does he pay?”

  Novan didn’t answer that question, saying instead, “He cannot be lost. Not yet. Too much depends upon him.”

  Before Endric could ask what he meant, there came a thunder of hooves as a rider approached. Nahrsin rode in on his tall horse, leading another with him. Endric frowned, recognizing it as Shinron’s mount, its dappled hair still stained with its rider’s blood.

  “Historian. Come. It’s not safe here.”

  Novan frowned but climbed quickly into Shinron’s saddle. He reached toward Endric, who hesitated only a moment before grabbing the historian’s arm and sitting behind him. “What is it?” Novan asked.

  Nahrsin shook his head as he turned the horses, leading them quickly out of the ruins. As they passed the outermost rocks, Endric felt a slight chill upon his arms, like a breeze across wet skin, which passed quickly. He glanced back at the Vinriin ruins as they curled around the hillside, the dark stone seeming more jumbled the farther they rode from it and not the orderly piles of rock he had seen within the ruins, and wondered again what that place had been. Nearing the peak of the hillside the ruins settled into, Nahrsin slowed the horses, pointing into the distance.

  Endric saw nothing but shadows. Even the growing dawn, pale sunlight fighting through clouds, couldn’t penetrate the darkness. A dense fog rose from the ground as well, further obscuring what he saw. He frowned, trying to understand what it was that Nahrsin saw that had him worried.

  Novan recognized it, though. His jaw tensed and his broad forehead twitched, almost involuntarily. “How many?”

  Nahrsin shook his head, kicking his horse forward. “Your man didn’t know. He saw them as he rode to join the fight. He thinks a couple dozen.”

  Novan followed, quickly catching the Antrilii. “And you were sent?”

  Nahrsin looked over at him. A curious smile curved his mouth. “Your man fights well.”

  Novan nodded. “He does.”

  Nahrsin responded with a slight lift of his brow and sniffed with a hint of a laugh. “The stories you could tell,” the Antrilii said, shaking his head and scratching at his braided beard. In the early morning light, the smeared paint on his face was more puzzling than intimidating.

  Novan looked over his shoulder, but the hillside would now obscure his view. He closed his eyes a moment, holding his breath as he did, and Endric felt another prickling on his skin as the cool breeze picked up suddenly. Finally Novan sighed and shook his head once, turning back toward Nahrsin and leaning forward slightly in the saddle.

  “What is it?” Endric asked. His heart thumped heavily in his chest and he found his hands had clenched on their own. The historian’s edginess was spreading to him. Nahrsin rode ahead, seemingly immune, his posture relaxed. Only the tight grip on his sword gave him away.

  “Nahrsin was right to get us,” the historian answered.

  He said nothing more. The horses galloped forward, winding down the hillside toward the small valley below. In the distance, he suddenly heard the sharp cry from the merahl and wondered why he had not heard it before now. Their voices pierced the noise of the ride, anger and violence clear in the snarling tone of the howl. Endric felt a growing unease as they rode toward the sound.

  Once in the valley, Novan glanced back. The historian’s eyes narrowed and a deep frown crossed his face before he turned back.

  “Nahrsin. We must ride swiftly now,” Novan said. His voice was calm, but Endric saw Novan’s back stiffen.

  Nahrsin glanced back, flicking his eyes up the slope before nodding and tapping the horse on its flank with his hand. With that, he burst forward. Novan kicked their horse after and they surged forward, galloping now, faster than before, practically flying across the ground. The Antrilii horses were graceful, fast, yet still powerful as they plunged through the tall grass, leaping over as much as they trampled. Endric clung to Novan, afraid that if he let go, the speed would throw him from the horse and he would be left behind.

  Finally, Endric dared to turn and look. What he saw nearly stopped his heart. Unconsciously, he leaned forward, gripping Novan harder than he intended. The historian grunted and their horse surged faster.

  Atop the hill, ringing the ruins—but strangely not entering—were nearly a dozen black-cloaked riders. Endric had no misperception as to what he saw. His heart thumped painfully in his chest as a cold sweat washed over him. He felt a hint of shame in the sudden fear he felt.

  Deshmahne.

  As he watched, more crested the hill and joined the others. Soon the hillside seemed covered with them. Endric didn’t count but knew that Brohmin’s estimate had been accurate. It was hard to tell how many were truly near the ruins; the pale morning light didn’t seem to reach the Deshmahne, almost as if avoiding them. Thick fog swirled around the riders and darkness blurred their features.

  Still, one stood out. He sat, waiting and staring down at them, separate from the others. Light seemed to bend around him so that he was little more than a black smear on the hillside. Darkness and malice radiated from him; Endric felt it even at their distance.

  He shivered and looked away, unable to shake the sense of hopelessness he had felt as he stared at the Deshmahne. It was the same sense he’d had while battling the Deshmahne, only magnified. There was little doubt that he was powerful. He wondered what Andril had felt before dying. Had he known the hopelessness and fear Endric did now? How could he not?

  And if Andril couldn’t withstand the Deshmahne, how could he hope to?

  He shivered again with the thought.

  Nahrsin led them down the shallow valley. The fog was heavier here, but he knew that in the distance, the earth flattened before rising again. A few trees scattered around them, some in clumps nearly big enough to call a grove. Ahead, a larger cluster blocked their path as well, the start of the Trestal Forest marking the upper border of Thealon and Gomald. There was comfort in recognizing some of the surroundings.

  Reaching the spot where the ground flattened, Nahrsin turned them north and they were soon nearly out of view of the Deshmahne. Endric glanced back again. The Deshmahne still sat upon the hillside as if waiting. Cloaked in shadows and fog, they made him more afraid than the fearsome, painted Antrilii ever had.

  His anxiety lessened when they were out of sight. It didn’t completely disappear. “Why so many?” he asked Novan.

  “I don’t know,” the historian said, his words clipped.

  Endric shook his head at the response. The historian seemed to say that when he didn’t want to guess. “But you have an idea.”

  Novan nodded carefully. “That many can have only one purpose.”

  Endric’s gaze drifted up the nearby mountains. They couldn’t be more than a week out from the lower slopes of Vasha.

  Novan glanced back at him but said nothing.

  “Even with the Denraen, that many Deshmahne could tear through the city.”

  Novan nodded.

  “Someone must warn them.”

  Novan glanced back and nodded again. His eyes held a question Endric was not prepared to answer.

  The growing snarls from the merahl told them they were near. Distantly, he heard the sound of swords smacking
into something—like an axe to a tree—and the furious shouts of the Antrilii. Another gentle slope blocked their view. Nahrsin slowed the horses, raising his hand for them to wait as he rode ahead. Novan nodded and pulled the horse to a stop.

  As they did, Endric unsheathed his sword. Novan glanced at him, his mouth turned in a curious expression, but said nothing. Moments passed while waiting for the Antrilii to return, leaving him and Novan in silence. Neither spoke. Endric suspected that their thoughts were the same.

  The approaching Deshmahne were a nearly palpable threat. There was little chance the seven of them—ten with the merahl, and they were injured—could stand against that many Deshmahne. They had barely survived when the numbers were evenly matched.

  Endric didn’t want to think about what would happen if the Deshmahne reached Vasha. The Denraen were skilled—many were excellent swordsmen—but none save his father were as skilled as each of the Antrilii was with the sword. And the Magi wouldn’t fight; the idea went against the core of the Urmahne. He didn’t know if they would resist even in self-interest. Or would they simply turn and run?

  If they did, many would die. Senda. Pendin. His father.

  That last bothered him more than he expected. There was much unsettled between them. He had not considered before now that he had expected their differences to be worked out. Eventually. If the Deshmahne overran the city, that might not be possible.

  The destruction to the Denraen would be much greater than what had happened with his brother. Even the effects of the Deshviili, as destructive as that had been, might pale before what would happen if fifty of the dark priests reached the city. All for access to teralin.

  Endric had never before really liked the metal, his feelings something deep and instinctual. If the Deshmahne somehow used it to gain strength and powers, he liked it even less. And if it had been one of the teralin-forged blades that had taken his brother’s head?

  Hot anger suddenly surged through him with the thought. He felt it like the heat from a forge and struggled to push it back. No one should experience such horror. And if the Denraen didn’t stop the Deshmahne, many more would suffer. Was that not the role of the Denraen—to serve the people, offering protection to those who couldn’t protect themselves? To preserve the peace?