The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy

by M. L. Spencer

Darien glared his hatred at Nashir. It was the only thing he could do, the only defense he had against the sinister demon. He couldn’t even sense the magic field, thanks to Cyrus Krane. The man had severed his connection with the field, and that damper was still in place.

  “Stop provoking him, Nashir.”

  Byron Connel drew up behind Nashir, Myria Anassis at his side. Connel wore the indigo robes of the Lyceum of Bryn Calazar, the talisman Thar’gon swaying from a leather strap affixed to his belt. Darien was relieved the two of them had come to his defense, but not surprised. Connel seemed a man of character, patient and even-tempered. Myria was a stalwart intellectual, kind and sincere.

  Nashir acknowledged Connel with a stiff nod of his chin. He rose to his feet, his eyes still intently focused on Darien. He turned and stalked away, but not without casting a significant glare back over his shoulder. Darien kept his eyes trained on Nashir, not trusting him at all.

  Byron Connel knelt at Darien’s side. “Never lower your guard around Nashir Arman,” the Battlemage cautioned. “He can be … unprincipled. And unpredictable.”

  “I know.” Darien’s attention was still focused on Nashir’s retreating back.

  “Do you?” inquired Myria, hovering over them with arms crossed in front of her. “I don’t know if you appreciate how dangerous he can be.”

  Darien allowed his gaze to wander upward. Gazing into Myria’s face, he assured her, “I can be dangerous too.”

  Myria Anassis shook her head, her long, dark hair swaying like a curtain to her waist. “No. Not like him. You have a conscience. A creature like Nashir does not.”

  Byron Connel adjusted his posture, draping an arm over one knee. “Compared to Nashir, you’re like a child, Darien. He was trained as a weapon from birth. He’s well-schooled in both offensive magic and tactics, and he’s had a thousand years to hone those skills. Your training as a Sentinel was grossly deficient. You wouldn’t last a minute against him.”

  “Then teach me,” Darien challenged.

  Connel grinned, shaking his head. He cast an amused glance up at Myria. “Sorry, but I can’t do that. My duties lie elsewhere, unfortunately. Just remember to watch your back.” He reached out, clapping Darien on the shoulder as he rose to take his leave.

  Myria regarded Darien with a look of sympathy. “I’m sorry. I wish I could be of more help to you.”

  Darien found himself intrigued. “Why?”

  She paused in the action of turning away. She gave a slight shrug. “Because you remind me of someone I once knew.”

  “Who?”

  The look on Myria’s face made it obvious she had not expected either question. “Just a man,” she responded after a moment’s hesitation. “A man who’s been dead for a thousand years.”

  Darien considered her answer carefully. “Did you love him?”

  Myria blinked. Then she frowned. “No. But I did admire him.” Still frowning, she turned and strolled away.

  Darien allowed his gaze to follow the pale texture of her gown that seemed to flare like fire in the torchlight. Like Byron Connel, Myria defied the concept of darkmage he had nurtured so carefully for so very long. He had thought they would prove to be all just like Nashir Arman and Arden Hannah. Sadistic and power-hungry. Potently cruel, like Cyrus Krane. But there seemed to be more than one type of demon. Apparently, there were many shades and gradations of evil. He wondered where on that continuum his own soul would rank.

  At his side, the thanacryst made a noise that sounded almost like purring. Darien moved his hand to its neck, ruffling the course and matted fur. He had been surprised to find out that the demon-hound had once belonged to Nashir. He had offered to return it, but Nashir had wanted nothing to do with his former pet. Darien was grateful; in all the world, the thanacryst was the only friend he seemed to have left.

  He gazed across the chamber at the others going about the business of breaking down their small encampment. His eyes found Azár, the Enemy mage whose action of unsealing the Well of Tears had undone everything Darien had given his life for. Azár was awake and rummaging through her pack. She’d made her bed on the far side of the chamber, as far away from him as she could possibly manage. It was very obvious to Darien that he wasn’t the savior Azár had been anticipating.

  She glanced up and, for the briefest instant, their gaze met. Her eyes narrowed in anger before darting quickly away. Azár was ferocious despite her small size. She was thin and delicate, with ink-black hair that hung in a thick braid all the way down her back. She had a proud and slender nose, smooth bronze skin, and wide, almond-shaped eyes that liked to gleam at him with hatred.

  Darien pushed himself up off the ground and strode away from her toward the doorway. As he walked, he shrugged the baldric of his sword on over his shoulder, letting the scabbard fall down across his back. They were still within the warrens beneath Aerysius, in a chamber somewhere in the levels beneath the Well of Tears. The Servants had used these rooms as a kind of headquarters during their last campaign. There were still plenty of supplies left over from that time: dried food stores, blankets, even weapons. They had lingered there for the past two days: provisioning, formulating plans.

  Darien followed the damp passage ahead toward a narrow rise of stairs, the demon-hound padding along at his side. He wanted to go up that long flight of steps. He desired one last view of the mountainside before he had to leave, just one last glimpse of the foundations of dead Aerysius.

  But it was not meant to be.

  The sound of his name stopped him short. Darien turned, glancing behind down the passageway in the direction he had come from. Zavier Renquist was standing there, lingering in the doorway, face stern and expectant. Darien moved immediately to retrace his steps. Of one thing he was completely certain: Zavier Renquist was a hundred times more dangerous than Nashir could ever be.

  As Darien drew up before him, he ducked his head in silent deference. The ancient Prime Warden reached out and draped an arm over Darien’s shoulders, pulling him in familiarly close. “Let us take our leave,” he uttered in a deep baritone voice. With gentle pressure, he steered Darien back toward the deep bowels of the warrens. Glowing tendrils of magelight appeared at their feet, swirling to illuminate the path ahead. Darien’s shoulders tensed at the feel of Renquist’s hand on his back directing him forward.

  “I thought you’d be interested to know that Quin and Sareen arrived safely in Rothscard,” the Prime Warden said. “Hopefully, all will go well with their embassy. The letter you prepared should help. In the meantime, the hour has come for us to depart and be about our separate responsibilities.”

  His stomach clenched at the thought of the letter Renquist had compelled him to write. Darien had spilled his soul out in ink onto that parchment, knowing how imperative it was that Meiran believed him. If she didn’t, the consequences were too terrible to consider.

  Renquist continued, “Myria told me about Nashir. Be at ease. I’ve spoken with him.”

  Darien nodded his gratitude, his thoughts still on Meiran. He wondered what she must be thinking of him now, after reading that letter. The very thought of her reaction to his news made him feel physically ill with shame.

  It didn’t really matter what Meiran thought of him. In the scheme of things, that was of little consequence. All that mattered was that she believed him. Meiran could despise him for all eternity, so long as her anger kept her and the others alive.

  “I want you to know that I have the highest expectations of you, Darien,” Renquist said as they strode side by side down the dark corridor, glowing mist swirling beneath their feet. “Of all my chosen Servants, you are by far the most powerful and also the most decisive. You don’t shy away from the hard decisions, the kind that keep most men awake at night. You are intelligent, resourceful, and uninhibited. Once you have been properly trained, you will be the greatest Battlemage our world has ever known.”

  Darien muttered, “If you say so, Prime Warden.”

  Zavier Renquist s
topped, taking Darien by the shoulders and turning him to face him. Darien forced himself to look the Prime Warden directly in the eye. It took every scrap of nerve he possessed to confront Renquist’s indomitable stare.

  “I realize this is not easy for you,” the ancient darkmage confided in a gentler tone. “You made the right decision, Darien. You made the choice that was in the best interest of both our peoples. I think, finally, you’re beginning to understand just how imperative our work is here. I have every faith and confidence in your ability to succeed where others have failed.”

  Darien couldn’t help it. He dropped his gaze to the floor under the weight of Renquist’s expectations. “Thank you, Prime Warden.”

  Renquist patted him on the arm. “You’ll do just fine. Now. I’m going to remove your field damper. When I do, you’ll have a choice to make.”

  Darien nodded, still staring at the floor. He understood. Renquist was going to give him back the magic field. When he did, there would be nothing preventing him from lashing out with his ability. But Renquist knew he presented little danger; Darien already had a deep appreciation for the consequences of such a betrayal.

  Nashir had taught him that lesson very well.

  The Prime Warden’s eyes narrowed slightly, his face going rigid in concentration. Then the magic field came flooding headlong into Darien’s mind like a river overwhelming a dam. He closed his eyes and reeled with the thrill of it, savoring the sweet ecstasy he had gone so long without. Darien took a deep breath, cherishing the feeling of comfort and sentiment the magic field inspired in his mind. Then he opened his eyes, conjuring a mist of his own.

  Wondrously, his own magelight appeared at their feet, a shimmering blue glow that mingled with the turbulent vapor Renquist had already summoned.

  “I don’t understand,” he whispered, reveling in the splendor of the cobalt mist, the signature color of the legacy he had surrendered at death. “The Soulstone took my gift. It drained everything from me.”

  Renquist informed him flatly, “You don’t need the gift anymore. You’re not alive.”

  Darien glanced up from the ground, confused and suddenly uncertain. “If I’m not alive, then what am I?”

  Renquist allowed him a sad and fleeting smile, the kind of smile a father might bestow upon a young, wayward son. “You have been remade and brought back into being for a time,” explained the ancient darkmage. “You are clothed in your own flesh only by the will of Xerys. Through the Onslaught, you have access to the magic field. But only for a time.”

  Darien shook his head, spreading his hands out before him. “I don’t understand. I breathe. I hunger. I feel.”

  The Prime Warden dismissed his arguments with a shrug. “You are not alive, Darien, and you would do well to never forget that. You are a Servant of Xerys. A demon. Your soul has given up any chance or hope of salvation. When this brief flirtation with life is over, the best you can hope for is a return to our Master’s dominion. But, should Xerys ever become displeased with the quality of your service, He will exile your spirit into Oblivion. Your soul will be unmade, and you will simply cease to exist. It will be as though you had never been born. There’s no coming back from such a banishment.”

  Darien considered this information, mulling it over, at last nodding his acceptance. He speculated, “Is that what happened to Arden?”

  Renquist nodded. “Yes. That is exactly what happened to Arden.” He started down the passage, compelling Darien forward with a hand on his shoulder.

  “What did Arden do to earn such displeasure from our Master?”

  “She failed,” Renquist responded simply.

  Darien understood. Failure was something their Master had little tolerance for. He was quiet for a long time as he contemplated the idea. He arrived at the conclusion that such a harsh penalty for failure was not as frightening as it first seemed; at least there was another option besides an eternity spent in hell. It was some small comfort knowing that. Darien pondered the notion as he followed Renquist down a flight of long, twisting steps that seemed to descend forever into blackness.

  “Release the magic field,” Renquist commanded. “From here, we walk together in darkness.”

  Darien understood the request. They were descending the long staircase buried deep within the heart of the mountain, the same one he had travelled with Kyel, Swain, and Naia two years before. Somewhere along that stair they would run into the vortex that surrounded Aerysius. He would need to shield his mind from it; the magic field would be inaccessible for a time.

  He was reluctant to release the field’s soothing energies. But he did, allowing them to ebb and drain away. Complete darkness stole in around them. Darien could see nothing, not even the stairs beneath his feet. The pressure of Renquist’s hand on his arm compelled him forward. Together, side by side, they descended the stairs in consummate blackness.

  “What other duties shall you have for me?” Darien wondered into the darkness. He could hear the sound of the thanacryst’s paws padding after them, keeping pace at a distance.

  “Nothing for now,” Renquist’s voice responded. “You have enough on your plate. Attend to Azár and her people. That’s sufficient, for now. We’ll be using the transfer portal beneath Orien’s Finger. It will take us to Bryn Calazar. From there, Azár will lead you westward to the ancestral lands of her people.”

  A cold breeze stirred up from the depths, playing with Darien’s cloak. He shivered. The air wasn’t fresh; the scent was stale, as if it had remained pooled within the mountain for a very long time.

  They traveled together in silence down long flights of stairs broken every so often by the occasional landing. The journey took hours. The stairs led them ever downward, deeper into the mountain’s cold and clammy heart. They paused occasionally to rest in the thick blackness amidst the shadows. Neither man spoke; the descent was taxing, demanding a good deal of concentration.

  Eventually, they reached the bottom of the steps. The stairs leveled off, arriving at a rock wall that marked the entrance to the warrens.

  “Qurfin,” Renquist whispered. A door appeared like a growing crack in the rock wall ahead, yawning open with a silvery glow.

  They stepped out of the mountainside into a pale gray morning. Darien was surprised to find that the other members of their party had already arrived ahead of them. Then he remembered: the stair within the mountain was like the Catacombs, a place where time and distance had little consistency. The other members of their party could have started out much later in the day and yet still arrived at the bottom of the mountain ahead of them.

  He looked to the east, where dawn warmed the horizon beyond the dark frame of the valley walls. The tall pedestal of Orien’s Finger loomed ominously in the center of a horseshoe-shaped canyon. The ground at their feet was blackened, as well as the surrounding cliffs. There was no trace of green, not even a single blade of grass. The entire canyon was charred and scorched. Darien bowed his head, knowing this was his own doing. His intention had been to protect this land. Instead, he had defiled it.

  As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, Azár turned to gaze at him with accusation in her eyes. Just looking at her rattled Darien’s nerves. She hated him, with good reason. The damage he’d inflicted upon the rocks of this canyon was trivial compared to the horrors he’d wrought against Azár’s own people. Thousands of lives torn instantly asunder. Charred remains, blackened to ash. Scattered about the ground and tossed by the wind.

  “Azár,” Renquist called out. “Take Darien ahead to the transfer portal. Meet up with us in Bryn Calazar.”

  The girl nodded, still glaring at Darien with hostile contempt in her eyes. Then, shouldering her cloth pack, she turned and stalked away, crossing the black canyon floor toward the jutting tower of rock.

  Flustered, Darien watched her go.

  “What are you waiting for?” Byron Connel chided mildly, drawing up at Darien’s side. He nodded his head in the direction of Azár. “Better go after her befo
re she leaves you behind.”

  Darien grimaced. He hooked his hand around the leather baldric that crossed his chest and trudged after Azár. He trailed her around the wide base of the rock pillar until, mercifully, she drew to a halt on the far side. There, she stopped with her back to him and moved no further.

  Darien approached her cautiously. She was standing stock-still, facing the orange disk of the rising sun. Darien paused, gazing at her with a questioning look.

  Azár was staring straight ahead, her mouth slack, eyes wide with startled amazement. Her lips quivered. She was trembling all over, he realized, her whole body shaking. Darien took a hesitant step toward her, then another.

  “You’ve never seen the sun before,” he surmised in wonder.

  Azár tensed, her mouth snapping shut at the sound of his voice. She shot a smoldering glare his way. Then she shook her head, looking ashamed.

  Darien chanced another step in her direction. “It can’t hurt you,” he assured her, trying to guess the cause of her reaction.

  She glared at him with searing hatred in her eyes. He could almost visualize the anger bleeding off her skin to saturate the air between them. But then, suddenly, Azár’s expression faltered.

  “What if it falls?” she whispered.

  Darien was mildly shocked by the question. “What makes you think it will fall?”

  “They say that is what happened to my homeland,” Azár explained without looking at him. “They say that the sun fell from the sky and charred the ground.”

  Darien frowned, knowing for a fact that was not what happened. He’d met the man responsible for Caladorn’s demise. The sun was innocent of any such wrongdoing. A gust of wind seized his hair, whipping it forward into his face. Darien reached up, pushing it back out of his eyes.

  “I don’t think that’s going to happen here,” he said.

  Azár fixed him with a cold, lingering stare. “Why not?”

  “Because I won’t let it happen.”

  Her gaze trailed slowly up the length of his body. Her lips curled in distaste, as if she despised everything she saw. “You are a very arrogant man,” she said at last. “And you are also a hypocrite.”