The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy

by M. L. Spencer

  Traver grinned at the coppers in his hand as if they were gold pieces. Brushing a wayward lock of hair out of his eyes, he turned to assess the game in the corner. The pair of men were probably regulars. Townsmen, from the looks of them. The game they were playing was a quiet one. Too quiet, by Traver’s standards. His coin probably wouldn’t go very far with them, but he had to start somewhere.

  He kissed the coppers in his hand, a little offering to his Lady of Luck, the goddess Dreia. Traver considered himself a special supplicant of hers, probably a favorite by now. She had blessed him many times before in the past—why not tonight? After all, he just wanted to take in enough winnings to buy himself a few rounds of drink. That wasn’t too much to ask.

  “Care if I join in?” he said by way of introduction, hooking a chair over with his foot. He threw in a coin and plopped down, leaning forward with his head in his hands, elbows planted on the table.

  That’s how it started.

  Three hours later, it was still going.

  Lady Luck had never been so good. Traver was skidding along on the roll of his life. He’d graduated from the corner table, moving up to a real game when a bawdy crowd of mercenaries wandered in. Since then, the Elk’s Horn had turned into an entirely different sort of establishment. Word of his winning streak had gotten out, pulling people in from the street. Traver found himself the center of attention as a raucous crowd gathered around his table to watch him win hand after hand.

  Traver had lost count of the number of pots he’d won in a row. He’d never even heard of a streak this hot. The cards in his hand were like a good woman. They knew when to stick, and they knew when to leave. People started buying him rounds. After the first few tankards, Traver stopped wondering who to thank. He just swished the ale around in his mouth, swallowed, and drew another card.

  He stared across the table at his current opponent, a merchant down from Rothscard who’d stopped in to buy a drink, then decided to try his luck. The cards in Traver’s hand felt itchy, so he discarded the highest and decided to go low this time. That was the beauty of Knight’s Cross, the game of the moment. Low cards stood as much of a chance as high, all depending on how the hand was dealt. The merchant was dealing from three decks to prevent him from counting cards. Traver wasn’t. But when he produced a perfect cross for the second time in a row, the merchant folded and walked away.

  Cheers went up all around the room. People clapped him on the back, while others beat on the tables with their tankards. A woman leaned forward to give him a kiss that started on the cheek but ended up with her falling into his lap with his tongue in her mouth. The kiss tasted like a salty twist of ale and wine, not unpleasant. Her breasts weren’t bad either. Traver snaked a hand under her skirt to squeeze her thigh and was rewarded by a squeak of surprise. He winked at her, settling her properly in his lap, then looked around for another upstart who might want to try a challenge.

  There didn’t seem to be any takers.

  But then one of the mercenaries he’d beaten earlier returned, probably wanting to win his coin back. Traver remembered the dirty, unshaven face well. The man had played a good game of cards. He must have managed to scrounge up more coin from somewhere—probably from the rowdy group of men he’d come in with.

  The buxom girl in Traver’s lap squirmed at the sight of the mercenary. Traver draped a hand over her shoulder to steady her, although a certain part of him did appreciate her squirming.

  He called a serving girl over with a wave of his hand, ordering another tankard and telling the girl to put it on his tab. Archer’s tab, actually, though it really didn’t matter. He had enough coin in his pockets to pay his old friend back handsomely.

  He patted the girl on the thigh then signaled his opponent to ante up. Traver blinked, staring at the gold coin the man pushed toward the center of the table. He didn’t have near enough to match that bet, even if he went all-in. He was going to have to walk.

  Unless…

  He reached down, lifting the girl by the hips and planting her firmly on the table. Standing, Traver excused himself and trudged across the room in the direction of the stairs.

  He took the creaking staircase up to the inn’s second floor. He knew which door was Kyel’s as soon as he heard the snoring from the other side. He had those low, throaty sounds memorized. He opened the door and stooped to grope around in the darkness. As usual, Archer had stashed his coin purse under the bed.

  Traver scooped up the purse and carried it off. After all, he was riding the best winning streak of his life. That kind of luck just didn’t happen every night. He swung the purse by its strap as he shuffled through the packed common room back to the table. Halfway there, he lost his balance and stumbled into a woman, jostling her drink. Ale spilled down the front of her dress, drizzling amber droplets down the gap of her cleavage.

  The ringing slap that followed actually took him by surprise. Traver pressed a hand against his face. The woman had an arm like Harlen Wood. That one could try her hand at tavern brawling. She’d really be quite good at it.

  He stumbled back toward the table, massaging his cheek and veering the whole way. It was almost time to call it a night, he decided. He was having a hard time focusing, and the sound of the room was becoming a muffled blur in his head. He hadn’t bothered counting the number of rounds he’d put down, but he knew the total was up there. He just wanted to finish this last hand then slip off to bed, preferably accompanied.

  Traver almost sighed in relief when he saw the mercenary was still waiting for him. The girl was gone, though, which was really too bad. He fell into his chair, thumbing the purse open enough to finger through the loose coin at the bottom. When he produced a fat gold piece, his rough-looking opponent raised an eyebrow in interest. Traver handed it over to the man, who put his teeth on it.

  “A gold Silver Star,” Traver boasted, slurring badly. “Can’t go wrong with that.”

  The mercenary didn’t reply. Come to think of it, he hadn’t said anything all evening. But he did appear satisfied by the impression his teeth made in the coin. He dealt, and Traver eagerly scooped his cards up off the table, trying to arrange them in his hand. He lost one in the process, groaning as it twirled downward to land face-up on the table. Someone behind him started to laugh. Traver almost turned around to say something. But then his eyes focused on the cards glaring up at him from his hand.

  Another perfect cross.

  Traver threw his head back and howled, stamping his feet as a cheer went up from the gathered crowd. Throwing his cards on the table, he reached forward to rake in his winnings. He couldn’t believe it. He’d felt certain his Lady Luck had left him for another man.

  He should have walked away then. But he didn’t.

  “Let’s go again,” he slurred.

  But his opponent shook his head. “Can’t do it.”

  Traver’s face screwed into a grimace. “Why not?”

  The mercenary shrugged. “I got people I owe.”

  “You must have something.”

  “Just my horse.”

  Traver brightened. A horse was good. Archer could use a better horse. The nag he kept tied behind the wagon was a mean-tempered animal that was becoming nastier by the day. Traver put on his best game face, not wanting to appear too eager.

  “Well, I’d have to see it.” He did his best to sound skeptical. He actually didn’t care what the beast looked like, so long as it had four legs and a back to put a saddle on.

  The mercenary looked over his shoulder and nodded at someone behind him. Traver’s fingers were itching for more cards to be dealt. He scooped his coins up from the table and downed the rest of his ale, waiting for the man to make his decision.

  “Come on, then.” His opponent scooted his chair back from the table. “I don’t have the bloody beast shoved down my britches, you know.”

  “Right.” Traver scooped up the coin purse and stood up. He caught himself on the table to keep from falling over.

  He had
to strain to keep the image of the man from becoming doubled as he followed the mercenary out of the inn and into the night. For some reason, his eyes kept trying to slide closed. How much ale had he put down? He knew his limit well, and he knew when he was well over it.

  The mercenary led him into a dark stable. Traver scowled at the overwhelming stench of horse manure that assaulted his nose. Whoever the innkeeper was paying to muck out the stalls wasn’t earning his keep. Soft nickers greeted them as they made their way down a dark aisle between rows of stalls. A soft nose brushed against Traver’s arm, making him flinch.

  The man opened the door to a stall, beckoning. Traver followed him in, stumbling over a pile of hay. It was dark inside, and his eyes hadn’t adjusted yet. They weren’t working well anyway.

  He blinked, peering around at the shadows.

  “Hey,” he muttered, managing to slur even that one syllable. “I don’t think there’s a horse in here.”

  “He’s a genius,” said a voice from behind him.

  Suddenly sober, Traver bent to reach for his boot knife. But a steel-toed kick caught him in the side of the head before he could get his fingers around it.

  6

  Dumb, Rotten Luck

  The sound of the door banging open startled Kyel from sleep. Then hands were on him, hauling him out of bed and onto his feet. A group of men slammed him back against the wall, his head cracking against the wood. Someone twisted him around and snaked a muscled grip around his neck. He tried to struggle, but the man jerked his arm upward forcibly, holding it at an impossible angle.

  Kyel groaned, feeling his tendons start to give. He stopped moving, sagging as they bound his wrists behind his back with coarse rope. Then they wrestled him out the door. Kyel stumbled down the hallway, two men guiding him firmly from behind.

  When Kyel reached the stairs, he looked down to find the common room crowded with people. They were shouting and hollering, waving fists and brandishing weapons and tankards in the air. Kyel stared down at the crowd, his mind frozen by a numbing mixture of confusion and fear.

  As he reached the bottom of the stairs, a young woman stepped forward and spat in his face. A blond-haired man took care of the spittle for him, tilting his tankard over Kyel’s head and dumping the contents over him. People screamed accusations as he was thrust forward through the throng. He couldn’t make out any of the words, didn’t understand what they were shouting. It was all just a blurred, terrifying nightmare.

  They hauled him out the door and into the night. The yard was full of people standing around, staring at another man who knelt in the dirt by the stable. A few men held flaming torches, their faces glowing orange in the flickering light. They dragged Kyel by the collar of his shirt toward the stable, where his confusion solidified into fury.

  The man kneeling on the ground was Traver. Kyel felt his cheeks heating with a sudden flare of anger. What could the scoundrel have possibly done this time? By the looks of things, it must have been something far worse than just another rowdy tavern brawl.

  Then Kyel saw the dead body sprawled on the ground of the yard.

  They pushed him to his knees beside Traver. The man looked even worse than usual. His head was a bruised mess, his scraggly hair matted, his face caked with blood and grime. He reeked a brutal combination of ale and horse manure. Traver’s eyes were reddened and half-closed. Kyel couldn’t tell if that was from the head injury or the drink, but it didn’t matter. The facts were totaling themselves in his head. What they added up to was certain trouble.

  “What did you do?” Kyel hissed at him.

  Traver turned and regarded him with a dim expression, noticing him there for the first time. He grimaced and shook his head, looking baffled. As if it were all just dumb, rotten luck.

  “I got jumped,” Traver said. “But these lackwits who think they’re the Emmery Deathwatch Guard keep saying I killed that man.”

  “What?” It was as bad as Kyel feared. Traver had stolen some coin from someone, gotten himself good and soused, then went and killed some poor fellow. “Oh, by the gods, Traver—”

  A short but brawny fellow approached, waggling a finger at them. “Now, you just sit there quiet-like. Save your lip for the mayor. He’s on his way, and when he gets here, you’ll likely end up with your heads on a block.”

  “But I didn’t do anything!” both Kyel and Traver exclaimed at the same time. Kyel turned his head and glared at his companion, who just shrugged sheepishly in his restraints.

  “Well, I didn’t,” Traver insisted.

  They just sat there after that, on their knees in the dirt of the yard. Kyel couldn’t keep his eyes away from the dead body spread out in front of him only a few paces away. He thought he recognized the man, but it was hard to tell in the flickering light of the torches. The corpse had so much blood splattered all over its face that the features were indeterminable.

  He thought it might be one of the two men who’d tried to block him from the inn’s door. Kyel hadn’t liked the way they had been staring at him. He found himself wondering if Traver’s story might have some grain of truth to it. It was possible they had seen the wagonload of goods they’d driven in and had marked Traver for an easy target.

  Of course, that didn’t explain how one of them had ended up dead.

  Kyel made certain his voice was a dead whisper as he prodded his companion, “Why did you get jumped? You don’t have anything anyone would want to steal.”

  Traver hung his head. To Kyel, he looked like a mischievous boy who’d just gotten caught by his mother. “I ran out of coin. I borrowed your purse while you slept.”

  “What?” Kyel couldn’t believe it. He’d known that the man was a scoundrel—and a drunk, and a carouser, and a gambler—but stealing your own friend’s coin was low. He wouldn’t have thought even Traver’s base morals were that appalling.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I’ll warrant it is! Everything with you is a long story. Your whole life is just one long, bloody tragedy.”

  “Actually, I think it might be a very short tragedy. Look.”

  Kyel looked. A small procession was headed their way from the direction of the street. The man that rode in front on a heavy draft horse still wore his nightclothes. Kyel took him to be the town mayor. Behind him walked a mixed assortment of people, some holding torches, others wielding clubs or farm tools.

  Kyel didn’t like the looks of the man bringing up the rear. He was heavily bearded and carried the biggest half-moon axe Kyel had ever seen. The light of the torches reflected off the blade. The weapon looked to have seen some heavy use. The cutting edge was ragged and nicked.

  “Gods.” Traver gulped beside him. “Wager that would smart a bit coming down.”

  Kyel couldn’t take his eyes off that axe. He didn’t understand. All he’d done was go to bed and, the next thing he knew, a group of townsmen wanted to take his head off. It wasn’t fair. He thought of Amelia back at home and little baby Gil. He didn’t want his son growing up without a father. Kyel hung his head, wrenching his gaze away from the red glow of the half-moon blade.

  Traver whispered, “You’re a businessman, Archer. You talk us out of this.”

  Kyel let out a long, exasperated sigh. There was no hope. If only Traver truly would let him do the talking, there might be a chance. But Kyel knew there was no way the wretch beside him would keep his mouth shut.

  The mayor dismounted a short distance away and tossed his horse’s reins to one of his henchmen. He was a squat old man with salt-and-peppered whiskers on the sides of his face. He seemed like a good enough fellow, although anyone wearing nightclothes couldn’t seem too harmful. He leaned over the dead body, holding a spectacle up to his eye as another man handed him something that glinted in the torchlight.

  Kyel frowned, staring at the object in the mayor’s hand. “Isn’t that your knife?”

  Traver nodded, gazing down at his boots. “What do you think our odds are? Three-to-one?”

&nb
sp; “Is gambling all you ever think about?”

  “Well, no, actually.” Traver nodded in the direction of the headsman. “Right now, I’m thinking more about that axe. It doesn’t look very sharp.” He groaned. Tilting his head back, he worked his neck around stiffly. “Oh, gods, my head aches.”

  Kyel could only glare at him. Then he turned back to the group of men still conversing over the body. The mayor had squatted down beside the corpse and was fingering the knife in his hands as he examined the bloody torso.

  “We’ve scores of witnesses, Mayor,” a man was saying. “Everyone saw the killer lose a heap of coin to this poor fellow. And, I mean, not just coppers. Gold, mind you. Then everyone heard that bastard telling him to follow him to the stables. Seems he beat the poor chap senseless then knifed him real good. Then he passed out flat drunk. That’s how we found him.”

  “Oh, is that the way of it?” Traver tossed his hair back from his face. “Then would you pray explain how I acquired this dent in my head? And if I knifed the ‘poor chap’ to get my coin back, then where is it?”

  “We found this in the stable.”

  Kyel turned to see a tall and lanky man walking toward the mayor. He carried something in his hand. Kyel stared, trying to see what it was in the shadows of the yard. When the man stepped into the light, Kyel almost groaned. It was his own coin purse. And, by the way the man was holding it, there was still a good amount of heft to it.

  The mayor received the purse into his pudgy hands. He opened it, and Kyel could hear the sound of clinking coins rattling around as the mayor sifted through the contents. He turned to Traver, shaking the purse as he walked toward him.

  Raising his eyebrows, he said, “So you’re telling me there was a third party who knifed him, beat you senseless, and then didn’t bother to abscond with the coin? That’s a bit hard to swallow, don’t you think?”

  Traver shrugged. “That’s the way of it.”

  “And what about me?” demanded Kyel. “I never left my room all night!”