The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy

by M. L. Spencer

  Screams and shouts drowned out bellowing orders as the ranks collapsed backward. Hoyte stooped to snatch up his remaining arrows, backing away as quickly as he could. From every side, men jostled and bumped against him in their eagerness to retreat.

  A raging firestorm erupted behind them, followed by the awful sound of screams. Hoyte glanced behind to see an inferno gushing toward them from the center of the camp.

  The men at his back scrambled forward in terror, shoving Hoyte against the men in front of him. Pinned on all sides, Hoyte dropped his bow and used his elbows to batter his way through the frantic mob. He glanced about desperately for Moss and Pinkston, but they were lost in the surging mass.

  Another firestorm exploded only a short distance away. Hoyte felt the heat of it sear his face. Men and parts of men shot high into the air, raining down on those still fighting to escape. The roaring of flames drowned out the sound of screams, as more explosions erupted all around, guts and gore and severed limbs pelting down like battering hail.

  Hoyte fought to keep his feet, terror driving him away from the exploding horror. He was shoved, punched, clawed, squeezed, and bludgeoned at every step. He fought his way forward, every inch of ground seeming a mile, as men on every side tried to push past or climb over the struggling mass ahead. Hoyte stumbled over corpses that lay trampled beneath the rage of feet. Soon he couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. The weight of soldiers around him crushed his arms against his ribs.

  Hoyte would have howled in pain, but he couldn’t suck enough air into his lungs to do it. He felt his ribs cracking. His legs gave out from under him. He should have fallen, but he was held upright by the sheer force of the surging masses.

  A roiling furnace blasted him full in the face, ripping him out of the crowd and flinging him backward and up. He hit the ground hard, screaming in shock and pain. His arms scrambled feebly as he tried to lift himself up, but he couldn’t get any traction with his legs.

  He fought to raise his head from the ground and looked down at his body. At first, he couldn’t understand what he was seeing. Then came understanding, along with horror. The last thing Hoyte saw as his vision dimmed was his charred backbone protruding from under his ribs, where his middle used to be.

  2

  Aftermath

  Darien glanced up at the star-scattered night that stretched on forever overhead. There were no clouds to darken the sky; it hadn’t rained anytime recently. And yet, everywhere he stepped, the ground was slick with mud. He scraped the toe of his boot across the mucky soil and watched the furrow he’d created fill quickly with blood.

  The smell was the worst. It rose from the mounds of smoldering corpses, borne across the battlefield by the smoke-fed air. Everywhere he looked, he saw the charred remains of fallen soldiers and horses. Some whole. Most not. The stench was nauseating. The smell of charred human was growing all too familiar. He’d smelled too much of it, too recently. It had a distinctive, sweet aroma. Roasted human smelled like roasted pork, except on a battlefield. There, mingled with the stench of blood and bowel, it was horrifically worse.

  Especially when the burnt corpses were of his own making. And his own kinfolk.

  The sounds of dying came from every direction and no direction, carried toward him on the air. Anguished moans and desperate weeping. All punctuated by raw, staccato shrieks, as knives worked tirelessly to open throats. His men ranged across the battlefield, sifting and prying through heaps of flesh in search of wounded. Those mortally injured were freed from their pain. Those who stood a chance of surviving were carried back to the encampment. Wounded soldiers of the Rhen were put to the knife, without exception.

  Another ghastly shriek cut sharply through the smoke and stench. The sound made Darien’s stomach tighten. He stood staring out across the carnage, contemplating the atrocity he had committed. He’d massacred thousands in just minutes, as he had done at Orien’s Finger. Only, this time, he had slaughtered the same people he’d once sworn to defend. The thought dredged up waves of guilt he couldn’t afford to feel. Guilt served no strategic purpose on a battlefield.

  Azár squeezed his hand. Glancing sideways at her, he saw that his wife seemed to be weathering the carnage better than himself. She caught his stare and fixed him with a look of concern.

  “This is difficult for you,” she observed.

  He ignored her and knelt beside a Rhenic soldier who lay moaning pitifully, clawing at his own spilled entrails as if trying to stuff them back inside. Darien stopped the man’s heart then rose again. He strode forward, eyes scouring the field for other signs of life.

  His gaze fell on one of his own men who lay groaning at the bottom of a heap of smoldering flesh. Darien tugged the first corpse off the top of the pile, rolling it wetly aside. Azár helped him shift the others. By the time they dug down to the wounded man, he was already dead. Frustrated, Darien cursed and whirled away.

  He got only a couple of steps before he caught sight of Sayeed winding toward them through scattered piles of remains. The officer stopped in front of him, sweat mottling his brow despite the chill night air. He held his helmet tucked in the crook of his arm. His wet hair was plastered against his head, and there was a distinct line of blood around the edge of his face that resembled war paint.

  He acknowledged Darien with a nod. “Lord—”

  “Brother,” Darien corrected.

  Sayeed took a deep breath then started over. “Brother, the last of their infantry has been routed. Their officers fled on horseback at the onset of battle. We lost a little over two hundred warriors and estimate thirty-two thousand enemy casualties. We have taken over a thousand prisoners. What would you have done with them?”

  Darien swept his gaze across the smoldering battlefield. There had already been too much death, and too little reason for it. At his feet lay the burnt remains of a fallen officer who wore the insignia of Chamsbrey. Two years before, he would have mourned the same man’s death. Now, the only emotion he felt was anger. He despised the Rhen’s generals for forcing him to resort to atrocity. Because of his past loyalties, they’d expected him to feel conflicted, to be weak. To soften the blows.

  Which meant that anything short of ruthlessness would just prolong the slaughter.

  Darien looked back up at Sayeed. “Spare ten prisoners and execute the remainder. Make certain those ten watch. Slay their wounded and scavenge what you can: weapons, arrows, supplies. Especially food. We need food. Slaughter any horses you find, living or dead. We need the meat.”

  Sayeed paled at his words. Darien could gauge the man’s horror from the pallor of his complexion, which confused him. He hadn’t expected such a reaction from an officer with Sayeed’s discipline or experience. He shot a questioning glare at the man.

  “Brother, what you ask is forbidden….”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Darien snapped. “We can’t afford to show mercy.”

  “I meant the horses,” Sayeed corrected. “It is forbidden to eat the flesh of animals. Or to slay an animal—”

  Darien barked an incredulous laugh. He’d just ordered the execution of hundreds of prisoners who had surrendered willingly. But his second-in-command was balking at the lives of a few horses. He glanced at Azár to find her nodding in agreement with Sayeed. He took a deep breath, struggling for patience. Then he fixed his gaze on both of them.

  “We’re not in the Black Lands anymore. We can afford to eat meat.” Scoffing, he added, “Hell, we can’t afford not to.” He stalked away from the gaping officer, stepping over a Rhenic soldier who lay whimpering in agony. Without pausing, Darien willed the man dead.

  He heard the sound of Azár’s footsteps behind him, hurrying to catch up. He slowed his pace and waited for her. Together, they waded side by side through a swampy sea of blood, charred bones, and charcoaled meat.

  On impulse, Darien took his wife’s hand and knelt over a wounded soldier with a shattered leg. He wanted her to feel the healing process through him. The techniques he used wer
e well beyond her ability, but he hoped she would find something in the experience that might be useful. He was surprised to see only a look of frustration on her face.

  “What did you do?” Azár demanded. “I could not tell. It was too fast, and you did too much all at once.”

  He shrugged. “Healing’s probably the hardest skill to master. That’s why not every mage was trained to it.”

  Azár dismissed his words with a wave of her hand. “I will learn. Next time go slower.”

  Reaching up, Darien rubbed his eyes in weariness. “I can’t heal slower. It has to happen fast, or I’ll just do more damage than I’m mending. Healing’s not something that can be taught overnight. It takes years.”

  He knelt beside a woman with a hole in her chest and lungs drowning in fluid. Taking Azár’s hand, he let her feel through him as he staunched the blood flow. He worked slowly to reweave arteries and capillary beds, building the flesh around them as they grew. He drained the fluid from her lungs and engorged them with air. When it was done, he rose and left behind a soldier who lay gasping and moaning in pain. But alive.

  Darien soothed the woman to sleep. Then he glared at Azár. “That’s as slow as I can work. It wasn’t easy on her. I won’t do it again.”

  Azár stared at him with a hurtful look. Ripping her hand out of his grasp, she rose and stalked away. She didn’t get far before she whirled back around and snarled at him angrily, “You treat me like a child!”

  Darien reminded her, “That’s because you are a child. At least in this.” He stood up but staggered, reeling from a surge of vertigo. He closed his eyes and took a moment to steady himself. The vast amount of power he’d handled was starting to take its toll. He was exhausted, and in no shape to be arguing with his wife in the midst of a battlefield.

  Rubbing his eyes, Darien said wearily, “Given enough time, I could teach you to heal. It’s the time part we don’t have.” Seeking to mollify her, he added, “Even if I had a thousand years, I could never weave your light.”

  Arms crossed, Azár looked at him with an unforgiving stare. Without another word, she turned and stalked ahead of him toward the next pile of corpses. Darien stood still for a moment, watching her go. Then he forced himself to move wearily after her.

  He woke up groggy. Staring up into darkness, Darien felt a moment of disorientation. He didn’t know where he was. He came to the slow conclusion that he must be back in his tent. Only, he didn’t remember getting there. Confused, he pushed himself upright, the motion making him groan. His head throbbed with the familiar pain that came with overexertion.

  A light appeared, brightening the canvas walls of the tent. At first, he thought it was lamplight. It took him a moment to realize it was magelight.

  Azár’s silhouette knelt beside him and pressed a cup of tea into his hand. It was hot and minty, and felt good on his throat. Darien relaxed and drank the warm liquid slowly, hoping it would help the ache in his head that throbbed to the rhythm of his pulse.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  Azár looked at him flatly. “You were stupid. You killed too many, then healed too many. It was too much.”

  He took another sip of tea. “I didn’t heal enough.”

  “You cannot save the world,” she growled.

  Darien shrugged. “Maybe not. But I need to try.” He set the cup down by his side and rose from his blankets. It was dim in the tent, even with her magelight. He stared around, looking for his clothes.

  “Arrogance is the hallmark of fools,” his wife muttered at his back.

  “Then I suppose I’m an arrogant fool.” Darien rummaged through the shadows until he found a shirt. Pulling it on, he asked, “What time is it?”

  “It’s night. You slept through an entire day. And part of the next night. Here. Eat something, fool.”

  Darien smiled as he accepted a bowl from her hand. The porridge inside was a tasteless mixture of grain and something he didn’t recognize. Regardless, he swallowed it thankfully. Most of the men and women in his army had nothing to eat. Their rations had been used up before the battle for the Pass, and their supply lines were becoming stretched and strained.

  Azár handed him his trousers. “Get dressed. Sayeed has a report you need to hear.”

  Darien stabbed a glare at her even as he obeyed. “You’re my wife, not my mother,” he grumbled. “Why didn’t you tell me about Sayeed?”

  “Because you needed to eat.” Her voice was matter-of-fact.

  Irritated, Darien struggled into his armor. Pulling on his boots, he grabbed his sword and threw back the tent flaps. A score of officers rose to their feet at the sight of him. In deference to his authority, they had made their small camp outside his tent. Sayeed came forward through the press of men, halting in front of him.

  “Lord, it is good to see you hale,” he said by way of greeting.

  Darien only nodded in response. “You have something to tell me?”

  “Your commands were carried out. We left the bodies where they lay.” Sayeed shifted uneasily. “Lord, a scout returned from the ruins of the keep. You must hear what he has to say.”

  Turning, Sayeed gestured behind him. A soldier scrambled forward, dropping to kneel at Darien’s feet.

  Darien waved his hand dismissively. “Rise. Say what you came to say.”

  The scout climbed to his feet. “All glory to you, Lord. I was separated from my squad during the battle. I wandered the slopes of the mountains, looking for a path down. I found myself at the ruins of the old fortress. There, I saw three corpses.”

  Darien frowned. “Go on.”

  “Lord, one of the dead was Warden Connell.”

  Darien stiffened, the news catching him off-guard. Byron Connell had been missing since the battle for the keep. But Darien had just assumed he had returned to his own forces, which were camped behind them in the Pass. Cold dread crept over him as the implications of the scout’s words sank in.

  “Are you certain?”

  “I am certain, Lord.”

  Darien’s mind went silent. He stood grappling with his frozen thoughts, uncertain what to do about them.

  The soldier continued, “There was another man lying dead, and there was also a woman. The woman … Lord, I have seen her before. She was the woman imprisoned with you in Tokashi Palace.”

  Darien’s shock crystallized. His thoughts froze, then fractured like glass.

  “Meiran…?”

  He felt a hand rest softly on his shoulder. The sensation jolted him, making him flinch. Turning, Darien saw that Azár had come up behind him. Ignoring her, he turned back to the soldier.

  “Take me there.”

  It took hours on horseback to gain the trail that led to the old keep. Sayeed rode at the front of their small party. He was mounted on the back of a skittish charger whose previous rider had attempted to desert during the battle. Azár rode behind, surrounded by a capable retinue of Zakai, the only men who had any experience on horseback.

  When they reached the stairs that led to the ruins, Darien dismounted and handed his reins to a soldier. Accompanied by Azár and Sayeed, he mounted the same granite steps he’d climbed hundreds of times during the two long years he’d been stationed in the Pass. His feet still remembered the path, even though the stairs were cracked and crumbling away. The wind was up, whipping his hair and stinging his cheeks. It let up as they rounded the last switchback.

  There, at the top of the steps, Darien halted. He stood staring at the naked foundation of the fortress that had, for over five hundred years, guarded the Pass of Lor-Gamorth. Now only a crumble of fallen walls and charred beams remained. Darien took a step toward a scattered pile of rubble that lay ahead—all that was left of the keep’s high turret. The sight of the ruin brought with it a dull ache of sentiment. Darien’s thoughts turned to Devlin Craig and Sutton Royce, his brothers in arms during the two years he had served at the Front. Craig and Royce had been the best friends he’d ever known, although they had both betrayed
that friendship. So many friends fallen. Most because they had the misfortune of sharing his fate.

  Darien turned away from the rubble and strode over to where Sayeed waited alongside the beardless scout who served as their guide.

  “Where are they?” he asked.

  The soldier effected a curt bow. “Lord, I found them over there.” He nodded toward a half-collapsed wall jutting up from the ground.

  Darien started in the direction the man indicated. He followed a narrow trail that turned into a precipitous path leading down behind the ruin. When Darien reached the crumbled rear wall, he froze, one hand lingering on the hilt of his sword. He couldn’t press himself to go any further.

  Two forlorn shapes lay sprawled before him in the dirt. One was Meiran. Darien stopped breathing, overcome by emotion. But it wasn’t grief he felt. Neither was it anger. Whatever it was, it was incapacitating. He drew a breath, sucking it hard into his chest. It took long seconds before he could manage another.

  On legs as rigid as logs, he stumbled over to Meiran’s body and sank down at her side. She had been dead awhile. Her corpse stank of rot. Darien found himself looking down at a gray face that was caked with dried blood. Sunken, milky eyes returned his stare with a look of accusation. He lifted a hand and traced Meiran’s bloated face.

  “Darien.”

  He could feel Azár lingering over him, could hear the concern in her voice. He ignored her. Staring down at Meiran, Darien didn’t know what to feel. So he decided not to. He climbed to his feet and walked away, leaving Meiran in the dirt.

  He went to the corpse that lay just a short distance away. The broken, gaping face looked familiar to him. It took him a moment to remember the man’s name: Traver Larsen. He’d been Kyel Archer’s friend. Darien tucked that piece of information away, saving it for later. He wandered up the slope, his eyes scanning the ground.

  “The Warden is over here, Lord.”