The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy

by M. L. Spencer

  He caressed Sephana’s face and then brought the weapon up to confront their attacker.

  “Al’thartier!” a bearded man cried out, throwing his bow and quiver to the ground before prostrating himself in the dirt.

  Braden stared at the man in shock as waves of anger gradually dissipated from his body. The man was probably a stationed sentry who had merely reacted to their sudden appearance. The man remained in the position of prostration, forehead to the ground, absolutely still. Finally reassured that he no longer posed a threat, Braden set the morning star down at his side.

  As soon as the weapon left his hand, the strength lent to him by Thar’gon drained entirely from his body. It had been the only thing keeping him standing. Braden sagged forward, unconscious before he hit the ground.

  He awoke to a heady blend of fragrances: the sweet scent of horse manure mingled with wood smoke, leather and wormwood. It was an earthy and altogether agreeable odor, not unpleasant in the least. The smell was comforting, bringing back memories of a childhood spent roaming the vast expanse of grassland known as the Khazahar Steppe.

  Braden had grown up on the sprawling immensity of the prairie, the youngest son of a warrior-chieftain. He had been raised to follow the same harsh way of life as the rest of his clan, a roguish band of nomadic horse lords who drank hard, fought hard and often died even harder. It was a ruthless and uncompromising existence, brutal from the very beginning.

  Braden’s mother had died bringing him into the world, and his father had followed her to the grave shortly after, victim of his own indulgences. Orphaned and alone, Braden and his older siblings had been fostered out to other families of the clan.

  Braden and Quin had been taken in by one of their various uncles, a hardened old warrior affluent with many horses, wagons and women, but cruel of temperament. He was just as quick with his whip as he was with his bow, and just as likely to strike a maiming blow as to inflict pain. He had taken the two boys into his household as servants, kept them fed and saw to it that their earliest education was provided for. It had been a harsh and bitter upbringing.

  Braden remembered well the day he and Quin had left the forest steppe. A robed Master of the Lyceum had shown up among the tents riding an exquisite white stallion of a foreign bloodline. Never had Braden seen a horse so fine of bone, so elegant in pace and conformation. The Master had tested the children of the clan, first the girls and then the boys, gazing deeply into their eyes one by one as they stood together in a makeshift line down the center of the camp. One at a time, the children were dismissed back to their families.

  But not Quin. And not Braden.

  It had been explained to their uncle that both boys carried within them a spark, something called the potential, a seed so special and so unique that it would only germinate away from the Khazahar Steppe. Because of that one rare trait, both boys were immediately claimed as the property of the Lyceum of Bryn Calazar. Braden’s uncle hadn’t objected; his life would be easier with two less mouths to feed. And he was well compensated for the loss of his young servants with two colts of the same bloodline as the Master’s elegant steed.

  Thus, Braden’s people had sent him and Quin off to the Lyceum with nothing more than the shirt and trousers they had been wearing at the time. He remembered his uncle standing against the sunset in the waves of thigh-high grass, holding the twin bridles of his two new colts as darkness stole across the prairie behind him. That vision of his uncle was the last sight Braden had ever seen of a man of his own clan other than Quin.

  Until now.

  Braden struggled upright, realizing that he was the object of attention of a particularly cruel-looking man who sat only paces away, cross-legged on a braided wool rug. A curved short sword was held in his lap, the oiled steel bared from its scabbard. The man was slowly caressing the edge of the blade with a whetstone in smooth, deliberate strokes. He paused in his motion, testing his thumb against the hone of the edge. Then he carefully set the weapon down by his side, hanging the whetstone from a hook at his belt.

  “Darius dreoch, Al’thartier,” the man pronounced, raising his right hand solemnly to his chest in an expression of greeting. Then the man abased himself on the floor of his tent, kneeling with his face pressed against the carpets.

  “Darius dreoch,” Braden responded, the customary greeting of the horse folk rolling fluently off his tongue. It was an elegant salutation, one he had not heard spoken aloud in over thirty years.

  But then Braden winced, suddenly realizing the significance of the man’s gesture.

  The warrior had just referred to him as Al’thartier, a Venthic title that could only be translated as Greatest Battlemage. By naming him that, the horselord was honoring Braden’s command of Thar’gon. In a society that revered nothing so highly as courage and fighting ability, the man who wielded Thar’gon was the embodiment of the warrior archetype. And now that onus had fallen to him.

  Braden winced, suddenly realizing the remarkable position he found himself in. The Jenn, the ancient horse culture of the Khazahar Steppe and Braden’s own people by blood, were prepared to recognize him as their overlord.

  Braden was rendered speechless, thoroughly overcome. When he had left the forest steppe as a child, he had been among the most humble of its servants: horseless, kinless, penniless, a child slave; nothing more than a liability. When he had become a Master of the Lyceum, his status had increased. But now with Thar’gon his to command, the great horse culture of the Khazahar would be duty-bound to respond to his call.

  Thoroughly moved, Braden was so shaken that at first he could find no words to utter.

  “Rise,” was the only thing he could finally manage to say.

  The man complied instantly, returning to his cross-legged position on the braided rug. Braden guessed that he was an elder of his clan, probably a war chief, judging by the rich embroidery on the collar and the sleeves of his tunic. The man’s face was sun-worn and deeply wrinkled. His dark and narrow eyes betrayed nothing of his emotions.

  Braden regarded him silently for a long moment before wondering, “The woman I came with. Where is she?”

  “We preserved the life of the witch from Aerysius,” the old clansman pronounced as he resheathed the blade he’d just been honing. “It was obvious that she belongs to you. She is resting now in the tent of my third wife. My name is Elessar. I am warlord of this encampment.”

  He rose and strode a few paces away to the tent’s stone hearth, where he poked around at the graying coals with a stick. Bending over, he set a bronze kettle to heat over the flames. Braden’s eyes cautiously tracked the fellow’s motions.

  “My name is now Braden Reis,” he introduced himself. “But I was born Berkant son of Marthax, warlord of the Omeyan Clan.”

  “I know,” the old man responded without looking at him. “I was once a friend of your uncle.” Elessar brought his hand up, gripping an object that hung by a thin sinew from a tent pole. He plucked the item down, turning it over in his fingers, at last holding the object out for Braden to inspect. It was a small, whittled carving of a horse.

  “You may not remember, but you made this for me,” Elessar remarked musingly, “before the dakura stole you away.”

  Braden stared down at the carving, which looked utterly unfamiliar. “I’m sorry,” he said whimsically. “I don’t remember.”

  “Of course you don’t.” Elessar scowled, dropping the small object into the palm of Braden’s hand. “You were very young. But you are not so young anymore. And you are no longer Berkant son of Marthax, warlord of the Omeyans. That boy is dead. More than just dead; it is as though he never existed at all. So, tell me, who is the man that addresses me now?”

  Braden stared down at the small wooden horse in his hand, marveling at its features. It didn’t look at all like the work of a young child. The horse was completely accurate, delicately carved and carefully polished; it even wore a blanket and bridle, both intricately wrought in every painstaking detail. Braden knew
enough, now, to recognize the work for what it was: a sign of the potential within him, discovered later by the Master who had taken him and his brother away to the Lyceum. Even then, he had been different. He would always be different. His ability had always been both his strength and his curse.

  “My name is Braden Reis, Grand Master of the Sixth Tier and Warden of the Order of Chancellors.” He could not look the old man in the eye as he said the long chain of words that formed the imposing syllables of his title.

  “You are no Battlemage,” Elessar observed, dark eyes filling with ire. “How is it that you come to us bearing the Silver Star of Battle?”

  “You’re right.” Braden shook his head. “I am not a Battlemage. But I’m Battlemage-trained.” He struggled to his feet, gripping a tent post for support. “During time of war, my authority supersedes all others, save only for the Prime Warden of the Lyceum. When our legions march to war, it will be I who leads Caladorn’s warriors into battle. Thar’gon, ancient weapon of our ancestors, has chosen me as her bearer.”

  The grizzled old warlord seemed to be looking him over, running his eyes over Braden from his feet to his head, as if assessing the truth of his claim. At last, almost grudgingly, he gave the slightest, most cursory nod.

  “I offer my food, my fire, and my protection for both you and your woman,” the old man pronounced at last, finally extending to Braden the sacred status of a guest. “Please feel free to walk among my herds choose whichever horses you wish. I will see to it that both arms and armor are delivered to you. In return, I ask but one favor: that you look in upon my son. He has sustained a grievous wound, and your witch-woman could do little for him. I only ask that you try to do what you can. If nothing else can be done, I would rather it be your own hand that delivers Nerus from his pain.”

  Braden nodded somberly as he tucked the little horse carving into the pocket of his trousers. “I’ll do everything in my power to help your son,” he assured Elessar. “And after I tend to him, I’ll make myself available to anyone else in the camp that requires mending. But I need you to do something for me. The cry must be raised across the plains. War is coming to Caladorn, and I need the might of the horse lords at my side. I will need riders sent out as fast as possible in every direction to assemble the hordes from across the steppe.”

  Elessar looked away, allowing his gaze to wander over the felt siding of his tent. “It is your right as Al’thartier to raise the cry. But first I would ask that you speak to the war council of the Omeyans. It would be better to obtain their support.”

  Braden nodded. “I will speak to the council, as you suggest. Now, please, Elessar. Show me to your son’s bedside.”

  The old man made a motion with his hand, gesturing for Braden to follow him out of the circular lodge. Shirtless, Braden fell in behind him, treading carefully across the carpets. His strength was back, but his legs were stiff after days of bedrest.

  Outside the tent, Braden allowed his eyes to wander over the encampment. It was dark; the sun had already set, though the gray glow of twilight still lit the western sky above the bluffs. The red box canyon in the hills below Vintgar was the winter home of the Omeyan Clan. The plainspeople spent the spring and summer months following their grazing herds. But winter came swiftly and cruelly to the steppe, and the Omeyans had learned to seek refuge during the coldest months of the year. A light dusting of snow was already upon the ground, rendering the encampment white except for muddy trails between tents.

  As Braden followed Elessar across the camp, he took quiet note of the familiar bustle of life within the city of tents. Everywhere he looked people were busily occupied with the tasks of daily life: women tending cook fires, bowyers and armorers plying their crafts. Sheep and dogs milled about the tents, as often as not followed by a wandering child carrying a stick. A group of men looked up at him from a game of bones as he passed, their faces stern and severe. The men nodded his way in deference. Some stared in outright interest, as if debating whether it would be worth the risk to challenge him to a fight. One small boy came out of a tent and stopped dead in his tracks, gaping up at the sight of Braden. Before the mage could conjure up a smile, the child turned and ran away.

  “I am sorry our clan does not remember you,” Elessar said, his eyes sadly surveying the people of the encampment. “They will, after this day. Never before has a child stolen by the dakura ever been returned to us.”

  Dakura was the name the clans used to describe the people of the cities, especially Bryn Calazar. The term had a derogatory connotation; the people of the Jenn had a low opinion of any stationary group that subsisted on agriculture.

  “This is the yurt of my son, Nerus,” Elessar announced, indicating the broad, felt-covered tent ahead of them. He pushed back the flap that formed the tent’s doorway and gestured for Braden to enter ahead of him.

  Within, Braden found the interior of the yurt dark. A terrible odor hit him strong in the face. The stench sent him reeling; the smell was sweet and sickening, like corpses moldering in a fetid grave. Quiet mewling noises could be heard coming from the far side of a dividing curtain that cut the tent neatly in half. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness. When they did, Braden scowled, swallowing against the urge to retch.

  He could understand why Sephana had been unable to help Nerus.

  “I’m going to need Thar’gon,” he whispered, turning and ducking back outside the tent. On the threshold, he paused and took a deep breath of fresh air. But even that did little to allay the scent of corruption in his nostrils.

  “The wound has festered,” Elessar explained, spreading his hands.

  Braden regarded the stern warrior for a long moment. “I don’t know how much of your son there is left to work with. But to have any chance at all, I’ll need the talisman.”

  The horselord nodded. “The weapon remains where you dropped it. Not a hand has been able to lift it, although many have tried.”

  Braden nodded. “Take me there.”

  He followed Elessar up a path away from the camp toward the bottleneck canyon where they had first appeared. The old horselord was right; the silver talisman was exactly where Braden had left it. Many tracks encircled the weapon in the snow, and yet the morning star remained exactly where Braden’s hand had last set it down. He wrapped his fingers around its leather-wrapped haft and lifted it easily.

  The old man nodded once, acknowledging Braden’s command of the weapon, then turned his back and walked ahead of him back down the path. Braden strode with Thar’gon at his side back through the center of the camp, doing his best to ignore the stares of the clanspeople.

  As they approached the tent of Nerus, he recognized Sephana moving toward him through tight clusters of people. She was still wearing her black Master’s cloak, the cowl pulled up over her head as she hurried in his direction. The emotion on her face was impossible to decipher; he couldn’t tell if she was more relieved or more angry to see him.

  Braden strode over to her, a questioning look on his face. To his relief, Sephana threw her arms around him, collapsing against his bare chest.

  “I was so worried about you,” she whispered against his ear. Braden put his arms around her and held her close for a moment before pulling back just enough to press a kiss against her forehead.

  “I’m fine,” he reassured her as his hand caressed a lock of her golden hair. “Everything’s fine now.” Taking her by the hand, he turned to face Elessar. “I assume that the two of you have been introduced?”

  The old man nodded stiffly.

  “We have met,” Sephana clarified rigidly. Braden could tell by her tone that she did not consider the manner of their meeting an appropriate introduction. He couldn’t help the small smile that chased across his face. Sephana was Aerysius-born and -bred, thoroughly out of place on the Khazahar Steppe.

  “Elessar has asked me to have a look at his son,” Braden informed her. “I hear you were unsuccessful at a mending?”

  Sephana nodded, her f
ace going taut. She glanced back and forth between Braden and the old warrior, obviously struggling to frame her words as judiciously as possible. “The arrow was poisoned,” she explained carefully. “A mixture of snake venom, horse dung, and putrefied human blood. I couldn’t get past the venom. I’m sorry; I’m skilled at healing, but there was just not enough left to work with.”

  Braden sighed, shaking his head sadly. The usage of such vile concoctions was a common practice across the steppe. It was custom for the warriors of the clans to soak the shafts of their weapons in such filth before riding into battle. The use of such bitter toxins ensured that even the slightest wounds would fester and turn fatal.

  “The venom is depressing his breathing,” Sephana continued grimly. “I didn’t think he would survive the mending.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Braden said. He glanced over at Elessar for approval and, receiving a nod of permission from the old man, led Sephana into the darkened tent.

  He made his way to the bedside of Elessar’s son. The young man was lying on a straw-stuffed mattress in the middle of the tent surrounded by three women that Braden took to be Nerus’ wives. All three of them were weeping quietly, wringing their hands and clutching one against the other. At Braden’s arrival they fled together to the far side of the tent, yielding space so he could work.

  The odor was even stronger than it had been before, especially this far away from the entrance. Braden fought against the urge to be sick as he bent over his unconscious patient. He took note of the mottled pallor of the young man’s skin, the way the damp flesh seemed to sag against the bones of the face, the man’s cracked and peeling lips. Nerus was only hours, if not minutes, from riding the endless plains of the Atrament.

  Gripping the talisman in his left hand, Braden set his right hand upon the dying man’s chest. The impression that was returned to him was discouraging. Nerus’ organs had already begun to fail, his blood teeming with poisons and accumulated toxins. The snake venom had already digested much of his tissues and was now affecting his capacity to draw breath. Elessar’s son was all but a corpse, literally rotting from within.