The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy

by M. L. Spencer

  Craig glanced at the priest. “I want a word with him, first.”

  “Of course.” The oily haired man flashed a wan smile, stepping to the side.

  Darien finally recognized the unfamiliar gray robes: this was a priest of Deshari, the Goddess of Grief. The people of the Rhen considered Xerys evil. But in Darien’s opinion, the goddess Deshari was far more deserving of their terror. Deshari’s adherents embraced pain, yearned for heartache and trauma. They viewed agony as a catalyst of transformation.

  It was a despicable cult. Their practices went beyond the immoral, and for no clear benefit to society. He considered Deshari far worse than Xerys, the same way a murderer was different from an executioner. At least his own dark god seemed justified for the evils He perpetrated. For the worshippers of Deshari, evil was both ends and means.

  The gray-robed priest peered at him, an eager smile on his lips. In his eyes lingered a promise of pain.

  Craig started forward, glancing at Myria as he rounded the corner of her cage. He strode up to the table Darien was strapped to, pausing to linger at his side. Seeing the look on his old friend’s face spiked Darien’s rage.

  “Spare my people, Craig.” It took everything he had just to get the words out. To swallow his anger and embrace humility. There was nothing else to do.

  Devlin Craig gazed down at him with eyes that contained a mixture of disgust and pity. He shook his head in obvious confusion. “They’re not your people, Darien.”

  He could tell by Craig’s face that he didn’t understand. He thought him unbalanced, perhaps even insane.

  “They are,” Darien insisted. “I wasn’t born to them. But that doesn’t make it any different. Please. Listen to me. They’re good people. They’re not the Enemy you think they are. They don’t deserve this —”

  But Craig cut him off, already shaking his head before Darien was finished. “It’s not for me to decide. I’m just a soldier. I do what I’m told. And right now, I’ve been told to carry out your execution.”

  Darien sagged in his bonds, overcome by a feeling of hopelessness. He had failed before, many times in his life. But this was different. The stakes were too high.

  “I’m sorry.” Craig looked as though he was sincere. “I don’t have a choice.” He looked to the side, avoiding Darien’s eyes. “So I’ll let you decide. Do you want us to kill you first? Spare you the pain of watching her burn?” He nodded back over his shoulder at Myria’s cage. “Or would you rather spare her?”

  It was a cruel choice. Darien clenched his fists in rage. “Gods damn you,” he growled.

  “I’m sure they will. Who first, Darien?”

  No amount of begging would change Craig’s mind. Darien realized that he only had one choice left to make. He closed his eyes and made it. He decided to spare Myria.

  “Her first.”

  “All right.” Craig nodded at the priest, who had been watching the exchange.

  A sick smile formed on the man’s lips. He reached long, bony fingers into the deep pocket of his robe, withdrawing a flask that contained a clear liquid. He turned to Myria, who stood clutching the bars of her cage.

  The priest said something under his breath that Darien couldn’t hear. Then he doused Myria thoroughly with the liquid from the flask. She lurched backward with a cry, fleeing to the corner of her cage as the priest backed away, laying down a trail of liquid all the way to the center of the room.

  Myria stood clutching herself, shaking, her hair and clothes dripping. She began to hyperventilate, her breath coming in sharp, choking gasps.

  Darien could only stare in horror, too sickened to react.

  The priest walked over to the wall and fetched a torch down from its holder. Seeing the flame, Myria’s sharp gasps turned to shrieks. She brought her hands up in terror, covering her face.

  The priest lowered the torch to the ground. A trail of flame sprang into being, racing across the floor toward the cage. The flames leaped onto Myria, engulfing her instantly. Her screams filled the room as she staggered, ablaze. She fell to her knees, writhing and shrieking as the flames enveloped her completely.

  Darien stared, transfixed by the shocking horror of the scene. Myria’s flesh turned black then started to gray. She burned for minutes, her screams finally coming to a pitiful end. Still, the crackling of the flames persisted. The awful smell of roasting flesh thickened the air of the dungeon. Soon, Myria was reduced to a charred, featureless lump that sizzled and smoked.

  Darien trembled in revulsion, praying that she was finally beyond pain.

  There was a long gap of silence in the chamber, broken only by the sound of his own shuddering breath.

  Craig laid a hand on Darien’s arm. “You were once my friend,” he said. “I hope your soul finds peace.”

  Darien looked up at him, unable to respond.

  Craig walked away, his long cloak swaying in his wake. He strode to the center of the room, head bowed, as the priest of Deshari moved forward.

  The repugnant man fussed over Darien, making sure his bonds were secure, all the while staring at him with a ghastly eagerness in his eyes. Darien cringed away from the man, repulsed. The priest produced another flask and held it over him.

  He uttered, “May the flames redefine you. This is your moment of pause before your soul breaks wide open. I want you to know … I envy you this opportunity. Relax. Embrace your transformation.”

  Darien shivered, appalled by the man’s hungering gaze, the anxious yearning to see him burn. He closed his eyes as the priest upended the vial over him, drenching his face and hair, dousing his clothes. Then the man backed away, laying down a trail of accelerant across the floor.

  Darien gagged at the reek of lamp oil, the fumes burning his throat and wringing water from his eyes. His heart lurched as the panic set in. He fought against his restraints, lashing his fists against the manacles, not caring if he broke every bone in his hands. His mind flailed desperately for the Onslaught, to no avail.

  The priest of Deshari grabbed another torch down off the wall, its flame crackling in a stir of air as he walked back toward the center of the room. Darien’s eyes followed the torch’s flame, his body trembling in misery.

  Devlin Craig looked away.

  The priest stopped in the center of the room and slowly lowered the torch toward the trail of accelerant.

  Something struck him from behind.

  The priest was hurled off his feet, the torch tumbling from his grasp. His body slapped hard against the floor and lay there, a gray-fletched shaft protruding from his back.

  The torch rolled across the floor toward the trail of oil.

  Devlin Craig sprang toward the door, drawing his blade. Another arrow drove deep into his neck. He reached up, fumbling at the shaft as his knees buckled under him. He slumped to the ground, dropping his sword.

  Kyel Archer lowered the longbow in his hands. He cast the weapon on the ground, a look of revulsion on his face. His eyes snapped back and forth between the priest and Devlin Craig, who lay thrashing about on the floor, pawing at the arrow embedded in his neck as he fought for breath.

  Kyel ran forward, kicking the torch away. He knelt beside the body of the priest and searched frantically through the man’s robes, at last springing back up with a ring of keys in his hands.

  Darien almost wept at the site of him. Kyel was filthy and ragged, trembling as he crammed the keys one at a time into the manacles. The arcane restraints fell away, releasing the gushing torrent of the Onslaught. Darien groaned as he felt it rage into him, filling his mind with terrible ecstasy.

  Kyel ripped off the rest of the restraints. Darien sat up, weak and almost too shaky to stand. He had to brace himself against Kyel to get his feet under him. He took a lurching step forward. The smell of lamp oil was strong on his skin, wetting his hair and saturating his clothes. The fumes choked his throat. He seared it away with the taint of the Onslaught.

  Kneeling, he dropped to Craig’s side and lifted his old friend up off
the floor. Craig was still alive, wheezing and gurgling, his hand worrying at the shaft buried deep in his throat. There was little blood; it hadn’t pierced the artery. Craig’s panicked eyes scoured Darien’s face, his mouth open and gasping.

  Darien couldn’t heal him.

  “Close your eyes,” he said.

  Craig complied.

  He died instantly, going limp as blood streamed from his nostrils. His shuddering stopped, his suffering ended. Darien felt no pity for him. He laid Craig out across the floor and rose, turning back to Kyel.

  “What did you do to him?” Kyel whispered.

  “I gave him mercy.” Darien stepped over the corpse, moving toward the door.

  “How…?”

  “With the Hellpower.”

  Darien stopped in the doorway, extending his hand. Kyel stared at him wide-eyed, his mouth hanging slack.

  “Come with me, Kyel.”

  “No.” The young mage shook his head, taking a step back away. Darien could see the disgust on his face.

  He pressed, “I need your help. I don’t know the way out of here.”

  “I can’t,” Kyel gasped, edging backward another step. His eyes drifted to the corpses on the floor then flicked back to Darien’s face.

  Darien took a step after him, holding his gaze steady, his hand still outstretched. “You know we’re in the right. That’s why you did what you did. Come with me. I need you. We need you.”

  But Kyel shook his head. “I can’t. These are my people. And I’m their Sentinel.”

  Hearing that, Darien went cold. He didn’t want to kill Kyel. But he also couldn’t leave such a threat behind. He closed his eyes, summoning resolve.

  Darien reached within. The Hellpower was there: morbidly euphoric, darkly vibrant, beckoning. He gathered it in and probed deep inside Kyel, finding the nerves that drove his heart.

  “You’re going to kill me,” Kyel realized.

  Sinan son of Semal. Alton son of Orhan. Devrim son of Enver…

  He opened his eyes.

  “No,” Darien whispered. He pointed at the cage where Myria’s corpse lay charcoaled on the floor. “Get in.”

  Kyel looked like he was going to be sick. But he obeyed. With fumbling hands, he found the right key and unlocked the door. He straddled the grotesque remains and locked the cage door behind him.

  “Throw me the keys.”

  Kyel did, tossing them down on the floor. They slid across the stones, coming to a rest beside Craig’s body. Kyel retreated to the far end of the cage, where he dropped to a crouch, covering his face with his hands.

  The cold gleam of metal attracted Darien’s attention. He moved toward it, realizing they’d piled his things in a corner against the wall. He shouldered his blade’s leather harness and fastened his cloak. Then he turned, eyes sweeping over the carnage in the chamber.

  “Narghul,” he whispered, his blood turning to liquid ice.

  Two necrators rose from pools of shadow, twining upward from the floor.

  Darien stared at the pair of lethal shades, grimly satisfied. He turned and strode from the chamber, his dark servants gliding behind in his wake.

  25

  Hapselon’s Amulet

  A glance down at the Soulstone revealed what he’d already suspected. The dull black stone stirred with a fleck of radiance deep inside where the flaw had been. Quin held it up between them, dangling it in front of Naia’s face. The cold necklace swayed in front of her, the bands of the collar catching the light, while the stone sucked it in like a black maw of darkness.

  Except for that one rose-colored fleck.

  “Look,” Quin said. “It’s charging again. It’s drawing a new legacy right out of the air.”

  She leaned forward, peering deeply into the stone. Slowly, Naia’s eyes widened. “How is it doing that?”

  “Because that’s where all legacies go when mages die without a successor … And it’s where they all came from in the first place.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Quin shot her a quizzical look.

  Naia took a step back then sat down on the bed. She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “I’m afraid there is a tremendous gap in my knowledge. Please remember I never received a formal education.”

  Quin lowered the Soulstone, dropping it down on the desk. He sank into his own seat, splaying his legs in a sloppy posture. “You’ve never read the Praymayana?”

  When she shook her head, Quin nodded slowly. He was aware Naia had only spent two years in training, and in those two years had learned little more than the essentials. She was ignorant of all the foundational knowledge that a mage’s training was typically built on. She knew what she was doing—generally—but had absolutely no idea why things worked or how they worked. It boggled his mind that she could be even half as effective as she was.

  He took a steadying breath, summoning the magelight he’d created. It gathered around him, dancing in misty filaments. The soothing surge of the power within him raised goosebumps on his flesh. He closed his eyes, savoring the sweet bliss.

  “I feel whole…” he whispered with a smile. It had been so long. Awash in the magic field, he could fill it moving through him of its own accord, without any external prompting.

  “The Praymayana is an epic poem that dates back thousands of years before my time,” he began, opening his eyes. “It chronicles the adventures of an ancient sage named Hapselon who thought he could climb to the top of the world and steal the fire of Om, thereby becoming a god himself. Unfortunately, due to his hubris, Hapselon neglected to realize that Om’s fire would engulf him rather than granting him the godly powers he desired. As he lay dying, the goddess Isap took pity on him and healed his wounds. But Hapselon tricked her. As soon as he was healed, Hapselon took Isap captive and threatened to throw her off the top of the world unless Om granted him the powers of a god.

  “So Om granted his wish. He placed upon Hapselon’s neck an amulet that caused the magic field to feed Hapselon with so much power that the sage went mad. He was cursed, you see. His mortal mind couldn’t handle the power of the gods. Hapselon ran raving down from the top of the world, reduced to a mindless lunatic. Everyone he touched was infected with the power of the amulet and received a small portion of godly power. In the end, after spreading the gift to thousands of people, Hapselon was diminished to just an empty husk, a withered and pathetic creature, drained of the power the gods had granted him. He finally died, passing from this world into Isap’s domain, his soul to be tormented throughout eternity. His punishment was to watch generations of mages born and die, enjoying and then passing on the gift that should have been his, and his alone.”

  Naia nodded slightly. “What a tragic story. Like so many holy mysteries, its inception is most likely rooted in the truth.”

  “Perhaps.” Quin shrugged. “I doubt there was ever any man named Hapselon and, even if there was, he certainly never climbed to the top of the world. But I do believe that some artifact like Hapselon’s amulet did indeed exist, and that the gifts of the first mages were absorbed by it from the magic field itself. That myth was what inspired me to create this.” He reached out and fingered the Soulstone, running his fingers across its dull black surface.

  A voice spoke at them from the door. “You’re awake. Good.”

  Quin startled, jerking his hand back away from the talisman. He turned to find Tsula standing behind them in the doorway, gazing at them with her arms crossed. Like always, her expression was devoid of emotion.

  “There is food for you in the kitchens,” she informed them. “After you break your fast, I’ll show you where to gain access to the conduits.” With that she turned and departed, the sounds of her footsteps fading down the hallway.

  Naia turned to Quin. “Do you trust her?”

  He lifted his hat and raked a hand back through his hair. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she was going to leave you frozen.” He shrugged. “Regardless of her
objectives, that’s going too far. If I had a copper to wager, I’d wager she’s afraid of you.”

  “But why?” Naia leaned forward, her hair spilling over her shoulders like a wash of molten bronze.

  “I have no idea,” Quin admitted. It was indeed quite a mystery. He wished he could unravel that tangled skein, but had no idea where to begin. He stood up. “Well, let’s hope this breakfast isn’t poisoned. Shall we?” He motioned toward the door.

  Naia nodded, stepping into the hallway. He pocketed the Soulstone and followed her out. Taking her by the arm, he directed her down the corridor, away from the sprawl of the castle’s living quarters. He had no idea where the kitchens were situated; Tsula hadn’t given him a tour. But he had a good idea where they should be, somewhere around or beneath the castle’s great hall.

  They found their way down a flight of stairs. At the bottom, the steps opened up on a sunny courtyard lined with a series of kitchen stalls. There were many, enough to provide food service for the entire castle. All empty, of course. All deserted. No smoke rose from the chimneys. The hearths were cold.

  “Not much in the way of options,” Quin complained as they strode through the courtyard. He glanced up, noticing that it was a pleasant, sun-filled day. At least, it was on the castle grounds. He had no doubt the rest of the isle was still gripped in the cold embrace of winter. He could hear the sound of bird-song in the distance, the rustle of wind through the branches of trees. The warmth of daylight felt good on his shoulders.

  “Where’s the food?” Naia wondered.

  Quin guided her toward one of the kitchen stalls. It looked unused, though not unclean. In fact, there was no dirt anywhere. He ran a finger over the surface of a carving board. No dust. He frowned at that; Tsula had been frozen in time, but not the rest of the castle. Supposedly. He was beginning to wonder at that. So far, he’d seen no servants. So who dusted the counters? Who swept out the floors?