The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy Read online

  The Complete Rhenwars Saga

  An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy

  ML Spencer

  Stoneguard Publications

  Praise for The Rhenwars Saga

  IRDA Award for Fantasy

  Finalist in BookNest's Fantasy Awards

  Semifinalist in Mark Lawrence’s SPFBO

  “One of the best fantasy stories I've read this decade.”

  -BookNest

  “Betrayal, lies, and destruction follow across every page.”

  -Grimdark Magazine

  “Shines in its damaged characters.”

  -Fantasy Faction

  Darkmage

  Book One

  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, 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 strip of parchment she’d found on the pillow in her bedchamber. It was written in the same, bold script as 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 was no signature—there never was. But Meiran already knew who the author must be.

  She couldn’t wait to share her secret with him, the one she’d 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 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 rippled her cloak out before her. Her dark hair spilled 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. It was not more stone, or even cold marble, that greeted her feet. Instead, Meiran found herself on a narrow path within an old-growth 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 temperate rainforest. A miniature environment filled with ponds and rivers, vegetation and animals.

  Soft magelight glowed from behind stands of trees, filtered up from the ground, filling the forest with an ethereal glow. Overhead, rain beat distantly on the shutters drawn over the glass rooftop to protect it from the storm.

  As she moved deeper into the forest, it became impossible to tell the environment was artificial. The air was warm and heavy with humidity. Meiran followed the trail around the edge of a lake to the far shore.

  A small meadow confronted her, aglow with magelight that moved like mist over the dark blades of grass. As she stepped onto the spongy lawn, Meiran halted with a sharp intake of breath.

  He was there, at the far end of the 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 magelight on the grass. When she reached him, she laid her hand on the soft fabric of his shoulder, her touch hesitant. Slowly, he turned toward 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 fingers.

  Twin shadows moved toward her over the grass. Not shadows. Something much, much worse. As they neared, the dark forms coalesced into shapes that were vaguely human but featureless, like demonic silhouettes.

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

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

  Instinctively, she reached within. But 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.

  1

  Acolyte of Aerysius

  Fog rolled in overhead, gray wisps groping with nebulous tendrils across the sky. Darien Lauchlin measured its progress against the jagged slopes of mountain peaks. 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 cold 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 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 longsword he wore slung across his back. The sound grated on his nerves. Swords were not looked upon favorably under the shadow of Aerysius.

  Ahead, he could see a crossroads. As he drew nearer, the noise of other travelers made it clear he wasn’t the only person awake in the dim 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.

  Darien stepped onto the road in a space between two groups of travelers. The people 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 babe in her arms. The child’s weak cries were heart-rending, as was the sight of the small, blue-tinged face. Darien felt a knot tighten in his stomach, but there was nothing he could do. Frustration was a feeling he had become all too familiar with.

  He directed his gaze back at the dirt of the road and tried to ignore the child’s wheezing. Ahead, the f
orest 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 ramp that stretched out over the riverbed.

  He strode forward and clutched the mother’s arm in a firm grasp despite her exclamation of surprise. Her eyes widened in hope as they took in the color of his cloak. Determined, he pulled her along after him as he bored his way through the press of bodies gathered in front of the gatehouse.

  The heavy pack lent him momentum, so they quickly reached the forefront of the throng. Darien glanced around, at last finding the gatekeeper seated behind a small wooden desk. Trudging toward him, Darien insinuated himself at the front of the crowd.

  The old man behind the desk looked up at him. Darien was mildly surprised. He thought he knew every mage 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 their Raising.

  “Name and business,” the old man grated in a monotonous tone. His mouth barely moved, as if he were unused to the most fundamental mechanisms of speech.

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

  As he spoke, he pulled back the fabric of his shirtsleeve, exposing the intricate markings that encircled his left wrist, forming what looked 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 gestured behind him at the ramp. “Get on your way, boy, and better pray that Emelda goes easy on you.”

  Darien suppressed a grimace. He’d gotten off to a late start after receiving the summons to return home.

  “We have to go.” He applied a slight pressure to the woman’s back. The mage 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. As Darien guided the woman and child 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 platform began. The people already gathered there were forced to shift back to make room. Darien ignored their stares, edging sideways to position himself against the platform’s railing. He could feel the almost palpable tension of the people surrounding him, noticed how they backed away from the sight of his cloak.

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

  “Please,” she begged, offering her child to him. “Help us. You can save him. Please. Oh, please.”

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

  “I can’t,” he admitted. “I’m just an acolyte. The only thing I can do is get you up there.”

  The woman collapsed over the small form in her arms. He knelt, 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.

  Darien helped the woman regain her feet, steadying her as he leaned against the platform’s rail. The wood beneath them jolted. There was a sudden wave of panic as feet scrambled for better purchase. Then the entire platform seemed to take flight, surging backward and up. The gap between the gate and the ramp widened, exposing the swift waters of the river below.

  He looked up and saw the ropes that held the platform aloft. Far below, many teams of horses labored in their traces to lift them up the cliff. The ground below drew farther away, and the air took on a slight chill.

  He closed his eyes and reached out from within, tasting the flow of the magic field. He had to be careful. Though only an acolyte, the wild cyclone of power around Aerysius was violent enough to hurt him. For a Master, such an exercise would be fatal. Which was why the lift relied on horse power until it was well above the surging flux of magic.

  There was a sharp jolt. And then the platform sped upward 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.

  He looked at the woman beside him. She was hugging the child so hard he was afraid she might crush it.

  “May I hold him?” he asked.

  The woman nodded, offering the boy to him.

  Darien received the small life softly into his arms, swaddling the child in the folds of his cloak. He held the boy close against his chest, seeking to revive him with the warmth of his body.

  The lift slipped silently into a bank of fog. Then, miraculously, the mist parted, and warm sunlight streamed from a brilliant blue sky, revealing the foundations of Aerysius above.

  The city was carved from the side of the mountain, etched right into the vertical wall of granite. The spires of Aerysius seemed wrought from millions of glistening crystals, tendril-thin bridges arching between them thousands of feet above the Vale. To Darien, the sight was no less breathtaking than the first time he’d seen it, and this time there was added meaning.

  He was finally home.

  The platform slowed to a stop, halting beside an arching foundation. Above, a waterfall spilled down from the top of a soaring spire, birds diving in and out of the mist created by the spray.

  But the sound of the woman sobbing beside him dampened any joy he might have felt over his homecoming. Looking down, Darien saw that the child in his arms lay completely limp. He patted the small body with his hand, trying to prod any type of life out of it. But the boy didn’t stir.

  He stood dazed as the woman removed the dead child from his grasp. The gate opened, and the crowd rushed toward it. Darien started forward automatically, feeling numb as he gazed down at his empty hands.

  As he walked through the streets of Aerysius, Darien noticed people staring at him and moving out of his way. He didn’t care. He wasn’t in the mood to care and, besides, he was used to the looks. They plagued him everywhere he went.

  He supposed he made an intimidating sight. Wearing the black cloak of Aerysius with the Silver Star emblazoned at his back, the hilt of the longsword thrusting over his shoulder, Darien knew he conveyed a dangerous strength that was uncommon even among most mages. It was the contradiction of the star and the sword. Masters of Aerysius swore the Oath of Harmony. They didn’t walk about bearing weapons.

  He climbed the wide steps in front of the Hall of the Watchers, passing beneath the ancient arches that stabbed upward into the sky like twisted spears. Inside, the circular hall was filled with a hazy amber light that filtered down from stained glass windows set high above. It was enormous, one of the largest structures ever built by man. Great pillars carved to resemble massive stone trees with spreading branches supported the weight of the domed ceiling. There were hundreds of them, row upon row.

  He took a flight of steps that descended into the base of the structure. There, he found a woman seated behind a small desk, scribing something with a feathered quill. She continued to write, appearing completely engrossed in her task. Only when he stood across the desk from her did she slide her spectacles off her face, looking sideways up at him with an irritated expression.

  “You’re late.”

  Darien nodded. “I left a week after receiving the summons.”

  He wished he’d stopped at the Acolytes Residence to clean up a bit. The way the woman was staring at him made him conscious of every speck of dust from the road, of the week-old growth of stubble on his face. He saw her eyes come to rest on the hilt of the sword at his back. The
woman’s eyebrows flicked upward, her look incredulous. Not many people had the gall to come armed to an audience with the Prime Warden of Aerysius.

  “I see you’ve grown too big for your britches, Darien Lauchlin. It might be wise to put off your Raising until you can remember you are yet an acolyte. You may be the Prime Warden’s own son, but that does not excuse you. If anything, it means you must be seen as an example for others.”

  He didn’t know whether she referred to his late arrival or the unsubtle insult of the sword. If she wanted him to remove the weapon, then she was mistaken. He had no intention of doing so. His mother would have to get used to the sight of it.

  He waited as the woman merely stared at him. When it became obvious he wasn’t going to budge or offer apology, she shook her head and made a tsking sound with her tongue.

  “Well, if you insist on acting like a child, so be it. Let your mother deal with you. Have no doubt, she will.” She stood up, tossing her quill down with an air of finality.

  “Come.”

  She turned her back on him, opening a door beside her desk. He followed at a good distance as she led him along a hallway. Darien had been there before, many times. He really had no need to be shown the way. But his mother expected—or, rather, demanded—formality at all times.

  The hallway ended at a white door. The woman opened it and gestured for him to wait. Darien paused just long enough to hear her announce him before brushing past her through the opening.

  The room inside was filled with brilliant white light. The entire chamber was encased with windows that had scarcely a pane between them. The Prime Warden’s solarium looked out from within the mountainside, the view an unspoiled panorama of the white-capped Craghorns and the Vale of Amberlie below.