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  THE RHENWARS SAGA

  Darkstorm

  Darkmage

  Darkmage is a work of fiction. All of the characters,

  organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either

  products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons

  living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2011 by M.L. Spencer

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved.

  Stoneguard Publications

  First Edition: November 2011

  Second Edition: January 2016

  ebook ISBN: 978-0-9971779-5-4g

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  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Preview of Darkstorm

  Prologue

  THUNDER RIPPED THE SKY, amplified to a throbbing din by the stone walls that rimmed the Square beneath the Hall of the Watchers. Meiran Withersby felt the sound of it physically in her chest. Sheets of rain poured from blackened skies overhead, pounding down on the roof of the cloistered passage above her. She glanced out through the narrow arches that lined the walkway but could make out nothing. Just a thick, choking blackness so complete that it seemed as if a dark pall had been draped down over the entire city, perhaps the entire world. The only light was the dim glow of the lantern that dangled from her fingers.

  Lightning crackled, and for the briefest instant Aerysius winked into existence around her and then disappeared again as abruptly. Meiran hastened her pace, wrapping the black cloak she wore more tightly about herself. Her feet moved with a pressing urgency, motivated by more than just the desire to find shelter from the elements.

  In her right hand she fingered a small strip of parchment she had found on the pillow in her bedchamber. It was written in the same bold script as other similar notes she had received in the past. The last one had been two years before and had contained an almost identical message: Meet me in the greenhouse. Fourth Watch. There had been no signature; there never was. But Meiran did not need one to know whom the author must be.

  She couldn’t wait to share her secret with him, the one she had been waiting two long years to whisper in his ear.

  Finding that note had filled her with a dizzying thrill of anticipation. Her stomach had been in knots all day; she hadn’t been able to concentrate on the simplest task. She had walked around feeling giddy, catching herself daydreaming at the worst possible moments. She couldn’t help it, even though she knew that it was no way for someone of her station to behave. She was, after all, the most powerful Grand Master in all of Aerysius.

  She was also a woman in love.

  Lightning strobed the sky, followed immediately by a peal of thunder that shook the air. Meiran was almost running, now. The wind was at her back, pushing her forward with icy fingers that pressed her cloak against the curve of her back and rippled it out before her. Her lustrous dark hair spilled out like a fan before her face, whipping at her skin.

  She reached the end of the cloister and burst through a massive iron-shod door, stepping gingerly across the threshold. It was not more stone, or even cold marble, that greeted her feet. Instead, Meiran found herself standing on a narrow dirt path within a warm and verdant forest.

  There were many greenhouses in Aerysius. Most were used to grow food crops, some for herbs or even flowers. But the enormous structure she found herself within was the duplicate of a northern rainforest. A complete miniature environment filled with ponds and rivers, vegetation and animals.

  It was not dark within. Soft magelight glowed from behind stands of trees, filtered up from the ground, filling the forest with a silvery glow. High overhead rain beat distantly on the shutters that had been drawn over the glass rooftop to protect it from the storm.

  As she moved deeper into the forest, it became almost impossible to tell that the environment was artificial. The air was warm and heavy with humidity. It had a deep, earthy scent that was at once tranquil and comforting. Overhead, a bird called down from the canopy, the cry answered by another in the distance.

  The path wound around through the trees to the shore of a small lake. Meiran followed the trail around the shoreline to the far side. A small meadow confronted her, aglow with silver magelight that moved like mist over the dark blades of grass. As she stepped out onto the spongy lawn, Meiran stopped with a sharp intake of breath.

  He was there, at the far end of meadow. Standing with his back to her.

  Heart pounding, she crossed the meadow in quick, soft strides. She was so excited; it was hard not to giggle as she dashed through the swirling tendrils of magelight on the grass. When she reached him, she put out her hand and laid it on the soft fabric of his shoulder, her touch almost hesitant. Slowly, he turned toward her.

  As his eyes fell upon her, she recoiled her hand in shock.

  “Were you expecting someone else?” uttered a cold, malicious voice.

  An intense feeling of horror overwhelmed her as Meiran shook her head in confused disbelief. She turned, wanting to run away, but froze instead. The lantern slipped from her limp fingers.

  Twin shadows were moving toward her over the grass of the meadow. Not shadows; something much, much worse. As they neared, the dark forms coalesced into shapes that were vaguely human but utterly featureless, like demonic silhouettes.

  Meiran tried to scream, but her throat constricted, instead. An intense pang of dread spasmed her stomach. The feeling of dread intensified, became choking, immaculate terror. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe.

  A shadowy hand rose toward her, dark fingers groping upward to touch her face.

  Instinctively, she reached within. Even as she did, she knew the attempt was pointless. There was only silence inside. The constant rhythm of the magic field was absent, as if it had never existed at all. She was powerless against this
enemy.

  When the chill shadow of the necrator touched her, Meiran collapsed.

  Chapter One

  Acolyte of Aerysius

  FOG ROLLED IN high overhead, gray wisps groping with nebulous tendrils across the indigo sky. Darien Lauchlin measured its progression against the jagged slopes of mountain peaks that stretched far overhead, upward, seeming almost to eternity. The fog appeared to move at an impossible rate when viewed against the mountains’ snowy summits. It spread misty fingers across the face of the sun, lending a chill stillness to the air that made the early morning shadows grow even deeper.

  It was a strange time of year for such a heavy fog. In Amberlie, late summer days usually dawned clear and bright, redolent with the fragrance of pine and honeysuckle. But this day a chill wind had greeted the graying east, and the air felt heavy with the promise of rain. Another storm was coming, Darien suspected. But what kind of storm, he couldn’t guess. A peculiar storm, both out of place and out of season. He only hoped it wouldn’t arrive today.

  Today, he was coming home.

  The Craghorns loomed above him on all sides, encapsulating the thin strip of forested lowland known as the Vale of Amberlie. As the wind breathed a gusting sigh, the forest responded with movement. The swaying branches and the sound of rustling leaves made him think of the ocean far away in the east. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, relishing the sweetness of home.

  The only thing Darien heard was the sound of his own footsteps as he trudged up the dusty path. His worn-out boots made scuffing noises as he walked; he was too tired to pick up his feet. He squared his shoulders wearily and drew himself up under the weight of his pack. As he did, something inside it clanked as it rattled against the scabbard of the greatsword he wore slung beneath it. The sound grated on his nerves. Swords were not looked upon favorably here under the shadow of Aerysius.

  Ahead, he could see a crossroads. As he drew nearer, the noise of other travelers made it clear that he was not the only person awake in the gray stillness of the morning. The trail topped a low rise, and then he saw them. They came from all directions, every day of the year, to converge at this place. They brought with them their troubles, their sick, their hopes, even their dead, and usually left with nothing. There were many more pilgrims than he remembered: a river of them, almost a flood.

  Darien stepped cautiously onto the road in a space between two groups of travelers. Only a few people paid him any mind; most were staring straight ahead with looks of anxious anticipation, that or studying the dirt just before their feet with eyes that mirrored the exhaustion in their shuffling strides.

  The group in front of him seemed one family. The man had the look of a farmer. He was flanked by two boys and a woman who carried a whimpering baby in her arms. The infant’s weak cries were heart-rending, as was the sight of the child’s blue-tinged face. Darien felt a knot tighten in his stomach as he watched the babe’s frantic squirming. But there was nothing he could do, as always. The feeling of frustration in his chest was something he had become all too familiar with.

  He directed his stare back down at the worn dirt of the road and tried to ignore the infant’s desperate pleas. Ahead, the forest was thinning out. The sight fed him with hope, and he picked up his pace. Through a break in the trees he caught sight of a long, narrow ramp that thrust outward over the riverbed.

  Striding forward, he reached out and clutched the mother’s arm in a firm grasp, pulling her forward with him despite her exclamation of surprise. Darien saw her brown eyes widen in hope as they took in the color of his cloak. Determined, he pulled her along after him as he thrust his weight forward through the press of bodies gathered in front of the gatehouse above the river.

  The heavy pack lent him momentum, so they quickly reached the forefront of the throng. Darien glanced around, his eyes falling on the gatekeeper seated behind a small wooden desk. Trudging toward him, Darien insinuated himself at the front of the line, dragging the woman along after him.

  The man behind the desk stared up at him with unfamiliar features. Darien was mildly surprised; he thought he knew every Master of Aerysius. But the man before him with thinning white hair and a face cobwebbed by wrinkles was unknown to him. Then it dawned on him: the Summons. All Masters had been recalled, including some who had never passed beneath the ancient Arches since the moment of their Raising. This man had probably worked in seclusion most of his life, as some mages chose, completely apart from the support of their order.

  “Name and business,” the old man grated in a hoarse, monotonous tone. His mouth barely moved as he formed the words. It was almost as though he were unused to the most fundamental mechanisms of speech.

  Darien took a deep breath before he supplied his name and title, “Darien Lauchlin, Acolyte of Aerysius.”

  As he spoke, he pulled back the black fabric of his shirtsleeve, exposing the intricate markings that encircled his left wrist, forming what looked realistically like a heavy metallic chain. The emblem was the mark of the Acolyte’s Oath. It symbolized the first vow taken upon acceptance to the Assembly of the Hall. To serve the land and its people. With his life, if possible. If not, then by death.

  The man took note of the markings and simply nodded. “You’re late,” he growled, then gestured roughly behind him toward the ramp. “Get on your way, boy, and better pray that Emelda goes easy on you.”

  Darien suppressed a grimace as he heard that. He had, in fact, been furtively praying for weeks that the Prime Warden would be in a forgiving mood. He had gotten off to a late start after receiving the Summons to return home.

  “We have to go,” he told the woman, applying a slight pressure to her back. The Master who guarded the gate would have no knowledge of healing; such study was reserved for specific orders, and no Sentinel or Querer would ever condescend to such a lackluster duty.

  The gate had a small sally port that opened upward. As Darien guided the woman and baby through, the crowd surged toward the opening. Immediately, guards stepped forward to press the throng back away from the gate.

  They had to step over a slight gap where the ramp ended and a wood platform began. The people already gathered there were forced to shift back to make room. Darien ignored their stares as he pulled the gate closed behind him, stepping sideways to position himself against the platform’s wood railing. He could feel the almost palpable tension of the people that surrounded him, noticed how they inched back away from the sight of his black cloak.

  The woman beside him dropped to her knees, gazing up at him with wide and imploring eyes. Tears spilled freely down her cheeks, her mouth constricted in grief.

  “Please,” she begged, offering her child out toward him with trembling arms. “Help my baby. You can save him. Please. Oh, please.”

  Darien could only look down at her helplessly. She had mistaken him for a Master because of his cloak. It was not the first time the error had been made.

  “I can’t.” His voice was hoarse with regret. “I’m just an acolyte. The only thing I can do is get you up there.”

  The woman collapsed forward over the small form in her arms, sobs racking her frame as the meaning of his words sank in. He knelt down, reaching out to comfort her. But his hand froze an inch away from the tangled mats of her hair. He clenched his fist instead, closing his eyes against a redoubled surge of frustration that crawled up from his stomach, rising to clench his throat in an angry chokehold. The wind stirred, tousling black strands of hair across his face.

  He helped the woman regain her feet, steadying her with a hand on her shoulder as he leaned against the platform’s rail. Long minutes stretched by with only the sound of the river churning below them. He heard someone shout something far below, the words lost in the roaring drone of the river.

  Then the wood beneath them jolted. There was a sudden wave of panic as feet scrambled for better purchase, and then the entire platform abruptly seemed to take flight, surging backward and up. Darien watched as the gap between the
gate and the ramp widened, exposing the rushing white waters of the river below.

  He looked up and saw the ropes that held the platform aloft. Far below was a long path carved into the rock along the riverbed where many teams of horses labored in their traces to pull the platform up the sheer face of the granite cliff. He had watched them many times as a boy, before his own first trip up the mountain’s steep face. He would climb down the slope by the riverbank and sit for hours watching the platform rise and then lower again along the wall of the cliff, carrying scores of pilgrims to Aerysius high above.

  But now the trip seemed slow, even commonplace. His mind was on the infant, who now lay unmoving in its mother’s arms. The ground below drew further away and the air took on a slight chill. Still, the babe did not stir. Darien found himself staring at the rise and fall of the tiny chest, counting the slow respirations, fearing they would stop at any time.

  He closed his eyes and reached out from within, tasting the flow of the magic field around him. It was an exercise he had learned during the first months of his training, and since had become routine. But here, he had to be careful. Though only an acolyte, the wild patterns of the field below Aerysius were violent enough to hurt him. For a Master, such an exercise would be fatal. The base of the mountain existed within the cyclone of a vortex, a place where the lines of the magic field swirled and converged with hurricane force. Not even Grand Masters could tame such a torrent of energy, which was why the platform relied on horse power until it was well above the surging flux of magic.

  There was a sharp jolt. And then the motion of the platform continued upward more smoothly and at a dizzying pace. They had passed the point where the vortex ended and magic took over as the means of lifting them up the mountainside. Looking down, Darien saw the gatehouse now as only a dark point along the riverway, the road but a thin line bisecting the forest.

  The woman beside him was hugging her baby so hard that he was almost afraid she might crush it. Looking at her in askance, Darien offered to take the tiny bundle from her. He received the small life softly into his arms, swaddling the child in the folds of his cloak. He held the babe close against his chest, seeking to revive it with the warmth of his body.