The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy

by M. L. Spencer

  Kyel ripped his arm out of the woman’s grasp and swung around to shout at her, “Why? Why are you my only chance?!”

  She looked at him coldly. “Because that weapon wants to return to its rightful master. And you’re not him.”

  Kyel held her gaze. “And what can you do about it?”

  “Darien Lauchlin commands a host of necrators. They will shut you down in a heartbeat. But as you see, I have some experience with the undead.” Alexa smiled slowly. “If you take me with you, we’ll shut him down, instead.”

  12

  Blood Kin

  Darien woke to darkness. For a moment, he thought he was back in the Black Lands. But the ubiquitous flickers of cloud-light were absent, not ribboning across the fabric of his tent. Then he remembered: he was in the Rhen, where the night sky had never been tortured by Malikar’s Curse.

  He put out a hand, searching next to him, but felt only empty blankets. Azár hadn’t returned.

  He climbed out of the covers and walked naked across the rugs to the water jug. He took a gulp of water and swished it around in his mouth. The taste was foul. Grimacing, he picked up a bristled tooth-stick and used it to scrub his teeth as he pulled on his clothes. He gathered his weapons then walked out into the gathering area.

  A dozen or more men lay sleeping within, sprawled across the rugs. Darien had to pick his way carefully as he wound his way toward the door. He found his boots and pulled them on by the straps. He left the tent and walked out into the cool night, spitting the film from his teeth and pocketing the tooth-stick.

  The air smelled robustly of woodsmoke. Darien breathed in deeply, filling his nostrils with the scent of it. After so many months breathing the harsh stench of burning coal, Darien relished the scent of woodfire. All across the encampment, his soldiers leaned over fires of wood and prairie dung, a first of the many bounties the Rhen had to offer.

  Darien looked around for sight of his wife, wondering where she could have fled to. Azár had no immediate family to take her in. She also didn’t seem to have any friends—at least, none that he was aware of. The life of a Lightweaver was a solitary existence. Searching the camp, Darien finally remembered that not all friends walked on two legs.

  He found Azár by the horse pickets. She was rubbing down her mare’s glossy coat, moving her hands in slow circles over the animal’s neck. The horse followed her movements with its head, brushing its nose against her back. Smiling, Azár caught hold of the bridle and focused her attention on the mare’s head.

  A twig snapped under Darien’s boot. Azár flinched then twisted around to look back at him. Her hands ceased their motion, and a scowl of anger twisted her face.

  Darien halted, raising his hands. “I’m sorry. I know you’re angry—”

  She turned and stalked toward him, glaring at him with an alarming fury. She raised her hand as if to strike him. But instead of landing a blow, she lurched into his arms, growling, “Don’t ever do something so stupid again.”

  Instead of responding, Darien picked her up and carried her into the shadows of the tall grass.

  He woke to the sound of distant thunder. The sun was already up, its glaring light stabbing darts into his eyes. Darien sat up from the bed of grass he shared with Azár. He squinted against the light, his pulse kicking up as he recognized the earth-shaking rumble that was growing louder by the second.

  Horses. Hundreds of horses. Perhaps thousands.

  In the distance, he heard the encampment stirring.

  At his side, Azár roused from sleep.

  “Get back to the pavilion,” he told her.

  She glared at him reproachfully, looking ready to protest.

  “We’re in a vortex,” Darien snapped, reminding her of her vulnerability.

  Azár’s face softened, and she nodded. She rose and pulled on her clothes, muttering, “Don’t do anything—”

  “Stupid,” Darien finished for her. “I know.”

  Confident she was on her way back, he dressed and strapped his sword on. By the time he returned to camp, the forward scouts had already reported in, and the encampment was in a state of readiness, waiting to receive an attack. The forward defenses had positioned themselves along the camp’s western edge, taking cover behind earthworks and long lines of pickets. Darien looked out across the prairie in the direction of the rolling thunder, wondering what kind of horse lord would dare challenge an army of the size and capability of his own.

  Seeing a cluster of Zakai, Darien sprinted toward them. He caught sight of Sayeed among their number. Halting in their midst, he demanded, “Report!”

  Sayeed gestured toward the horizon. “A great many horse warriors approach from the west. They do not appear hostile, but their numbers are concerning.”

  Darien looked to the west and saw a brown plume of churned-up dust rising hugely into the sky. Sayeed was right to be concerned. The Jenn of the Cerulean Plains were fierce warriors who had little patience for outsiders infringing on their grazing territories. Gesturing for the demon-hound to remain behind, Darien made his way up the slope of a berm mounded to create a defiladed position. He halted on the top of the mound and gazed out across the sprawling sea of grass.

  Dominating the prairie was a dark tide of horses carrying riders with dusky brown skin garbed in furs and hide. They were armed with arsenals of spears and hornbows, and their horses’ blankets jingled with beads and bells. Darien stood motionless, astounded by the swirling sea of brutal weapons and flowing manes arrayed before him across the grassland.

  He abandoned the berm and made his way back to Sayeed. “It’s the Jenn,” he said. “I don’t think they’ll attack.”

  “Why not?” The officer frowned.

  “I know these people,” Darien said, then corrected himself, “I don’t know them, but I know a lot about them. I think they’re here to negotiate.” He glanced back over his shoulder.

  “Negotiate what?” Sayeed’s frown deepened.

  “Our passage.”

  Darien started forward, ignoring Sayeed’s look of incomprehension. Followed by the Zakai, he rounded the berm and strode toward a plank bridge that spanned a trench dug into the ground on the other side. He could hear the loud clatter of the officers’ boots as they kept pace with him. Stepping off the planks, he made his way out across the mud-slathered kill zone.

  Sayeed walked at his side, while the rest of the Zakai fanned out to stalk around them. Darien glanced around, seeing nothing but flat horizons and swarming horses in every direction.

  “I thought you were going to stay out of harm’s way,” Sayeed growled under his breath.

  “I’m not in harm’s way.”

  Darien waded into the knee-high grass of the open prairie. Spread before him were thousands of horses clustered together in a great herd that spanned miles. They roved in circulating patterns, never still. There were men and women, even children. Horses and foals. An entire culture loomed before him.

  Ahead, three horses broke off from the massive herd and trotted toward them. Darien halted, holding his ground, waiting for the riders to approach.

  The man who rode in front had long black hair pulled back and tied in a topknot. He was dressed in furs and tanned leather and wore his full beard groomed to a tapering point. All three men rode without saddle or tack, using only the pressure of their legs to guide their mounts.

  The strangers drew up only paces away. They didn’t dismount, but sat staring down at Darien and Sayeed from their horses’ backs. A tense silence clotted the air between them. Only the twitching of tails and the rippling of grass marked the passage of time. Eventually, the darkly bearded horselord nodded as if satisfied.

  “Darius dreoch,” he said in a rumbling voice.

  Darien stood stunned at hearing those words. At his side, Sayeed issued a sharp gasp. The man had spoken the ancient greeting of the Khazahar. Darien’s brain fumbled to make connections that should have been obvious from the start. The man’s olive skin. The bareback riding style.
The horse blankets tinkling with tassels and bells.

  The Jenn. These people call themselves the Jenn…

  Stiffly, Darien returned the greeting. “Darius dreoch,” he said, then added, “Sulimu kadreesh.”

  The man glanced back and forth between Darien and Sayeed, his eyes widening. “Akadreesh issulim,” he responded, and jumped down from his horse. He strode forward with a wide smile to grasp Darien’s arm in a two-handed grip. “I am Ranoch son of Tellat, warlord of the Jenn.”

  Sayeed stood speechless as the man clapped his arm in greeting.

  Darien’s mind scrambled as he realized the vast opportunity Ranoch and his people afforded them. The Jenn had been devoted allies of the Sentinels for hundreds of years. If he could harness that allegiance, the horse clans would be a formidable asset. Darien drew in a deep, steadying breath, wondering how far he dare go. With the Jenn, there could be no halfway.

  “I am Grand Master Darien Lauchlin of the Order of Sentinels,” he announced, claiming the title he had not worn since his death. “Warden of Battlemages and Overlord of the Khazahar.”

  “You are him,” Ranoch gasped, backing away. His men jumped off their mounts and surged forward, reaching for their weapons. Ranoch raised his hand, halting them.

  Darien spread his arms, indicating the vast Malikari encampment behind him. “I’ve come to reunite you with your brethren.”

  The horse lord frowned. “I do not understand.”

  “What is the name of your tribe?”

  Ranoch shook his head in incomprehension. “Once long ago, the Jenn were divided by clans. No longer. Now we are one tribe. One people.”

  “Do you know which tribe your people descend from?” Darien pressed.

  The man answered slowly, “Once, my ancestors called themselves the Omeyan Jenn. But that was long ago. Now we are simply the Jenn.”

  It was Darien’s turned to be astounded. These people were more than just a lost tribe—they were his tribe. His own blood. Quietly, he said, “Then you are my kin.”

  Ranoch shook his head. “That is not possible.”

  “My ancestor was Braden son of Marthax, of the Omeyan Clan of the Dur ul-Jenn.”

  Ranoch stared at him flatly. “You are a son of the Omeyans?”

  Darien nodded.

  The warlord crossed his arms, appearing greatly troubled as his eyes slipped slowly over the vast Malikari encampment. At last, he nodded.

  “Then we are kin,” Ranoch decided. He turned and shouted back over his shoulder, “Ride forward and welcome your lost brothers to our home!”

  A deafening cry resounded across the plain. The horses of the Jenn broke forward as if sprinting into the charge. When they closed the gap, their riders abandoned their mounts and leaped to the ground. They dashed forward and embraced the Malikari soldiers like long-lost brothers in a surreal scene that transcended anything in Darien’s broad experience.

  “You never told me Braden Reis was your ancestor.”

  Darien glanced sideways at Sayeed. The man was frowning as he walked, his fingers stroking his sword’s hooked pommel. It was obvious the omission hadn’t pleased him. Darien glanced back to where the rest of the Zakai were clustered in the lee of the command tent. He wondered how the others would take the news.

  “You never asked,” Darien said, then admitted, “I figured it wouldn’t go over very well.”

  The man nodded. Some of the tension eased from his face, though he still looked as though he held a fair bit of resentment. Darien berated himself for not being more honest from the start.

  “I’m sorry, Brother,” he said. “When we started down this road, I wasn’t certain how far I could trust you. And I had reason not to.”

  Sayeed nodded thoughtfully. “It is probably for the best you kept that information to yourself. The name Braden Reis is cursed. It was he who brought about the Desecration. It is very unfortunate that this man’s blood runs in your veins.”

  Darien was mildly surprised Sayeed didn’t already know of his relation to the First Sentinel. When he’d been forced to provide his lineage to the elders of the clans, Sayeed had made him sit down and scribe a complete list of his pedigree. Braden Reis had been the last name on that long list. Apparently, the tribal elders hadn’t shared that information with the Zakai.

  “You have it wrong,” Darien said. “It was Braden’s brother who caused the Desecration. And it wasn’t his fault. Braden and Quin were trying to save the people of Caladorn from the rule of Xerys. But they failed.”

  Sayeed looked at him, confusion carving deep furrows into his brow. “That is not the story that has been passed down.”

  “Then your story is wrong.” Darien turned from him and shrugged. “It happens. Stories can change. Especially the stories of those who have suffered defeat. I had never heard of Braden’s brother until I met him. His name had been erased entirely from our records.”

  Darien halted and stood looking around at the bustling encampment. To every side, soldiers were going about the labors of the day: honing weapons, repairing armor, cooking meals. At almost every fire stood men and women of the Jenn, watching the Tanisars as they worked, offering knowledge and answering questions. There were many facets of living in the land of sunlight that the Malikari people were ignorant of. He was glad to see them learning from their new allies.

  Sayeed followed his gaze, his face darkening. “This man, Quin Reis—how did you meet a man who died a thousand years ago?”

  “Because he is also a Servant of Xerys.”

  His answer appeared to have a great effect on Sayeed, who drew his pack from his shoulder and turned to Darien with concern in his eyes. “So this cursed man is a Servant? How can that be?”

  Softly, Darien answered, “We are all cursed, Brother.”

  A long silence fell between them. Sayeed stood staring past him into the distance. At first, Darien couldn’t tell what the man was looking at. Then it occurred to him: he was looking at the sun. Turning, he followed Sayeed’s gaze. The sun had risen well above the Craghorns, burning fiercely in the brilliant sky. Before his death, he’d always taken the sun for granted. No longer. Darien realized that, for the rest of his time in this world, he should be thankful for every sunrise. He could only imagine what the Malikari must be feeling.

  “We keep calling ourselves brothers,” Sayeed said in a gruff voice. “Perhaps it is time to formalize this bond we claim to share.”

  Darien glanced at him sharply. “What do you mean?”

  Sayeed’s reply was measured and emotionless. “Among my people, there is a ritual that unites two men as kin.”

  “How does that work?” Darien had never heard of such a thing, although it didn’t surprise him. The Malikari seemed to have a ritual for everything. For a people whose very existence was defined by chaos, such a highly methodized culture added an element of structure to their lives.

  Sayeed took Darien by the arm and drew two fingers across the palm of his right hand. “Your blood and my blood would be mixed, as though we had been born of the same father.”

  “A blood rite,” Darien concluded, not liking the sound of it. The only other blood ritual he’d experienced had ended with the chains of his Oath cleaved from his wrists. The day he’d pledged himself to the goddess of Death to become her hand of vengeance. Which brought Darien to another thought equally disturbing: he had sworn his life to a goddess and sworn his afterlife to a god. He wasn’t sure how much was left of him to pledge to Sayeed.

  “And what would that mean for us?” Darien asked warily.

  Sayeed retracted his hand. “We would become family, in every sense of the word. Our fates and fortunes would be joined. I would support you—and your wife, and any children you might have—in all ways. I would fight at your side in every battle. I would second you in any feud. And upon your death, I would put you in your grave, and provide for your family as though they were my own. Just as you would do the same for me.”

  Darien dropped his gaze, feelin
g overwhelmed. What Sayeed was offering … it went beyond natural bonds of blood. True brothers were seldom so dedicated to each other. He felt unworthy of receiving such a commitment from another human. He couldn’t fathom it.

  He struggled to find words. It took him a moment. “I had a brother once. I didn’t get to choose him; I never would have. But if I’d had a choice, I would have chosen you instead.” He knew his response wasn’t eloquent, or even sufficient, but it was as close as he could manage.

  Sayeed’s smile was jubilant. He clapped Darien on the back. “We need your wife. And we need witnesses!”

  Before Darien could respond, the man scooped up his pack and hauled him forward by the arm in the direction of the command tent. Darien was pressed to keep up, pulled along by Sayeed’s enthusiasm. He was a little taken aback—he hadn’t expected Sayeed to act on the agreement immediately.

  “Can’t this wait?” he gasped, thinking of the scores of other things he should be doing at the moment. He had a war council to convene, the Jenn to attend to, a land to conquer—

  “These things do not wait!” his First exclaimed in a reproving tone. “We are at war, and neither one of us is guaranteed to live another day.”

  Darien grunted an acknowledgement. There was logic to that reasoning, he supposed. He followed Sayeed into camp along the main road that bisected the grid of tents, separating the Khazahari side of the encampment from the Calazi and Mariduri armies. Banners of different colors fluttered above the tents, each emblazoned with the symbols and emblems of their units.

  When they arrived at the pavilion, Darien lurched to a halt. He stood in a patch of trampled grass, staring at the sight of Azár armed with a wooden sword facing off against one of Sayeed’s Zakai. They were slowly circling each other, blades poised and ready to strike. Azár lunged first, the waster in her hand parried by the officer’s wooden blade. She pulled back, raising her practice sword to block the man’s attack. But she moved a second too slow—the officer’s wood blade connected with her chest. Azár jerked away with a growl, moving her waster back to high-ward.