The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy

by M. L. Spencer

  He let the fabric sway closed then retraced his steps, taking a moment to tighten his shadow-web.

  Back out in the hallway, Quin moved to the next fabric-draped doorway. He parted the curtain and slipped into a long, dim chamber lit only by the glow of a single lantern. He stood quietly for a moment, just listening to the sound of the room’s emptiness, assessing his surroundings. Dark silhouettes of furniture lined the walls. The oil lantern sat on the floor in the corner behind him, casting a timid glow. He crept further in, drawn toward an unlit doorway at the far end of the room.

  “Your hatred is so loud, I could hear it echoing from Titherry.”

  Quin squeezed his eyes shut as a feeling of defeat seeped through the pores in his skin. He released the shadow-web, since it no longer served a purpose.

  If it ever had.

  He turned slowly around to confront the dark figure that moved forward to eclipse the lantern light.

  “You knew I’d come,” Quin surmised.

  The shadow nodded. “Of course I did. In truth, I was counting on it.”

  Quin groaned. Renquist must be a sensitive—and a damn powerful one, to feel his emotions across such a broad expanse of ocean. He hadn’t suspected that. But there was so much that revelation explained. Suddenly, a thousand different things made a thousand different kinds of sense.

  Quin asked, “What do you want from me?”

  He leaned his staff against the wall and curled his fingers around the hilt of his sword, the one artifact in the world capable of dampening a mage’s gift. He could feel Renquist’s strength from across the room, a dark and potent energy that exuded from his presence to oppress the air. Renquist’s power had grown tremendously since the last time Quin had seen him, making him wonder if the Prime Warden had been sitting in Bryn Calazar drinking in mage power. And mage lives.

  Renquist took a step deeper into the pool of light. The wavering glow of the lantern defined his face in jagged angles and sharp planes. His eyes burned through the shadows like glowing embers.

  He said, “You have something I deeply desire.”

  Quin drew his sword with a metallic hiss, holding the tip leveled at the demon’s heart. Or where his heart should have been. Quin doubted Renquist had ever had one.

  “I didn’t think you had such confidence in my abilities.”

  He was awarded with a condescending smile. “It’s not your abilities I have confidence in, Quinlan. It’s your stupidity. You have defied me twice. Once with Braden. And now with Darien. You have a knack for leading my most talented pupils astray.”

  Quin scoffed. “Darien isn’t like Braden.”

  “No,” Renquist agreed. “He’s not. Darien is much more competent and powerful than your brother ever was. Which is why I need your assistance.”

  Quin felt his heart pounding against his ribs. With every word, Renquist’s voice clawed deeper into his chest. “What makes you think I’ll help you?”

  The demon smiled. “You’ll help me because Darien is determined to do exactly what you and your brother gave your lives to prevent all those years ago. You see, Darien knows a way to halt the Reversal. And he is willing to open the floodgates of hell to accomplish it.”

  “No.” Quin shook his head. “Darien wouldn’t do that.”

  Renquist took a step toward him, smiling kindly. “Wouldn’t he? Perhaps you don’t know him as well as you think.”

  “I know him well enough.” Quin drew the sword back over his shoulder, winding his arms as he backed away. He didn’t get far.

  A noise behind him made him turn. Cyrus Krane stood in the doorway, flanked by three of his sinister pets. The necrators glided silently forward like obsidian death. Quin backed away until he found himself pinned against the wall. He didn’t know if Krane’s necrators could harm him, but he didn’t want to find out.

  Renquist continued, “If you know Darien, then you know he already lost one child. How must he feel, knowing he is about to lose another?”

  Quin lowered his sword, his arms sagging to his sides. He opened his mouth to deny the man’s words but then stopped himself. Zavier Renquist never lied. He never had to. The truth was always much more painful.

  Quin swallowed heavily. “Who’s the mother?”

  “Darien’s wife. The Lightweaver, Azár.”

  Quin glared his hatred at Renquist, shaking his head in disgust. “You really are a demon, aren’t you? It’s not good enough for you to destroy a man. You have to destroy all that he is and all that he loves. And even then, you’re still not satisfied.” He regarded Renquist a long, searching moment. “You still haven’t explained why you need me.”

  “I don’t need you at all,” the Prime Warden responded in an ice-calm voice. “The strength of the gift inside you will be enough to suffice.”

  Quin’s stomach froze like a block of ice. He pressed himself against the wall as close as he could.

  The light of the lantern winked out. An encompassing blackness settled thickly around him, cold and terrifying. Quin couldn’t see the necrators, but he could feel them there, just on the edge of his senses. Gliding toward him through the darkness.

  Kyel’s hand trembled as he offered Naia a glass of water. She sat on a sofa, rubbing her temples, looking up at him with dark eyes that bore no degree of malice. Still, Kyel couldn’t drag his gaze away from the scars on her wrists, repulsed by the sight of them.

  “Explain yourself,” he said, crossing his arms.

  Naia took a sip of water then smiled patiently. “I’m not a darkmage, Kyel. I’m just a mage.” Her eyes were kind, compassionate. Just the way he remembered. “Bound or Unbound, it makes no difference. I’m still the same person you’ve always known. I haven’t changed.”

  “You broke Oath!” he growled, filled with both anger and fear. When—not if—Romana found out about her, the Queen would order Naia put to death. Kyel knew he couldn’t argue with that decision. The thought made him want to retch.

  Naia raised her eyebrows, fixing him with a disappointed look. “I did it to save you. Sareen was killing you—”

  Kyel raised his hand, cutting her off. She had condemned herself by her own words. The realization made him feel intensely sad. He blew out a protracted sigh, resenting the hell out of her. He would have to tell Swain. Sooner, rather than later.

  Naia was a mage, so the Citadel couldn’t contain her if she decided to walk out.

  Swain and Romana wouldn’t want to take that risk.

  34

  The Regret

  Darien sat his horse, Sayeed and his Zakai at his side, watching the gray light of dawn bleed slowly across the horizon.

  The morning was cold; he could feel the chill of his armor even through his padded gambeson. Dark clouds had moved in sometime during the night. Deep within their depths, Darien could see swarms of flickering lights. The lights seemed to wince in time to the pulsations of the magic field. The disturbances were entirely unnatural. The feel of them grated like sandpaper down his nerves.

  He stared out across the wide swath of denuded ground that stood between their ranks and Rothscard’s high walls. To the left of his Tanisars, the army of Bryn Calazar was amassed before Rothscard’s north gate, spread out across the grassland like a tumultuous black sea. At their rear, the horse warriors of the Jenn had collected in a vast, milling horde.

  Thin columns of smoke rose at intervals from Rothscard’s crenelated ramparts, from fires lit to heat oil and pitch and add an element of horror to the missiles of the trebuchets. Rothscard’s commanders had positioned the bulk of their defenses along the north wall in anticipation of an attack on the Lion’s Gate. The rest of the city’s battlements remained relatively undermanned. So far, his feint was working.

  A sonorous horn cry rose over the plain, followed by a disciplined stillness no army of the Rhen could ever rival. Amongst the Malikari legions, not a soul moved. There was no clatter of weapons, no rustle of armor.

  Just an unnerving silence that clung like a pall ov
er an army of one hundred thousand men, a silence that thundered louder than any war drum ever could.

  The general of Bryn Calazar’s legions raised his sword. Upon his signal, every throat in the ranks behind him bellowed a whip-crack war cry.

  There was a pause.

  Then, faintly at first, deep-throated drums began tapping out a measured cadence. The drums gradually increased in tempo and intensity, the resonant booms rising in crescendo over the plain. The pulse of the drums continued, relentless and precise, rattling the air until Darien could feel their rumble in his chest. Another staccato shout bellowed from thousands of throats, then another, just off-beat. The resounding noise swelled to a climax, sustained there for minutes, then ceased with a final, thundering BOOM.

  Stillness followed.

  A lone war horn brayed languorously.

  Then, with a tremendous cry, the whole of the Malikari army broke forward at a run.

  The thunder of their charge was deafening. As the front ranks came within bowshot of the walls, dark arrow clouds began arcing downward, dropping soldiers at random. Trebuchets mounted to the ramparts joined in, hurling projectiles coated with Hell’s Fire that blazed like long-tailed comets across the sky, tearing great swaths through the advancing army. Men and women were set ablaze with sticky flames that spread quickly to devour anyone nearby.

  Ul-Calazi’s men raised ladders against the walls that were immediately flung back, only to be raised again. All the while the trebuchets worked tirelessly, hurling their blazing payloads at the attacking army. One of the siege engines erupted in flames, the men tending it hurled from the battlements. Another trebuchet exploded seconds later, taking its attending crew with it.

  A great cry rose from the battlefield, and then the dark host parted to admit an armored battering ram, covered and shielded. It was drawn by many teams of horses that were then unhitched before they were brought within bowshot. From there, men ran forward to push the ram up against the gate. Hot oil and flaming arrows flooded down from above like scalding rain. For every man that dropped, another took his place, the ram moving inexorably forward.

  Darien swept his gaze over the fortifications, noting the lack of soldiers on the eastern side of the city. As predicted, Swain had pulled the bulk of his forces from that section of wall, leaving its defenders spread few and thin.

  A resounding shout brought his attention back to the Lion’s Gate. A brilliant gold shield had insinuated itself between the ram and the gate, repulsing their efforts. The ram battered futilely against the shield, while Malikari infantry screamed their frustration at the unyielding walls. Flights of arrows splattered the ground, felling men like trees.

  Seeing that golden shield, Darien swore a curse. He’d hoped they’d left Kyel behind in Glen Farquist.

  His eyes scoured the battlements, searching. But the city was too far away to make out the faces of the men defending it. His frustration mounded by the second. It felt like the battle had reached a critical climax and was ready to implode. He looked at Sayeed.

  “Are you ready, Brother?” he asked.

  His First nodded. “We are ready.”

  “Then let’s have at it.”

  He kicked his boots into his horse’s sides, clutching the stallion’s mane in his fist. The animal surged forward, moving quickly up to speed, its hooves tearing up the grassland as it raced toward the city’s eastern wall. Sayeed’s horse labored alongside his own, his men fanned out behind them.

  Ahead, the few soldiers guarding the east gate noticed their approach and started scrambling. A few panicked and loosed their shafts early, which fell well short of hitting their marks. Darien drew his mount up and motioned his men to move into position at his sides. He glanced up and down the face of the wall, getting a better idea of the defenses. Urging his stallion into motion, he veered the horse toward the gate.

  As they came within range, groupings of arrows began arcing down from the walls. Darien deflected the shafts before they could find purchase. When they neared the gate, he slid off his horse, then sent the beast on its way with a slap on the hindquarters.

  He opened his mind to the magic field, gathering it in and holding it at ready. The field thrashed wildly, already tormented by the coming Reversal. He tightened his grip on it, despite its protest. The feel of it rubbed his nerves wrong, made his skin crawl.

  Darien concentrated on the masonry that lined the gate, feeling inside the stones and applying pressure to the weakest joints. Fine cracks erupted all along the wall, racing outward like spiders’ veins. Flakes of granite showered down. Above on the battlements, the soldiers realized their danger and retreated to the towers. Darien concentrated harder, bending all the brute force of his will into the effort. Chunks of stone sprayed from deep fissures, and a terrible groaning noise rumbled from deep within.

  Still, the wall stood.

  Darien reached for the Onslaught and used the Hellpower to augment his strength. Within seconds, he felt the blocks surrounding the gate start to shift. Huge chunks shivered and disappeared, leaving gaps in the stone arch. More stones shivered and then gave way, raining shards of crumbled rock onto the ground. Then, with a deafening roar, the entirety of the wall collapsed into a mounded berm of jagged stone.

  Darien’s men scrambled forward, leaping onto the rubble as arrows pelted down from the towers still standing. Darien deflected the arrows and scrambled after Sayeed into the breach. The debris shifted beneath him, the stones turning underfoot. It was harrowing minutes before he followed the Zakai off the scree. Skidding down the last few crumbling steps, Darien stumbled to a stop, then glanced around to get his bearings.

  They had breached the wall in a remote section of the city called the Regret. The quarter was populated mostly by criminals and unfortunates, its slums and back-waters burgeoning with black-market trade. Ahead, his Zakai patrolled the street, moving in zig-zag patterns from one side to the other, crossbows cocked, swords held ready. Darien walked behind them, his eyes scanning the long, dilapidated layers of shanties stacked one atop the other. Drying laundry flapped like colorful banners above the street, hanging from clothes lines that crisscrossed above. The smell of the place was a cloying combination of mold, wood smoke, and rot.

  Ahead, a disjointed collection of slum dwellers had amassed at the end of the street, armed with a variety of impromptu weapons. Seeing the advancing Zakai, the mob broke toward them.

  “No mercy,” Darien ordered. The Zakai sprinted forward. He ran after them, sword in hand, bringing the Onslaught to bear against Rothscard’s luckless defenders.

  Kyel tightened his grip on Thar’gon, nervous sweat trickling from his brow. Alexa stood at his side, clinging to his arm. He wasn’t sure whether she sought to steady him or steady herself. He was starting to have a hard time keeping focus. The power Thar’gon channeled was wild and difficult to control in the amounts Kyel found himself wielding. With the talisman’s aide, he’d been able to force the massive battering ram back from the gate, but only at great risk to his Oath. He hadn’t killed any of the attackers directly, but it had been too close for Kyel’s liking. He’d narrowly avoided immolating a siege engine, along with all of the men tending it.

  At his side, Nigel Swain stood shouting orders at the top of his lungs. There was frenzied fighting all along the battlements. Ladders were being raised from below, more and more each minute—too many to deal with all at once. Little by little, the Enemy was making their way onto the walls and expanding the footholds they gained. Up and down the ramparts, Enemy warriors were capturing the wall-mounted trebuchets and turning them against the city’s own defenses. Soon, Kyel found his attention pulled away from the gate, forced to defend Rothscard against flaming projectiles hurled from its own walls.

  A concussive blast exploded against the tower behind him.

  Kyel threw a ward up—probably the only thing that saved his life—but couldn’t expand it in time to save the soldiers on the tower who fell, engulfed in roiling flames. Kyel ext
inguished the flames but not the pain. The men continued to writhe and scream, while Kyel looked helplessly on. He couldn’t heal them without physical contact, and he was too occupied trying to prevent another such catastrophe.

  Alexa tugged harder on his arm. “It’s not enough!” she cried. “We are losing this battle! You must make a choice—between preserving your Oath or preserving the Rhen!”

  Angered, Kyel waved her off. She could be doing a lot more than she was, he thought, watching another tower erupt in flames, men thrown from its walls. Kyel cursed in frustration. He’d let that one get by him.

  At his side, Swain stiffened. “Something’s wrong,” he said, his voice barely audible over the rage of the battle

  Kyel shouted, “What?”

  Reaching up, the Prince ripped his helm off and moved to a crenel overlooking the plain. His face was covered in soot, except for branching streaks where sweat had eroded the grime. He finished his study of the battlefield, then turned back to Kyel with a look of alarm. “They’re not using Darien.”

  Kyel froze. He hadn’t noticed Darien’s glaring absence from the battle. The thought made his stomach wrench. “Then where is he?”

  “Gods be damned!”

  A merlon exploded beside him, flinging them backward. Swain recovered quickly, blood leaking from a gash over his eye.

  Another, larger, explosion rocked the city.

  Kyel stared out across the skyline, to where a wide plume of smoke rose and was spreading swiftly.

  Swain started swearing fluently. He shouted at his officers, “Pull everyone you can off the gate and get them down to the Regret! Gods’ whoring mother, they’ve already breached the fucking wall!”