The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy

by M. L. Spencer

  This belt is yours by rights. It belonged to your ancestor, Braden son of Marthax, Warlord of the Omeyan Clan of the Dur ul-Jenn. It is the last of its kind in the world, just as you and I are the last of our kind. Wear it with pride in memory of my brother.

  –Quin

  Darien stared down at the worn leather in his hands, his eyes roving over the golden buckle that depicted the image of a horse bent backwards at an impossible angle. The belt itself was decorated with many hooks and thongs, from which an assortment of implements could be hung.

  Before, he had lacked the conviction to put it on.

  Now, Darien lowered the scroll and drew the belt around his waist, fastening it securely with the gold buckle. He stared down at himself, at the black wrap he wore about his hips tied with gold tassels. The warbelt complemented the wrap, adding a martial quality to the ensemble. Rubbing the weeks’ worth of stubble on his chin, Darien wondered if any of his old friends would recognize him if they saw him. He didn’t think he looked much like a man of the Rhen any longer. He’d been away too long.

  His eyes found the demon-hound slumbering in a corner by the hearth. He made his way to the bed, fingers working at the buttons of his shirt. He let the soft fabric fall to the floor and sat down on the edge of the bed, leaning forward.

  The thanacryst startled awake, raising its head. A low, menacing growl rumbled deep in its throat. The hound’s green eyes narrowed to slits, its attention rapt upon the door.

  Darien looked up, his body stiffening.

  There was no knock. The door burst open, admitting Sayeed. Darien opened his mouth, but then he saw the look on the officer’s face.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Lord,” the man blurted, his face pale. He lowered his head to stare intensely at the ground. “You have a visitor….”

  Before Darien could react, another man strode into the bedchamber.

  Darien froze. He’d been expecting this for some time. He was just surprised it had taken them so long. His eyes locked on Sayeed’s. “You may go.”

  The officer bowed formally before backing out of the room. He pulled the door closed behind him.

  Darien raised his eyes to Byron Connel. With his hand, he indicated the nearest chair. “Please. Have a seat.”

  But the ancient Battlemage shook his head. Connel’s face was as hard as chiseled stone. “I didn’t come for conversation. I’m here to formally charge you with the murder of Nashir Arman.”

  3

  An Orlian Knot

  Quinlan Reis scowled as he stalked toward the town center of Ishara. The air was damnably cold, made worse by a penetrating mist that clung close to the ground. It had rained earlier, and the streets oozed with muck. Quin trudged through mud that stuck to the bottom of his shoes, making suctioning noises as he walked. Every scrap of clothing he wore was soaked through. He shivered and rubbed his hands together for warmth, which didn’t do much good; his gloves were just as saturated as the rest of him.

  He was miserable. For some reason, luck just never seemed to be on his side. It avoided him completely, like a discarded lover. He’d thought that swearing his soul to the God of Chaos would have improved his lot. Occult intervention or something of the sort. But no; even Xerys had no patience for him, it seemed. He’d used the transfer portal system to journey as far south as Meridan in the Rhen. But that was as far as the crippled system went. Without the Aerysius hub, it was impossible to transfer directly to the Isle of Titherry. Which left Quin with only two options: abandon his quest or hire a ship.

  He wasn’t about to hire a ship. So he’d given up.

  Quin had returned to the Black Lands to bide his time. He had no plans for going forward. His strategy was recklessly simple: avoid Renquist. He didn’t wish to be taken to task for the murder of Sareen, even though he knew he had it coming. Other than making himself as inconspicuous as possible, he had nothing on his plate. Which surprisingly left him with a scarcity of options.

  Up ahead, the sounds of commotion came from the square around Ishara’s temple. Quin’s first inclination was to turn down the next alley and disappear into the shadows of the night; his last visit to the temple had left visible scars. But curiosity got the better of him. Instead of doing the sensible thing, Quin set his feet in the direction of the town’s ziggurat.

  The streets of Ishara were deserted. Ramshackle households bordered the avenues, surrounded by mud-brick walls. Clouds of soot belched from stone chimneys, thickening the air with oily grit. Quin reached into his pocket and pulled out a scarf, holding it over his mouth to make it easier to breathe. He despised the filth that polluted the air, even though he knew the burning of coal was necessary. After all, it had been his own actions that had created the situation.

  What he found at the center of town was a now-familiar sight: scores of people surrounding the base of the temple, waving and shouting, jostling each other as they vied for a better view. Some held flaming torches; others brandished weapons in the air. It was a scene of civil chaos and disorder that seemed to be the hallmark of the Black Lands. Just the same as the last time he’d passed through this wretched town—a town all the gods, save one, had abandoned.

  A few people on the margin of the crowd turned to mark Quin’s passage. Seeing the red mist that trailed at his feet, the eyes of the villagers widened in recognition. Their jostling ceased, their gazes lowering to the ground. A few men fell to their knees, bowing low at Quin’s approach. It was like a wave that passed through the crowd, starting at the back and rippling toward the front, leaving only a lingering silence in its wake. A path opened up before him as the crowd drew back, yielding an approach to the temple steps.

  Most of Ishara’s citizens already knew his face. But even more familiar was the color of his magelight. No one moved to confront him as Quinlan Reis mounted the ramp of steps that led to the topmost terrace of the ziggurat. Above, a group of men dressed in crimson robes waited to receive him. The square was motionless; the frothing turmoil had stilled.

  As he crested the top of the steps, anxiety spread like a toxin through Quin’s body, awakening every nerve. He tried to shrug it off. Maybe it was just the memory of the beating he’d taken at the hands of these same men, when he’d entered Ishara with Meiran. But it seemed to be more than just that. Something much more pressing.

  For some reason he couldn’t explain, Quin felt a haunting sense of urgency.

  He paused to consider the crowd of men gathered at the top of the terrace. He let his gaze sweep over them, lingering on each face in turn. The men in red cloth were priests of Xerys. They were assembled in two tight clusters on either side of the stairs. It seemed they had amassed quite an impressive stack of coal bricks in the center of a raised platform. Sprigs of herbs and flowers had been laid over the pile the coal, along with the branches of fruit trees. As though the priests had assembled the makings of a spectacular feast.

  Only, it wasn’t an animal they were preparing to roast.

  Quin’s eyes fell upon the focus of the priests’ attentions, his throat going tight.

  This wasn’t a feast. It was a cremation.

  Before the mounded stack of coal lay the body of a dead woman. At least he assumed she was dead, judging by the amount of blood still leaking from the carcass. The strange thing was, it all looked so very recent. As if she’d been beaten to death right there, at the top of the temple steps. She hadn’t died somewhere else, her body dragged here for a funeral pyre. Blood was everywhere, splattered across the gray stone of the temple.

  Quin’s stomach clenched in anger. He took a step forward, his eyes falling on the dead woman’s outstretched arm. The skin of the arm was papery white, a bright contrast to the puddles of blood pooled on the stone.

  Then Quin saw the scars on that pale wrist. And he knew.

  Not a cremation. An immolation.

  The woman wasn’t dead.

  He tugged hard at the Onslaught, filling his gaunt body with all the power of hell he could muster, all the vile energ
y he could withstand. A terrible green light suffused his flesh, surrounding his body like an insidious aura. The priests of Xerys backed away, eyes filled with awe and fear. Quin trudged forward, glowering at them from beneath the shadow of his hat.

  “I’ll take it from here.” He spoke softly, dangerously. It was a tone he hadn’t used in years.

  The priests did not argue.

  Quin knelt down beside the bloodied form of the woman. He lay a hand on her forehead and closed his eyes. Anger flowed into him along with knowledge. The young woman at his feet had been beaten within an inch of her life. The priests had cruelly left her that narrow inch. They were going to use it to feed her soul to their vengeful god. Which was, of course, his own vengeful god. Quin didn’t stop to consider the ramifications of that fact. He just acted.

  He flooded the woman’s body with healing energies, working quickly but efficiently to repair the damage she had sustained. Then he lifted her dead weight into his arms. The temple priests made no attempt to deny him. They knew better.

  Carrying the unconscious woman, Quin turned and made his way down the long flight of steps. When he reached the level of the street, the parted crowd drew back from him even further, looks of fear on the face of every person gathered in the square.

  Quin said nothing as he strode back through Ishara’s empty streets, the unconscious woman in his arms. He kept walking until he reached the town gate. Even then, he didn’t stop. He walked straight out into the thick nothingness of the waste. He didn’t look back. He didn’t pause. He just kept walking.

  The woman slept for two days.

  Quin had built a campsite beside the hill that housed Ishara’s transfer portal, tucked away in a deep recess in the cliffside. There, he’d built a small fire, just enough to take the edge off the chill. He would have preferred to camp inside the portal chamber itself, but he didn’t dare take the risk. He still didn’t know if Renquist had figured out his involvement in Sareen’s death. Quin reckoned it was probably a good bet he had.

  He hunkered down beside the fire, rubbing his hands together. He shot a glance at the woman sleeping next to him against the cliff face. She was hardly old enough to be called a woman. And cleaned up, she was rather quite lovely. She slept with her lips parted, infinite volumes of dark auburn hair surrounding her face. Quin leaned forward, reaching out to adjust the blanket he’d thrown over her.

  She moaned, tossing a bit in her sleep.

  Quin’s eyes fell on the scar on the woman’s wrist. Her right wrist. He stared hard at that cherry-red marking, unable to take his eyes off it. It was dreadful, distinctive in its pattern. He’d seen such scars before. And he knew well what they signified. It was hard, but he finally managed to look away.

  Only to find her staring up at him, wide awake.

  The woman’s eyes were fierce and bright with fear. She thrashed, scooting away from him as far as the rock behind her would allow. She sat there in a tight ball, hands raised defensively as if trying to ward him off.

  Quin shot up a hand. “Relax. You’re safe. I won’t hurt you … I think.”

  The woman glared at him, eyes full of spite and accusation. “Who are you?”

  Her voice was melodic and rich, thickly accented. Moving deliberately slow, Quin removed his hat. Tucking it against his chest, he said, “Grand Master Quinlan Reis of the Order of Arcanists, at your service. I deduce you must be Naia.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “How do you know my name?”

  Quin smiled wanly. “Process of elimination. There are not so many mages left in the Rhen. You’re not Kyel, obviously. And you’re not Meiran—thank all the gods!”

  Her eyes narrowed even more. “What did you do to Meiran?”

  Quin chortled, thrusting his hat back atop his head. “Do to her? Why, absolutely nothing that she didn’t agree to in advance. On the contrary; despite my rather blemished reputation, I can make for rousing company. Really. It’s true, so you don’t have to look at me like that. You just might hurt my feelings.”

  Naia sat up, glaring her ire at him. “I have no desire for your wretched company, and I couldn’t care less about your feelings. Take me to Darien Lauchlin. Immediately.”

  Quin couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m sorry, darling, but Darien isn’t in the mood for any more visits from former sweethearts. He only narrowly survived the last one.”

  The expression on Naia’s face transformed, her ire replaced by a look of concern. “What happened?”

  Quin shrugged, thinking the answer should be obvious. “Meiran did her damnedest to send his soul back to the Netherworld. Fortunately for Darien, I deigned to intervene.”

  The woman’s eyes widened. She had beautiful eyes. They were wide and dark, radiant with the spark of the gift within her.

  Quin said, “As you can imagine, after that, I won’t be letting you anywhere near him.”

  Naia fixed him with a look of disdain. “Then what are you going to do to me?”

  “That depends.” Quin picked up a thin metal rod, using it to prod at the graying coals of the fire. “By the look of your arm, I gather you’ve been forced to make some rather difficult choices lately. Dare I ask?”

  The woman looked away. She folded her arms, refusing to answer.

  Quin cracked a grin. “I seem to have the same effect on every woman I meet. They all end up speechless and appalled.”

  Naia’s eyes widened in shock before they narrowed to smoldering, slivered coals.

  “I killed Sareen,” she growled, leaning back against the rock wall.

  “No. I killed Sareen,” Quin differed astutely.

  “I killed her again.”

  Quin frowned in consternation. He couldn’t believe the woman was actually arguing with him over this. She was turning out to be nearly as infuriating as Meiran. He was starting to get a feel for the kind of woman Darien was drawn to. Come to think of it, the man really did seem to have a penchant for abuse.

  Quin reached up to scratch the side of his face. “This is turning into quite the Orlian knot. Perhaps we should start over. I killed Sareen the night I left Rothscard with Meiran.”

  He waited for Naia to supply her part in the tale. When it became obvious that she wasn’t going to, he raised his hand in a beckoning gesture. “It’s your turn. That’s the way this works, you see. I talk. Then you talk. We take turns.”

  Naia scowled in distaste. But at last she favored him with an explanation. “Kyel and I found Sareen dead. We wished to question her. We wanted to find out where you had taken Meiran. So we did what we could to preserve her body and then later brought her back to life. She tried to kill Kyel … and so I acted. Without thinking, obviously.”

  Quin stared at her for a moment with eyebrows raised, mouth hanging slack. He waited for her to elaborate. When she didn’t, he reached up and rubbed his tired eyes.

  “You do realize that nothing you’re saying makes any type of reasonable sense?”

  “I am making reasonable sense!” Naia snapped. “You’re just too unreasonable to understand it!”

  Quin smiled acidly. “So … it seems you’re not as shy and timid as you would lead me to believe. Which is fine; I can fight fire with fire. I am a demon, you know.” Seeing her expression, he continued in a blander tone, “Perhaps we should back up a bit. Retrace our steps. First, what in the world could possess you to want to question a dead woman?”

  Naia wriggled into a more comfortable position, scooting forward to warm her hands over the fire. She glanced up at him through a lock of spiraling hair, obviously still ruffled. “We had no idea what happened to Meiran. All we knew was that you’d taken her. We thought Sareen might have that information. And we had reason to suspect she would be willing to help us… Since you were the cause of her death, after all.”

  “And you just spontaneously decided to reanimate a corpse?” Quin supplied a weak grin. “And how, may I ask, did you accomplish this?”

  Naia didn’t answer. She sat staring down at her hands, warm
ing her fingers over the flames as though she hadn’t heard him.

  “So, it’s to be the silent treatment?” Quin sighed, resigned. “I seem to receive that from most women I encounter. I don’t have the faintest notion why.” He sagged back with a yawn. “All right, then. Let’s change the subject. Assuming that you did somehow manage to wake the dead, what did Sareen have to say?”

  Naia glanced at him. “She told me you killed her. And she said I was valuable … and that Kyel was not.”

  Quin sucked in a cheek. “How uniquely disturbing. I fear I’m starting to believe you. So, Sareen tried to kill Kyel, and you killed Sareen, which voided your Oath of Harmony… And then you somehow ended up here beside a pile of coal bricks. But that still doesn’t explain how you fled the Rhen.”

  Naia looked down again at the fire without answering. Which was really too bad; out of all the questions he’d asked her, that was the one Quin wanted answered most. He sighed and tossed his hat down in his lap.

  “Well, my dear, it seems I have no choice but to lay it all out for you. Let me tell you a bit about my situation. And what you can do to help.” Leaning forward, he made sure his eyes captured her attention. “If I don’t find a way to end this darkness, there’s going to be a war. And not just any war. A war unlike anything we’ve ever seen in all of history. The land will run with rivers of blood and the fallen will outnumber the living.”

  He waited, watching her eyes as the information seeped through her skin.

  He continued, “I need to journey to the Isle of Titherry to use Athera’s Crescent. You came along at just the right time, you see. I could really use your help … Especially if your talents are as exceptional as they seem.”

  She glared back at him through thick lashes. A hand came up, fingering a crease in her blue gown. She asked, “What makes you think I’d want to help you?”

  “Because I believe I’ve found a way to lift the curse over the Black Lands, which would stop this war before it starts.” Quin’s smile waxed exultant. He offered his hand to Naia, open and inviting. “Care to help?”