The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy

by M. L. Spencer

  “We go down tomorrow,” Proctor announced.

  27

  The Field of Tol-Ranier

  The first pale streaks of dawn were just beginning to gray the horizon as Darien looked down on the ancient battle site known as the Field of Tol-Ranier. There, the camp of the King’s northern army lay spread out before him in orderly rows of black tents that stood out against the glistening white sheen of winter’s first snowfall.

  The sight of the encampment bothered him. It had been two days since he’d ordered Faukravar to prepare his army for the march, and yet it seemed that no measures had been taken to arrange for such an expedition. As Darien considered the silent encampment below, a slow anger filled him.

  It was still very early. Yet, there should have been more movement than he could see among the tents. Soldiers should have been about stoking cook fires, honing their weapons, and preparing for the routines of the day. But instead, the encampment of Faukravar’s army looked nearly deserted, just a token few men left behind to give the suggestion that there might be more.

  He kicked his heels into the Tarkendar’s sides, sending the horse forward down the hill at a springing trot. Darien reached down, feeling at his side for the comfort of the sword fixed to his saddle. He wrapped his fingers around it, the leather laced around the hilt rough and soothing to his skin.

  He was glad he had lingered in the city as long as he had, shadowing Naia until she had finally slipped out in the falling snow, not knowing that her departure was remarked by a silent observer looking down from the city walls. Darien had feared Faukravar would move against her again, but now he knew why the King hadn’t. The Vile Prince had been making other, more sinister, plans.

  The camp ahead was a trap. He could sense it. A trap rigged to spring if he stepped his foot into it. But even with that knowledge, Darien felt no fear. There was little they could do if he was prepared.

  And so he was. He had spent a lot of time in thought over the last two days, summoning the strength he would need to face the trials that awaited him in the days ahead. Laying new plans, altering old ones. Taking what he knew from his training and adapting it to new, more deadly, applications.

  Naia’s departure had helped, more than she could ever know. She had taken with her his heart, leaving him with only a festering wound in its place. Which was good. The emptiness that now filled him knew no compassion. Without compassion, there could be no pain, no mercy, no remorse.

  With those feelings set aside, he was free to transform into what it was necessary he become: a weapon melded together with purpose. Tempered by Arden’s fire, quenched by Naia’s love. Forged on the anvil of Proctor’s cruel cunning, dedicated in the font of Meiran’s spilt blood.

  There was nothing they could do to touch him. For the first time ever, he was truly Unbound.

  The few men left behind in the encampment looked up as he rode through their midst. There was no surprise on their faces, no shock at the sight of his cloak. But there was fear.

  Darien could almost smell it as he rode past them: a sickening, rank odor that disgusted him. He rode through the camp, past long lines of tents and doused fires. All the while, he was followed by the nauseating stench of their fear. He couldn’t ignore it. He couldn’t make it go away. It infected him.

  Reaching out from within, Darien tasted the magic field. It was a delicate, throbbing pulse that flowed through him, following the contours of the surrounding landscape. It moved in a north-westerly direction, pointing like a compass arrow directly toward Orien’s Vortex. The rhythm of the field was peaceful, like a slow and stately dance.

  He kept his mind open to it as he directed the warhorse up a snow-covered hill, the animal’s hooves making crunching noises in the loose white powder. At the summit, he drew back on the reins as the gelding sidestepped with a nervous snort.

  Faukravar’s army waited at the base of the slope in front of him. The soldiers were formed into divisions, with light cavalry in the front flanked by ranks of infantry, perhaps twelve thousand strong. Archers stood ready, bows raised skyward with arrows already nocked. And behind him, Darien could hear the empty encampment stirring.

  The trap had sprung.

  Glancing behind, he saw soldiers pouring out of the tents, hundreds of them, running through the snow with weapons drawn. At the same time, the archers in front of him released their bowstrings, hurling a thick cloud of arrows that seemed to choke the very sky. Darien watched the arrows arc upward, waited until they curved overhead and began their plunging descent. Smiling grimly, he drew deeply on the currents of the magic field.

  The air around him shivered, then lashed out at the cloud of arrows like the crack of a thousand whips with a thousand angry tails. The arrows shattered, splinters of pulverized shafts drifting through the air. There was a sound almost like falling hail as broadheads rained down from the sky, splashing harmlessly to the snow.

  Darien signaled his horse with the pressure of his legs. The gelding swept forward along the crest of the hill, moving quickly up to speed, sprinting with all its great heart to deliver him from the jaws of the closing vice.

  On his right, the soldiers spilling from the encampment were almost on top of him. And on his left, a thundering wedge of cavalry was hurling up the hill.

  The two jaws of the vise snapped closed behind him. The gelding reared on its hind legs, spinning around as a twisting rope of flame snaked across the ground, blooming instantly into a crackling wall of fire that thrust upward into the sky. Horses screamed, striving to break their momentum. The acute intensity of the heat forced the soldiers pursuing him to fall back.

  Darien gazed upon his creation with a feeling of pride. The roar of the fire drowned out all other noise, waves of heat roiling in the air above licking tongues of flame. There was no smoke; nothing was burning. The fire fed itself, a creature of pure, voracious energy.

  Darien compelled his horse toward it.

  The gelding wanted to balk, so he wrapped its eyes in shadow and silenced the sound of the blaze in its ears. The heat did not touch them as they moved into the flames, but the wind of the fire did. It savaged his cloak and whipped his hair, rippling his horse’s long mane. Engulfed by the flames and yet unconsumed, Darien leaned his head back and savored the rapturous wonder of the magic field surging like a torrent through his mind.

  They passed through the heart of the fire and emerged again on the other side. Releasing his hold on his horse’s senses, Darien let the blaze behind him slowly die. Ahead, the men of Faukravar’s army stood as if dazed, weapons lowered, staring with mouths slackened.

  No one moved to confront him as Darien directed his mount down the hill and out onto the Field of Tol-Ranier. Men stepped back as he moved past them. Their eyes followed him as he rode by, keeping his horse at a swaying trot right through the heart of Faukravar’s army.

  When at last he reached the small group of mounted officers on the far side of the field, he drew up beside the man wearing a general’s insignia on his uniform. The soldier’s face was ashen gray, his expression sagging. Darien regarded him for a long, silent moment. Then he informed him:

  “You are relieved of your command.”

  The general blinked.

  “Which one of you is his second?”

  A young, aristocratic man with a contemptuous sneer nodded his head at him. “That would be me.”

  “You’re relieved, as well.”

  The officer’s stare glared hatred as his hand darted for his blade. Darien’s eyes caught the motion. With a cry, the young officer retracted his hand, staring in horror at the glowing red hilt of his sword. Bringing his hand up, he gaped at the angry burns that covered his fingers.

  Confident that there would be no further resistance, Darien backed his horse up until he could take in the small group of men together as a whole.

  “The Enemy is advancing in numbers not seen since the fall of Caladorn,” he said. “Which man of you has the courage to lead this army in a battle tha
t will decide the fate of everything you know and everything you love?”

  For a long moment, no one moved. Finally, a young man near the back looped the reins of his horse over the pommel of his saddle and dismounted. Walking forward, the young officer looked up at Darien with wide brown eyes that held no fear.

  “I do, Prime Warden.”

  The young man dropped to his knees in the snow and leaned forward until his face was pressed up against the loose powder that covered the Field of Tol-Ranier. He remained there as his fellows stared down at him contemptuously.

  “You may rise,” Darien said. “What is your name?”

  “Lieutenant Malcolm Wellingford, Prime Warden.” The young officer stood up. He drew his sword and offered it to Darien hilt-first.

  Darien received the sword, holding it up to inspect it. It was a common piece of steel, not elegant or ornamented in any way. The blade had seen much use, but it still held a keen edge. Extending it forward, he noted that the balance was good.

  Darien nodded, handing the sword back. “This blade will serve me well. Do you swear on the honor of your house to follow wherever my lead should take you, deferring to whatever order I give immediately and without question?”

  “I do so swear, Prime Warden.”

  Darien nodded solemnly. “General Wellingford, please issue the command to form ranks.”

  He waited as his new general darted back to recover his horse. Darien turned back to address the remaining officers:

  “Any man not wholly committed to me should leave right now. Otherwise, if you choose to desert later, such an act will be considered treason. You shall be hunted down and slain without mercy.”

  He waited as the men before him exchanged nervous glances. Faukravar’s former general turned his horse around with a quick jerk of the reins. He withdrew from the field, back stiff with injured pride, followed by three others.

  The remaining officers stared after the departing men. But when they turned back to Darien, each man’s expression was hardened with fresh resolve.

  As the soldiers spread out across the field drew together and assembled, their officers dismounted and knelt silently in the snow. Darien accepted their oaths gravely. Then he rode out before the ranks of gathered men, and there drew up his mount. As he did, he sent his mind outward on the tides of air above the field, weaving shadows overhead to cover the face of the sun.

  Night fell across the Field of Tol-Ranier, the daylight fading into darkness. An eerie stillness descended upon the plain as all motion ceased and all eyes were drawn toward him. Darien surveyed the soldiers before him, measuring the mettle of the men. Then he raised his voice to be heard above the compressed, silent tension.

  “Greystone Keep has always held the Pass of Lor-Gamorth, and the pass has always held the North against the Enemy. But Greystone Keep has fallen. The North will soon fall also, unless we make a stand.

  “We march to Orien’s Finger, where we will be faced with two of the greatest Enemy hosts ever assembled. You do not go friendless and alone; the forces of Emmery will be with you.

  “And I will be with you, as well. I am Prime Warden Darien Lauchlin, Grand Master of the Eighth Tier. I am the last surviving Sentinel of Aerysius, and I am also Unbound.

  “We are all that stands between our homeland and the fate that befell Caladorn of old. Should we fail, then our lands will be desecrated, and our families enslaved by the Enemy. But if we succeed, then all of you will go to your graves knowing that it was by your courage alone that every last nation of the Rhen survives in the light and hope of the sun.”

  He released the gathered shadows and allowed the morning to dawn again, the sun emerging to glare brilliantly above in a clear morning sky. A thunderous cheer went up as the ranks before him collapsed. Discipline abandoned, the men swarmed forward around him like a breaking wave.

  Darien closed his eyes and, smiling quietly, bowed his head.

  He woke before the break of dawn to the sounds of the encampment already stirring. Darien dressed in the darkness, not even bothering with simple magelight. It had been hard to awaken. The air of the tent was cold, and his blankets warm. Sleep crusted his eyes, and he found himself terribly groggy.

  It was still dark when he emerged and stood gazing out across the snowy field. Already, the men had most of the camp broken down. His own tent was one of the few still standing.

  Darien opened his mind to the magic field. Ever since Naia had left, it was the only thing he seemed to take comfort in. He groped for it constantly, for no real reason other than the contentment it brought. Sometimes Darien fought with himself, knowing that the allure of the field was starting to become something of an obsession. But often he reached for it unconsciously, not even aware he was doing so until it was too late.

  Arriving at the command tent, he found his young general busily poring over a list scrawled across a strip of parchment. At least the boy could read. That was more than he’d hoped for. He really didn’t care, one way or the other. Darien hadn’t accepted the young man’s oath because he was in need of a strong commander. He had accepted Wellingford because he needed someone biddable.

  Strolling up behind him, Darien looked over his shoulder and studied the first few lines of the list. “I see your King finally came through with the provisions I ordered.”

  Wellingford looked back at him, seeming a bit startled. Handing over the parchment, he said, “We received the wagons in the night. But His Grace only sent enough supplies to last us twelve days. That will do little more than get us there.”

  Darien nodded, scanning down the list appraisingly. “That’s all I requested. We’ll need to travel swift and light.” Handing the list back, he started to turn away.

  “But, Prime Warden, what are we going to do about supplies for the march home?”

  Darien shrugged. “We’ll just have to worry about that when the time comes.”

  The boy’s brow wrinkled up. “You don’t think we’ll be coming home, do you?”

  Darien didn’t respond. Instead, he turned and strode away.

  He walked over to the edge of the encampment, where he stood silently observing the last details being completed. In a short amount of time, the camp was entirely broken down, the men forming up in a long column for the march.

  Movement on the ridge caught his eye. The King was riding toward them, surrounded by his knights, pennants fluttering from their lances. Faukravar himself was suited for battle, his thin frame covered with gleaming black plate. The King of Chamsbrey rode with his plumed helm in his hand.

  Faukravar’s party drew up, the King gazing down into Darien’s eyes with rigid contempt. After a long moment, the man stated in a somber voice:

  “Ever have the Kings of Auberdale ridden to war with the armies of Chamsbrey.”

  Darien nodded weary acceptance. There was little he could do about it. “As you like,” he said, then added, “Just don’t get in my way.”

  28

  Dreams

  Traver awakened to a sharp, stabbing pain in his hand matched only by the throbbing ache in his head. He squinted up into the flickering lights of the clouds, wondering how he wasn’t dead. The pain flared like a knife thrust. Traver recoiled his hand. As he did, he saw the beak of the scavenger bird that had mistaken his warm flesh for a piece of meat.

  “Go away, damn you!”

  The vulture spread its wings and hopped backward. Traver threw a small rock at the thing to get it gone. It flapped into the air a few feet before alighting back again, this time even nearer. Apparently, the thing didn’t have the common decency to wait until he was dead.

  Traver wanted to scream in frustration.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll tell you what. You go snack on somebody else for a while. Come back in a few days, and if I’m still here, you can have as much as you like. I won’t even make a fuss about it.”

  When the bird bobbed its head, Traver took it for a sign of agreement. Turning his face away, he made one la
st attempt to pull his legs out from under the dead horse’s carcass. But he couldn’t get enough traction in the crumbled dirt. All he succeeded in doing was clawing sand into his face.

  When he felt the bird’s beak again, this time on his shoulder, he did scream.

  “I told you to go find somebody else!”

  “There isn’t anyone else,” responded a somber voice. “At least, no one else alive.”

  Startled, Traver craned his neck enough to take in the miracle of Corban Henley’s face. He wanted to laugh. That thick red beard was such a beautiful sight. But instead, he found himself weeping.

  “There, lad,” Henley soothed, patting his shoulder. “It’s good you like to hear the sound of your own voice so much. Otherwise, I never would have found you.”

  Traver beamed up at him. But then it occurred to him to wonder what Henley was still doing there. The skirmish was over, the rest of their fellows fled back to the camp in the canyon, or perhaps moved on by now.

  As he stared at Henley’s face, Traver thought he saw the answer. The big Valeman sitting beside him was scraped up, and there was a tightness around his eyes. Henley was in a lot of pain.

  “What happened to you?” Traver asked.

  Henley scowled, reaching down to pat his leg. “Broken. Snapped right clean. I guess neither one of us will be going anywhere.”

  Traver’s cheerful mood took a plunge. “But, you can walk, right? You found me, didn’t you?”

  Henley shook his head. “I can hop a small distance, but that’s as good as I can do. I’m sorry, lad, but I can’t lift that carcass off you.”

  Traver grimaced. A snowflake fluttered down through the air to alight on his cheek. “So what are we going to do?”

  “We go to sleep.” Henley’s voice was calm. “Maybe we’ll dream a bit. If we’re lucky, they’ll even be good dreams.”