The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy

by M. L. Spencer

  Sprawling outward to the distant horizon, the city of Bryn Calazar was revealed before him in all its tortured desecration. Thick plumes of smoke billowed over the city, fed by fires that seemed to burn everywhere. The smoke had a foul and oily taste to it, thick and bitter. The structures resembled distorted honeycombs, built of successive layers, one atop the other, dark walls haphazardly thrown up at odd angles. The roads were paved with tar and lined by great, snakelike clusters of pipes that twined and coiled about the twisted heart of the city. The heavens wept hot tears of ash that drifted softly to the ground, wafting from the skies like despoiled snow.

  Darien stared open-mouthed at the sight, struggling to come to terms with the terrible wrongness of it. There was nothing left; all trace of nature had been either corrupted or consumed. This was not civilization, he realized.

  This was hell.

  A tug on his leash pulled Darien away from the edge of the terrace. Still, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the vision of the repulsive city below. He stared down the side of the cliff, out across the dark waters of an ocean that seemed to bleed thick streaks of oil from its tides. In the harbor, iron-clad ships rode at their moors.

  Eyes wide, he turned in horror to Azár.

  “Maybe, now, you understand,” she snarled, twisting the length of his leash once about her hand. With a sharp tug, she jerked him forward after her as the others started moving.

  Darien struggled to keep up with her brisk strides, gasping at the pain that flared in his side with every step. The road they traveled led down and off the hillside, out into the tar-paved streets of the city. There, the citizens of Bryn Calazar had gathered to line the boulevard ahead.

  At the sight of their approaching party, a tremendous cry was raised from the assembled masses. People came running, flooding in from the side streets, jostling and vying for a better view of their Prime Warden’s entourage. For the first time in his life, Darien had an unobstructed view of the inhabitants of the Black Lands. A people who, before, he had only known collectively as the Enemy.

  They were people, just as he had always known they’d be. He had seen their dead, questioned their prisoners. Azár was the first Enemy that Darien had actually ever spoken with except under condition of duress.

  Before him, bobbing and shoving like a roiling mass that bristled with thin arms and bulbous knees, was a population of starving, indigent, and yet jubilant people. They were clothed in filthy rags darkened by years of soil and ash. Most wore scarves tied over their mouths and noses, exposing only their eyes. Eyes that peered out through skin obscured by soot and grime. They were screaming, bellowing, waving weapons or brandishing oil-soaked torches in the air.

  On the left, a fight broke out over a coveted viewing spot. The instigator was quickly put down with a sword through his chest. Two other men surged forward, ostensibly to avenge the loser, but ended up suffering the same fate. Their bodies were left lying in the street, trampled over by the crowds that just kept gushing in from outlying districts.

  Black-armored bodies with weapons drawn and shields raised rushed forward to contain the surging masses. The throng was pushed back, clearing a path for the Prime Warden’s party to pass. The crowds cheered, the sound an explosive thunder as their entourage gained the level of the street.

  Darien tripped, almost falling as he struggled to keep up with Azár’s ruthless pace. The pain in his side was worsening, and his wounds ached from the salty sweat that streaked his body. His left eye was now thoroughly swollen shut. He staggered, Azár jerking him forward with a tug on his lead.

  Something grazed the back of his head. Another object hit him hard between the shoulder blades. Darien whirled, sweat spraying from his forehead, to find that a group of men were picking apart the street to gather rocks to assault him with.

  Their party turned, mounting a long flight of stairs that rose above the level of the city. The steps led up a tall, terraced structure to what looked like a temple far above. The ramp of stairs was lined with copper braziers that lit their path, spewing choking, caustic smoke and sparks into the air. Darien ducked as a rock streaked by, nearly hitting him in the head.

  They rose ever upward above the city, the stairs a relentless, unbroken rise to the top of the terraced structure. Upon gaining the summit, their party came to a halt beneath the portico of a marble temple. There, Zavier Renquist and his Servants assembled together in a single line. The two Prime Wardens, Renquist and Cyrus Krane, stood at the center. Byron Connel and Nashir Arman stood together to Renquist’s right. Myria Anassis took her place to the left of Cyrus Krane. Before them lingered Azár, still holding tight to Darien’s leash, and Vizier Sarik, standing before them all with arms raised over his head.

  Gradually, the crowds quieted. Silence descended upon the city as the grand vizier stepped forward to announce:

  “People of Bryn Calazar, by the grace of Xerys, His Chosen Servants have been restored to us once again! Ishil’zeri!”

  To Darien’s amazement, the entire gathered population dropped to the ground as one, abasing themselves before the ancient darkmages. They remained on their knees for seconds. Then, together as one, the masses rose collectively again to their feet.

  Darien stared with a mixture of awe and dismay at the sight, having no reference at all in which to frame it.

  “Citizens of Bryn Calazar, Prime Warden Zavier Renquist presents to you his prisoner, his man-slave, his spoil of war.” The vizier raised his hand, indicating Darien. “Before you stands the defiled Last Sentinel of Aerysius, Darien Lauchlin of Amberlie, vanquished by Prime Warden Renquist’s own hand!”

  There was a tremendous outcry from the crowd below as the mob surged against the restraint of the guards. People brandished torches and weapons. Spears were hurled into the sky, landing far below on the long rise of steps. Darien could almost feel the scalding hatred of the populace that was directed toward him. He stepped back, face slack with dismay.

  The vizier told him, “Turn and abase yourself before the people.”

  Darien didn’t hesitate. He went instantly to his knees, bending over until his forehead touched the ground. He could hear the timbre of the crowd instantly change as the result of his action. Once again, the voice of the masses rose in exuberant jubilation. People blew horns, beat weapons against shields, stomped at the ground with their feet. The thunder of their outcry was deafening.

  The vizier had to shout to be heard over the cacophony:

  “Now abase yourself before your Prime Warden!”

  Darien obeyed. He rose first to his knees and then to his feet, staring down with trepidation at the raucous crowd. Then he turned and faced Zavier Renquist. Once again, he dropped to his knees and bent forward until his long hair was spread out on the ground beside his face.

  The sound of the crowd climaxed, the furor terrifying.

  Darien remained in that position, trembling, sweat mingled with blood dribbling off his chin.

  “Rise,” the Prime Warden commanded.

  Darien obeyed, heaving his weight up off the ground despite the stabbing pain in his ribs. He gazed into Zavier Renquist’s face with his one good eye. He was surprised to find that there was no trace of malice in the Prime Warden’s expression.

  Darien saw that Zavier Renquist was still holding his own sword. His hand moved to close around the hilt, drawing the blade forth from its scabbard. The ancient darkmage held Darien’s sword aloft over his head, rotating it slightly, allowing the steel to catch the light of the braziers’ flames.

  Then he lowered it until the blade was level with Darien’s heart. Face expressionless, he drew a slice across his chest.

  Renquist turned the sword in his hand, bathing the flat of the blade in the blood that welled from the cut. He turned the sword around, liberally wetting the other side. Then he brought the weapon up next to his face, caressing the melded folds of steel with his hand, using his palm to ritually wash the blade with the blood of its master.

  Accepti
ng the scabbard back from Connel, Zavier Renquist resheathed the purified steel. To the vizier, he gave a slight nod.

  Vizier Sarik stepped forward and stoically removed the rope and collar from around Darien’s neck, unbinding his hands. There was a quiet rustle behind him. Suddenly, a mass of fabric was being lowered over his shoulders, pulled down over his body. Someone drew the cloth over his breeches, arranging it about his feet. Darien spread his hands, gazing down at his new garments with an acute feeling of trepidation.

  They had vested him in the formal indigo robes of the Lyceum of Bryn Calazar, the Silver Star emblazoned over his heart.

  The taste of bile rose in his throat. Darien choked, swallowing against it.

  Zavier Renquist offered out his hand. The expression on his face was merciful. “Please. Take your place at my side.”

  He gestured to his right.

  Darien looked down once again at his chest, at the emblem of the Silver Star, at the small stain of his own blood that was quickly spreading across the fabric. Then he glanced up into the Prime Warden’s expectant face. He looked to Nashir, at the malevolent sneer on the man’s lips.

  In a dim haze of confusion and pain, Darien Lauchlin moved forward and fell into line beside Nashir, assuming his place in the line of Servants. Below, in the streets, the crowd erupted into a thunderous din.

  Vizier Sarik strode forward, hands in the air, waving the pandemonium into silence. It took a moment. But, slowly, an ominous quiet stole over the city of Bryn Calazar. Into that gaping space the vizier proclaimed:

  “Let it be known throughout the lands that Darien Lauchlin of Amberlie, the Last Sentinel of Aerysius, has sworn allegiance to Xerys, God of Chaos and Lord of the Netherworld! His service has been accepted by Prime Warden Renquist and the Citizens of Bryn Calazar! Let the people of the Rhen tremble and despair, for their savior has returned to become their subjugator!”

  6

  Enemy or Ally

  Kyel stared down into the reposed face of Sareen Qadir. Her flesh had not yet taken on the cold pallor of death. Instead, her face was still a warm bronze, an alluring combination taken together with the dark sheen of her hair. The only woman Kyel had ever seen who might be capable of rivaling her in beauty had been Arden Hannah, the seductive darkmage Darien had slain at Orien’s Finger. But while Arden’s allure had been diminished by her cruelty, any evil kept locked within Sareen’s heart had never had a chance to reveal itself. Her beauty remained untainted by the corruption within.

  Kyel didn’t trust it.

  Naia had lain her out upon a table, composing Sareen’s limbs and arranging her robes about her body. The fatal wound to her chest had been tended and wrapped to prevent seepage. Naia was still lingering over the corpse, making small adjustments here and there, like an artist obsessing over the perfection of her craft. Naia had once been in the business of ministering to the dead, and it seemed that she had forgotten little of her art. She tended to Sareen with all the care she would have shown a sister.

  “Has there been any word?” Naia asked.

  Kyel shook his head, still gazing warily at the corpse. “Nothing.” He wished he had better news to report. “There’s no trace of either of them.”

  Naia muttered, “I pray to the gods that she’s safe.”

  Kyel gestured down at the body. “What of her?”

  “Oh, she’s very much dead,” Naia assured him, plucking a fiber of lint off Sareen’s indigo robe. “I suspect it’s probably not the first time.”

  She reached down and took a folded sheet of linen into her hands. Carefully unfurling the cloth over the body, she drew it up to cover the whole of the corpse. The shroud was thin and did a rather poor job of concealing what lay beneath. Sareen’s outline was still very visible in silhouette.

  It was strange how such evil could be concealed behind such a pleasing façade. It was a shame, really. The woman hadn’t seemed all that bad. Not like the man who had accompanied her. Quinlan Reis had projected an inherent aura of cunning and threat that had chilled Kyel’s blood. He had sensed no such menace coming from Sareen.

  “What do we do with her?” he wondered.

  Naia responded, “Prince Nigel is correct. We need to burn this corpse.”

  “Why burn it?”

  Naia glanced up at him, her hand going to correct the drape of the shroud over Sareen’s face. “Do you know why the Enemy always executed our mages by ritual immolation?”

  Kyel frowned, disturbed by Naia’s mention of the practice. He had been witness to one such gruesome act. When Arden Hannah had tried to burn Darien alive. “I suppose I really hadn’t thought about it.”

  “Well, there are two reasons. First, so that the mage’s gift could not be Transferred upon death to another. But there was more to it than just that. It was also to make certain their soul could never be reunited with their body.”

  “So, there’s some chance that this woman could actually come back to life?”

  “She is a Servant of Xerys,” Naia reminded him. “That dark god wields enough power to part the veil of death. I’d rather not take the chance.”

  Kyel nodded, reaching up to scratch the growth of beard on his face.

  “Unless…” Naia whispered.

  Kyel glanced up at her. “Unless what?”

  She turned toward him, eyes suddenly bright with intensity. “If Quinlan Reis is responsible for Meiran’s disappearance, then this woman is likely dead because she tried to stop him. Sareen was sent to bring Meiran to meet with Renquist. What if Reis abducted Meiran to foil that plan?”

  Kyel raised his hands. “Why would he do that?”

  “I don’t know. But Sareen is dead, and Meiran is missing. I doubt that’s coincidence.”

  Kyel warily considered the draped body. “That still doesn’t make Sareen our ally.”

  “Perhaps not. But there’s a good chance she knows what happened to Meiran. And she may be willing to help us get her back.”

  “For all we know, Meiran could have left of her own accord,” Kyel argued.

  “Without getting word to us? What is the chance of that?”

  Kyel turned to confront her. “My point is this: we know nothing. All we have is conjecture. The one thing we do know for certain is that this woman is extremely dangerous. If she comes back to life and decides to murder us, there’s precious little we could do to stop her.” He swallowed, his throat suddenly tight with sorrow. “And besides. There’s a good chance Meiran’s not coming back. Quinlan Reis probably killed her too.”

  “But we don’t know.” Glancing at the corpse, Naia whispered, “What if we could bring her back?”

  “Bring her back?” he echoed, incredulous. “And what happens if we do manage to ‘bring her back?’ How could we guarantee our safety? She’s Unbound, Naia! And we are not.”

  “We could take her to the Catacombs,” Naia pressed. “Her body will not decay, and there are plenty of spots where the magic field is highly unstable. We would have to obtain permission, of course. I’d have to ask my father…”

  Kyel shot her a questioning glare. “I thought you weren’t on speaking terms. Has he ever forgiven you?”

  Naia’s father was the High Priest of Death. Naia had once been a priestess, her father’s own chosen successor. But that was before she’d abandoned her duties for Darien...before she’d inherited his legacy of power.

  “I never gave my father the opportunity to forgive me,” Naia admitted, her gaze cast downward at the floor. Kyel nodded, understanding. He had been confronted once by Luther Penthos himself. The man could be quite intimidating.

  “All right, then,” he decided. “What do we do?”

  “You stay with her,” Naia said, starting toward the doorway. “I’ll head to the Temple of Death and inform them there’s a cadaver in need of attention.”

  She brought her hands up, drawing the cowl of her cloak over her head.

  Kyel stared after Naia even after she was gone from the doorway.

&nbs
p; Then he pulled up a chair, spinning it around and straddling the seat with his arms draped over the back, cradling his chin. He sat there, gazing down at the contours of the body beneath the drape.

  He still didn’t trust it.

  It seemed to take Naia an awful long time to return. Kyel wasn’t certain how many hours it was since she’d left. He had dozed off over the back of the chair, losing all track of time. He hadn’t gotten any sleep the night before, and the exhaustion had caught up with him. He startled awake at the sound of the door opening, blearily rubbing his eyes.

  Naia entered the room, drawing back her cowl. Behind her followed a man dressed all in white robes with a stole draped over his shoulders. His fine, pale hair hung in limp strands to the middle of his back. He drew behind him a long cart with a curved wooden handle. The man leaned the handle up against the doorframe, leaving the cart behind in the hall.

  Naia gestured with her hand. “Brother Carol, please allow me to introduce Kyel Archer of the Order of Sentinels. Grand Master Kyel, this is Brother Carol Desmond of the Temple of Death.”

  The pale priest of Death strode forward with a loathsome smile, clasping Kyel’s offered hand. “Such an honor, Great Master.” The touch of his eyes seemed tentative, as if not wishing to linger on Kyel’s face. Instead, his attention was drawn rapidly downward to the corpse. He studied the outline of Sareen’s body under the shroud with professional detachment.

  “Thank you for coming, Brother Carol,” Kyel responded, releasing the man’s clammy hand.

  “My condolences on your loss,” the priest muttered. He reached down and drew the shroud back to reveal Sareen’s face. He stood over her, his face devoid of expression. After a moment, he replaced the shroud, reverently smoothing the fabric’s drape.