The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy

by M. L. Spencer

  Darien realized now the magnitude of the injury he’d committed when he had chosen to lift Naia’s veil. He hadn’t thought the decision through. He had let his emotions rule him in a moment of vulnerability, and now he was paying the price.

  At least he could give her the answer she wanted. He’d told Kyel once that sometimes it felt as though he were still falling from the cliff. He thought he had finally found someone to pull him back from the edge, another miracle like the Bird Man. He knew better, now.

  What had happened last night had been the wrong place, the wrong time. The wrong person. He couldn’t expect Naia to save him from the cliff’s edge. He couldn’t risk the real possibility he might pull her over with him.

  He loved her too much for that.

  Again, he was reminded of the ancient Bird Man who had saved his life. Birds are smart, the old man had said. They always know when it’s time to fly.

  It was Naia’s time to fly. Perhaps she had flown already. If not, then he would somehow find the strength to open the door of the cage he had so selfishly placed around her. Then he would say goodbye, stand back, and watch her go.

  A soft pattering noise tapped on the window. Looking up, he saw it was starting to rain. Once, he had loved the sound of the rain. He could remember many nights, lying awake late at night with Meiran in his arms, listening to the sound of the rain splattering against the window in her bedchamber.

  Meiran was another woman he’d simply had no business being with. Why was he always drawn to the very things he shouldn’t have? The only two women he had ever loved were forbidden him. Meiran was dead now, her soul condemned to hell because he had ignored tradition and chosen to take her anyway.

  And now Naia was missing.

  The parallel was too complete, too decisive. The more he thought about it, the more it filled him with dread.

  Naia had left her pack, and her horse was still in the stable. She hadn’t flown. Her coat was still folded neatly on the chair. Outside, there was a downpour. Naia would not be caught out in such weather without her coat. Even if she was furious with him, she was also sensible. She would have returned by now.

  There was only one explanation left, and it made perfect sense. Darien cursed himself. He should have seen this coming. His mother had warned him about the King of Chamsbrey. And, if he were Faukravar, Darien figured he probably would have done the same.

  The King had taken Naia to use as leverage against him. The only question that remained was what he was going to do about it.

  It was really no question at all. One woman he loved had already been sacrificed simply because she’d made the mistake of loving him back. He would be damned if he was going to let that happen a second time.

  Darien paused only long enough to test his blade before slapping the baldric on over his shoulder. He stuffed the white cloak into his pack and started to reach for his gloves. But he drew his hand back instead.

  By taking Naia, the King had made an open declaration of war. And if Faukravar wanted a war, then that was exactly what he was going to get.

  It was It was well past dark by the time he arrived back at Glassenburgh Castle. The rain had finally stopped, but his clothes were soaked through to the skin. It was bitterly cold. Darien shivered as he let go of the wall and dropped to the ground on the other side. It took only the slightest ripple of shadow to elude the watchful eyes of the guards as he walked toward the moat.

  He gathered in the web of shadow that surrounded him and crossed the drawbridge. Once inside the bailey, he pressed himself against the wall and loosened the web. The shadows melted away, dissipating back into the night.

  He removed his pack and sword, setting them down. Drawing out the white cloak, he pulled it on over his shoulders, fixing it in place. When he stepped away from the wall, his clothes were once more fully dry. He reached for the hilt of his sword, checking to make sure that the blade was loose in its scabbard. Then he stalked across the yard toward the castle’s entrance.

  This time, the guards saw him coming. That was the last thing they saw.

  Drawing his blade, Darien sliced out with four quick, successive strokes. As he stepped through the castle’s doorway, he left behind only dead men on the steps. He slammed his blade home, not bothering to wipe the wet sheen of blood from the steel.

  Inside, he found the castle lit for an occasion, the sound of music and ringing laughter coming from a hall to his left. Darien followed the noise of distant applause as he strode down the empty hallway beneath a glowing spread of chandeliers. He moved as if in a dream, eyes loosely focused on the hallway ahead, the sounds of the castle muted and indistinct.

  He turned a corner and vaguely noted the hazy shapes of people spilling in and out of a doorway as if moving through a mist. They were dressed formally, the women in long gowns of silk and velvet, the men in capes and embroidered vests.

  Darien was hardly aware of the press of people around him as he inserted himself into the crowd. He didn’t notice the frowns of the men who stepped back away from him. He couldn’t feel the eyes of the women running over him as he moved through the doorway.

  The fog that glazed his senses abruptly fell away, shattered by the sound of a woman’s scream immediately followed by a ringing shriek of steel.

  Someone had noticed the sword at his back. Or the star. Whichever. It made no difference.

  The music stopped playing as people turned toward the sound of the commotion. All movement in the ballroom ceased as every face turned, fixing solely on him.

  He had walked into a gala.

  At the far end of the hall, a quartet of musicians slowly lowered their instruments as the motion of crossbows being raised drew his attention upward to the gallery.

  Over the heads of the guests, he could see the King seated on a raised dais at the far end, flanked by his lackeys. Faukravar’s eyes were dark and coldly seething.

  The cruel look on the King’s face washed away any doubt Darien had left. Provoked to a rage of fury, he stepped forward as the crowd parted before him, opening a clear path between himself and the King.

  He trembled as he strode between the ranks of guests, the cold anger that filled him inflamed by the taunting promise in the King’s malicious glare. He crossed the length of the room, ignoring the threat of the guards coming toward him. He didn’t pause, even as the first man stepped forward to take him.

  The crowd surged back as Darien slid his sword out and drew it downward, parting the flesh of the man all the way from his neck to his crotch.

  He brought his sword around, sliding the steel under the next man’s guard. He kicked the dead man off his blade, watching the body crumble to the floor. Darien stepped over the corpse as the mob surged back from him.

  He closed on the dais as the rest of the guards fell back to protect their King.

  The sound of wails and desperate weeping seemed strangely distant in his ears, as if the crowd behind him was very far away or in another world entirely.

  Eyes only for Faukravar, Darien reached out with his mind and flung the guards away from him, throwing the men backward against the walls with a gust of solid air.

  On the throne, the King glowered down at him as Darien sheathed his sword and mounted the steps to the dais.

  He didn’t slow his pace. Shaking in rage, Darien advanced on Faukravar and backhanded the man across the face.

  The King’s head whiplashed around as the golden circlet of his crown tumbled to the floor and rolled off the dais. Bracing his hand on the back of the throne, Darien clutched the man’s collar and hauled him bodily out of his seat.

  “Where is she?”

  Dumping him back down, Darien simply waited. The King slowly brought a hand up and touched it to the red mark on his cheek, eyes glaring defiance.

  “I thought it expedient to have her detained. If anything happens to me, your lover will suffer the same fate.”

  Darien shook his head. “No. I have neither the time nor the patience to play that
game. Have Naia brought to me here, now, or I swear by the gods I’ll kill you with a thought.”

  His words provoked a stir of movement in the gallery as the crossbows trained at his back adjusted their aim. Faukravar spared a glance at his recovering guards.

  “Your threats grow just as tiring as they are empty. Since you’ve done no real harm here tonight except by the common steel of your blade, I must assume you’ve sworn the Oath of Harmony. There is nothing you can do to touch me with your power.”

  Darien scowled as he raked his sleeve back to expose the angry red scars on his right wrist. He held his arm up before Faukravar’s face, watching the King’s eyes slowly widen. He reached out from within, caressing the man’s mind with the honed edge of his wrath.

  A change came over the King’s face. His cheeks went white, jaw clenching in pain. Trembling, his hands clutched the arms of the throne as he threw his head back, gasping a long and shuddering breath.

  “Release her!” Darien commanded, wrenching Faukravar’s mind.

  The King slumped forward, moaning.

  Darien waited as Faukravar recovered enough to draw himself up again. The defiance in his eyes was gone, replaced by a look of terror.

  Faukravar raised a shaking hand, signaling his men.

  Darien stood back, sweeping his eyes over the diminished crowd. Two men ran out even as more guards spilled into the back of the room. The guests who remained were few and seemed frozen in place, staring with looks of horror in their eyes.

  He stood quietly, arms clasped behind his back, as long minutes dragged by. Gradually, the pulsing careen of his heart returned to normal, the rage that consumed him slowly dissipating.

  He stabbed a glance over his shoulder at the King. “If she’s suffered any harm, you truly will wish it was my brother here instead of me.”

  Faukravar lowered his eyes, either too frightened or too repulsed to meet his gaze.

  Darien’s breath caught as a small contingent of guards swarmed into the ballroom, Naia in their midst. The priestess’ white dress was rumpled, her veil disarrayed. But Naia moved with a stately grace as she seemed to flow toward him through the parted crowd of onlookers.

  Then she saw him.

  A look of dismay formed on her face as she took in his blood-splattered clothes, saw the bodies of the fallen guards that impeded her path. The ashen face of the King, crownless, on his throne.

  Naia stopped in her tracks, her skin paling to a shade just darker than her snowy gown. Darien felt his heart sicken as Naia’s expression defeated him as surely as he had just defeated the King.

  Darien slid the blood-stained cloak from his shoulders, shoving it back into his pack in a crumbled heap. He was exhausted, his head aching as he moved over to a bowl of water on the table. He dipped his hands into it and scrubbed them together violently, the water in the bowl turning a murky shade of red. He shook his hands dry, then walked back to where he’d slung his baldric over the back of a chair. As he reached for it, he felt Naia’s hand on his arm.

  “This morning, I asked you to make a decision.”

  It was the first time she’d spoken since they had left the castle. He drew the baldric on and lifted his pack over his shoulder.

  He said, “In two days, I leave for Orien’s Finger with the King’s army. You won’t be coming with me.”

  She blinked, staring up at him with an injured look. “Why not?”

  There were too many reasons to name. He chose the one that mattered most. “In the past few months, I’ve lost everything I’ve ever cared for. You are the one thing I have left that matters to me at all. I don’t think I could stand it if I lost you too.”

  She raised her hand toward him, reaching up to stroke his face. Darien turned his head away from her touch, drawing back. Then, thinking better of it, he bent and pressed a kiss against her forehead, trailing his hand down the sheer fabric of her veil.

  Solemnly, he whispered, “Goodbye, Naia. Fly free.”

  He moved out into the dim light of the hallway, shutting the door quietly behind him as he left.

  26

  Desperate Measures

  The Pass of Lor-Gamorth was obscured by swells of fog that clung to the flanks of the Shadowspears. From his perch on a ridge overlooking the gorge, Traver could see nothing but the few men that shivered at his side, clustered together for warmth. It was as though the world more than ten paces away didn’t exist. Even the light in the clouds seemed muted to a wraith-like glow.

  With a trembling hand, Traver raised his limp waterskin to his lips, tilting his head back. When nothing came out, he shook the tanned goat’s stomach next to his ear. All he heard was rattling ice. He tossed the waterskin down by his side.

  He could feel Henley’s body shivering, pressed up against him. The Valeman coughed, a wet and rasping noise that made Traver glance sideways at him in concern.

  It was the third day since they had abandoned the keep. Traver wished they were out of the pass. Already, they could have been down from the mountains and out into the light and warmth of the plains below.

  But Garret Proctor had ordered them to do anything they could to slow the Enemy advance. So that’s what they were doing—or trying to do. Traver wondered how much longer they could keep it up. They had already lost a quarter of their number, as much to the relentless cold as to the whispering, black-fletched shafts that fell out of the sky.

  Henley coughed again, and this time Traver could feel the Valeman’s whole body spasm against him.

  The sound of a birdcall drifted out of the stillness of the pass, a low and hollow-sounding whooo-oo. The noise made Traver start, his hand going to the hilt of his sword.

  Men staggered to their feet, eyes darting as they scanned the haze of mist. Traver patted Henley on the back in a gesture of comfort as the Valeman pushed himself to his feet with a grimace. Trudging forward, Traver moved to stand at the edge of the ridge, looking down at the swirling ocean of fog that obscured the approaches.

  Nothing happened for minutes. He started to hope that maybe the birdcall had been a mistake. The appalling silence that choked the Shadowspears remained undisturbed, as complete as the eternal night.

  Then he heard it, softly at first, like the drone of a distant waterfall. As the sound built gradually, Traver could make out the deliberate cadence of it. The noise swelled, became a rumbling quake that shuddered the mountains as it drew ever nearer. Thousands of shod feet moved beneath them.

  Henley’s barked order spurred them into motion.

  Traver crouched beside the pile of boulders at his side and shoved one forward with all his might. The rock’s sharp surface raked against his numb fingers, but he felt no pain as the boulder rolled off the edge of the ridge, tumbling down into the line of advancing infantry below.

  The sounds of commotion and screams echoed above the clamor of Enemy drums as a rain of stone hailed down all along the ridgeline. Bowstrings hummed, and a cloud of arrows parted the mist, arcing into the pass. Volley after volley hissed over the edge.

  Traver gritted his teeth as the numbness in his hands turned into a throbbing ache. But he kept moving, shoving stone after stone down the slope, while the rest of his company labored to do the same. Then another noise rose over the cries of death and panicked screams, drowning out even the sound of the war drums.

  “Fall back!”

  Traver ignored the command long enough to heave one last rock over the slope, then turned and sprinted away, just as a wave of black-armored warriors spilled over the ridge behind him.

  He leaned forward, arms pumping at his sides as he tried to catch up to the men fleeing ahead of him. Whispering death hissed by all around as black-fletched arrows found their marks. In front of him, men were dropped in mid-stride, slumping forward with dark shafts bristling their backs. Traver sprinted for all he was worth.

  It wasn’t fast enough.

  A lance stabbed downward, grazing the side of his cheek. Grabbing for his sword, Traver staggered as a
warhorse wheeled back around in front of him. He could see the shadow of a face beneath the rider’s helm. The lance dropped and angled at his chest, the dark warrior kicking his mount forward to charge again. Traver glanced desperately for any means of escape, but all he could see was the flooding tide of infantry behind him.

  Turning back to the charging horse, he brought his sword up and swept it back over his shoulder. Then he brought the blade down with every last ounce of strength he possessed.

  His arms shuddered from the impact as his sword sheared through the armor on the animal’s neck. The horse went down, tumbling. One of its hooves clipped him in the leg and he fell with it, losing his grip on his sword. The blade flew from his grasp, spinning away as Traver fell to the dirt.

  He started to get up, but for some reason his legs wouldn’t work. He struggled, desperately clawing at the black earth with his hands, but his lower half simply wouldn’t budge. With a frustrated scream, he wrenched his head back far enough to see the twisted form of the dead horse collapsed across his legs.

  He did the only thing he could think of and squirmed up against the belly of the dead animal, tucking his head into the gap between the spread forelegs. Closing his eyes, he prayed to his sweet Lady Luck as the storm broke over him.

  “We can’t take another day of this,” Craig warned, surveying their tattered campsite nestled in the cleft of a ravine. There were no fires, just a few scattered tents, and nothing but scores of men huddled together in tight clusters, shivering against the icy chill of the wind.

  The force commander nodded, his cold eyes looking out at the campsite and seeing none of it. Instead, his eyes were loosely focused on something in the air right in front of him. There was nothing there; there never was. Ever since they’d abandoned the fortress, his gaze was drawn often to something Craig simply couldn’t see. His eyes would wander, sometimes for minutes on end, tracing the empty air in front of his face.