The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy

by M. L. Spencer

  His vision reeled. Forgetting the threat of the bowmen, Darien staggered backward. His mind groped instantly for the field, but of course, there was nothing there. He cursed his own stupidity as his body shook in a furious mixture of revulsion and grief.

  Arden smirked, her eyes wide and sparkling with amusement. She moved gracefully after him, the hem of her dress gliding across the black ground as she closed the distance between them. She was tall for a woman. As she drew up in front of him, her head came almost to the level of his eyes.

  Darien clenched his jaw as she took his hand and pressed it into her own, running her soft fingers over his palm, stroking upward to trace the marks of the chain on his wrist. His gaze darted to the archers on the cliffs. Closing his eyes, he suffered her touch as she leaned into him and whispered in his ear:

  “Before you die, know this: a great host is gathering below Aerysius, waiting to sweep down through the Vale and flood into the North. A similar host is gathering here, in the shadows of Orguleth and Maidenclaw. In three weeks’ time, when the sun rises between the Pointer Stones of Glen Farquist, those two forces will merge as one and topple the walls of Rothscard. This land you have sworn to protect will be desecrated, its people subjugated and destroyed.”

  As she spoke, a shuddering chill slithered over him, starting at his shoulders and working its way down the length of his arms, coiling in the pit of his stomach. He tried to pull away from her, but her hands slid forward and wrapped around his back, drawing him close as she nestled her head against him, gazing into his eyes.

  “But you won’t need to worry about that,” she soothed, smiling reassuringly. “Your worries end here today. My soldiers have brought plenty of wood. They know how much I delight in the sound of a man’s dying screams.”

  Darien shoved her away from him forcefully, taking her by the shoulders and locking his arms to keep her at a distance. Arden stared at him as if wounded, her face darkening to a pout. But her eyes continued to gleam as she shrugged out of his hands and twisted away. She started to walk back in the direction she had come but then hesitated, turning back around as though she had forgotten something.

  “By the way, your Meiran sends her love. I’ve seen her myself, kneeling at the feet of my Master in the Netherworld.”

  Darien collapsed to his knees as all the strength drained out of his body in a flood. He couldn’t endure the vivid image that formed in his mind, provoked by the woman’s malicious statement. It was the image from the dreams that plagued him almost every night, of Meiran staring up at him with the green light of hell in her eyes. An anguished cry tore from his throat as he collapsed the rest of the way to the ground, falling forward and bringing his hands up to cover his face.

  Above him, the sound of Arden’s laughter echoed off the rock walls of the ravine.

  Feeling a hand pat his shoulder, Craig whirled to find himself confronted by Corban Henley. The man had been in the infirmary for two days, but now looked recovered.

  “I can take back over, if you like,” the Valeman offered.

  Craig ran an appraising glance over him before nodding. The men were Henley’s, after all. And from what Craig had witnessed in the last two days, most were coming along. The Valeman did seem to know his business.

  As he strode out of the practice yard, he caught sight of another man walking his way, the young man he’d always taken for a scoundrel. Traver Larsen was a surprise, and also a mystery. Craig had the man pegged as a drunk and a slacker. But the man trained hard. Larsen was actually becoming almost decent with the blade. In time, he might actually be good. Craig hailed him, beckoning.

  “Turning out for practice?” He raised an eyebrow.

  The young man nodded, a lock of hair slipping forward into his face. He pushed it back with a swipe of his hand.

  The captain considered him for a moment and was about to offer him a word of praise when the sound of hoofbeats made him turn. Frowning, he looked in confusion at the black warhorse loping up the trail toward them.

  Empty stirrups bounced at its sides as the Tarkendar halted in front of him, sides heaving, eyes rolling and showing the whites. Craig reached up and gathered the horse’s reins, stepping back to let his gaze rove over the sweat-stained flanks of the gelding. There seemed nothing amiss with the animal, except for the alarming fact that the horse was absent its rider.

  Instantly, Craig was in motion. Jumping on the gelding’s back, he wheeled the animal around and kicked his boots into its sides. Without hesitation, the courageous destrier broke into a gallop, angling back over the hill in the direction of the paddock.

  Craig pulled the horse up next to the fence, his breath now coming in gasps from the grip of panic that seized him. He tore his eyes from horse to horse, dreading what he would find.

  Just as he’d feared, Royce’s dark stallion was absent from the herd.

  “Darien,” he whispered.

  They had ripped the black cloak from his body, waving it in triumph like a captured banner. Then they’d tied him to a stake. Darien hadn’t even made an effort to struggle as he was bound tightly with corded straps.

  More straps were laced around his chest and waist, fastening him securely. The coarse fibers chafed, as did the hard shaft of wood at his back. Then they had just left him there, lying on his side in the dirt.

  He watched as Enemy soldiers hauled in armloads of wood, piling it in the center of the ravine. He didn’t care. He was past the point of caring. The thought of the fire frightened him, numbing his body and chilling his mind. But that was all.

  He feared the agony of the flames, but death itself would come as only a welcome release. He was tired of the nightmares. His passion for life had died with Meiran. Now, it seemed his very soul had been condemned to hell along with hers.

  He watched as the logs of his pyre were mounded, dismissing the sight with acute indifference. His thoughts drifted to his father, wondering how that brave man had felt staring out at the same grisly scene. Darien found the thought strangely ironic yet comforting all the same. His mother had told him how alike he was to his father. Now, it seemed that parallel would be rendered complete.

  Arden Hannah approached in a graceful sway of silk. Kneeling beside him, she whispered, “It’s time. Are you ready to die?”

  “I was ready a long time ago.”

  Two black-armored soldiers stepped forward, bending down to seize both ends of the stake. He was lifted and carried face-down toward the pile of wood in the center of the ravine. They laid him there beside it, angling the pole so that he had a clear, unobstructed view of what was coming.

  As he watched, two more soldiers stepped forward, brandishing flaming torches that they threw onto the top of the pile. The dry kindling caught instantly, slithering ropes of flame racing over the thirsty fuel with a crackling, rushing hiss. Black smoke wafted upward, sparks drifting through the air like lazy snowflakes. The smell of it was chokingly thick. It stung his eyes as Darien tried to turn his face away from the intensity of the heat.

  He felt soft fingers stroking the back of his head, running tenderly through his hair.

  “Farewell, my sweet.” Arden’s delicate voice was barely audible over the crackling of the flames.

  Then he was moving, the stake shifting as it was lifted upward into the air. He closed his eyes, holding his breath as the vicious heat of the smoke hit him square in the face.

  He tried his best not to scream. He struggled desperately against his bonds as they braced the stake above the flames.

  The heat was too much, too intense. He couldn’t stand it, couldn’t escape it. He felt his flesh starting to sear.

  Darien writhed above the flames, howling in mindless agony.

  Devlin Craig grimaced in dismay as he saw the column of smoke twisting upward in the distance, a black, roiling shadow against the flickering lights of the clouds. He knew instantly where the smoke was coming from and what its presence signified, realizing even before he veered his horse toward it that he
was already too late.

  He rode bareback, as did the rest of the men behind him. He hadn’t wanted to waste the time it would take to saddle up and fetch his gear. He’d rounded up every man from the practice yard who could ride and put them on a horse.

  But as he charged his gray destrier into the mouth of the ravine, he knew that his guess had been wrong. He’d feared Proctor had ordered Royce to slay Darien, trading the Sentinel’s life for a new weapon, one potent enough to give him the slender chance he needed against the Enemy host.

  Royce was Craig’s friend, and Darien’s, as well. But he was also a man enslaved by his commitment to duty. He would do anything Proctor asked of him, even if it meant sacrificing his soul along with the sum of his principles.

  But the wafting column of smoke told Craig he’d been wrong. There was only one possible explanation for it. There simply wasn’t enough wood in all the Shadowspears to kindle that kind of blaze. Only the Enemy could be responsible for such a fire, and there was only one reason they would have built it.

  Craig resisted the impulse to close his eyes as his horse raced into the ravine. Darien Lauchlin had been the truest friend he’d ever had. Craig did not wish to look upon his burning remains.

  The men behind him divided, spreading out, some angling their horses toward the slopes of the ridge, while those who remained formed a wedge behind him.

  And then the fire was before him. He tried not to look at the charred body strapped to the stake, obscured by waves of heat coming off the blaze. Grimacing, Craig directed his mount toward the flames. He had no idea what the warhorse would do, presented with such a directive. But the gray stallion obeyed his command, charging forward as Enemy arrows whistled by him in the air.

  The stallion bravely executed the maneuver taught to it by the horse masters of Southwark, reinforced by years of practice and training. The gray beast reared up as it dove into the fire, lashing out with its forelegs at the stake.

  Craig dove off the horse, rolling away as he hit the ground. All around him, the sounds of fighting echoed through the ravine as his men engaged the Enemy. He forced himself into motion as the smell of cooking horsemeat assaulted his nostrils, blinking against the tears that stung his eyes as he ripped off his cloak and used it to beat the flames from Darien’s body. He collapsed to the ground as his ears were assaulted by the screams of his dying horse.

  Darien lay motionless, still tied to the smoldering stake. His clothes were nothing but ashes, his face blackened and blistered from the heat. Reaching for his knife, Craig sawed at the bonds with trembling hands, hardly able to see through the tears that welled in his eyes.

  He felt at Darien’s neck for a pulse, detecting a flutter of heartbeat. But it was just one. That was all. Craig waited, but another didn’t come. A tingling sensation stirred in the fingers of his hand, like a strange energy that seemed to want to slide up his wrist and into his arm. He almost withdrew his hand. But then he felt another flicker of pulse. The strange energy subsided, drawing back down into his fingertips.

  Without thinking, Craig hefted the mage into his arms, stumbling as he surged forward with only one thought on his mind: he had to get Darien out of the node. He had no idea where the boundary was. Darien had only mentioned it to him once. Oblivious to the sounds of fighting around him, Craig staggered as fast as he could with the weight in his arms down the slope toward the mouth of the ravine. Once there, he collapsed in a heap over Darien’s body.

  He shook him as hard as he could, not caring that he touched scorched and blackened flesh. Charcoal-tatters of cloth came away with his hand. He raised a fist above his head, slamming it down into the mage’s chest. Darien’s head lolled to the side, blistered lips unmoving. Craig brought his fist down again with all his strength. Beneath him, the body jolted gruesomely.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder and spun around, shocked to find himself staring up into the face of the boy mage. Kyel Archer knelt beside him, shaking his head, eyes glistening with tears.

  “Stop,” he pleaded. “Please. Let him go in peace.”

  Craig bowed his head, averting his eyes from Darien’s ruined face. It was wrong. So wrong. He deserved a better death than this. Craig tried to think of a prayer he could say, something to ease his friend’s tortured spirit out of life. His mind groped for words. None came.

  But then he realized he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t sit back and let his best friend go without a fight. With a growl, Craig grabbed Darien by the shoulders, shaking him without mercy.

  “Breathe!”

  He brought his fist down again.

  “Come on, you bastard, breathe! Heal yourself, damn you!”

  Below him, Darien’s blistered lips moved as if to draw breath, but instead produced only a choking gurgle. Then the mage shuddered.

  It was almost like a wave that started at the top of his head, passing over his body to his feet. As Craig stared down incredulously, the charred flesh beneath him whitened, the burnt cloth rewove and mended. Darien’s chest spasmed with a sharp intake of breath, his head arching backward, eyes opening to stare vacantly at the sky. His eyelids dropped as the breath was released, but his chest rose again, assuming its normal rhythm.

  Devlin Craig sat back on his haunches, throwing his head back in an outburst of laughter. At his side, Kyel Archer stared down at the renewed body of the sleeping mage, mouth open wide in disbelief.

  The sounds of the battle unwound behind them. Craig wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw a fleeting glimpse of blue silk disappearing over the ridge.

  15

  No Price Too High

  The dark tower of Greystone Keep rose above a bank of mist like a lone island encased by a gray and swirling sea. The fog broke against its stark walls like ocean swells upon a shoreline, white-capped breakers licking against the gray embattlements before receding back again like a tide. The dark banner at its peak for once hung limp for lack of wind enough to stir it.

  Devlin Craig reached his hand down to soothe the brown warhorse beneath him that had once belonged to Royce. The animal was nervous, unused to the strange weight and scent of its new master. Royce had raised the stallion from a colt. he’d been the only man to ever ride it. But Royce was dead. Craig had buried him with his own hands and piled the rocks atop his grave.

  Ahead of him, Darien pulled his horse up and dismounted, leading the black gelding forward by the reins. Craig followed suit, as did the remainder of the men behind him. Corban Henley drew up beside him, and together the two of them flanked the Sentinel down the path that led across a dip in the ground between ridges. The thick curtain of mist parted before them to reveal the steep stair that led to the fortress above on the cliffs.

  Craig was worried about his friend. Darien had scarcely spoken a word since he’d awakened late the previous night. There was something different about him, a subtle yet significant change. Craig had noticed it immediately, almost from the first moment the mage had opened his eyes. It was as if the shadows that always seemed to move behind his stare had solidified into a tangible obscurity.

  Craig didn’t know what that meant, but he knew he didn’t like it. The Darien that had emerged from the flames was not the same man he’d known. An acute sense of dispassion had fallen over him, shrouding his emotions like a pall. Craig was starting to wonder if part of him really had died in that fire, the part that mattered most.

  Ahead of him, Darien’s muffled footsteps slowed, coming to a stop. Glancing up, Craig saw the reason. It looked as if half the keep had turned out to greet their solemn homecoming, lining the cliffs and the steps, the fortress walls and the high turret. Only, it was not a welcome reception.

  To his dismay, Craig saw that every soldier had a weapon in hand, every shaft and blade trained on their approaching party. Their path was barred by none other than the force commander himself, standing with shoulders squared and feet apart in the middle of the opening to the stairs. Proctor’s face was set in harsh lines of anger mingled with disgust. />
  Darien raised Royce’s bared sword before him like an offering, cradling it in his open palms at a level with his chest. He left his horse behind, crossing the distance between himself and Proctor at a slow and deliberate pace. Craig stayed where he was, transfixed by the scene. Darien stopped before the imposing form of the force commander and, closing his hand around the hilt, wielded the sword in a backwards grip.

  With a sudden surge of force, the Sentinel bent his knees and brought the blade around, driving it point-first into the ground at Proctor’s feet. The sword quivered there as Darien removed his hands from the hilt.

  The force commander stared down at the shivering blade. Darien brushed past him, his shoulder grazing Proctor’s arm roughly as he moved by, the boy mage scurrying after him. Bowmen along the cliffs tracked his movements with their shafts, tracking him as he ascended the rock-hewn steps and entered the keep.

  Craig found himself confronting his superior officer. Garret Proctor brought his gaze up from Royce’s quivering sword to survey him with narrowed eyes, trailing his gaze from his boots to his head, and finally fixing him with a look of molten fury.

  “You betrayed my trust,” Proctor accused.

  Craig shook his head, feeling his anger mounting. “No. You betrayed mine. Royce is dead now because of it, and we came damned close to losing Lauchlin and Archer, both.”

  He frowned, sweeping his eyes over the man in front of him as if looking for a sign. “Do you even have a soul left, or did you sacrifice that too? Tell me, is there no price so high you’re not willing to pay it?”

  “No.” Proctor’s voice was cold as death. “The war we fight is the battle for existence itself. No price is too high, no sacrifice too great. I am willing to do anything it takes to survive. And I expect no less from any man who chooses to follow me.”

  Craig glared at him. Then he tossed his reins to Henley and followed Darien up the stairs. The archers slowly released the tension from their bowstrings, the soldiers lowering their blades.