The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy

by M. L. Spencer

  Traver nodded. He could do that. It didn’t sound so bad. He just wished it didn’t have to be so awfully cold. He drew his cloak around himself as tightly as he could as another snowflake settled on his skin. At his side, he heard Henley coughing, a weak and rasping gurgle.

  “Three feet of snow, or thereabouts,” Craig grumbled, gazing out on the miraculous change that had transformed the Shadowspears overnight. No longer black, the sharp peaks above him glistened a deadly white. The men had scarcely enough blankets and cloaks for the summer months, and the onset of winter was like a harsh and bitter death grip.

  The force commander had put the men to work as the blizzard broke over them, using their shields to pile the drifting snow up around their tents. Only eleven men had been lost during the night. It should have been much worse. The cover of snow around the tents created an insulating barrier. His own tent had been almost uncomfortably warm with twelve other men packed inside. In the middle of a raging snowstorm, Craig had woken up three times during the night dripping wet with sweat.

  But now the camp was struck. His men stood shivering, their sockless feet crusted with ice that fell down into their boots. Craig staggered as he walked toward them, his own feet breaking through the treacherous surface, sinking down through the snow at every step.

  He jerked his foot up with a rain of ice and grunted in dismay to find that his boot hadn’t come up with it. Glaring down into the dim blue hole of the track he’d just made, Craig was forced to bend down and dig his hand around in the snow to retrieve his boot.

  Behind him, Garret Proctor stared out vacantly across the white canyon, his cloak plastered against his back by the wind. As Craig inverted his boot to dump the snow out of it, he risked a quick glance back at the man.

  “The path will have been sheltered in the night,” Proctor said. “Get the men down to it, and you’ll find the way ahead clear. Leave behind the dead and wounded.”

  Craig stared at him, appalled. “We can’t leave living men behind for the Enemy―you know what they’ll do to them!”

  “Then don’t leave any living men behind.”

  To Craig’s horror, Proctor withdrew his dagger from its sheath and pressed it into his hand, squeezing his limp fingers tightly around it. Craig gazed down at the misery knife, sickened by the cruel feel of its narrow hilt in his palm.

  Proctor was right, yet again. When they finally found the road in the narrow gap of the pass, it was covered with just a thin sprinkling of snow over a slick layer of ice. The high walls of the canyon had protected it from the storm.

  Craig had done his duty with the dagger. It had been tempting to delegate that order, to hand the blade off to one of the men, as Proctor had handed the task to him. But it had to stop somewhere.

  They left the dead behind in the ravine, dark and tattered shapes adrift in a calm white sea. Craig hadn’t looked back as he turned his horse around and rode away, the beast lunging forward through the snowdrifts.

  Somehow, they were still ahead of the advancing Enemy column. Craig could see where they were camped, just a few ridges behind in the twisting coils of the pass, their presence revealed by thin trails of smoke from their fires.

  Proctor’s mind had not been idle in the night. Somewhere in the dull haze the commander moved through, a tangled skein was unraveling.

  At Craig’s command, a single fire arrow shot into the sky. A roaring thunder echoed from high above on the cliffs behind them.

  Kicking his horse forward at a gallop, Craig tried not to think about the dead men who had stayed behind to light those charges. He rode on as a mountain’s weight of snow fell to choke the pass.

  “Dig through that, you damned filth,” he spat, jabbing his heels into his horse’s sides.

  Wolden was deserted.

  At least, it appeared that way to Craig’s eyes as he rode at the head of the long column snaking down off the spine of the foothills. Proctor was with him, riding at his side on his dark and rugged stallion. The commander’s eyes were narrowed and watering in the brilliance of a sun that, in over fifteen years, his face had seldom looked upon. The men trailing behind rode with their heads lowered, hunched forward in their saddles, their faces tightly drawn. The relative warmth of the afternoon did little to cheer their spirits; they had seen too many horrors.

  When they reached the outskirts, it became clear Wolden was indeed abandoned. Not so much as a chicken foraged in the snow in front of the scattered, ramshackle huts. It was a bizarre and haunting sight, rendered even more distressing by the lingering silence that clung to the place. The squeak of an ancient windmill broke the tension of the quiet. Somewhere, a wooden gate squealed open on rusted hinges, pushed by a gust of wind.

  “What’s this?” he breathed, glaring at the gate that had startled him. To Proctor, he asked, “Is this your doing?”

  “Not mine.”

  “Whose, then?”

  Proctor didn’t respond. Craig sat forward in his saddle, looking from house to house. Ahead, the lane widened as they approached the town wall. He could see the gate wide open before them. There was something else there, as well. A sign was posted beside the entrance.

  Proctor dismounted and strode toward the gate. Craig followed him, glancing sideways at Proctor to find that his commander’s eyes had become suddenly, piercingly intent. The old soldier tore the sign down from the wall and strode forward with it. Craig jogged after him through the gate and down a wide, snow-covered street, hurrying to catch up.

  Wolden was just as quiet and vacant as its outskirts. Not a soul stirred on the street. The doors of the shops and houses stood shut, many of them barred with beams of wood that looked to have been just slapped up and nailed haphazardly to the frames. The town had been emptied in a hurry.

  They turned at an intersection. There, Proctor came to a halt, eyes scanning the buildings that bordered the street. Craig glanced around to see what the man was looking for. The street was empty, except for a fine coating of ice powdered with snow. The only difference he could see was that many of the doors were standing open to the elements, not closed and boarded up like the rest.

  Proctor strode toward the first open doorway. Craig pressed ahead of him, keeping one hand within easy reach of his hilt. The door stood slightly ajar, so Craig pushed it the rest of the way open with the toe of his boot as he moved into the room.

  Dozens of unstrung bows lay spread across the floor, arranged in overlapping bundles along with bunches of arrows, hundreds of them.

  Craig knelt and lifted a bow from the first pile by his feet, holding it up to inspect. The horn bow had a rustic look about it, though Craig could see that the workmanship was sound. He looked at the strange letters carved into the wood of the bow.

  It was a poem. Song of blood, song of heart. Turning the bow around, he saw that the poem continued on the other side. Fly true, true heart, die true.

  Craig found the simple lines powerfully stirring. He started to set the bow back down atop the pile, but hesitated. Instead, he drew it close, feeling an odd surge of sentiment toward the elegant weapon with its poignant verse.

  “Horn bows,” he muttered. Then he threw his head back and bellowed a whooping battle cry. “Do you know what this means?”

  The force commander nodded, eyes once again staring fixedly ahead. “We’ll hit them hard and break away fast. We will harry them all the way down the corridor.”

  29

  To Threaten a Queen

  Kyel’s last memory of Rothscard hadn’t been a pleasant one. The last time he’d looked upon the walls of Emmery’s capital, it had been in the company of a pack of condemned convicts and their guards. Then, Rothscard had seemed loathsome and dark, a stinking swelter of dirty people living in trash and filth.

  But now, for some reason, the Rothscard he entered seemed altogether different. The stone of the city walls looked pure and white, the towers graceful and soaring. Vibrant banners billowed in the air from the tops of the turrets. The rolling band of hills
that embraced the city looked like immaculate, emerald gems.

  His horse took the last stretch of road at an eager lope, passing scattered groups of travelers. Kyel let the gelding have its head, waiting until they were almost at the walls before easing back to a trot as they reached the end of the road.

  Rothscard’s east gate was a tall arch cut into the wall between two fortified guard towers. Kyel guided his horse toward the middle of the passage. On either side of the gate stood groups of Rothscard Bluecloaks who seemed to be doing little of anything besides staring dully at the clusters of people moving through their gate.

  As Kyel rode through, he heard one of the guards exclaim, “Isn’t that a mage’s cloak?”

  To his chagrin, Kyel found himself the sudden focus of attention. The guards stared at him with wide eyes, necks craned at the sight of the Silver Star at his back. Kyel was reminded of the scene in Wolden, when the people there had made such a commotion over Darien’s appearance. He hoped it wouldn’t be like Wolden. Kyel didn’t want that sort of trouble.

  “Hold up there!” someone shouted.

  Kyel sighed and pulled back on the reins, slouching in weariness. He shouldn’t have worn the cloak. He should have taken it off, wadded it up, and thrown it away. Now, it was simply too late.

  “That’s the bloody Silver Star!”

  Ringed by more than a dozen guardsmen, Kyel sat back in his saddle and raised his face to the sky. Why couldn’t anything ever be easy? Why did every task always have to be so difficult? The gift of the cloak was going to turn out to be another one of Darien’s damnable lessons. Just like the vortex or the Temple of Wisdom.

  A guard reached up and, taking his horse’s reins in his hand, said, “Pardon, Great Master. We’re going to have to ask you to hold up for a minute.”

  “Fine,” Kyel muttered, frowning as he realized what the man had just called him. They took him for a full Master, which he supposed was an easy mistake to make.

  The guard turned to someone behind him. “Neville, go fetch the captain. Run along, now, lad!”

  “What’s the problem?” Kyel asked, watching the young Bluecloak dart off, disappearing in the turmoil of the crowd moving around them through the gate. He knew exactly what the problem was but wanted the satisfaction of hearing someone say it.

  “Oh, no problem, Great Master,” the man said, a wary look on his face. “Just that the likes of you’d be expecting an escort to the palace.”

  “Oh. Sure. That sounds good.”

  Hearing his response, the group of men ringed around him exchanged dubious glances. Kyel supposed he probably hadn’t sounded very mage-like. He would have to try adopting a more confident air in the future, or no one was bound to believe him. Squaring his shoulders, he tried to strike a more assertive pose as he waited on his horse but found the attempt almost embarrassing. It was hard to look confident when there was a group of brawny men with swords ringed about.

  Kyel waited uncomfortably as his horse stood there, swishing its tail at the flies. The guards stood silent, the crowd around them keeping their distance. He was drawing stares from the passersby, a mixture of looks that only made him feel more uncomfortable.

  “Do you mind climbing down off that horse?”

  Kyel flinched. He twisted around and found himself staring at a man who’d come up behind him and was now examining the longbow that hung from his saddle. The guard’s interest in his bow made Kyel feel nervous, even protective. He didn’t like the way the man was fingering it, his touch almost a lingering caress. But he did as he was asked, lowering himself to the ground on stiff legs.

  The guard walked around his horse, a hand stroking the gelding’s coarse winter coat. He was a tall and muscular man. He wore his chin-length hair parted in the middle. His face was exceptionally angular, his eyes stern and discerning. The man moved with an easy grace that reminded Kyel of a cat stalking a bird, precise and deliberate. It also reminded him of the way Darien moved. The similarity was almost uncanny.

  “Mages are forbidden to carry weapons, are they not?”

  Kyel didn’t like the way the guard was standing so close to him, scant inches from his face. It was intimidating. He could feel the man’s breath on his cheek.

  Trying to meet the guard’s eyes, Kyel nodded. “I’m no Master, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m just an acolyte.”

  “What’s your business in Rothscard?”

  Kyel had rehearsed this line enough times, but actually saying it was a different thing entirely. “I’m here at the request of the Prime Warden. My business is with your Queen.”

  The guard smiled cagily and shook his head. “The Prime Warden’s dead, son. I’ve seen her corpse myself. I was part of the Queen’s entourage when Her Grace went to view it.”

  Feeling uncertain, Kyel couldn’t help looking down. This was the part where it was going to get tricky. From his experience in Wolden and again in the Temple of Wisdom, he was going to be forced to do a lot of talking. Whenever his master’s name was mentioned, there was always something to explain.

  “There’s a new Prime Warden. Darien Lauchlin.”

  The man’s expression creased to an uncertain frown. It was not the reaction Kyel had been expecting. Warily, the guard said, “I’ve met Darien Lauchlin. Describe him.”

  Kyel had no idea what to say. “He’s tall. Dark hair.” He shrugged. That was the best he could do.

  The guard tilted his head slightly, moving even closer to Kyel. “When I knew him, Darien was an acolyte, the same as yourself. But there was something different about him that set him apart, something he shared in common with you, actually. Can you tell me what that is?”

  Kyel didn’t have to think about it long. The man’s fascination with his longbow brought the obvious answer to mind. “His sword,” he said. “You know of it?”

  A slow, arrogant smile bloomed on the guardsman’s shadowy face. “Know of it? I’m the one who taught him how to use it.” He extended his hand. “Nigel Swain, Captain of the City Guard. Formerly of Aerysius, and formerly of the Arms Guild.”

  Kyel found himself clasping the man’s hand automatically, too stunned to think. “Kyel Archer,” he mumbled, impressed by Swain’s firm grasp. “I’m Darien’s acolyte.”

  “So the boy thinks he’s Prime Warden, now, does he?” Swain delivered a scoffing sigh that fanned his oily hair back from his face. “Aerysius must have fallen on his head. Come on, mount up. I’ll get you to the palace. Ever been to Rothscard before?”

  Kyel winced, quickly shaking his head. “I’ve only passed through.”

  The last time Kyel had visited Rothscard, he’d been in chains. That was scarcely something he wanted anyone to know, even if the man was a friend of Darien’s. He wondered what the captain would think of him if he ever found out. It certainly wouldn’t help with his current assignment as an ambassador to the Queen.

  He waited for Swain to bring his horse around, a dark gray beast with a scruffy coat. The look in the animal’s eye reminded Kyel of its owner.

  He couldn’t keep his eyes off Swain as they rode, noticing the way the man sat his horse, a reflection of his casually deliberate stride. Kyel was also having trouble dismissing the longsword slung at the man’s back. It looked like a copy of Darien’s. Or perhaps it was the other way around. Kyel felt almost in awe of the man. Swain had professed an association with the Arms Guild, so he was probably a blademaster.

  They turned onto a broad, cobbled street lined with rows of houses stacked one against another. The city was already decorated for Winter’s Eve, with bows and bells hung from almost every door, and ribbons wrapped around every lamp post. Even the bare limbs of the trees were bedecked with colored lanterns. The feel of the city made Kyel homesick.

  And then Emmery Palace itself came into view. When he saw it, Kyel felt like he’d been there before. In a way, it was almost as though he had. The palace was practically the image of the mayor’s home in Wolden, only on a far grander scale.

&
nbsp; Swain had him dismount in front of a span of wide marble steps. Two liveried footmen came forward to take their horses, but Kyel was hesitant about handing his over. He reached for the smooth curve of his longbow, wondering if it would be possible to bring it inside. He didn’t want to leave the bow there, attached to his saddle.

  “Go ahead, bring it along. You may as well enjoy it while you still have the chance.”

  “What do you mean?” Kyel wondered with a frown.

  “Well, once you become a Master, you can’t very well have a longbow around, can you?” Swain said with a knowing grin.

  But Kyel still felt confused. He knew it was traditional for mages not to carry weapons, but he figured that if Darien was going to prohibit him from keeping the bow, then his master would have done so long ago.

  He said, “Darien still has his sword.”

  “He does, now, does he?” The captain’s smile retreated from his face. “Maybe you’d better leave that bow behind, after all.”

  Kyel didn’t like the fleeting look of concern that crossed the man’s eyes. Swain had taught Darien the art of the blade, so why should it matter to him if the mage still carried it?

  But Kyel thought he knew the answer. There was more to be had in learning a skill than the obvious result. Suddenly apprehensive, Kyel wondered what the man would think if he found out that Darien had gone much further than simply refusing to relinquish his weapon.

  He didn’t like the feeling he was getting in the pit of his stomach as he followed the captain up the steps. The man led him down a long hall to a circular foyer graced by an enormous vase. Rich tapestries hung from gilt staves, many having an antiquated look. Again, Kyel was reminded of the mayor of Wolden, of the man’s obvious passion for art.

  They found the Queen in her solarium, standing before a canvas with a paintbrush in her hand. It was not the image Kyel had been picturing, and neither was Romana herself. From Darien’s description, he had envisioned the Queen of Emmery as pompous and aloof, a gilded monarch on an ivory throne. But the woman he found in her place defied his expectations. For one thing, she was far younger than he’d anticipated, perhaps even close to his own age.