The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy

by M. L. Spencer

  “Welcome to Malikar, Prime Warden.”

  Meiran turned to Quinlan Reis. “Malikar. Where did that name come from?”

  “Well, they couldn’t very well call it Caladorn anymore, now, could they? Not after the Onslaught wiped it off the map. Malikar literally means ‘Cursed Lands.’ That’s where you are, my dear. Everything around you is cursed. The sky. The air. The rocks, the people. Even the gods here are cursed.”

  Meiran stared at him. Cautiously, she opened her mind and formed a tentative link between herself and the unsuspecting darkmage. Through that thin sliver of connection, she could sense Quinlan Reis’ mood. A profound sadness filled him as he spoke, the same sorrow that lent a life-weary texture to his voice. And there was something else there, as well. Something she hadn’t expected to find at all.

  Guilt.

  Guilt infested this man like maggots in an old, rotten corpse.

  Meiran raised her eyebrows in surprise. There was little doubt in her mind that Quinlan Reis had a lot to do with Caladorn’s transformation into Malikar. It was obvious that he felt responsible for the curse that had befallen his homeland. Which made sense, she supposed; the man was a Servant of Xerys. Meiran wondered just how direct a part he had played in that tragedy.

  “Why is it all cursed, Quin?” Meiran pressed, abandoning formality. “Tell me.”

  His eyes narrowed as she stared at him, but he said nothing. Instead, Quin Reis walked toward the volcanic rock that formed the cavern’s thick wall. With a phrase muttered beneath his breath and a casual flip of his hand, the rock before him seemed to dissipate, dissolving into gaping space. In place of the wall, there was now a doorway into cold, black emptiness.

  Into that dim and murky space Quinlan Reis strode ahead, reaching up to secure his hat against a fierce gale of wind.

  Meiran stole after him, the wall of rock solidifying behind her as she exited the chamber. The moment she stepped foot out of the protection of the hillside, the wind seized her hair, whipping it forward into her eyes and tossing it about her face. She brought her hands up, trying to constrain it as she called out to Quin. But either the darkmage didn’t hear or didn’t care. He walked on ahead into the wind, holding his hat against his head, black longcoat billowing.

  Meiran turned, glancing behind. Beyond the small volcanic hill that housed the portal chamber arose an exceptionally tall peak, its crown frosted white with snow. The ice blazed as a strobe of lightning zigzagged down from a thick cloudbank overhead. Below and slightly to the right was another mountain, swaybacked, its ridgelines distinctive and familiar. Meiran knew the names of those two peaks, even if she had only seen them in sketches and read their descriptions in text: Orguleth and Maidenclaw. Infamous landmarks that marked the gateway to the Black Lands. As far as she was aware, no person from the Rhen had ever managed to view those two peaks from this angle. No one who’d lived to tell about it, anyway.

  Meiran was shocked to discover just how black the Black Lands really were. From one horizon to the other stretched a flat plain of barren darkness. The sky was draped with sinister stormclouds, just as dark as the earth they eclipsed. Meiran’s eyes went wide, her jaw going slack at the sight of forked streaks of lightning jabbing down in every direction from the sky.

  “Mother of the gods,” she whispered.

  Ahead, Quin Reis stopped to smirk. “What did you expect, Prime Warden? It’s called the Black Lands for a reason.”

  Meiran blinked at him, still groping with the magnitude of devastation that surrounded her. She whispered, “Where are we going?”

  Quin gestured ahead with a finger. “To the north.”

  “How far to the north?”

  “Far enough to get to know each other a little better.” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “After you, darling.”

  A harsh gust of wind whipped at her dress as Meiran strode past him into the night. The air was chill and miserable, reeking of sulphur and ash. Ahead of them, glowing magma spilled down the steep sides of a cinder cone in slow-creeping rivulets.

  “Where are we?” she asked, staring around at the frozen, sterile wastes that stretched expansively to the far horizons.

  “Skara,” Quin responded. “Well, it used to be called Skara. Now they call it Ishara, but it’s the same damn place. The town’s up ahead. We can hold up there for the night before moving on in the morning.”

  “There are actually towns here? With people?” Meiran was surprised.

  Quin fixed her with a stunned expression. He shook his head slowly in amazement. “Yes, Prime Warden. There are towns here. With people, even. What were you expecting? A race of savage hordes wandering the open wastes, feeding off the remains of their own dead?”

  Meiran sighed. “I’m sorry, Quinlan. A thousand years of warfare does tend to breed a seed or two of resentment.”

  The darkmage cracked a loathsome grin. “A seed or two, I could understand. But you act as though we’re not too far removed from animals. I can assure you, we’re far beyond that. A thousand years of darkness is a brutal penance, but it does make for a resilient population. Anyone unworthy of survival has no chance to endure. In the Black Lands, only the strongest and most resourceful survive. The weak and ill-equipped have long since perished. You know, Prime Warden, I do think the people of Malikar may surprise you more than you think.”

  There was very little talking after that; the ice-chill gale sapped Meiran’s strength, leeching it right out of her. They trudged on against the wind into the endless shadows of the hostile wastes. To the left, the cinder cone belched a thick spew of bright orange magma. A glowing river of lava meandered toward their path, spanned by a narrow arch of volcanic rock. Meiran followed Quin up and over that treacherous bridge.

  After perhaps an hour of walking, a diffuse white glow appeared on the northern horizon. Quin angled toward it, holding his hat with his hand. The wind still labored against their progress, struggling to impede their every step. Meiran walked leaning forward, her arms hugging her chest. Her fingers were numb, her body shivering violently.

  “What is that?” she called to Quin, indicating the bright horizon with a nod.

  “The lightfields of Ishara,” Quin informed her.

  Meiran did not press him to elaborate. He didn’t look as though he cared to and, besides, she didn’t have the energy. Up ahead a creaking vertical windmill spun violently around its axis in the gusting wind. It was missing more than a few steel blades, like a smile that lacked enough teeth to sustain it.

  “Ah. We must be getting close to civilization,” her darkmage companion muttered.

  Meiran’s gaze lingered on the windmill as they passed, wondering where the people were who tended the mechanism. She didn’t have long to wonder. Within minutes, a tall wall appeared ahead of their path, built of massive stones. At the sight of it, Quin pulled up, turning back to her with a worried expression on his face.

  “That’s Ishara. In just a few minutes, we’ll be walking through the town gate. From this point on, I want you to keep your mouth shut and let me do all the talking. Some people still speak Rhenic here, or, rather, a version of it. But your accent would take a fair amount of explaining. Especially if someone gets a glimpse of those chains on your wrists. If anyone sees those, you’ll be lucky if you don’t end up skewered in a bonfire. Do you understand, Prime Warden? From here on out, you’re mute.”

  Meiran nodded. She had no desire to be identified. She pulled the long sleeves of her gown down lower over her hands, making certain the marks of the chains on her wrists were well and truly covered.

  “What is my name going to be?”

  Quinlan Reis glanced at her sideways. “What?”

  “My name,” she insisted. “You can’t call me Meiran Withersby.”

  He shrugged. “You can still be Meiran. It’s a common enough name, even here.”

  “Meiran what?”

  “There’s no family names here. We use different conventions.” He frowned. But then he smiled
, amusement glimmering in his eyes. “We’ll tell everyone you’re my wife. It’s the best way to avoid uncomfortable questions.”

  Meiran’s mouth fell open as shocked anger kindled in her eyes. But Quin held up his hand, halting her protest.

  “Listen, darling. Try not to get too excited; you’re really not my type. I prefer my women more...affable.” He supplied a wry grin. “It’s just the best way to keep attention off of you and onto me. As my wife, you’ll be all but invisible. But if I bring an available young woman into a border town like Ishara, I’ll be fighting every man to the death. I very much doubt you’d want that kind of attention. Am I correct, Prime Warden?”

  “No,” Meiran was forced to admit. “I don’t.”

  Quin shot her a sardonic grin. “Good. Then we’re in agreement. Let’s go, my dear.”

  To her horror, Quin caught her by the hand, pulling her in familiarly close. He kept his eyes off her, at least. Arm in arm, they strolled toward Ishara’s fortified outer wall, toward a wide opening that appeared to serve as the town gate.

  There, Meiran found herself confronted by the first man of the Enemy she had ever seen.

  A stationed guardsman stood to the side of the entrance, surveying their approach. Like Quin, his skin was olive, his dark hair thick and lustrous. A long nose, thin and proudly arched, lent dignity to his face. The guard was dressed in a thick gray tunic over a lean and muscular frame. He wore an iron breastplate and carried a spear in one hand, a round shield at his back. The guard glared at them as they approached, the expression on his face openly hostile.

  Quin walked right up to the man, holding his hat against the wind. “Ranu kadreesh,” he shouted loud enough to be heard over the gale. As the guard glowered at him in silence, Quin launched into a harsh-sounding string of words that Meiran had no hope of comprehending.

  By the time Quin was finished speaking, the guardsman was on his belly on the ground in front of Quin, folded over his knees in the dirt. The darkmage waved his hand in the air over the man’s head in a gesture that looked something like a benediction or blessing.

  He turned back with a smile, inquiring of Meiran, “Well, then. Shall we, my dear?”

  He took her again by the arm, guiding Meiran through the gate and leaving the guardsman lowered in the dirt.

  Meiran started to speak but was instantly halted by a shake of Quin’s head. Turning, she caught sight of scattered villagers scurrying through the dark and narrow streets. The town stank of coal smoke, mud, and human waste. Some people carried baskets that dangled from yokes worn over their shoulders or pushed carts loaded with goods. There was smoke everywhere. No one looked as though they’d had much to eat in a very long time.

  Meiran glanced down and saw that Quin was walking in a pool of magelight that swirled about the ground at his feet. Those who were moving toward them stopped, often mid-stride, when they saw that glowing mist. Men and women bowed forward before backing deferentially away, clearing a path for them. It was obvious they had a good understanding of Quin’s nature and were certain of his status in their society. Taking Meiran’s hand in his, the darkmage led her toward the center of town. Quin’s glowing mist roamed ahead of them like vaporous wisps of dark-red flame.

  “The magelight marks me as a Servant of Xerys,” he explained under his breath. “Their Lightweavers don’t have the energy to waste on such indulgence. Nor can they produce anything close to this saturation of color.”

  Meiran frowned, not fully understanding what Quin was trying to say. Up ahead, she noticed a large group of people gathered at the base of a terraced structure. Meiran glanced at Quin with a questioning look.

  “The Temple of Xerys,” he informed her.

  Meiran’s eyes widened. They walked toward the temple, striding through the glow of Quin’s magelight. The people in the back of the crowd took notice of them first, drawing back out of their way. The crowd seemed to ripple as it opened up before them, folding back to clear a path ahead of them to the temple steps.

  Meiran glanced over at Quin, noticing that the darkmage did not seem surprised by the crowd’s reaction. Instead, he seemed indifferent to it. She opened a thin link between them, gauging his emotions. To her surprise, she found that Quinlan Reis was a compressed bundle of nerves. She never would have guessed that just by looking at his face. His hand guided her firmly forward at his side as he mounted the temple steps.

  Meiran allowed her gaze to wander toward the gray-columned portico at the top of the highest terrace. There, at the summit of the steps, knelt a trembling and shirtless youth. Tears streaked the boy’s cheeks. Above him a dark-robed man was wielding a long, reed-shaped cane. Meiran gasped, glancing sharply at Quin.

  “Don’t speak,” he growled under his breath.

  Meiran glared at him, eyes full of ire. By the vexed expression on his face, Quin took her meaning. He worked his lips in frustration as they drew up before the cowering boy.

  “Who is responsible for this child?” Quin demanded, glancing around. He repeated the statement in his own language. A dark-robed man stepped forward, hefting a long cane in his hand.

  Meiran knelt down and reached out her hand, resting it gently on the boy’s quivering shoulder as she examined the raised welts on his back. Above her, Quin erupted into a furious dialogue with the boy’s tormentor. Meiran closed her eyes, establishing a link between herself and the child. What she sensed filled her with fury.

  “No!” Quin shouted at her, too late.

  The boy’s wounds were already healed. His eyes rolled back in his head and he fell forward against Meiran’s chest, soundly asleep. She caught him up, enfolding him protectively in her arms as the shouting above her turned abruptly hostile. The next thing she knew, Quin was tugging at her arm, trying to get her to follow after him. She fought back, wrestling with him for control of her own hand.

  “We need to go, wife,” he rebuked her acidly.

  Meiran couldn’t bring herself to leave the child behind. She refused to budge, clutching the boy fiercely against her chest.

  “He’s a criminal,” Quin insisted. “He stole coin from the temple coffers!”

  The boy’s protruding ribs and sunken cheeks were explanation enough for Meiran. She glared at Quin, refusing him with her eyes.

  Realizing his quandary, Quinlan Reis licked his lips, scowling in frustration. Behind him, two priests of Xerys were approaching. They turned and barked at their companions in their guttural language. All of the men gathered on the temple steps withdrew to the side, appearing to confer. Quin remained, standing protectively over Meiran, feet spread apart in the semblance of a fighting stance.

  At last, the small node of men seemed to reach some kind of agreement. They broke apart, the oldest priest striding toward Quin, head bowed in deference. Staring at the ground, he mumbled something to the darkmage. A short conversation ensued. Meiran listened hard, trying her best to pick out as many words as she could.

  At last, Quin Reis seemed satisfied. “We’ve reached an accord,” he told her softly. “You can relax, now.”

  She glared up at him, skeptical.

  “The temple priests are displeased,” he explained. “Although the boy’s punishment was delivered, your healing interfered with the impact of the lesson. I have managed to convince them to accept compensation in lieu of punishing the child further for his crime.”

  Meiran stared up at him, eyes questioning.

  He elaborated, “The priests initially wanted you to bear the penalty for the boy’s crime of theft. I explained to them that, as my wife, there was no chance in hell that I’d be allowing that. So they have asked me to bear the child’s punishment in your stead.”

  Meiran gaped up at him, jaw dropping.

  “I have decided to accept their offer. It is a matter of sharaq, what we call honor. All I ask is that you stay here, keep your mouth shut, and don’t intervene.”

  Stunned, Meiran watched as Quin promptly removed his hat, thrusting it into her keeping. Then h
e reached up and wriggled out of his black longcoat and cotton tunic. He folded both garments primly and set them aside on the ground. Startled, Meiran gazed up at the man’s naked torso, appalled by the sight. Quinlan Reis was emaciated, his angular bones jutting against his tight and sallow skin.

  “You don’t have to stare,” he admonished her, turning away. “Even here, amongst us uncivilized barbarians, it’s considered quite rude.”

  He lowered himself to his knees in the place the boy had occupied at the top of the temple steps. To Meiran’s horror, the eldest priest stepped forward, wielding a thin rattan cane that was longer than his arm. He lifted the cane up high in the air, bringing it down forcefully across the darkmage’s back with a shocking crack.

  Quin winced, jaw clenching in pain.

  Meiran brought her hand up, covering her mouth in revulsion as she reflexively squeezed the unconscious boy tighter against her chest.

  The cane was brought down again, scoring another mark. And another. The cane rose and fell several more times, cracking sharply each time it scored another welt across Quin’s bare flesh. He suffered in silence, eyes squeezed shut, fists clenched against his sides. Meiran counted: ten lashes were delivered in all. The last one left Quin bowed forward over his knees. The robed priest handed the cane off to a man behind him, at last nodding in satisfaction before stepping away.

  Meiran was shaking by the time it was done, horrified by the shocking brutality she had just been forced to witness. She remained where she was, cradling the unconscious boy against her, as the crowd at the base of the steps slowly began to disperse. Minutes crept by. At last, she realized that the priests had retreated. They were finally alone on the temple steps.

  “Are you all right?” she whispered to Quin.

  He nodded, eyes squeezed closed. He hadn’t moved from the spot where they’d left him. His back was crisscrossed with raised welts. A couple of the stripes had parted his skin, penetrating into the deep tissue beneath. The priests had not gone easy on him, despite his status. Perhaps they had been even harsher on him because of it.