The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy

by M. L. Spencer

  Darien felt ill at ease on the battlements at the top of Greystone’s tower. He stood with a hand resting on the wall, looking out through an embrasure. He used to come here often just to think, to gaze out over the distances and sense the currents of the night. Under the right conditions, he could sometimes see all the way down to the mouth of the pass, and even out across the distant wastes of the Black Lands beyond.

  Tonight was such a night. The winds were violent, eliminating any chance that fog or haze could obscure the view. The Black Lands unfolded beneath him, revealed in their naked desecration, flowing out from the foothills like a dark sea to the gloom of the northern horizon.

  He reached out from within to gain a sense of the swirling tides of the magic field. It felt different tonight, worse than yesterday, like slick rivulets of quicksilver draining down off the slopes, rushing in unbridled currents toward the lowlands beyond. There was nothing timid about it now. There was no good reason tonight for the field to be surging so wild and unchecked.

  He started thinking of the bad reasons. Darien felt certain there was a storm brewing. He could sense it in the air, just as he had the morning he’d arrived in the Vale. The day Aerysius fell. Only, this time, he didn’t dismiss the sense of ominous foreboding. He knew better to trust the feelings that came to him, delivered on the tides of magic that moved within him. He was no longer an acolyte. He no longer had the luxury of mistrusting his own mind.

  Turning away from the battlements, he climbed down the ladder back into the sheltered warmth of Proctor’s quarters. He made his way over to the map on the wall, for the hundredth time tracing his finger over the faded markings. But still, nothing made sense.

  Darien tapped his finger absently on the yellowed chart as he paused in thought, then traced a line across the map to the smudge that indicated the mouth of Lor-Gamorth. Then, slowly, he drew a line upward, about an inch, his finger pausing under the small letters that spelled the word Orguleth. As he figured the numbers in his mind, his finger traced out the path of his rough triangulation across a frayed fold in the map, out into the blank emptiness north of the mountain pass.

  His hand paused then, the edge of his fingertip poised under the only mark in that entire void of uncharted area. It was an arrow, pointing toward the upper-right corner of the map. Underneath the arrow were inscribed the words To Bryn Calazar.

  Darien’s finger tapped twice on the arrow. Then he spun away from the map and made for the stairs, scooping up his sword and clutching the scabbard against his chest. He took the steps two at a time, shrugging into the baldric as he reached the tower’s base. There, he stopped, glancing toward the closed and barred door of the keep. On impulse, he turned away from it and let his feet carry him instead in the direction of the hall.

  Kyel Archer was not hard to find. The young man stood out like a beacon of flame blazing amidst the dim glow of the men around him. Darien crossed the hall toward him, men scrambling to move out of his way. He reached out his hand, taking the young man by the shoulder and turning him around with the pressure of his fingers.

  “Stay clear of the battle,” he warned, then moved away toward the collapsed north wall of the keep. Ignoring the stares aimed at him, Darien mounted a ladder to the catwalk at the top of the wall. He paid careful attention to the narrow footing as he worked his way toward Sutton Royce. Heights had been bothering him ever since his fall.

  The captain turned as he saw Darien approaching, a look of concern on his face.

  “Look to the east,” Darien said. “They’ll be coming from the Spire.” He watched Royce’s eyes widen. It was sooner than they’d been expecting.

  “Our plan won’t work, then,” Royce shouted at his back as Darien was already moving away.

  He paused, turning. “No, it won’t. But I’ve a better idea.”

  Kyel watched the Sentinel’s black cloak vanish through the door of the hall.

  “Smells like trouble,” grunted Traver, who had been occupying the time by honing his blade with a small whetstone. The man held up the shining steel, turning it slowly in the dim light. Apparently, he’d found a place he wasn’t quite satisfied with, laying it back down and going at it again.

  A ringing cry echoed from below on the cliffs. Then a volley of fire arrows hissed across the open roof overhead. There was a clatter of boots as the regular soldiers took to the walls, followed by a panicked commotion as the recruits reached for their weapons, the sound of their clamoring voices filling the room. The whole hall became a frothing tide of men.

  A shout from the doorway returned order to the keep. The men turned to stare at Commander Proctor, who stood with feet apart and hands folded over the pommel of a sword planted blade-down in front of him. He was flanked by his captains. To his right, Lauchlin stood calmly regarding the room, a chain mail tunic gleaming under his cloak.

  It was actually happening. Kyel felt a surge of sudden panic. A cold sweat broke out on his brow as he stared at the glistening rings exposed between the folds of the Sentinel’s cloak. There was going to be a battle. And, judging by the number of fire arrows that had flared across the sky, it was going to be big.

  Kyel glanced over his shoulder at Traver, who stood cradling his sword. The young man’s chest was rising and falling in shallow, rapid motions. His eyes were wide, but not in fear, Kyel realized. The look on Traver’s face was one of anticipation, even excitement.

  The officers conferred quietly. As Kyel looked up, he saw Lauchlin shake his head in response to a question. Then the group broke apart as the regular soldiers moved out into the crowded hall, making their way through the spaces between clusters of panic-stricken men.

  Sergeant Ulric wound his way through the hall, pointing out specific individuals and signaling them to follow. When he came near Kyel’s group, his finger waved in the air as he selected only a few of the men around him.

  “You, you and … you.”

  Ulric’s bony finger was pointing right at his chest. Kyel’s knees felt as if they were going to give way as he followed the sergeant with his small group of hand-picked archers. To Kyel, the number of recruits not selected far outnumbered the men who had been. As he walked toward the front of the hall, he noticed the mage’s eyes upon him again.

  Lauchlin’s stare narrowed, his expression displeased. He turned and muttered something to Craig, who looked at Kyel and nodded.

  “Ulric,” the captain called as their group approached. The sergeant sprinted over to him. As they spoke, Kyel saw Ulric’s hand gesturing in the air. It looked almost as if the two men were arguing.

  When Ulric returned, the look on his face was one of anger. He glared at Kyel. “You’re coming with us,” he said, as if there had ever been a question about it. “But you’re to stay clear of the fray and keep your head down. Orders from above.”

  By the way he said ‘above,’ Kyel assumed he meant Lauchlin. He nodded, feeling a little disappointed. It wasn’t as if he wanted to go out there and risk his neck, but he also didn’t like being singled out. He felt heat rising to his cheeks as he shifted his gaze to the floor.

  They stood there doing absolutely nothing as the commotion continued around them in the hall. Then there was another shout from below followed by another fiery round of arrows. He heard a man whisper beside him:

  “This one’s going to be bloody.”

  Ulric gave the word to move out. Kyel strode forward with the bowmen and followed the sergeant through the keep’s tall door, out into the frigid bleakness of night.

  Traver was grinning, amazed he’d even been picked. This was going to be great, maybe one for the history books, and he was actually going to have the chance to take part in it. His hand fingered the cold steel of his sword as he waited his turn in the line of recruits waiting to be armored. He could have used a stiff drink, but the rush of the thrill that filled him was practically just as good. Maybe even better.

  He was almost glad for his luck; the Front was where he was meant to be. Not running some
wretched dye-house back in Covendrey, not driving a wagon along a dusty road with the constant reek of horseflesh in his face. The thrill of impending battle was far more intoxicating than any of his frequent binges. His hand quivered on the hilt of his sword, eager with anticipation.

  Two soldiers pulled a tunic of quilted armor over him, cinching it tight. A hand clapped him on the back, sending him forward to another group of armored men who waited by the door. Someone thrusted a pair of gauntlets at him.

  As he followed the line of foot soldiers across the threshold of the keep, Traver closed his eyes, whispering a soft prayer to the goddess Dreia, his sweet Lady of Luck.

  Darien pulled back sharply on the gelding’s reins, feeling the dark warhorse beneath him quivering, almost as if the animal could sense the coming storm. He looked out over the edge of a steep escarpment, down into the murky shadows of a canyon almost at the base of the Shadowspears.

  From that vantage point, he could see the deep ravines and narrow rivulets that fed into the mouth of the pass. Behind him, he could hear the nervous shuffle of the men spread out along the rim of the escarpment, overlooking the canyon below. To his left across a narrow gap, he could see Devlin Craig mounted on his silver warhorse. Craig nodded slightly.

  It was the signal he’d been waiting for.

  Darien closed his eyes, reaching out with his mind. It was no small feat of concentration, summoning the eddies of power that churned at the mouth of the pass. He groped outward tentatively, feeling the currents of air rushing up the mountain slopes behind him, sensing the energy and friction of the wind.

  With the will of his mind, he dominated the air currents, shifting them in direction, doubling the wind back upon itself. At the bottom of the canyon, dozens of violent whirlwinds burst upward, churning the black dust of the river bottom and splitting into double-twisters that finally slowed and exhausted themselves against the slopes. The anger of the wind was gradually spent, fading into the stillness of an unearthly calm.

  Silence replaced the din of the gale. Below in the canyon, nothing moved. It was as if the entire motion of the world had frozen in place, the pulse of reality halting to a standstill. The distant trickle of a running stream was the only indication that time still moved forward at all.

  Darien glanced behind and saw that the ranks of soldiers flanking him were entirely still. The restless stir of armor and weapons had ceased, the men now gaping out into the utter quiet that had swallowed the pass.

  He raised his hand, spreading his fingers over the crystalline-black calm.

  A fog rose from the lowlands, spreading out slowly from the winding crease of the river bottom, groping up the black slopes of the surrounding bluffs. The canyon was gradually devoured as swirling gray mists unfolded, clinging to the rocks and rendering the view of the approaches impossible.

  Darien looked for the outline of Devlin Craig, barely visible through the twisting tendrils of mist. Again, the captain nodded, the expression in his eyes beneath the shadows of his helm approving. The stillness of the canyon stretched below them, overwhelming in its totality. The fog swirled, churning, reaping the shadows of the sunless dawn.

  The sound of a distant thunder echoed up through the mists. It seemed at first almost natural, like the rumble after a stab of lightning. But the noise was constant, growing. It increased in volume and proximity, swelling to a throbbing roar, escalating until it became clear there was nothing natural about it. The roar became a deafening echo that rose from the mist and shattered the silence of the canyon.

  Darien glanced sideways at Craig. The captain was holding his left hand in a fist above his head: the signal to hold. Below, Darien could hear the ranks of the Enemy advancing under the choking cover of fog. He waited, chest vibrating with the rhythmic thunder of the army that marched beneath them.

  He glanced back to Craig, a tingling shiver passing through his body like a wave. Darien focused his gaze on the soldier’s hand. As he watched, the captain brought his arm down.

  Darien released his hold on the canyon.

  The fog abated instantly, revealing Enemy ranks spread out like dark waters across the river bottom below. There were many more than he had expected. Cold fingers of dread traced upward from the small of his back, stealing down his arms to numb the touch of the reins in his fingers.

  The gods had not listened to his prayers.

  The advancing army spread out across the folds of the canyon floor seemed to lack anything in the way of organization or discipline. But Darien knew better than to be fooled by the muddled appearance of those ranks. Somewhere in the choking desolation of the Black Lands, Chaos had transcended to devise an order of its own. The peal of their war horns brayed above the clamor of their armaments.

  The ranks of archers behind him released their shafts with a throbbing hum of bowstrings. He watched the first ranks of the Enemy drop under the rain of gray-fletched arrows.

  A terrible roar broke out as the black river of soldiers below swept forward, storming up the side of the canyon toward them under a hailing barrage of arrows. Armored forms dropped, littering the slope, to be consumed by the relentless flood that came behind. Screams of death mixed with the sound of horns and blood-curdling battle cries as the first dark ranks spilled over the lip of the canyon.

  Craig drew his sword and spurred his mount forward. Volleys of arrows whistled over his head to drop in a deadly rain on the writhing slope. To both sides, horse and infantry engaged with thundering force, pressing the Enemy back down the rise of the escarpment.

  Darien grimaced as he saw a company of infantry rush forward, descending the slope in pursuit. He clenched his fist in frustration. The plan had been to hold the top of the slope, where they had the advantage, not follow the retreating Enemy back down into the gorge.

  As he gazed out across that deadly sea, Darien felt the tension inside him ease, replaced by a numbing calm. He waited, watching as if through someone else’s eyes as Craig ordered his horsemen over the slope to rescue the beleaguered foot soldiers.

  The cavalry engaged the Enemy ranks with the clamor of ringing steel and shattering lances. The sound of the battle resonated up the walls of the canyon, the thunderous impacts of men and steel merging together in a murderous clash of confusion.

  Darien opened his fist, sweeping his arm down to his side. With a cry that shook the air, hundreds of foot soldiers sprinted past him down the slope, feeding the frenzy of the battle.

  He swept his gaze across the canyon, taking in the sheer viciousness of the fray. Beneath him, soldiers were flailing, rending, dying, breaking against the shield wall of the Enemy ranks.

  He watched with calm detachment as his own men screamed and fell, their broken carcasses collecting in heaps upon the ground. Through it all he could see the gray charger of Devlin Craig weaving in and out, his tremendous sword cutting a wedge through the middle of the shield wall.

  Darien looked to the north, toward the dark banks of a steep defile where he knew Kyel Archer was stationed, well away from the danger of the battlefield. Sensing no threat to that position, he turned his attention back to the fight.

  Traver brandished his sword as the first Enemy soldiers came crashing into the Greystone line of running infantry. He could feel his heart flailing wildly, the roar of blood in his ears dampening even the thunder of battle around him. He’d known it would be bad, but nothing like this. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man beside him fall to his knees, a length of steel driven through his chest.

  An Enemy swordsman kicked the man backward to free his blade. The eyes of the dying man glared up at Traver from the ground, a blood-washed hand clutching the gaping hole in his cloth armor. His lips moved slowly, forming soundless words.

  Traver tore his eyes away just in time to dodge a spear that hissed past his ear. At the same time, a sword slashed down from out of nowhere. He brought his own blade up in time to block it, almost losing his grip when the jarring impact came.

  He tried to rec
over, tried to get his sword back up as the Enemy blade swept around and came right back at his face. All he could see was a black blur in front of his eyes as he dropped to the ground and thrust his own weapon up.

  He felt the hilt wrenched out of his grasp as the black-armored warrior twisted above him. He felt something wet and soft splattering down over his face. Traver brought his hand up to scoop whatever it was off, smearing it away. Rubbing what felt like slimy mud out of his eyes, he blinked and found himself staring down at the glistening wet ropes of entrails.

  Devlin Craig wielded his sword like an extension of his arm as he wove through a sea of infantry, swinging his blade in great, hacking arcs. A rain of blood showered in his wake, bathing the flanks of his mount in a red, frothy sheen. Swatting a spear aside with a swipe of his blade, he continued the stroke downward to rip through the armor and bone of an Enemy swordsman.

  Darien waited, the sounds of screaming horses and dying men assaulting his ears, watching as the clash of battle swelled to a tumultuous fury. The Enemy lines regrouped, the fragments of the Greystone troops wheeled and swept before them toward the mouth of the pass.

  Darien sent his mind groping outward across the canyon, seizing a narrow wall of rock that sheltered the battlefield from a ravine on the other side. Wrenching the cliff with the force of his mind, he watched the rock face tremble and then erupt with violence.

  Scores of Greystone soldiers poured out through the gaping rent from the other side, taking up position where the cliff had just been. Archers knelt, firing volleys of arrows into the face of the Enemy charge. Bodies dropped to the canyon floor, showered with gray-fletched shafts.

  The bowmen fell to the ground as ranks of cavalry leaped over their heads from the shadows of the ravine. Enemy soldiers turned and fled back toward Craig’s charge of armored horse. As Darien watched, the Enemy ranks were cut down, wedged in a vice between two fronts of hurling death.