The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy

by M. L. Spencer

  Darien’s eyes widened in disbelief. It had been too much to hope for. He had been holding the sword Meiran had given him when he’d managed that last step off the cliff. It could have fallen anywhere. The chances of it ending up here, in this room, were remarkable.

  He bent down and took the black scabbard into his hand, raising it before his eyes with a feeling of reverence. The leather-wrapped hilt of the sword gleamed in the cool morning light. He ran his hand over it lovingly as his eyes wandered to the heavy compound crossguard. The tapering ends of the guard coiled around a matching pair of rubies the color of fresh-spilt blood. The stone set in the pommel of the hilt was a larger version, multifaceted. It radiated a dark crimson glow that sent tiny points of light spiraling against his hand when he curled his fingers around it.

  “We found that by your side,” Edric said. “I recalled you carrying it the other day, so I brought it along.” What he left unspoken was the air of disapproval remarked by his tone.

  Darien nodded, leaning the sword back against the wall. Standing, he found he couldn’t take his eyes from it, still amazed at the sheer impossibility of it being there.

  “It was a gift,” he explained in a voice gruff with sentiment. “It’s the only thing I have left of the person who gave it to me. You have my gratitude for saving it.” He managed to turn away from the blade. As he did, he caught a fleeting look of sympathy in the other man’s eyes.

  “I’m going outside. Have a look around.” He started to brush past the old Master, but Edric caught his arm.

  “Wait.”

  He moved to a chest against the wall. There, Edric bent over, carefully removing an odd assortment of birds that were perched there, setting them gently on the floor. He lifted the lid and rummaged through the contents, finally producing a folded black parcel Darien recognized. It was a mage’s cloak, complete with the Silver Star embroidered on the back. Darien’s mother had provided a new one for him to wear to his Raising, but it was lost somewhere in the ruins of the city.

  The old man pressed the cloak into Darien’s hands. “Here, put this on first.”

  “But it’s yours,” Darien protested, shaking his head in confusion. Why was the man giving him his own cloak?

  “I have no need of it any longer. You, on the other hand, need to keep up appearances.”

  He was only going out to take a look at the cliff and see what it could tell him of the devastation. The wild creatures of the Vale could scarcely care if he was dressed in a mage’s cloak or a burlap sack. But he donned the cloak anyway, fixing it with a small silver brooch Edric handed him. He felt a strange need to appease the old Master who had not only saved his life but had also saved his sword.

  Darien opened the door, stepping out into the brilliant light of morning. And then he froze, rooted by shock.

  There were scores of people gathered all around the little cottage.

  Darien had a sudden impulse to flee back inside and shut the door on that sea of anxious faces. But Edric had moved up behind him, blocking the doorway and any hope of retreat. The crowd was pressing toward him, people shouting and calling out as he stood staring at them, appalled.

  “I don’t understand,” he whispered. “What do they want from me?”

  “Hope,” Edric replied.

  Darien turned and stared at the old Master with horrified eyes, shaking his head in sickened disbelief.

  “I … I can’t,” he protested. “There’s nothing I can do for them. And why me? Why not you?”

  Master Edric only chuckled, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Why, I’m just the crazy old Bird Man who lives in the wilderness up ’yonder. But you, on the other hand, are the last remaining Sentinel of Aerysius.”

  “But I’m not,” Darien objected. “I never had a chance to take an order.”

  The old man just looked at him sideways and scoffed. “You are the son of Gerald Lauchlin. Of course you’re a Sentinel. What else would you be?”

  Darien shivered then, thinking of Aidan. He, too, was a son of Gerald Lauchlin. But his brother was just about the furthest thing from a Sentinel Darien could possibly imagine.

  In front of him, the crowd stopped stirring. Silence consumed the glen before the Bird Man’s cottage. All eyes were fixed on him, regarding him with a mixture of wonder and fear, along with an almost palpable sense of expectation. Darien could tell they were waiting for him to speak.

  Staring from face to face, he realized he recognized many. Some of the men standing in the crowd had been his childhood friends. Until he had passed the Trial of Consideration. Then he’d been brought to live on the mountainside, while his friends had remained behind in the Vale. Their lives had taken very different paths.

  One of the faces he knew well was Corban Henley, who had been a somewhat gangly boy with a capricious flair for adventure. Corban had been the son of the town constable. Darien remembered him as one of the ringleaders of the local gang of mischiefs he’d belonged to himself.

  But Darien hadn’t laid eyes on Corban in over a decade. The man staring at him now was still tall, but the lanky frame had filled out remarkably since adolescence. Corban now sported a thick beard and muscles that looked capable of wrestling an ox to the ground. Unlike most of the other faces around him, there was no trace of awe or anxiety in his old friend’s eyes. Instead, Corban regarded him with a look of wary speculation.

  “What will you do?” someone called out at him.

  Darien turned in the direction of the shout, but he couldn’t tell who had spoken. Everyone was looking at him as if they expected him to call down the powers of the heavens and save them all from the terror in the sky. They had to know he couldn’t do that. He was just a man. A man constrained by a vow to do no harm.

  So, he did the only thing he could think of, the only thing that might make them understand. Reaching down, he pulled back the sleeves of his black robe, forcing the thick material all the way back to his elbows. He raised his bared wrists before their staring eyes, rotating his hands slowly as the markings shimmered in the morning light.

  “I’ve sworn the Oath of Harmony,” he told them. “There’s nothing I can do against that.” He glanced toward the thin pillar of light that shot straight up from the side of the mountain, very visible even in the sunlight.

  He had hoped they would understand. But instead of accepting his words, the crowd in front of him exploded with fury. People shouted curses at him. The cry of “Coward!” was being raised by a group of men near the back of the mob. It was Master Edric who came to his rescue, stepping forward.

  “Now, wait a minute, all of you!” the old man bellowed in a thunderous voice.

  Darien glanced at the Bird Man in mild shock. He would have never credited that frail old body with the ability to produce such a resounding noise.

  Edric’s voice echoed off the sheer face of the surrounding cliffs, drowning out even the din of the crowd. Everyone stood still, stunned into silence. Mouths opened but said nothing. The only noise in the forest was the stir of air through the treetops. Edric nodded, looking satisfied, then took a step back.

  “Let the man speak.”

  Darien lowered his head, not wanting to confront the angry glares fixed solely on him. He needed a moment to think of something to say that would calm this desperate mob. But he could think of nothing. So he brought his gaze back up and drew in a deep breath, letting it out again slowly.

  He was beginning to feel irritated. These people had no right to pin all their hopes and expectations on him. Whatever else they might think, he was only just one man. A man who had lost everything.

  “I can’t do anything here,” he told them, just loud enough to be heard over the wind in the trees. “The battle was waged up on the mountainside, and it’s over now. Aerysius is destroyed. I can’t change that.” He paused, leveling his stare at each of them in turn, returning their glares right back at them. “But there’s still a war going on in the North, and it’s to there I’ll be headed. Perhaps, at th
e Front, I can make a difference.”

  His words were greeted by an uncomfortable silence. People exchanged nervous glances, shifting uneasily.

  One man called out, “Then you think the danger’s passed?”

  Darien shook his head. “If the Front fails to hold, there will be no place that’s safe. If you wish to help fight this war, then you’ll come with me. Otherwise, gather up your families and leave this place. The Vale of Amberlie is no longer safe.”

  “Why won’t you protect us?” shouted a woman.

  “That’s your bleeding job, isn’t it?” another man yelled.

  “He’s a bloody coward, that’s what he is!”

  “Oh, shut up, all of you!” Corban Henley stepped forward through the press of bodies in the crowd. “I’ve known Darien Lauchlin since we were boys. He’s no coward. If there was something that could be done, don’t you think he’d be doing it?” He stopped and looked up at Darien. “You’re going to the Front?”

  Darien nodded. “I’m useless here. The Front is the only place I can make any difference.”

  Henley’s eyes narrowed. He turned back, raising his voice to address the crowd behind him. “What’s wrong with you people? You’re all standing here whining like a pack of helpless dogs. You all want something done, but instead of lifting a finger to help yourselves, you brand this man a coward because he won’t do it all for you. Well, I see only one of him. And there sure as hell’s a lot more of you.” Looking back at Darien, he said, “I’m no stranger to a blade. If you’re going to the Front, then I’ll come with you. Now, is there anyone else with me?”

  No one spoke. Henley turned his head and spat on the ground. “Craven dogs.”

  Finally, a man stepped forward. “I’ll go.”

  “I don’t have a family,” called another. “I’m with you, Henley.”

  Suddenly the air was filled with offers of support. Darien rubbed his eyes. The critical moment had passed, thanks to Corban.

  He said, “I’ll be heading out at first light. I’ll take any man who wants to come with me. The rest of you should go home and gather up your families. Leave everything behind. Make for Auberdale. That route would be your safest choice. We’ll try to hold the North so that someday you might have a home to come back to.”

  There were no cheers; his words hadn’t been meant to inspire. But the crowd dispersed, which was all Darien had wanted to accomplish. Corban Henley gave him a nod as he turned away. Darien stood on the porch of the Bird Man’s home and watched until the last stragglers disappeared into the forest.

  “You need to work a bit on your delivery.” Master Edric patted Darien’s shoulder, then turned and went inside. Darien had to duck under the outstretched form of a great heron hanging too low on the other side of the door.

  Once inside the room, he stopped. He stood staring down at the chain on his wrist, turning his arm and watching the metallic luster gleam in the sunlight coming in through the doorway. He never realized how much he could despise something that was so much a part of him.

  “Don’t stare at those chains too long,” the Bird Man suggested. “They’ll begin to feel even heavier than they already are. Trust me. I know from experience.”

  Darien sighed, dropping his hand. “What will you do, Edric?”

  “Me? I’m just an old man who loves his birds. I can’t fight … the only thing I can do is fly.” His voice trailed off as he gazed up at the spinning birds dangling from the ceiling.

  The old Master shook his head sadly. “I know you think there’s little you can do, but you’re wrong. If you keep your wits about you, you’ll find there are more ways to win a battle than washing your hands in the blood of your enemy. Use your head. That’s why I saved it for you. As for me … it’s no good here anymore. My old friends have all flown away. Just listen.”

  Darien listened. Edric was right. Only the sound of silence greeted his ears. He hadn’t noticed the complete absence of birdsong from the forest.

  “Birds are smart.” Edric smiled softly. “They always know when it’s time to fly. As do I.”

  Darien’s brow furrowed as he wondered what the old man meant by that. But the aged Master didn’t elaborate. Instead he left, closing the door behind him.

  Darien sat down heavily on the bed. The gleam of his sword caught his eye. He let his hand go toward it, grasping the hilt and releasing the blade from its scabbard, drawing it across his knees on the edge of the bed. He curled his fingers around the steel, one hand near the crossguard, the other a third of the way down the blade, feeling the bite of the dual cutting edges. He turned the sword slowly, watching the melded folds of silken metal gleam in the light.

  At first, he thought Aidan had lied to him. Meiran’s blood was not dried and crusted on the steel. But then his eyes found a splattering of dark stains far up, in the dull area where the blade was flattened just above the hilt. Darien’s fingers tightened involuntarily as he threw his head back in grief. He didn’t notice his own blood spreading from his hands, welling over the cold steel to cover the stains already on the blade.

  The Bird Man was used to waking frequently in the night to answer the pressing urgings of a bladder that was just as old and tired as the rest of him. He crept out of bed, shuffling across the room under the spinning shadows of the birds that danced in the wan green light that still pierced the sky.

  He knew what that light was. He had no doubts as to the dreadful significance it implied. The gateway had filled his dreams, of late. Edric glanced at his birds, watching them dance in their endless pursuit of flight. He wanted to fly, as well. He had always envied birds, envied them the freedom of their wings.

  He relieved himself outside against the rough gray bark of a pine he had nurtured from a sapling. He turned to go back inside, but hesitated.

  He wanted one last flight.

  If anyone had actually been watching, all they would have seen was the form of an old man standing under the branches of a pine suddenly disappear into the shadows of the night. Their eyes would have entirely missed the small warbler that took wing from the place where the old man had just been standing.

  The tiny bird fluttered, pumping upward and spiraling into the sky, its whistling queries the only sound in the still night air. The warbler fluttered across the disk of the rising moon, now diving, now soaring, finally backstroking to rest in the spot where it had first arisen.

  If anyone had truly been watching, all they would have seen was a tired and breathless old man shuffling out from under the shadow of an ancient pine, climbing stiffly back up the stairs to the door of his cottage.

  Edric made his way back inside, but not to his own bed. Instead, he knelt beside the young man lying on a pallet on the floor. He waited, eyes studying the rhythmic rise and fall of the blankets, to make certain his young visitor was in the deepest stages of sleep.

  Tenderly, he placed a trembling and rheumatic hand over Darien’s chest, closing his tired old eyes. Above him, his silent friends whirled on a breeze, their feathers ruffling on outstretched wings.

  The Bird Man filled his mind with the thrill of flight as he opened the conduit of Transference between them and offered up his ancient life.

  8

  Greystone Keep

  Lightning streaked a sky filled with turbulent thunderheads, making the heavens blaze. As it faded, ice on the mountain peaks gleamed a luminous white, a hellish afterglow soon devoured by consummate darkness. Winds ripped down from the mountain passes, brutally cold and viciously fierce.

  Kyel staggered as a gust of wind threatened to push him over, having to lean forward with all his weight just to remain on his feet. The wind was so violent, it seemed the breath was being sucked right out of his lungs. He’d lost the feeling in his hands a long time ago. His toes throbbed from the cold.

  It should have been daylight. When they’d started up into the Pass of Lor-Gamorth, the first hint of morning was just beginning to warm the eastern horizon. But as they’d climbed ever higher
into the treacherous pass between jagged black slopes, the light of day had disintegrated. It had grown dark and cold, like a stormy winter night.

  Someone had warned him it would be like this. But no words could have prepared him for the horrifying reality of the Shadowspears. There was no sunlight, ever, in the mountains that bordered the Black Lands. There was only a death-dark sky filled with clouds that surged across the horizon. The weather patterns here were an extension of the curse that had desecrated the lands to the north a thousand years ago, remaking them over in hell’s own image.

  And Kyel was walking right toward those twisted lands, just one in a long file of exhausted men. He had known these men for three weeks, the time it had taken them to journey up from Rothscard across the grasslands of the North.

  They were convicts, one and all. Sentenced to death but delivered from that fate only to be conscripted into the war effort. It was still a death sentence, however commuted. There was no return from the Front. Everyone knew the only way out was to die.

  Kyel had wept quietly every night for a week, knowing in his heart he would never see Amelia or his son again. He wasn’t the only man who’d broken down, anticipating the grim fate they walked toward. Every step of the way took them closer to the end. Kyel had even seen Traver shed a tear or two, though the man had done his best to try and hide it.

  The world flickered, and thunder pealed over the shrieking gale. In that brief flash of light, Kyel made out the dark outline of a fortress high above on the edge of a rocky outcrop. It was there for just an instant then was gone, consumed by utter darkness.

  The name Greystone Keep was legendary. The fortress at the edge of the Black Lands had existed for over five hundred years, holding the North against the incursions of the Enemy. Kyel had heard its name mentioned in song and tale, but he had never imagined he’d be seeing it with his own eyes.