Darklands (The Rhenwars Saga Book 3)

by M. L. Spencer

  He froze with the honed edge of his blade poised against Fareen’s larynx. His eyes wandered over the agitated crowd, searching, at last finding Azár. She was weaving through the press of bodies toward him. Seeing him, she met his gaze and drew her index finger across her own neck.

  Darien took her meaning.

  He closed his eyes, sucking at the magic field as if sucking in life. He pulled until the field saturated him, filling him to capacity, until gleaming blue ribbons of energy bled off his body in distorted waves. The crowd drew back away from him, aghast, brandishing their weapons defensively. Men cried out, some falling to their knees. Others turned and fled. Some just stood there, mouths agape. Women pulled their children in close.

  Fareen struggled against Darien’s hold, his neck straining away from the pressure of the blade. Darien tightened his grip. He raised his voice to address the crowd:

  “Whether you like it or not, Zavier Renquist named me Overlord of this region.” He swept his gaze across the gathered mob, glaring at each face in turn. “Tonight this man betrayed my authority and led three of my own warriors against me. I sentence Fareen son of Mohsen to death.”

  He didn’t hesitate. He drew the honed edge of his blade across Fareen’s exposed neck. He held the man back against his legs and watched him bleed out, observing Fareen’s face go from defiant to slack in the span of heartbeats. Darien released him. The body slumped forward over its knees, bowing into the spreading pool of blood.

  Darien lowered his sword back down to his side. His body was trembling in a mixture of rage, revulsion, and chaotic energies. He raised his voice, scolding the people of Qul with the fury of his wrath:

  “The rest of you’d better get it through your heads: I was sent here by Zavier Renquist himself, who saw fit to place the welfare of the clans in my hands! You are all welcome to my food, my fires, and my protection. I’ll do everything in my power to further the interests of the Asyaadi, as well as the other clans of the Khazahar. But the one thing I will not suffer is stupidity. And I’ll not waste my time crossing steel with the next man who seeks my blood. I’ll just drop him where he stands.”

  He turned and bent over, scooping his sword’s scabbard up in his hand. Then he stalked off into the night, leaving the villagers behind to deal with their dead.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Darien walked alone the rest of the night. He had no idea when morning finally arrived; in a land without sunlight, day and night had little meaning. His shadow confronted him at every turn, cast by the muddled light that emanated from deep within the clouds above. But there was no trace of dawn’s awakening when it came.

  Darien wandered toward the glow of Qul’s lightfields, attracted by the radiance. He hadn’t made a conscious decision to go there, but then again, he hadn’t made a conscious decision not to. So he followed where his feet led him. He found himself strolling the edge of the lightfields, gazing out across the manicured landscape in wonder.

  Ahead, row upon row, were tilled, orderly stripes of cropland that extended all the way to the jagged edge of a ridge of mountains to the north. An impressive system of irrigation ditches fed the farmland with water. There was vegetation of every sort, orchards and berries, date palms and greens. Golden trails of magelight ribboned the sky, as bright as he remembered the sun. For minutes, all he could do was stare. Then he stepped a foot across the thin boundary that separated shadow from light.

  He stood there for a moment, spreading his left hand beneath the dappled texture of magelight, half his body basking in warm radiance, the other half still lingering in the chill darkness of the waste. He turned his head, gazing harder into the verdant distance. A butterfly fluttered by right in front of him, lofting in random dips and arcs above the fields. Bees ranged from flower to flower, the sound of their myriad wings creating a low and consistent hum.

  Darien stood still, mouth open, reveling in the serene beauty of the fields. He wanted to wander further in, to trail his fingers over the wispy strands of grain. But something held him back. He swallowed his desire, turning instead away from the light. He stepped back across the boundary, back into shadow. Immediately, he felt an alarming sense of loss. He bowed his head, gazing at the ground.

  On the trail back to the village, he encountered Azár. He drew up, considering the woman in silence. He had killed her cousin; yet another member of Azár’s family had died by his hand. Darien didn’t know what to say.

  “Nur a’yiid,” Azár uttered. Morning’s grace.

  Darien nodded. “Nur a’yiid,” he responded. He shifted his weight over his feet, staring down at his hands. They were still stained with Fareen’s blood, he realized. The thought hadn’t occurred to him to wash it off.

  “Why did you have me kill Fareen?” he asked without looking at her. “He was your kin. And he was disarmed. Why not show him mercy?”

  The woman was gazing up at him with the strangest expression on her face. He couldn’t place it. The look in her eyes ranged somewhere between doubt, care, and concern.

  “Because mercy is a sign of weakness,” Azár told him. “You cannot afford to be seen as weak.”

  Darien shrugged. “They’ll resent me, now.”

  “Maybe some will resent you, but you have won their respect. You gained much sharaq last night.”

  Darien spread his hands. “Where is it? I don’t see it.”

  Azár moved a step closer to him. She had plaited her hair since the last time he’d seen her. She was also wearing a new ochre vest. It suited her complexion.

  “Has anyone else challenged you?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “You see? Had you spared Fareen, every man of this village would be seeking your blood. And perhaps some of the women.”

  Darien had to admit she was probably right. Wanting to change the subject, he gestured back toward the lightfields. “I was just admiring your work. What can you tell me of it?”

  Azár smiled. It was a beautiful smile that brightened her whole face just as much as her magelight brightened the darkness.

  “I will come here every day to weave the light,” she explained, taking Darien by the arm. She turned him back around to face the lightfields. With her hand still on him, she strolled forward, guiding him alongside her. “The light can last for a week, sometimes more, before it begins to fade. I must weave new light where the old light has gone out. It takes much concentration and effort. I can only do this for so long before I must rest. Right now, there is much catching up to do. While my master was gone, the Lightweaver from another clan came and tried to help. But we were gone for too long, and it was too much for her to light both Qul’s fields and her own. Already, we have lost more than half the harvest.”

  Darien looked to Azár with concern. “So your village will be short on food?”

  “Not just Qul. Many villages are served by these fields.” Azár released his arm, nodding her chin. “Look there.”

  Darien allowed his eyes to follow in the direction she indicated. There, across the fields, was a large patch of darkness. Now that he saw it and knew what to look for, he realized there were many other such patches.

  He asked, “What can I do to help you?”

  She appeared grateful for his concern. But she shook her head sadly. “There is nothing you can do. Even with all the power of the Netherworld, you cannot weave the full spectrum of magelight.”

  There was a long span of silence between them as Darien stared at the ground. Without looking at her, he muttered, “I’m sorry I killed your cousin, Azár. And I’m sorry I killed your sister.”

  There was another long gap of silence. Finally, Azár responded, “I never liked Fareen. But I am sorry that my sister was fated to die by your hand. She would have liked you, I think.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The bodies had been removed by the time Darien returned to his makeshift camp. But not the blood. The blood remained, staining the ground. Darien threw himself down on the opposite side of the fire pit he’d sh
oveled out of the dirt. His pack and blanket were still there, he realized with relief. His possessions appeared untouched. He wondered at that.

  But he didn’t wonder long. A low growl reminded him why no one would dare ransack his things. He’d forgotten all about the thanacryst.

  “Narghul,” he whispered, patting the ground at his side.

  The demon-dog trotted out from the rock it had been lurking behind, green eyes glowering in the darkness. The beast settled down at Darien’s side, nuzzling its big head into his armpit. The creature purred.

  Darien reached up, running his hand through the hound’s thick and matted fur. He was rewarded by a slobbering lick on the cheek.

  “That’s enough,” he scolded the thing, scrubbing the wetness off his face with his sleeve. He snapped his fingers and pointed, ordering the demon-hound away. The creature slinked away a few feet then turned back toward him.

  “Go,” Darien chided it.

  The beast trotted away, disappearing into the darkness.

  When it was gone, Darien rummaged deep in his pack, hoping to find some of the dried food stores he’d brought with him from Haleem’s caravan. There wasn’t much left; he hadn’t anticipated living in a ditch upon his arrival in Qul. All his search produced was a single piece of hard and moldering flatbread. Darien held the bread up before his face and picked at the areas of discoloration, peeling off the mold and flicking it away. He turned the bread over, examining the other side. Tearing off a bite, he stuffed it in his mouth and started the arduous process of chewing.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  He lived in the ditch between the rocks for over a week. Every dark morning Darien watched a steady stream of villagers filing out of Qul’s gate, headed toward the lightfields. Every evening they returned, weary and shambling. After the first day, Darien decided to follow the group of laborers, hoping to lend a hand. But Azár saw him and shook her head, gesturing him away. Darien took that as a sign his help was not wanted.

  So he stayed away. He spent his time exploring the shadowed landscape around Qul. He took long walks: sometimes down to the river, sometimes into the hills above the lightfields. Mostly, he just lingered about his camp. The time passed slowly, a relentless cycle of darkness followed by night. Fortunately, Azár took enough pity on him to spare a loaf of bread and a few sacks of dried fruit.

  Darien waited, hoping for a break. None came. Azár seemed to be avoiding him, either by design or by circumstance. The villagers ignored him, often pretending as if they didn’t see him, as if he didn’t exist. Like an unwanted ghost lingering on the frayed margins of their dark and threadbare world.

  After finishing a meager breakfast, Darien fished the pipe Haleem had given him out of his sufan, holding it up in his hands. He turned it over, admiring the workmanship. He had never smoked a pipe before; it was just not something that was done. The pipe sparked Darien’s curiosity. Rummaging deeper into the satchel, he found a small supply of tobacco. He withdrew a pinch of leaf, wadding it up and stuffing it into the bowl.

  He lit the contents of the pipe and took a long draw off the stem. Immediately, his eyes filled with water and he wheezed, his lungs burning. He coughed, sputtering.

  From far away came the sound of distant screams.

  Darien lurched to his feet, dropping the pipe and scooping up his sword. Without a second thought, he sprinted down the path toward the lightfields. When the cliffs opened up, he stopped, trying to get a sense of the cause of the commotion. More screams drifted toward him from out of the darkness. The glow of the lightfields on the horizon was an ominous red-orange.

  He ran down the dirt path toward the fields. By the time he got there, it was already too late. Darien staggered to a stop, taking in the scene of devastation that confronted him.

  Everywhere he looked, the lightfields were ablaze. Fires seared the earth, consuming everything in their path. Flames leaped high into the sky, engulfing the dry orchards and rows of light-starved grain. Hot ashes rained down, drifting all around him.

  Darien just stood there, groping through shock. It took him a moment to gather himself enough to react. He bared his blade and, heart pounding, tried to summon enough courage to confront the flames.

  “Azár!”

  He started toward the fire, but fear got the better of him. Darien stopped, grimacing, his blade sagging in his grip.

  A barrage of unwanted images flooded his mind, one after another in relentless succession. A crackling pyre. An inferno of his own creation, swifter than the wind and hotter than the sun. The torments of the Netherworld, searing his flesh and scalding his soul.

  Shaken, Darien closed his eyes, shuddering as he strove to master his emotions. He called upon the fury of the Onslaught, hoping the Hellpower’s wrath might cauterize his fear. Calm instantly settled over him, soothing the rage of his brittle nerves.

  When Darien opened his eyes, the images were gone. So was the fear. His fear of the flames had been replaced by a white-cold sense of purpose. Darien used the Onslaught to quell the heat of the blaze in front of him. Then he stepped across the boundary, transitioning from a world of shadow into a world of fire and smoldering ash. Sword in hand, he trudged forward under the lambent glow of licking flames, smothering the blaze before him as he went.

  “Azár!”

  He could hear the sound of shouts ahead of him. He sprinted forward, dousing the flames to either side. He swept his gaze across the field, extinguishing the hot spots. Steam rose from the charred mat of scorched vegetation on the ground.

  Motion ahead caught his attention. Darien drew up, bringing his sword back up over his shoulder. A man was riding toward him on a horse, a moving silhouette against a writhing background of flames. Darien held his ground, waiting for the rider to approach.

  It wasn’t until horse and rider were almost on top of him that the man’s features were revealed by the lambent glow of the inferno.

  Nashir Arman pulled back on his stallion’s reins. The horse snorted and crabstepped, eyes rolling as it fought for the bit. The darkmage smiled down at Darien, a cold and gloating smirk.

  Darien drew harder on the Onslaught, numbed by its fury. Even the sight of Nashir wasn’t enough to unsettle the liquid calm that dampened his emotions. Darien raised his voice, challenging him over the roar of the fire:

  “What do you want, Nashir?”

  The demon regarded him. “I want your tears. But I’ll settle for your blood.”

  Darien’s blade wavered in his hands. He’d forgotten all about Nashir’s promise of vendetta for Arden’s death.

  He brought his blade down to level, daring the man with his eyes. “Then come get it.”

  The demon barked a laugh, giving the reins of his horse a sharp tug to settle the dancing stallion beneath him. “It’s not that easy.” Nashir nodded his head toward the smoldering fields. “You seem good at putting out fires. That’s good. Where you’re going, you’ll have need of that skill.”

  With a cry, he kicked his horse to a gallop, racing away across the burning plain.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Double-Edged Sword

  The Khazahar Desert, The Black Lands

  MEIRAN STAGGERED DOWN a gritty, brittle hill that kept giving way beneath her feet. Quin moved much more skillfully, half-sliding, half-jogging all the way to the bottom of the slope. Sheet lightning flared across the sky, creating a momentary illusion of sunlight that cast Meiran’s shadow out ahead of her. For a split second, Meiran caught a glimpse of Quin’s eyes under the brim of his hat as he glanced back in her direction.

  They made camp for the night in the open. There was no fire; they didn’t need one and, besides, there was no fuel to burn. The evening meal consisted of hard sweetbread and dried fruit, the same as every meal. After dinner, Meiran took a brush to her hair, starting at the ends and working upward. She watched Quin out of the corner of her eye as she moved the brush down the sable length of her hair.

  The darkmage was sitting with his knees pulled up
against his chest. He closed his eyes and summoned a pale green light that raked over the flesh of his face and roved, groping, over the fabric of his clothes. When he released the light, his skin was freshly-shaven, his clothing unsoiled. Even his hair looked clean.

  “Why do you rely on the Hellpower?” Meiran asked, working her brush a little further up the lock of hair she was holding. “Wouldn’t it be less dangerous to use the magic field?”

  At the sound of her voice, Quin twitched his eyebrows. “It keeps me cold,” he stated in his usual clipped and melodic drawl.

  Meiran kept the brush moving through her hair. The tone of her voice was conversational. “Why the need to feel cold?”

  Quin looked at her. “Because I’m a demon. Can you imagine the nightmares that await me every time I close my eyes?”

  Meiran lowered her hairbrush in her hand. Using her fingers, she smoothed the long strands down over her shoulders. She cast him a skeptical look. “So, that’s how you live with yourself? You numb your emotions with the Onslaught?”

  Quin frowned slightly. Then he gave a casual shrug. “I used to drink in order to tolerate my own existence. I had to give all that up. There simply isn’t enough wine to sustain the enormity of delusion it takes to preserve my sanity.”

  Meiran chuckled. “I can imagine. So, instead of drowning your guilt in wine, you immerse yourself in evil. How, exactly, do you justify that?”

  The darkmage stared at her flatly. He was leaning over his bent knees, arms draped around them. “When we’re drowning, we all have the tendency to grasp at whatever desperate straws are available.”

  Meiran supposed that made sense. Not the kind of sense she was used to. Darkmage kind of sense. She was getting accustomed to Quinlan Reis. She even felt that she understood him a little bit, at least most of the time. The man was fueled entirely by guilt, grief and apathy. There was no pride left within him at all. Just a false sense of ego he wore like a bandage over his heart.