Contents
Title Page
Map
Praise for Darklands
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A Request
Glossary
The Eight Orders of Mages
Preview of Darkrise
Darkrise Chapter One
Darkstorm
Darkmage
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Praise for Darklands,
Book Three of the Rhenwars Saga
“An extraordinary fantasy with exceptional characters.”
—Arya Fomonyuy, Readers’ Favorite, Five Star Review
“A powerful saga of confrontation and survival.”
—Diane Donovan, Senior Reviewer, Midwest Book Review,
Five Star Review
“A tantalizing read…powerful and sophisticated, pulling the reader irresistibly in.”
—Christian Sia, Readers’ Favorite, Five Star Review
“A complete, dark, anything-goes fantasy...find room for Darklands on your bookshelf and in your escape time. At night. Outside.”
—Elizabeth Munro, West Coast Book Reviews,
Five Star Review
Chapter One
Infernal Commission
Aerysius, The Rhen
THE OLD MAN wandered the dark corridor toward his death, the girl trailing after him.
The girl’s right hand clutched a thin-bladed knife, the sort of knife once used by hunters of the clans to scrape the flesh of beasts away from bone. But the girl had encountered no such beasts in her nineteen years of existence. The knife in her hand wasn’t meant for the flesh of animals. It thirsted for the blood of the old man.
Azár glared ahead at her master’s life-weary gait with a scowl of derision on her face. Zamir was selfish, and his selfishness had imperiled all the clans. He should have made this last journey months ago, back when his death might have actually counted for something. Now, too late, Zamir’s belated gesture of sacrifice was just as wretched and irrelevant as the old man himself.
“Here.” Zamir grimaced, bringing a trembling, rheumatic hand up to trail down the weeping surface of the stone passage. In the darkness, his damp and gnarled fingers resembled the tangled roots of trees. Azár’s gaze lingered on them, apathetic, her hand compressing the hilt of the knife in her palm.
She waited, staring dully, and said nothing.
Azár watched in silence as her master shambled forward through the nebulous tendrils of magelight that churned at his feet. Her eyes remained fixed on the scraps of colorless fabric that clung to his emaciated back. She made no move to follow him into the shadowy chamber beyond, not until his voice called out from the darkness to rebuke her. Azár forced herself to move forward through the doorway.
She stopped, mouth agape. Her hand on the blade fell limply to her side as she gazed at the bleak images that confronted her. To one side of the chamber was a dark stone altar set with four ancient, rusted chains. To the other side of the room stood an ominous ring of man-carved stone.
Azár watched with morbid curiosity as Zamir sat himself down upon the worn surface of the altar that rose from stagnant pools of water collected on the floor. He lay himself back, adjusting his position, folding his arms across his chest. His age-leathered face gazed upward into the shadows, eyes fiercely introspective.
“Recite the forward sequence,” he instructed her in a gravelly voice.
Azár’s gaze swept across the room in the direction of the well.
The Well of Tears appeared exactly as she’d expected, exactly as she’d feared. It was made of staggered granite blocks stacked as high as her waist. Carved all around the rim were runes at once both sinister and familiar, sad vestiges of a lost heritage one thousand years dead. The runes themselves seemed to beckon, compelling her to approach.
Azár scowled at the markings, resenting them. It was because of the runes that they were here, such a far and dangerous distance away from anywhere they were supposed to be. The runes were a key that unlocked a door, a door between worlds. Azár had spent the past two years preparing for this journey. Even so, she felt horrendously anxious. This was a path she had never desired for herself, would never wish upon anyone.
“Sistru, qurzi, calebra, ghein, vimru…” Her voice faltered. Azár cleared her throat, edging cautiously forward as she continued reciting from memory the order of the ancient cypher. “Ranu, benthos, metha, zhein, noctua…ledros. Dacros.”
She dropped to a crouch beside the Well of Tears as her voice trailed off into a festering silence. She lifted a finger to trace over the first of the sacred markings to confront her: dacros. The final rune of the sequence. Ancient symbol of Xerys, God of Chaos and Lord of the Netherworld.
“You make me proud,” uttered the old man from behind her. “What will be is better than what is gone.”
Azár didn’t turn back around to look at him. Instead, she remained squatting in a tarry pool of stagnant water with her hand raised before her face. Her eyes considered the rune that seemed to glare out at her like a brand seared into the Well’s stony hide. Azár slowly lowered her hand and cast a wordless glance back over her shoulder.
Zamir yet lay on his back on the stone altar, arms folded across his chest. His tired eyes stared upward at the ceiling or perhaps straight ahead into eternity. He made no further effort to instruct her. There was no need.
Azár rose to her feet and stalked back across the chamber. From the woven belt at her waist, she produced a small pewter cup, which she set down on the rough surface of the altar rock at her master’s side.
Face utterly impassive, Azár took Zamir’s arm into her hand. Wielding the thin-bladed knife, she drew a deep slit into his skin all the way from his elbow to his wrist. Azár stared down at the blood that welled from the gaping incision. As she watched, the dark fluid coursed over her fingers and ran, dribbling, over her hand. Gradually, she became aware of the sound of the old man’s voice muttering the phrases of the dhumma, the prayer that is spoken with the last breath before dying.
Azár studied Zamir’s face, gazing with curiosity into the old man’s dimming eyes. She set the knife down and centered the pewter cup beneath the running trickle of blood to better collect the spilt offering. The vessel filled quickly to the brim. Azár gazed down into his face as his lifeblood drained out of him.
The girl said nothing. She stood there, holding her master’s hand, watching as the last light faded quietly from his eyes. As it did, Azár felt the warm stirring of power that grew within her fingertips. Her eyes went wide, her breath catching in her lungs.
The swelling warmth of the Transference swept up her hand into her arm, spreading outward through her chest, raging like a firestorm through her veins. The power coursed through her, filling her, penetrating every fiber of her being.
Then, abruptly, Azár felt the conduit slam cl
osed.
She cried out, cringing back away from the emptied husk of the old man. Her eyes bright with alarm, she took a staggering step away, her breath coming in sharp and panicked gasps. Her gaze darted wildly around the dark chamber, her brain struggling to make sense of the confused perceptions that assaulted it. Tears wrung from her eyes by the violence of the Transference streaked her face, dribbling from her chin. Her whole body was shaking, weakened from the deluge of powerful energies.
Panting, Azár summoned a faint glow of magelight. A shimmering mist was inspired into being, roiling tendrils exploring the wet floor around her feet. The magelight pierced the shadows of the chamber, driving them back against the recesses of the walls. By the light of her own newfound power, Azár’s eyes were drawn once again toward the Well of Tears. She glared at the portal, despising it utterly.
Steeling herself, Azár reached for the life-warm pewter cup at her side. Taking it into her hand, she made her way across the chamber. She knelt beside the Well, holding the cup of her master’s blood with trembling hands. She dipped a shaking finger into the cup and then raised it up before her face. Turning her finger slowly, she observed the wet sheen of blood in the soft tendrils of magelight. Azár leaned forward and applied Zamir’s spent lifeblood to the first rune of the sequence. The blood absorbed quickly into the porous stone as if sucked inside.
Before her eyes, the ancient rune sistru awakened from sleep and began to glow with a green, ethereal light. Azár moved around to the far side of the Well, to the next marking of the sequence. She brought that rune, too, to life. Then she moved on to the next. Calm and deliberate, Azár took her time, working meticulously all around the rim until, at last, all of the ancient markings glowed with their own inner light.
When Azár was finished, she stood up and backed away. She regarded her work, satisfied. The gateway was unlocked in this world. But someone else would have to open it from the other side.
Azár rose and used her nascent powers to slide the cover off the Well of Tears. The thick granite slab lifted of its own volition and glided smoothly aside. It hovered for a moment in the air, as if suspended from invisible strings, before lowering the rest of the way to the floor.
Azár turned back toward her master. Zamir had one last journey to make. The Well of Tears demanded a sacrifice, and the old man’s soul would be the final gesture that would unseal the gateway.
Zamir had been frail, but the dead weight of his corpse was still too much for Azár’s slight build to manage. So she closed her eyes, aligning her thoughts with the rhythmic pulse of the magic field, allowing the power of her mind to supplement the strength of her flesh. Azár lifted Zamir’s body up over the Well’s rim, giving him a shove.
With the slightest scraping noise, the corpse slipped into the gaping shaft and tumbled downward into darkness.
Azár turned away. It would take some time for Zamir’s spirit to complete the final task he had set for himself. There was still yet time to ascend the long flights of steps to the level of the surface. She would have to hurry; her part was still far from complete.
Azár sent her magelight roaming forward, her feet following its glowing trail out of the chamber and into the dark passage beyond. She knew exactly which direction to turn; her master had made certain she would not falter in her task. The corridor she traversed was part of a larger warren of passageways that infested the mountainside below what had once been proud Aerysius, city of the mages. Now just a sad and desolate foundation that stood forlorn three thousand feet above the Vale of Amberlie.
Following the map she had committed to memory, Azár let her feet carry her up a narrow stair, moving through a glowing trail of magelight that spilled ahead of her. Her eyes rejoiced in the texture of the light, awed by the magelight’s warm, summery glow. It was her own creation, her very first. A lifegiving thing of wonder and graceful beauty.
Azár sent her mind out, sampling the pulse and rhythm of the magic field in this place. It was soothing and vibrant. It was hers, now, to command as she pleased. She could feel Zamir’s power stirring within her, a wondrous and potent legacy.
She emerged at last from the depths of the mountain into a cool, clear night. She gazed out upon the terrace that stretched before her, captivated by the stark austerity of Aerysius’s bare foundations. Azár gazed upward into the sky, tilting her head back as an abrupt gust of wind seized her long, dark braid.
Before her, violent energies shot toward the sky, penetrating the dome of the heavens with a violence that was alarming. Lightning licked down to assault that awful spire, raining trails of sparks across the sky.
Confronted with such a daunting vision, Azár felt her courage falter. She lowered her gaze, biting her lip. She concentrated on the sound of her breath, willing her mind to focus. When she opened her eyes again, she regarded the gateway with newfound resolve.
Azár’s breath caught in her throat.
From out of the dazzling brilliance of the column, dark figures were emerging. Stirred by the sight of them, Azár’s heart quickened its pace. She stood her ground with fists balled against her sides, feet apart, back rigid. Shivering with excitement, Azár looked on as the first man-shaped silhouettes drew forth from the glaring wash of light to converge on her position.
The man who approached first was easily identified by the spiked weapon he bore: Byron Connel, ancient Warden of Battlemages, wielder of the legendary talisman Thar’gon. To his right strode an elegant woman in a flowing white gown, dark of hair as well as skin. A demon-hound with menacing green eyes stalked at her side. Azár had heard enough tales of the Eight to recognize Myria Anassis, ancient Querer of the Lyceum.
Another woman with loose chestnut hair approached Azár. She strolled alongside a man just as handsomely sinister as the woman was deceptively beautiful: Sareen Qadir and Nashir Arman. The pair approached gracefully. The woman’s eyes seemed to glisten, a smile of excitement growing on her lips.
So distracted was she by the pair that Azár almost didn’t notice the two men approaching from the opposite direction. She turned, startled to find herself confronted by the imposing forms of Zavier Renquist and Cyrus Krane. The two ancient prime wardens drew up together before her, the white cloaks of their office billowing behind them, stirred by gusts of wind displaced by the gateway. Cyrus Krane regarded Azár with a sneer rendered all the more cruel by the jagged red scar that bisected his face. His dark eyes were murky pools of unveiled threat.
Zavier Renquist paused before her, arms behind his back, gazing down upon Azár with an expression of somber esteem. His dark hair was pulled back from his face, gathered into a thick braid at the top of his head. He gazed at her expectantly, as if calmly waiting for her to speak first. Had he been any other man in the world, Azár might have considered it.
Appearing satisfied, Zavier Renquist lifted his chin and addressed Azár in a deep and resonant voice:
“Our Master extends to you His gratitude. In you, Xerys is well-pleased. He commits to you the services of the Eight and His army of the night until the initial purpose of our summoning is fulfilled. So, my child, it is time to speak your desires. What shall be your command?”
Azár swallowed, unable to look away from the mesmerizing shadows that simmered in Zavier Renquist’s eyes. She held his gaze with her own as she summoned a fragile voice, praying her words would not falter and betray her fear.
“I command you to save my people.” Azár channeled every scrap of assertiveness she could muster into her tone. She squared her shoulders, lifting her chin. Her fists were still clenched tightly at her sides. “Deliver us from the darkness. Raise us up from the ashes. Return to us our birthright—this is my command!”
Zavier Renquist stood there regarding her for a prolonged, searching minute. It was impossible to read his expression; the ancient demon’s face was altogether blank, without any hint or trace of emotion. He stared deeply into Azár’s eyes as if scrutinizing her worth, contemplating the fabric of her soul, we
ighing the mettle of her character. At last, apparently satisfied, he gave a terse nod.
“Then it shall be as you command,” he said, shifting his weight over his feet. His indigo robes swayed with his motion. He turned to cast a predatory stare across at Cyrus Krane then turned again toward Azár. Very formally, he spread his hands and assured her:
“Malikar’s deliverance is long overdue. And this time, there will be nothing in this world that can deter us from our goal. Allow me to introduce to you the man whose responsibility it shall be to reclaim the light and heritage that was lost so long ago when Caladorn fell into darkness.”
He gestured with his hand, indicating a man who had drawn up silently behind the others and now stood with hands clasped in front of him, head bowed against his chest. As Azár’s attention focused on him, the man glanced up through matted strands of long, black hair that had fallen forward over his face. His yellow-green eyes locked on hers with an intensity that was frightening.
Azár felt herself taken sharply aback; she had no idea who this man was. He fit none of the descriptions she had ever heard spoken of the Eight. The look in his eyes chilled her very soul.
She frowned in consternation, her brow nettling. “I don’t understand,” Azár whispered. “What has become of our mistress? Who is this man? How is it that he alone is expected to accomplish what all Eight of you could not achieve before?”
Zavier Renquist clasped his fingers together in front of him: a gesture of patience. “Your mistress failed. Her soul has been consigned to Oblivion.” He fixed Azár with a flat, significant stare. He extended his hand, indicating to Azár the stranger across from her with the haunted eyes. “This is the man who bested your mistress in combat and has replaced her at my side. He has assumed all of Arden Hannah’s rights, privileges, and obligations.”
Azár fixed this newcomer with an incredulous stare, shaking her head in confounded dismay. “Who is he?”
Zavier Renquist explained, “Darien Lauchlin is the lone Sentinel who laid waste to Malikar’s legions at the base of Xerys’s Pedestal.”
Darklands (The Rhenwars Saga Book 3) Page 1
