The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy

by M. L. Spencer

  His imagination was a powerful thing. A powerful, toxic, vindictive thing.

  “You do have a choice, of course,” Nashir whispered, his voice very low. “Deny our Master and cast your soul into Oblivion. If you do this, I promise you, she will feel no further pain.”

  The offer brought some small shred of hope. Darien’s thoughts went sadly to Azár. He’d promised Azár he would help her people. He’d had every intention of following through with that promise. But not at this price. This price was far too high.

  Meiran screamed again, a horrifying shriek that trailed off into wracking sobs. Darien couldn’t stand it any longer. Beneath the sack, he could only envision what they were doing to her. In his mind, he saw the strips of flesh being peeled away from her body, curling like apple rind. The exposed, bloody tissues revealed beneath.

  Nashir’s voice uttered softly, “I wonder how many days it will take to break you? How many screams? You will break … the only question is how much you will let her suffer before you do.”

  Darien drew in a gasping breath, letting it out again in a long, shuddering sob. His entire body shook in violent spasms. Nashir was right. Better to let go now, before Meiran suffered any further. Much better than to wait.

  Maybe, in Oblivion, his soul would finally know peace.

  Isn’t that what Meiran had promised?

  Only in death are we truly free. That’s what she’d told him.

  Anger suffused him at the thought. Anger at Meiran. Meiran, who’d rejected him, despite all he’d suffered to get her back. His death alone hadn’t been good enough for her. Now she wanted his very soul torn to ash.

  He would give her what she wanted. It would be the last damned thing he ever gave her.

  One last time, Darien groped for the Onslaught. This time, the Hellpower responded. It rushed into him, filling him. It gushed through him with the violence of a flood, the fury of a maelstrom. It was as terrible as it was beguiling. It entranced him, bewitched him. Bewildered and comforted him. Darien shivered, not in pain, but with the violent throes of brutal ecstasy.

  He turned his wrath on the iron shackles that held him up. A strange sensation gripped his wrists, like focused rays of sunlight. He could feel a warm wetness slick his skin as the iron melted and ran like searing, molten wax down the length of his arms.

  Darien dropped to the ground, falling forward on his face. He tried to push himself up, but his arms didn’t work. He thrashed on the floor, somehow managing to squirm his head out of the sack. Vision assaulted him, confronting him with a macabre and gruesome scene.

  Nashir’s face, pale, gaped down at him full of horror. Stunned guards ringed the walls of the chamber, a room made all out of jagged rocks, twisted hooks and dangling, rusted chains. Across the room lay Meiran, sprawled, strapped down by thick ropes. Her left arm was stripped of its tissues, completely denuded. He couldn’t see her face.

  Beside her stood a woman wielding a long and gruesome knife. She stood frozen, gaping at Darien as if staring into the face of death, eyes full of revulsion and dismay.

  The room was aglow with a terrible green light. Darien couldn’t tell where the light was coming from. It seemed to be seeping from every crevice all at once, shining through the mortars of the bricks, leaking from the shadows.

  He surged to his feet, glancing desperately to Meiran. Then he looked back to Nashir. Hatred filled his eyes to boiling. He lifted his hands up, forcing his unwilling arms to move just enough to embrace the darkmage like a brother.

  “Impossib—”

  Nashir drew in a sharp, pitiful gasp. Then he blinked. A single drop of blood leaked from the corner of his eye, ran dribbling down his cheek. Blood trickled from his nose, foamed at the corner of his mouth. He staggered backward as strangled, frothing noises rasped deep within his chest.

  Darien stood still, locked in place, watching the grisly scene unfold with acute dispassion. Before him, Nashir lurched, moving awkwardly like a wooden puppet. He collapsed to his knees, bloody froth gurgling from his nostrils.

  Darien knelt beside him, placing his hands on the dying man’s face. There was an awful, crackling noise. Then a smell like grilling meat. Nashir Arman moaned hoarsely, inhumanly. The sound didn’t come from his ruined lungs; it came from the depths of his blackened soul.

  The sound faded out into an airy, whispering hiss that sizzled with misery.

  Satisfied, Darien rose from the ground and turned away.

  He glanced back. There was no corpse. Only a dark stain on the floor where Nashir had fallen, as if his flesh had been seared into the stone. But it was more than that. It wasn’t a stain; it was a shadow. A living shadow that coalesced and rose, solidifying as it drew upward from the ground. A shadow that took on a distinctive man-like shape, one that Darien immediately recognized.

  It was a necrator.

  His very first.

  The woman behind him issued a hysterical, horrified scream. She launched herself at Darien with the knife. He reacted without thinking, trying to bring his hands up to ward her off. But his arms didn’t work fast enough. He dodged back, a second too late. The blade took him in the gut, sinking deep under his ribs all the way to the hilt.

  The guards swept suddenly into motion. They descended from the walls, weapons drawn. One caught Darien, hauling him back away. Another confronted the girl, dispatching her with a sword thrust through the throat.

  Darien gazed down at the woman’s body in shocked dismay, clutching his middle as the guard lowered him to the floor. He dropped the knife and glanced down at his hand, seeing the dark stain that coated it.

  He looked to the necrator that seemed to be floating in the exact center of the chamber, a sinister observer rooted in silence and shadow. Awaiting his command.

  Darien was too shocked to command anything. He could only gaze down at his hand, at the amount of blood, and speculate. One of the soldiers knelt beside him and began tending to his injury, using his own garments to bind and bandage the wound.

  Darien stared up into the man’s face, addled with confusion.

  He nodded at Meiran.

  “Help her first,” he whispered gruffly. He didn’t know how the men would react, whether they would listen to him or not. To his gratitude, they did. Two rose immediately and strode around the periphery of the room toward Meiran, covering her with their own coats as they worked to undo the bonds that held her in place.

  He turned to the guardsman who still lingered over him. “I have to get out of the vortex. Where’s Sayeed?”

  The man shook his head without reply, as if he didn’t understand.

  “Get him,” Darien commanded.

  The soldier nodded once and rose without a word.

  26

  Never to Harm

  Meiran trembled as she struggled into a warm kaftan held out for her by one of the soldiers. The man stood with eyes lowered respectfully to the floor, waiting for her to robe. Her fingers shook so violently that she could hardly work the coat’s fastenings. Her arm blazed with fire from where the flesh had been peeled away. The guard had bandaged up her wounds with his own sash, which helped ease the pain just a little. But the damage was severe; Katarya had managed to strip off every inch of flesh from the underside of Meiran’s forearm, all the way up to the mark of the chain on her wrist.

  She let her eyes roam across the floor, over to where a living shadow hovered in the exact center of the chamber. Just the presence of the necrator filled Meiran with a harrowing sense of dread. She had once been touched by one of hell’s dark minions; she knew the horrors they could inflict. This one seemed even more sinister, somehow. This shade had not been raised from the flesh of innocents. If necrators had souls, this one’s was hopelessly damned.

  Meiran backed away from it as far as she could go, pressing her back up against the rough wall of the chamber. She edged around the periphery, never taking her eyes off the ghastly thing. To her horror, the necrator responded to her movement. It rotated slowly, tracking
her motion. An appalling sense of dread chilled Meiran’s blood.

  She used her fingers to grope along the wall, at last dropping down to her hands and knees. Keeping her eyes on the necrator, she scooted the rest of the way across the floor, clutching her bandaged arm against her chest.

  She knelt at Darien’s side, shaking, trembling with revulsion and dread. The evil shade hovered above them just an arm’s length away, blacker than the deepest abyss, smooth like glass and utterly featureless. It had no eyes, but she didn’t doubt it could sense. She could feel its hunger, its lust for life. Its soulless, yearning desire for her death.

  She gazed down at Darien helplessly. He lay on the floor, a strip of cloth binding his middle. Blood had already begun seeping through the bandages. The wound’s drainage was dark, almost black. Seeing that, Meiran felt numb.

  She could do nothing for him in the vortex.

  She bowed her head, trying hard not to grieve, even though she knew it was better this way. One glance back at the necrator confirmed what she already knew: Darien was far too dangerous to live.

  Sounds in the corridor made her turn. Two Enemy officers staggered forward into the room. They stopped in the doorway, gazing around the chamber with wide and startled eyes, taking in the sight of the necrator and the scene of carnage that confronted them. To their credit, it took the men only seconds to recover.

  One soldier dropped to Meiran’s side, while the other moved off to check on the dead woman. She recognized the man beside her: it was the officer who’d been ordered to the headsman. She didn’t know his name, but he seemed like someone in a position of authority. The man knelt over Darien, shaking him gently.

  “Can you walk?”

  To Meiran’s astonishment, Darien nodded. “I think so.”

  With the man’s aid, Darien rose unstably to his feet. The soldiers moved forward and helped support his weight. Darien clutched his middle with one hand, taking a step forward. He winced in pain.

  “What’s the quickest way out of here?”

  The bearded officer frowned, considering. “We should make use of the boats.”

  “The boats?” Meiran echoed, surprised. She hadn’t seen any boats, not since arriving in the Black Lands.

  The Zakai officer nodded. “Yes. The river is the fastest way.”

  “What’s your name?” Meiran demanded.

  The officer glanced back her way. “I am Sayeed.”

  “Thank you, Sayeed.”

  They left the chamber, the two soldiers supporting Darien between them. Meiran followed after them, glancing back one last time down the passage. The necrator was not following, she realized with a profound sense of relief. She walked behind, watching with a grim sense of inevitability as Darien limped ahead of her. She took note of the dark trail of blood that marked his passage.

  The soldiers might get Darien to the boats, Meiran decided, but they weren’t doing him any kindness. Not with that injury. The best thing they could do would be to find a quiet place where he could rest.

  “Don’t press so hard,” Sayeed admonished. “You’ll just bleed more.”

  Darien nodded, grimacing. The pain was getting worse. Meiran could feel it through the link. Darien limped forward, sweat dribbling down his brow, wetting his hair despite the cold. Only force of will and the strength of the officers kept him on his feet.

  Meiran walked with her eyes lowered, focused on the pitter-patter trail of blood she followed along the ground. She was beginning to grow more and more uncomfortable with what they were doing. It was just as futile as it was cruel.

  As they turned a corner, the bearded officer announced, “We’re almost there.”

  Meiran sighed regretfully. She didn’t want Darien on a boat. She wanted him here, where she had some control.

  The corridor opened up into a natural cavern formed by the passage of water. Meiran breathed in the humidity of the air, staring in wonder at the dark waters that stretched out before them. Lashed to their moors, small wooden boats bobbed up and down on the current.

  The two soldiers helped Darien toward the nearest vessel. Sayeed jumped onto the boat first, steadying it as they helped Darien climb in. They laid him out on the bottom of the boat then turned and beckoned for Meiran.

  Hesitant, she accepted Sayeed’s offered hand, the other man steadying her as her legs spanned the gap between the dock and the bobbing vessel. She dropped immediately down to the boards, trying to position herself as close as she could to the craft’s center of gravity. The small boat rocked treacherously, threatening to spill them over.

  Sayeed seated himself on a cross plank and took up the oars, signaling the other man to cast them off.

  His companion stooped over, unwound the coils, then threw the rope back into the boat. As they drifted out into the river, Sayeed slid the oars into the rowlocks and dipped the blades into the water. He leaned back and, with deep and graceful strokes, began rowing.

  Meiran shivered in the chill breeze that gusted out of the depths of the ice caverns. She scooted herself around, repositioning her body against the gunwale. Darien lay curled on his side on the floor of the boat, arms hugging his middle. He was shivering. Looking down at him, Meiran felt a knot of sadness in her throat. She reached down and felt his skin with her fingers. It was cold and damp, like the flesh of a cadaver.

  “Give me your jacket,” she said. The officer obeyed immediately, releasing the oars and struggling out of his coat. Meiran used it like a blanket to cover Darien, tucking it in around him as much as she could.

  She glanced upward as they emerged from the cavern, noticing great stalactites that spiked down from the ceiling. They gave the cave’s mouth the appearance of a monster grimacing with sharpened teeth. Sayeed put his back into the oars, propelling their little craft across the glass surface of the lake. The waters parted before them easily, their vessel making good headway.

  Meiran’s hand moved to Darien’s head, stroking his hair. She took his hand in hers.

  “How long until we’re out of the vortex?” she asked.

  Sayeed answered without faltering at the oars. “Difficult to say. An hour, maybe two.”

  Meiran didn’t think Darien had an hour left in him. She smoothed back a lock of hair from his face. He was resting comfortably, at least. Not as cold anymore. The wound didn’t throb so very badly.

  He mumbled something she couldn’t make out.

  She bent down to hear him better.

  “Water.”

  Through the link, she could feel his terrible thirst. Even if she had water, Meiran knew better than to give him any. She felt saddened by her decision to withhold such a simple comfort. Saddened, but resolute.

  “I can’t, Darien. I’m sorry.”

  He didn’t ask again. He closed his eyes and faded into restless sleep.

  She held his hand as the lake narrowed into a river around them. Here, the waters didn’t seem quite as black. The wind wasn’t as chill. Overhead, churning clouds clogged the vast expanse of sky.

  They rowed with a strong current that swept them speedily along, racing the angry clouds above. Sayeed’s face was streaked with sweat, his body glistening with perspiration. In the muted light of the clouds, his features seemed jagged, almost surreal.

  They followed the river for minutes, perhaps an hour. Black cliffs rose around them, forming a steep gorge. The night was silent, save for the constant drone of the river.

  “Are we out yet?”

  It took Meiran a moment to comprehend Darien’s words; they were mumbled under his breath. And his breath was very weak. It took another moment to realize what he was trying to ask.

  “No, Darien. Not yet.” She caressed his hand tenderly.

  With her mind walled away, she had no way of actually sensing the presence of the vortex. But she knew it was still there, still mercilessly compressing the currents of the magic field around them. She didn’t dare open her mind to it; the backlash would kill her in a heartbeat.

  And it
really didn’t matter. She had no intention of healing him, anyway.

  Meiran stared down at her wrist, at the emblem of the chain that shimmered coldly in the cloud light. Never to harm.

  She couldn’t end Darien’s life. But there was nothing in the Oath of Harmony that obligated her to preserve it. Meiran searched deeply within herself, realizing she had the strength to let him go.

  She caressed his hand, running her fingers over his skin. He responded to her touch, his fingers trailing once over hers.

  He was quiet after that. So was the river. It wound like a graceful ribbon down through the center of the gorge. The only sound in the darkness was the constant creak of the oars, the gentle lapping of water against the hull of the boat. Sayeed had fallen into a steady pattern with his rowing. The boat rocked them gently.

  Minutes passed. Another hour, perhaps. The whole while, Darien was very still. Meiran was starting to wonder if he hadn’t already slipped away, left her behind without her knowing.

  With cold apprehension, she lifted the coat.

  His bandages were soaked in blood. There was so much of it. The blood dripped thickly, pooling on the boards on the bottom of the boat. Meiran lowered the coat, tucking it back into place. She gazed up at the sky, studying the clouds.

  More minutes passed. The oars creaked. The river rocked them in its arms.

  Meiran frowned, recognizing one of the hills across the river. They must not be too far away from Qul. She hadn’t realized they’d come so far so quickly.

  “Are we out yet?”

  The sound of Darien’s voice unsettled her. Meiran flinched. She didn’t want to answer. Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to lie to him.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “We’re out.”

  His eyelids fluttered open. He gazed up at her with the same gold-green eyes she’d fallen in love with. His face was haggard, pale. Exhausted.

  “Will you … release the damper on me?”