The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy

by M. L. Spencer

  “No,” Tsula answered. “A Harbinger can only read the possible versions of their own Story. That is why Harbingers always lived apart from other mages. To read the versions of the Book of All Things, a Harbinger must be exposed to the world: living it, experiencing it. But no other person should ever know a Harbinger for what she or he is. Such would influence the versions and therefore influence the Story as it is being penned.”

  Naia frowned, reassessing everything she knew about the Order of Harbingers. Or thought she knew. Never was there an order of mages so cloaked in secrets and mystery. And outright misinformation. “So the Harbingers were not isolated, after all. They would have to come and go from the island frequently.”

  “Correct.”

  “But you haven’t left the island in a thousand years,” she protested. “Surely that must affect your Story. How much could you possibly know about the state of the world?”

  Tsula narrowed her eyes, raising her chin. “Nothing about the Reversal or the magic field has changed in a thousand years. The solutions I have seen are still valid.”

  The silver vines twined and untwined, wove and unwove.

  “How can I read my own Story?”

  “When you are ready, the Crescent will show you all possible versions of your Story and separate the likely from the unlikely.”

  “That’s all there is to it?” It was too simple. Naia’s eyes wandered over the scrolling tendrils.

  “Yes. The Crescent interprets the ripples in the magic field and uses those ripples to present your versions. As a Harbinger, you would merely read your own Story.”

  Naia turned all the way around, her mind echoing the confusion of the tendrils. “That’s ridiculously simple. Why, then, would it take years of training to produce a Harbinger?”

  Tsula explained, “It is not reading the Story that is difficult. What is difficult is knowing which knowledge to divulge, and which to hold back—no matter the cost. If used without wisdom and restraint, the Crescent could be made to work great evil. And a Harbinger must learn how to digest the information that is revealed without internalizing it.”

  “That makes sense.” Naia yawned. She was becoming tired. The vines were beginning to blur and run together, weeping silver tears down the length of the curving walls. It seemed the world wept with them.

  Tsula announced, “That is your lesson for the day. I want you to think very long and very hard on all I have revealed.”

  Naia didn’t respond. She stared transfixed at the writhing tendrils.

  “You have taken your first steps down the path that will make you a Harbinger. You still do not have a good understanding of which knowledge is safe to share, and which knowledge is necessary to hold back. At this point in your training, you shall share nothing. A Harbinger must remain absolutely neutral in all things. You must understand that anything you tell Quinlan Reis could have dire and everlasting consequences.”

  “I understand,” Naia whispered.

  Tsula barked, “‘I understand, Warden Renquist.’”

  Naia’s attention snapped into acute focus. “I beg your pardon?”

  The vines flinched all around the walls, then twinged away into nothingness. The Nexus darkened. Naia’s pulse throbbed, shuddering in her ears. She stared aghast at the woman who stood before her with all the power and dignity of an empress.

  The Harbinger took a step forward then informed her with a graceful sweep of her hand, “You are now my apprentice, so I expect you to address me by my proper title. I am Tsula Renquist, Warden of the Order of Harbingers. When the two of us are alone, you will address me as Warden Renquist. But when we are not alone, you are to address me simply as Tsula. Am I understood?”

  Naia nodded, feeling her face whiten and her extremities go numb. She whispered, “Warden Renquist … if I may ask…?”

  The woman lifted her chin and answered Naia’s unspoken question, “I am the wife of Prime Warden Zavier Renquist.”

  Naia shook her head in confusion. It was impossible.

  It is possible, the silver tendrils whispered at her from wherever they had twined away to. Or perhaps it was her own mind vining around the thought. Her heart, like the walls, wept mercurial blood.

  “But how could that be?” she gasped. “Weren’t you just lecturing me about the importance of neutrality? How could you be both a Harbinger and the wife of a demon?”

  Tsula walked toward her until she stood only inches away, her black eyes as harsh and cold as obsidian. Folding her arms, she said carefully, “That is indeed a very important question, especially for you. I suggest you spend some time searching your own soul for the answer to it. Good day.”

  Naia fled the chamber of darkness and tendrils and secrets, to emerge shaken into the cruel glare of sunlight. Shielding her eyes, she hurried down the glass footpath that sloped toward the castle’s balcony. Her mind reeled with an overload of information, trying to forage through tumbling thoughts and twisting fears. Nothing seemed to make sense, and yet everything did. Her footsteps rang off the walls of the castle’s corridors.

  As she walked, she could feel the silvery tendrils groping within her mind.

  Throwing open the door to Quin’s room, Naia hesitated, feeling conflicted. The Harbinger was right; she would have to be careful. She would not reveal more than she had to. Whether she liked it or not, secrets had been entrusted to her. Secrets that were dangerous to share.

  But some secrets were too dangerous not to share.

  Quin looked up at her, startled, and laid down his staff. He rose halfway from the bed.

  “We have to kill Tsula,” Naia gasped.

  Quin paused in the action of standing up, straightening only slowly. His face darkened in confusion. “Why?”

  Because she is Zavier Renquist’s wife! The silvery tendrils in Naia’s head constricted at the thought. She brought her hands up to clutch her temples.

  “Because she sees only two options!” She felt the vines relax a bit. “If any other options exist, then we won’t know about them unless she’s dead.”

  Quin frowned, stroking the whiskers on his chin. “Why not?”

  The tendrils tightened just a bit. Naia closed her eyes and forced the words out. “Because if any other option was part of her Story, she would have seen it already.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You’re not meant to understand.” Naia shook her head. She was starting to feel panicked. It was as though her mind were being ripped away from her control. As if she were losing herself.

  “Please trust me,” she gasped. “You’re an assassin—and I need you to kill Tsula.”

  Quin regarded her a long, silent moment. His eyes roamed her face the way the harshest critic might study the work of an amateur. At last he nodded. “All right, then. I’ll kill Tsula. But only because it’s you doing the asking.”

  14

  Ruthless

  A cold fog descended, roiling like billowing clouds of smoke. Darien’s armor was frigid, sapping the heat right out of him, and the mist collecting on his face felt like pinpricks of ice. He reined in, looking out at the muffled lights of a town visible through a tangled windbreak of trees. His horse stood on the edge of a field of winter wheat ready for the harvest: a bounty his people needed desperately.

  He was determined to claim it for them.

  He glanced to his right, at a mounted wedge of Zakai, their armor gleaming orange in the light of the torches they held. To his left, Azár sat mounted on a fresh courser she had claimed from the Jenn’s vast herd. She looked ferocious in her black armor, her gleaming short sword in her hand. The look of eagerness on her face was chilling, and yet beautiful to behold.

  “What town is this?” Sayeed asked him.

  “Gannet.”

  The man grunted. “What kind of people live here?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  There came the dull thrumming of hoofbeats pounding against damp, compacted soil: their scouts returning from the t
own. The riders broke through the billowing mist, loping toward them across the dark field of grain. When the men drew up, they removed their helms and ducked their heads. The nearest scout, long-haired and bearded, was having a hard time holding his mount in check. It shied away from the light of the torches, dancing sideways and tugging at the reins. Of the six men who rode with him, only Sayeed was a proficient rider. That should change, though. There were many long leagues between Gannet and Rothscard.

  “Warden, the town stands mostly unguarded. There are a few outlying farms, but most are empty. There is some type of festivity. Many people are gathered in a large structure on the far side of town.”

  “Good.” Darien jerked his head, signaling the scout to join the line of men spread out at his sides. It was helpful that the townsfolk would be clustered together. That meant a more direct confrontation and less chasing about.

  “Let’s go.”

  He donned his helm then stabbed his heals into his horse’s flanks. The stallion sprinted forward, the Zakai following behind. They gained the edge of the field and plunged into a snarl of willows. Whipping branches lashed at Darien’s helm, reaching out for him, as if eager to tear him off his horse. The stallion hurled onto a wide road within earshot of the town’s barred gate. Shouts rang out over the mist as the townsfolk responded to their attack, too late. A group of men spilled out to ward the gate, swords and shields in their hands.

  Darien reined in as the Zakai charged past him, rushing the defenders. They made short work of the townsmen with their spears then pulled back from the barred gate.

  Darien drew on the Hellpower. It was all he could resort to. Orien’s vortex still spun the lines of the magic field into a deadly cyclone of power, so he was forced to keep his mind walled away from it. The Onslaught was slipperier than the magic field, but far more comforting, filling him with a tingling euphoria. He narrowed his eyes and focused his will on the gate.

  The gate imploded, spiraling in on itself in a whirlwind of splinters, until it disappeared with a mortal groan. On the other side of the opening, a group of townsfolk stood with eyes wide and horrified. They looked up from the fallen bodies in the road, at the smoldering hole in the air that had swallowed the gate. They backed away slowly, lowering their weapons, then turned to bolt.

  Darien let the Zakai enter first. They whipped their horses forward, charging down the center of the street, driving the fleeing townsfolk before them. Men and women fell beneath the thundering hooves of horses. Many fled into doorways or bolted down alleys. The charging Zakai followed in pursuit, their swords and spears inspiring panic.

  The soldiers pulled up and, leaping from their mounts, began ranging house to house. They kicked in doors and shattered windows, flushing the occupants out into the streets. A few townsfolk offered resistance, only to be trampled by horses or gored by spears. The dead collected in the dirt, littering the street. The sounds of screams and the clatter of hooves grew distant as the population was herded toward the far side of town.

  Darien slid from his horse’s back. He stalked down the center of the road, blade drawn, stepping over bodies lying in dark pools of blood. Some still breathed. With a thought, he stopped their breathing. Fires crackled in the distance, their glows whipping the shadows. The demon-hound paced at his side, eyes gleaming with the taint of the Netherworld. Azár patrolled the side of the road, her sword bared and threatening.

  The sound of a crying babe came from one of the houses. Darien started toward it, finding the door barred. He kicked it open. The wood splintered, giving way with a crack. He stepped into the gloomy interior, preceded by the haunting glow of fires. Looking around, he made out the forms of a family huddled under a table in a corner.

  At his side, the thanacryst bared its teeth and emitted a low growl. A child shrieked over the sound of a baby whimpering. With a glare, Darien sent the demon-hound back outside then gestured at the doorway with his sword.

  “Get out.”

  The woman leaped for the doorway, clutching her baby and dragging the older child behind her into the street. The man rose slowly, holding his hands up. He edged toward the door, keeping his eyes fixed on Darien’s blade. When he reached the threshold, he stopped and glanced back.

  Darien stepped sideways, avoiding the dagger that swept out at him. He brought his blade up in a sharp motion. The man groaned, clutching his gut as his entrails slithered out of him. He sank to his knees then collapsed to the floor.

  Darien kicked the dying man out of his way and sprinted back into the street, scanning the shadows for Azár. He found her pressed up against a wall, stalking two men armed with swords who stood guarding the entrance to an alley. Darien wasn’t certain she could take them both. He wasn’t going to stand aside and find out.

  “Visea,” he whispered.

  From the ground rose two living shadows that glided hellishly forward through the night. The necrators were noticed too late. The men’s screams ended in sobs. The sobs ended in silence. His minions moved away, roving in a search pattern across the street. They would reap their own dark reward, ridding Gannet of any living that remained.

  Darien strode to Azár and caught her by the hand. Fingers laced with hers, he walked at her side in the direction of the fires. A guard of five Zakai moved behind them, swords drawn, eyes warily scanning the rooftops.

  A crossbow bolt shot past Darien’s face, so close he could feel the wind of its flight. With a cry, Azár released his hand and bolted toward a building on the far side of the street. Taken off-guard, it took Darien a moment to catch up with her. He found his wife in an alley, foot planted on the chest of a man who lay dying on the ground. She twisted her sword and jerked it out of him. A repeating crossbow lay in the dirt with quarrels spilled from the magazine. Azár turned to face him, a ferocious light in her eyes.

  Together with their guard of Zakai, Darien walked, holding his wife’s hand, down the now-empty streets of Gannet, to a square ringed by stone houses. In the center of the square, Darien found the rest of his men gathered before a two-story inn with a shingle roof and mismatched sides. Seeing their approach, the soldiers parted to admit them into their midst. Darien drew up beside Sayeed in time to hear a report from a torch-bearing Zakai.

  “Many of the townspeople have taken refuge in the building,” the soldier informed them. “They braced the doors.”

  Darien looked over to the inn and saw the problem: the windows were set too high to break through, and there didn’t seem to be another entrance. It was a problem easily solved. Darien took the torch from the Zakai and walked across the square toward the inn. He tossed the torch onto a second-floor balcony. The planks caught immediately, the fire racing up the sides of the building and across the roof.

  “Either they’ll come out or they won’t,” he said.

  He made his way back through the crowd of soldiers and set off down the street without looking back. His lengthened shadow strode before him, cast by the crackling fire that consumed the inn. The sounds of screams clawed at the night, echoed through Gannet’s empty streets. The demon-hound jogged up and travelled at his side, tail wagging approval, eyes glistening a hellish green.

  Darien strode away from the encampment into the open prairie. As he walked, he spread his hands out at his sides, feeling the blades of grass slide over his palms. Well away from the camp, he stopped and stood gazing at the sky. The waxing moon was already making its slow descent toward the horizon. Its light spilled across the prairie, transforming the grassland into a silver ocean, its soft tides stirred by the night air. Above, the stars glittered in a sky devoid of roiling clouds. It ranged enormously above him, a vast reminder of his purpose. Even that did little to comfort him.

  When he closed his eyes, he saw fires. Fires that raged within his memory, threatening to engulf him. The inn. Myria. Orien’s Finger, Arden Hanna. Aerysius. Despite the cool night air, Darien broke out in a sweat. He clenched his fists at his sides, squeezing his eyes shut, grappling to smother the vision
s.

  A scuffing noise made him flinch. Turning, he saw that Sayeed had come up behind him unnoticed. He hadn’t realized the man was there, which was terrifying. So entrenched was he in his thoughts that he’d ignored the basics of self-preservation. He nodded a curt greeting, raking the sweat off his brow with a shirtsleeve. The fabric came away black with soot.

  Darien asked, “Did they come out?”

  “No.”

  He nodded and cast his stare at the ground.

  Sayeed said, “What now, Brother? Can you live without mercy for your own people?”

  Darien’s stared at him, filled with a sudden, terrible anger. “They’re not my people any longer! I can’t afford to have mercy any longer! If I soften my tactics one damn bit, then the next town won’t have forty defenders—there’ll be eighty. And the next town will have two hundred! My tactics save lives.”

  “Then find your nerve, Brother,” Sayeed said. “We can’t afford for you to lose resolve.”

  His First turned and headed back toward the camp while Darien remained behind, struggling with brute self-loathing. With a growl, he raked his shirtsleeve back, exposing the bandage that encircled his palm. He tore it off, revealing the half-healed cut Sayeed had made there. He unsheathed his dagger and drew the edge of the blade across the wound. Beads of blood appeared along the cut, then ran, streaking down his arm. He closed his eyes, relishing the pain. It had an edge to it that diverted his mind from the rage of the fires. He replaced the bandage, using his teeth to pull the knot tight.

  He yanked his sleeve down and strode after Sayeed. It took a while to make his way back to the encampment. There, he trudged down ordered pathways between rows of tents, until he found the command pavilion. Tugging his boots off, he tossed them aside. He batted back the flaps and ducked in, instantly confronted by a strong combination of pipe smoke and body odor. He picked his way around sleeping men and women, slipping through the tent’s partition.