The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy

by M. L. Spencer

  A shudder in the floor beneath him brought Darien’s senses sharply back into focus. He pushed himself off the ground, rising to a crouch as a stab of fear lanced through his body. Another tremor hit, this time big enough to rock the entire structure of the temple.

  Darien watched as everyone in the room surged toward the windows at once. Beyond the glass, he could see that the sky had taken on a pasty green hue. He saw, but did not understand.

  Regaining his feet, he moved toward the others. As he neared the window, Darien saw that the glow came from far below, from the square beside the Hall of the Watchers. A pillar of green energy had erupted from the center of the pavement, shooting straight up into the sky.

  “What is it?” he gasped.

  It was his mother’s voice that answered him, leaden and hollow-sounding. “The Well of Tears has been opened. May the gods have mercy on us all.”

  3

  The Fallen

  Aidan Lauchlin stared at the towering column of energy that thrust upward from the center of the square to stab the skies above Aerysius like a terrible, scintillating lance. The sight of the sickly green pillar filled him with a quivering sense of accomplishment.

  The column of light stabbed into the sky, a potent signal that could be witnessed from as far away as the Black Lands. So vast was its power that the air around it shimmered. Lightning called forth from the clouds forked down to shatter against that terrible spire, wielding the might of the heavens against the vile power of the Netherworld. The very air was charged, the odor of it sickly sweet.

  Aidan breathed in deeply, relishing the scent, savoring the sight of his creation with a reverence akin to rapture as he strode out into the luminous glow of the square. His cloak fluttered behind him as he walked. Against that glowing column, his form looked nothing more than a ghostly black shadow, though one with deadly purpose. His brother’s sword rode at his back, still sheathed in Meiran’s blood. Aidan hadn’t bothered to wipe the blade clean. He was yet hoping to give it back to its owner.

  He walked toward the heart of the square, stopping yet fifty paces away from the brilliant spire of light. He narrowed his eyes, finding it impossible to stare directly at the column. He waited almost casually, hands clasped behind his back, as lurid shadows danced behind him on the pavement. In the distance, the melancholy toll of a single bell rang out across the city. Aidan stared harder at the gateway, silently willing something to happen.

  Eight shapes emerged from the glowing pillar, dark forms spreading out away from the gateway in a widening circle toward the eight points of the compass. Aidan squinted, trying to put features to the three figures approaching his own position. It was impossible at first; the shapes were only moving darkness eclipsed by the brilliant light.

  Gradually, details began to emerge. As they neared, the figures resolved into human shapes that drew slowly out of shadow. The vague features yielded identity only slowly. It was not until the first was standing right in front of him that Aidan was able to put a name to the face no human alive had ever seen.

  Zavier Renquist stopped only feet away, dark eyes considering him with malevolent intensity. The tainted light of the gateway cast harsh shadows across the chiseled angles of his face. He wore his long brown hair pulled back in a manner that exaggerated the cruel effect of his narrow eyes and hawk-like nose. In life, Renquist had been the most distinguished Prime Warden to ever exist, his greatness tempered only by the greatness of his betrayal.

  The histories all gave Renquist almost sole credit for the fall of Bryn Calazar, the ancient capital of Caladorn. It was Renquist’s treachery that had precipitated the fall of Caladorn itself, propelling the northern empire into the darkening spiral that had eventually ended with the complete desecration of the land. In the years after, the name Caladorn had faded, only half-remembered by scholars and the wise. Most people now knew it only as the Black Lands.

  But Zavier Renquist was a thousand years dead. The man now standing before Aidan was one of the Eight Servants of Xerys, God of Chaos and Lord of the Netherworld. In life, Renquist had allied himself with the forces of evil. Upon his death, he had become a true demon.

  Other dark shapes drifted toward him. A man and a woman approached first. The man wore a felt hat and was garbed in a black long coat, though the fabric was tailored in a cut Aidan had never before seen.

  The woman had dark skin and darker hair that flowed down her back to her waist. At her side paced two creatures that looked like enormous black wolfhounds with glowing green eyes, their feet padding silently across the stone.

  Aidan had no idea who the man was. Accounts of the Eight were often muddled and vague. But he knew the woman to be Myria Anassis, an ancient Querer who had sworn her allegiance to Xerys before the fall of Bryn Calazar. Her pets were not mere dogs. They were thanacrysts, creatures that fed solely on the life force of a mage. Aidan had always thought them but a figment of legend.

  More dark shapes approached, moving silently around the turbulent green column. A bearded, red-haired man holding a silver morning star drew up to stand beside Renquist. Aidan took him to be Byron Connel, the Battlemage who had single-handedly destroyed Caladorn’s resistance. The tall, dark-haired man with a red scar bisecting his face must be Cyrus Krane, ancient Prime Warden of Aerysius who had turned rabid.

  Another woman approached with platinum hair that glowed a pasty green in the light of the gateway, a demon-hound jogging along at her side. Her wide, pale eyes lent her a sense of innocence that masked the viciousness of her nature. Aidan was not fooled; Arden Hannah had deceived the entire Assembly of Bryn Calazar, helping Renquist lead them to their doom. There were two others, a man and a woman in dark blue robes, who Aidan did not know. They halted to stand before him with the rest, silently contemplating him in the brilliant glow of the gateway.

  It was Zavier Renquist who addressed him. “Your efforts have been met with gratitude by our Master. He is well-pleased. In exchange for unsealing the Well of Tears, Xerys commits to you the services of the Eight. We are yours to command, until the purpose of our summoning is fulfilled.”

  Aidan couldn’t help the smile that formed on his lips. He was trembling with a pride and pleasure too great to be physically contained. But the distant sound of the tolling bell reminded him that he must not tarry long savoring his success. Time was running short. A greater work lay yet before him, and there was much to do.

  “I command you to help me take Aerysius,” he said.

  Renquist simply nodded, as if the ancient Prime Warden had expected no less.

  “The hour is late, and most of the Masters are still slumbering in their beds in the spire of the Hall. They will only now be stirring from sleep and rushing to heed the warning of the bell. I need your assistance while I use the Circle of Convergence. Hold the doors of the Hall so that my work may progress unimpeded.”

  Arden Hannah’s eyes had been growing wider as Aidan revealed the perfection of his plans. He was certain she recognized the inspiration behind them; Aidan had derived most of his ideas from what he’d read of their own treachery. Arden was gazing at him with approving fascination.

  “Then let us be about it,” Zavier Renquist said, turning away. “Cyrus, I believe your friends might come in handy. Why don’t you bring some along?”

  Cyrus Krane grinned malevolently as Aidan felt an unnerving sensation grip the pit of his stomach. All around the square, pools of shadow emerged from the ground, melting upward to coalesce into black, nebulous shapes that vaguely resembled human forms. Aidan held his breath as he watched the dark forms solidify into a host of necrators akin to the first two he had raised. His bargain with darkness rendered him immune to their influence.

  Most of the necrators glided soundlessly off into the night, slipping away into the shadows of the city. They would be about their own dark business, working their sinister purpose while he accomplished his own in the Hall of the Watchers.

  Aidan made his way around the glowing pillar of light
toward the Hall, the terror of the night gliding silently behind in the wake of his footfalls.

  Darien could only stare at the green column of light challenging the black dome of the heavens. Lightning crackled all around the pillar, stabbing at it from the sky as if all of the gods were assembled together in the clouds, marshaling their greatest might against it. From where he stood on the temple steps, Darien could see the Hall of the Watchers rising behind it in the square. Both the Hall and the arches in front of it were bathed in the same green light. A bell clanged in the distance, the sound of its toll a dire warning.

  He was not alone on the temple steps. His mother stood beside him, staring up at the towering atrocity in the sky. The other mages had gathered around them, all gaping upward.

  The terrible urgency of the spear of light had driven them out into the darkness of the night, the clamor of the warning bell speeding their feet. Until they had halted on the temple steps, frozen by the dazzling abomination in the sky.

  “By all the gods,” Darien heard someone whisper behind him.

  It seemed to him that the gods had little to do with it. Someone had opened the Well of Tears, the ancient portal to the Netherworld that existed somewhere beneath the city―probably right under the square, judging by the location of the column.

  How anyone could do that—why anyone would—was utterly beyond him. It had to have been a mage, one of their own number. Someone Darien probably knew. But a betrayal of such magnitude was unimaginable. He couldn’t think of one person who could possibly harbor that degree of malice inside. It was unthinkable.

  But if the Well of Tears had been unsealed, then the gateway to the Netherworld was open as well. It didn’t matter who had accomplished the act. The malevolent forces of Chaos were now the impetus that drove that towering pillar of energy, thrusting it upward into the sky. Soon, the terror of the night would be unleashed into the heart of Aerysius. As the peal of the warning bell rang out across the darkness, Darien realized his home was under imminent attack.

  “What do we do?” he whispered, the sound of his voice lost somewhere in his throat. He was thinking of Meiran, wondering where she could possibly be.

  “We must reach the Circle.” His mother’s voice was shaking. “It’s the only way. The Circle of Convergence was used once before to seal the Well of Tears. There must be a way to do it again.”

  “The last time the Well was sealed, it was open only in this world,” said Master Finneus Corlan. “That is not the case this time. Before, we confronted but a mere seepage of the Netherworld’s taint. The gateway now stands fully open before us. The Circle of Convergence is not the answer.”

  “Then what is?” the Prime Warden demanded.

  “The Well must be sealed from both sides,” insisted Master Lynnea Nelle. “We must split up. According to A Treatise on the Well of Tears, there is but one way to seal it completely: some of us must descend to the level of the Well and deactivate the rune sequence. Then one of our Grand Masters must enter the gateway itself. It must be someone of at least fourth tier. And it should be a volunteer. The Well demands a sacrifice, and surely it would not be right to compel—”

  “What are you saying?” Emelda snapped, cutting Lynnea off.

  Master Lynnea blinked.

  Finneus placed a soothing hand on Lynnea’s shoulder. “What my esteemed colleague is trying to say, Prime Warden, is that in order to seal the Well of Tears, one of our two Grand Masters will have to enter the gateway. The mending of the seal in the Netherworld requires a sacrifice.”

  Darien glanced from one face to the other as his mother considered this. He had no desire to volunteer. He had experienced the wonder of Transference only minutes before. He’d not even had a chance to test his newfound strength.

  His eyes found Grand Master Tyrius Flynn, who stood gazing up at the tall pillar of light. The man had years of experience and was vastly more prepared to face the challenges that might confront them. Darien felt his heart sink, knowing deep down he would have to be the one to volunteer. It was the only thing that made sense.

  “I’ll go down to the gateway,” Tyrius announced into the night. “The only thing I ask is for a couple of good friends to come along and help me on my way.” He turned to Darien. “And I would also like this one’s promise that he will conduct himself tonight as if the Oath were already upon him. Or, better yet, he should offer the Oath itself, now, instead of waiting.”

  Darien found himself swallowing, unable to look the Grand Master in the eye. The old man had just saved his life, and knew it. What Tyrius was really asking was an easy settlement for any debt Darien might believe he owed him.

  Thinking of it that way made saying the Oath an easy thing, despite his reservations. As Darien uttered the ancient phrases, they seemed to flow out of his mouth of their own accord, requiring no conscious thought. He looked Tyrius in the eyes while he spoke, silently admiring the old man’s iron courage.

  "I swear to live in harmony with all of creation,

  To use my gift with temperance and wisdom;

  Always to heal and never to harm,

  Or my life will be righteously forfeit.”

  Tyrius lay his hand on Darien’s shoulder in a gesture of compassion. Then he departed, taking with him Masters Lynnea and Finneus.

  The downpour had stopped. The night had become crisp and chill, but for the glowing column of energy and the lightning that licked against it. Everything around had taken on its sickly hue, until the entire city looked otherworldly and empty. To Darien, Aerysius resembled what he imagined the Netherworld must look like: devoid of life, light, and color.

  He followed in the wake of the small company that went down from the temple steps. They wound their way across a terrace and out over the narrow arch of a sky bridge that spanned the gap between the terrace and the tower of an adjacent building. As they crossed the bridge, Darien had an unimpeded view of the Hall of the Watchers, lustrous in the reflected light.

  The bridge he stood on suddenly jolted as a tremor passed through the air. It was followed shortly by another. And another. The disturbances in the air were visible, coming at them in expanding, concentric rings with a focus far below in the Hall of the Watchers.

  Darien didn’t need anyone to explain to him what he was witnessing. Aerysius’ Circle of Convergence was being put into play, and with malicious intent. The expanding rings of compressed air were the prelude to a structural resonance.

  Darien felt his whole body shudder every time a wave of energy passed through him. And the waves kept increasing, coming faster and harder, until it was all he could do to remain standing.

  He had to get his mother off the bridge.

  The other mages stood as if rooted, staring down at the disturbances coming from the Hall. Darien pushed his way through them and grabbed his mother by the arm, wrenching her into motion. He could feel the bridge shuddering beneath his feet, the rhythmic vibrations increasing in frequency.

  As he neared the end of the bridge, the whole structure shivered and gave way beneath his feet. Darien threw himself forward, clenching his mother’s arm in a two-handed grip.

  The stone of the bridge crashed down onto the terrace below, Emelda and the others falling with it. Darien spilled onto the floor of a balcony, barely managing to retain his hold on his mother’s arm as her body slapped hard against the side of the building and hung swaying in his grasp.

  Darien pulled, using all the strength he possessed to drag her up and over the edge. Emelda lay there beside him, panting, blank eyes staring vacantly up into the sky.

  The resonance was still driving the air before it as Darien pushed himself to his feet, helping his mother up after him. The swells of air jarred against him, knocking him with the force of breaking ocean waves.

  He staggered, trying to keep his feet under him as the building they stood on swayed with the rhythms of the merciless waves. Emelda almost fell, catching herself against him as Darien struggled to keep them both standing.


  From far below, a loud noise rose from the Hall of the Watchers. The very stones of the ancient structure were starting to sing as they reached their point of breaking. The tone quavered in the air like a grace note with each passing ripple of energy.

  “Oh, by the gods, Darien,” his mother moaned into his chest.

  He held her, staggering, as below the note swelled to a wailing threnody. The Hall shuddered, the air filled with the nerve-grating noise of stone grinding against stone. And then, so very slowly, the spire of the Hall came crashing down. The top caved in first with a gushing blast of dust and debris, the deafening roar of it ripping through the night, trembling the very mountain.

  One wall of the spire was left halfway standing, almost completely obscured by a swirling cloud of dust and leaning precipitously over the dome. Another tremor shook the structure, and the wall leaned over slowly. Then it crumbled, raining enormous chunks of rock down onto the roof of the dome. The Hall of the Watchers imploded violently. Pillars of dust were hurled upward into the gaping sky, illuminated by the lambent glow of the column of power.

  Darien stared open-mouthed at the scene of devastation as if looking into the face of apocalypse. A chilling numbness overcame him, dampening his senses until even sound seemed to fade into obscurity. Timeless seconds crept by, and he was aware of none of them. The only thing he could do was stare out at the billowing clouds of dust as his mind grappled with the enormity of the devastation.

  Aerysius was gone, though most of its structures yet remained standing. But the Hall of the Watchers was the heart of the city, and it had been ripped clean away, excised from the body. Darien didn’t know how many of his brethren had died in the Hall, but he knew with a certainty that it must have been many. No one moved in the ruins of the square.