The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy

by M. L. Spencer

  There was a terrible, grinding sound. And then a deafening roar.

  The entire dam gave way, consumed by a deluge of water. Rocks shot upward, flung high into the air in impossible trajectories. Water gushed through a narrow fissure that quickly widened, spilling out across the canyon before sloshing over the edge of the cliff.

  A violent tremor knocked Darien off his feet. He rolled onto his knees, scrambling back away from the cliff’s edge. Suddenly Azár was there beside him, shrieking his name and gripping him under the arms. She struggled to drag him backward as the roar of the flood drowned out everything else in the world. The ground jolted and buckled beneath them, threatening collapse.

  Darien regained his feet, lurching as Azár dragged him forward. Behind them, the cliff gave away completely.

  Azár screamed something, but Darien couldn’t hear her over the roar of the deluge. She took his hand, pulling him forward. They climbed the rise of a hill then stopped, turning to look back.

  The water of the lake had consumed the dam, obliterating any last trace of the obstruction. The River Nym raged into the canyon, rushing to reclaim its long-abandoned course. The lake drained quickly, its waters subsiding to reveal embankments of chalky gray. The roar of the water continued, relentless, the air dampened by spray.

  “What you have done…!”

  Darien could barely hear her voice over the surging roar of water. He released the Onslaught, allowing it to drain out of him. As he did, the world brightened just a bit. Still, the dim green of the Netherworld lingered like an afterglow.

  Azár gaped at him with a look of outright wonder mixed with revulsion.

  Darien backed away from her, feeling soiled. He turned and walked to the top of the hill, brooding as he stared down at the receding lake. Across the valley, two soaring structures appeared, striking upward from the lake’s churning surface. They had the look of something from antiquity, statues perhaps. Once finely wrought, now eroded and decayed.

  “What are they?” he wondered aloud.

  “They are the gates of ancient Vintgar,” Azár answered, her voice barely audible over the raging thunder of the flood. “Darien Lauchlin … you have achieved the impossible. You have freed the past.”

  Darien looked at her, unable to feel even a small sense of accomplishment. Perhaps he had freed some small part of Malikar’s history. But that act, in and of itself, was meaningless. Because Malikar’s future was still very much uncertain.

  9

  A Single Blade

  Kyel watched Meiran sipping tea at the table in Devlin Craig’s quarters. She held the teacup in both hands, her slender fingers pyramided to support it. Her face was still pale and gaunt. A little grayish, especially under the eyes. She looked unwell. But at least she wasn’t dead.

  For that, Kyel was grateful … but also mystified.

  Craig sat down on the bench beside Kyel, setting his cup down on the gouged and splintered table. Kyel’s eyes went to the cup, noticing the steam rising off of it. The smell of coffee made his mouth water. He looked down at his own cup, filled with the same weak tea Meiran was drinking. He took a sip, trying not to make a face.

  “The arrows were dipped in toxin,” Meiran explained wearily. The cup in her hands trembled ever so slightly. “I healed the wounds, but I couldn’t clear the poison from my blood. It worked too fast. I was out within seconds.” She brought her teacup to her lips, closing her eyes as her hands trembled.

  That explained why Kyel hadn’t found any wounds on her, just rotting tissue. He thought it odd, though, that the toxin itself hadn’t killed her. She’d gotten lucky. More than lucky.

  Craig grunted. “That’s why they left you for dead.”

  Meiran leaned forward, her hair swaying into her face. She pushed it back absently. “I still can’t believe you healed me,” she said to Kyel with a flat expression on her face. “You never had a talent for it. You must have come a long way since I left.”

  “Naia helped,” Kyel admitted, feeling a sharp pang of sorrow.

  Meiran said nothing, but took another sip of her tea. She hadn’t reacted when he’d told her about Naia and Sareen. And about the Conclave. He really didn’t know how Meiran was taking it all, whether she was angry or sad or anything in between. Come to think of it, she’d shown barely any emotion at all since she’d first woken up and cried her eyes dry against his shoulder. She was like a cloth that had been wrung out, all the substance within her drained.

  “What can you tell us about the Servants?” Craig pressed. He leaned forward, the rickety bench shifting and groaning beneath his weight.

  Meiran looked up, gazing at him through dark strands of hair. “There’s a lot more depth to them than I ever expected. They’re far more human than I ever thought they would be. So much more … but also so much less.”

  She stared down at the table as if studying the furrows in the wood. Her fingernails scratched at a nick on the surface. “I always thought they’d be nothing but soulless demons. Pure, perfect evil. But they’re not. They’re different. In a way, they are even more sinister.

  “Quinlan Reis is a textbook example,” she went on, her voice strengthening. “He seems utterly normal: polite, conversational. Sophisticated. His heart seems to be in the right place, at least on the surface. But deep inside, he’s desperately flawed. I watched him strike out and kill an innocent woman without sparing her a second thought or a moment’s regret. It was like watching him squash an insect.”

  Devlin Craig leaned forward, crossing his arms, his face deadly serious. “What about Darien? Is it the same with him?”

  Meiran took another sip, her cup trembling in her fingers. Kyel’s eyes followed the motion of her hand as she set it back down again. He could tell the question bothered her deeply.

  “I’m afraid so.” Her voice was stiff. Unemotional. “On the surface, he seems perfectly normal. He’s the same man I remember. His personality hasn’t changed one bit.”

  Her eyes shot up, locking on Craig. “But they’ve corrupted him in significant ways. He’s entirely committed to their cause; he’s very passionate about it. But he still holds a deep love for me and for the Rhen. He’s conflicted. It’s actually quite painful to watch. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t see what he’s become.”

  “And what exactly has he become?” Craig gazed at her steadily.

  “Evil.” Meiran’s voice hissed through the shadows. “Darien wields the powers of hell. He raised a necrator from the dead right in front of me. He’s planning to lead the legions of the Black Lands in an invasion of the Rhen. He believes it’s all justified. The truth is, he terrifies me.”

  Kyel frowned, struggling to understand how any of that could be possible. “Well, they’ve obviously done something to him,” he said. “But maybe he’s still salvageable. Maybe we could help him, do something to help bring him back.”

  “He’s beyond saving, Kyel. Believe me, I tried.” Meiran shook her head wearily.

  Craig’s face was set in deep lines of concern. He leaned back on the bench, the legs creaking under his weight. “What’s his rationale?”

  Meiran took another sip of tea. The cup clinked against its saucer as she set it back down again. “He told me some vague story about the end of all magic. He says the Enemy depends on magic to grow their food in the absence of sunlight. He says they’ll all die if they don’t escape.”

  To Kyel, Darien’s concerns sounded legitimate. It would certainly explain the way he was acting. It would be dangerous to dismiss such an apocalyptic warning. He asked, “What if it’s true?”

  Craig waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “It doesn’t matter if it’s true. It wouldn’t change our position. We still can’t let them in.”

  Kyel planted his cup on the table, glancing up. “Why not? This changes everything. Don’t you understand? If Darien’s right, then they’re not invaders—they’re refugees.”

  Craig cast a long-suffering glance Meiran’s way.

  The Pr
ime Warden brought her hands up, closing her eyes and massaging her temples. “We can’t just admit a million hostiles into our midst,” she explained to Kyel in overly patient tones. “Our responsibility is to our own people. We vowed to keep them safe. And that is exactly what we are going to do.”

  Kyel felt abashed. That was indeed the gist of the Acolyte’s Oath: ‘To serve the land and its people.’ Of course, it didn’t actually specify which land and which people he was supposed to be serving. Somehow, he doubted that oath had been devised to justify genocide.

  He stood up from the table, feeling flustered. He paced away, letting the cup he was holding warm his hands. He chewed on his lip as he tried to sort out his feelings. It just didn’t sound right. In his gut, he knew that Craig and Meiran were making the wrong decision.

  “We can’t just sentence an entire society to death by starvation,” Kyel said at last. “We need to put a lot more thought into this. There must be some sort of compromise we can reach.”

  Meiran looked up at him with pity in her eyes. “Kyel, sometimes deciding what not to do is more important than deciding what to do. And, in this case, the answer is obvious. We must think about our own citizens who depend on us for protection. The people of the Black Lands chose to worship Xerys. They brought this fate upon themselves. I’ve seen them—they’re savages. Barbaric. We cannot risk bringing such creatures into our midst. Look at me.”

  He looked at her, even though he didn’t want to.

  She said, “If we let them in, and then later find out we’ve been wrong about them, then it will be too late. They have the numbers and the mage-power to overwhelm the kingdoms. Our only hope is stopping them here in the pass.”

  Kyel knew better than to argue. He knew she was right … but she was also dead wrong. He turned away, breathing out a protracted sigh. He’d almost forgotten the way Meiran made him feel. She treated him like an ignorant child. He’d put up with it for two years.

  “I’m very tired,” she whispered, standing up from the table. “I’d like to go back now.”

  “I’ll take you back,” Kyel offered.

  “No. You stay. I can find my own way.”

  She pulled the cowl of her cloak up over her head. It was thick gray wool, the kind worn by the soldiers of the keep. Not the white cloak of a Prime Warden. Meiran left her teacup behind, steadying herself in the doorway as she left the room. The door closed softly behind her.

  Kyel settled into a chair opposite Craig. “What do you think?”

  “It’s a lot to take in.” The commander took a stiff gulp of his drink, scowling as he plunked the cup back down on the table.

  Kyel regarded him for a moment. Craig had always been a reasonable man. He decided to level with him. “Look. Darien was my friend. And he was your friend too. I think we should trust him enough to talk to him, at least. We should hear his side of the story.”

  “No.” Craig shook his head. “Darien was my friend. But I can’t let that get in the way of my duty. And neither can you.”

  “Duty,” Kyel echoed sourly, clutching his cup in both hands. “What if Darien’s right? What if they really are just refugees? I don’t care what Meiran says. If that’s the case, then we can’t just turn them away.”

  “They’re not just refugees.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  Craig looked at him hard. Then he pushed himself up from the table. “Come with me. I’ll show you who they really are.”

  Kyel sprang up after him as the big man turned and crossed the room, jerking his cloak from a peg by the door and tossing it on. Kyel scrambled after him, following the commander out of the tower and into the keep’s inner ward.

  Outside, the courtyard was dark, the odor of wood smoke thickening the air. Fires lit all around the ward provided enough light in which to see. Gray-cloaked soldiers collected beside the flames, going about their business: repairing armor, fletching arrows, sharpening weapons. The whole fortress had a mechanized feel of well-oiled efficiency that Kyel could appreciate.

  Craig led him through a portal to a spiraling staircase that wound down, corkscrewing, into the guts of the mountainside. The stairs were steep, lit only by the occasional torch that fluttered weakly in the currents of air that rose from the depths. Kyel stopped to listen. It was quiet; there didn’t seem to be anyone else about.

  A low wailing sound drifted up from the darkness below.

  Kyel’s eyes shot to Craig. “What is that?”

  The big warrior didn’t answer. His nostrils flared with each drawn breath.

  Guttural sounds of pain rolled toward them up the stairs. Craig led him downward in the direction of the noise as the air cooled around them. The torches flickered, the light inconsistent, casting long, wavering shadows. Another piercing cry echoed from below, louder this time. The anguish in it made Kyel’s stomach twist into knots.

  At last the stairs ended in a subbasement that had been turned into an impromptu dungeon. Metal cages lined the walls, the straw-strewn floor stained with blood. Everywhere he looked were chains and iron implements, along with a range of sinister devices. On one side of the room a large bronze kettle steamed over an open fire. The air had a thick odor to it, like the smell of a kitchen: full of wood smoke and burning grease. It almost smelled like roasting pork.

  Walking forward, Kyel made out the shapes of three men. One was already dead, stretched out on a low table. It looked like he’d been hacked to death, that or hacked up after death—Kyel couldn’t tell which. Another man, this one a white-haired soldier, was tending to a prisoner stretched out across the wall, this one still alive. The man was naked, brown arms and legs held spread-eagled by fetters attached to the wall. He moaned and thrashed, writhing in the bonds that held him.

  Kyel stopped walking as it occurred to him what he was looking at. His eyes bounced from the cauldron to the dead man to the splayed prisoner in chains. It took him only a moment to put it all together.

  “Gods’ mercy…” Kyel whispered, the horror he felt seeping into his voice. He held his stomach, feeling like he was going to be sick.

  The old soldier lifted a long-handled ladle from the kettle and raised it over the prisoner’s naked body. The man started screaming, struggling frantically against his restraints. The soldier tilted the ladle slowly, dribbling a thin stream of liquid over the man’s naked chest as the captive howled in agony. The old man set the ladle down and, using a fingernail, started picking at the flesh that bubbled up.

  Kyel gagged and covered his mouth, the prisoner’s shrieks echoing in his ears.

  Craig walked over to the kettle and dipped the ladle into it. He gave it a good stir, then brought it up to his face, sniffing at the contents.

  “Rendering lard?” he asked, grinning as he set the ladle back down in the pot.

  “Not a lot of lard on this crop,” the grim old-timer remarked. “Seems they get thinner by the batch. Must not be a lot of food left in the Black Lands.”

  Craig beckoned Kyel forward, but he didn’t want to move. He remained rooted in place, too appalled to twitch a muscle. He couldn’t stop staring at the poor captive, now hyperventilating and hanging slack in his chains, chest and shoulders a gory mess.

  “Come on,” Craig insisted, eyes commanding.

  Grudgingly, Kyel moved toward him, keeping a good distance from the cauldron of boiling human lard. His eyes lingered on the captive’s face, studying the man’s bearded features with curiosity. He’d never seen a living man of the Enemy.

  The prisoner’s face twisted when he noticed Kyel approaching. His eyes widened in recognition, his struggles becoming frantic. He pumped his wrists against the manacles that held him until blood slicked his arms.

  “You’re torturing him.” Kyel whirled on Craig, turning away from the grotesque display. He couldn’t understand why the prisoner was more terrified by the sight of him than he’d been when his own flesh was being peeled away.

  “Of course we’re torturing him,” Craig snapped, hi
s face ruddy. “That’s how we get information.” He turned to the grizzled soldier who was standing by with ladle in hand. “Has he said anything else?”

  “No, Sir. Nothing intelligible.”

  Craig’s arm whipped out and caught the Enemy prisoner by the hair, wrenching his neck back against the wall. The man grunted, squeezing his eyes shut as slobber dribbled down his chin.

  “What’s your name?” Craig growled into his ear.

  “Firat,” the prisoner gasped. He cracked his lids open, eyes darting sideways at Kyel.

  “Just Firat?”

  “Firat son of Cozcun.” The man’s reddened eyes locked on Kyel and didn’t budge. He was panting, chest and shoulders heaving as he tried to wriggle his head away from Craig. But the commander tightened his grip and pressed Firat back with the full bulk of his weight.

  Craig leaned into him as if ready to plant a kiss on Firat’s gasping mouth.

  “Why are your forces massing?”

  The man grimaced, twisting his face away. But Craig caught him beneath the chin, pinning his head back against the wall. “Why? We’ve made no acts of aggression!”

  The prisoner said nothing, just groaned and squirmed. Craig wrenched him by the chin, turning his face toward Kyel.

  “Do you know who this is?”

  The man cowered, flinching away.

  “Tell me, Firat, what would your people do if we let you into the Rhen? Would you lay down your arms and surrender?”

  The man growled, eyes burning with furious zeal. From somewhere inside, he’d managed to conjure a last, desperate flare of resistance. He twisted his head out of Craig’s grasp and rained spittle into the commander’s face. Craig didn’t flinch, just blinked the offensive fluid out of his eyes. He stepped back, crossing his gauntleted arms.

  “We will arrive as conquerors!” Firat cried, lurching against the rusted chains that held him. “We will put your sons to the sword and enslave your daughters! Your cities will burn to ash, and your rivers will run with blood!”