by K L Reinhart
As soon as the silvered liquid touched the flesh of the pony, it began to hiss and steam as it had on his own wounds. The pony skittered away from his ministrations, but when the potion had bubbled away, it left patches of fresh, healthy skin behind, a slightly lighter shade than the russet brown of before.
The pony was still nervous about going near Terak however. With a sigh, the elf realized what he had to do.
“Go on, then. You probably have a better nose to stay out of trouble than I do—” the elf said, stepping away from the steed just as there was a clatter of hooves behind him.
“You! Brother!” panted a familiar voice.
It was the Lord General Falan.
“My Lord General!? What are you doing here?” Terak gasped, looking around them quickly, in case of attack.
The young human reined his own pony in, gasping for air as he sheathed his long sword. “I saw your steed bolt from the Queen’s Gate, and I came to help you as you did me on the road,” he said. “I was with Counselor Annas and two of the guards. Semuel had ordered them to take me out of there.” Terak saw the man’s face twist in worry and shame.
It’s not just me who has to make difficult choices tonight, it seems, Terak thought.
“But we were split up when more Ixcht attacked. I was planning to rally whom I could, and either return to the Queen’s Gate to find the others or head for the palace.” The young lord offered his hand to Terak, and the elf realized that he intended to carry the novitiate on the back of his horse.
But Terak knew that he could not.
“Sire, I cannot go with you,” he said severely. He tried to remember the words that Jacques had taught him. Tell a totally useless piece of information. Distract them from yourself.
“What?” the Lord Falan blinked in confusion. “No time for modesty, man! We must rally who we can and head for the palace.” Terak saw the lord’s face drop. “Or head for the nearest gate, to regroup and re-attack in the morning.”
Terak opened his mouth to lie, but something stopped his words before they could fall from his lips. This man came to save me when he saw my horse bolting, for no other reason than I had dared to help him before.
It was an act of simple comradeship that Terak was unused to in the harsh world of the Black Keep. Terak wondered if that was what all of Brecha was like, or whether it was just this human who had such noble ideals.
“Come with me,” Falan said quickly, as there was a distant whumpf of a building collapsing under burnt timbers. “I cannot guarantee your safety here, tonight, on your own.”
“I don’t think I have ever had safety,” Terak muttered under his breath. When Falan looked at Terak in innocent confusion, the elf realized what he must do.
There is only the right Path ahead of you and the wrong one, he thought.
“Sire, I cannot return with you to the palace or to any gate,” Terak drew himself up. For some reason, he could not lie to this man who had showed him such trust. “I am on a mission from the Enclave. One that is of the utmost importance not only to us, but also to the safety of the north itself.” And the rest of the world, Terak thought.
He saw the young lord’s eyes widen slightly, and then his face went still as he watched the man compose himself.
Here it comes, Terak thought. The man was going to feel—rightly, to be fair—betrayed by the fact that the Enclave had appeared to offer their hand in support, only for it to really be spinning their own circles.
“Does it have something to do with why the White-Faced Legion decided to ambush my city? Why I lost good men and women to the Estreek?” the young man surprised him by asking, but not as much as when he said the last part, “And why someone poisoned my father?”
Terak knew what he should do. He should lie. The Enclave was a secretive order, and his part of it, the Enclave-External, was the most secretive part of that. They labored tirelessly, out of sight and behind the scenes, to ensure that Midhara would be safe in generations to come.
But Terak had never taken any vow of secrecy that he recalled. Instead, he had been brought up to know that he was a part of something more, removed by necessity from the world. A part of him wondered if that had made him arrogant.
This man deserves to know, Terak thought. He had been trained to discern which was the correct path ahead of him. The Book of Corrections taught him that Pain was his guide, and it would deliver Pain to this man if he spoke the truth.
Or maybe the elf really did just think differently than his brothers and sisters.
“Yes, I believe it does, my lord,” Terak said. “There was a man in your employ called Menier,” he went on.
“Courtier Menier, yes, I know of him. Always agreeable.” Falan nodded quickly.
He must have tried to make himself indispensable. Terak thought sadly of the man whose death had seemingly sparked all of this.
“He was working for us, for the Enclave,” Terak said seriously.
“I beg your pardon?” This time, Falan’s ire was piqued.
“My lord, we have little time, and I fear that I am already too late, but we have been working on a way to close the Blood Gate.” Terak finished in a rush. This human had a right to know why his father, his soldiers, and his citizens had apparently been killed to stop the truth, after all.
“Close the Blood Gate?” Falan whispered in awe. “Such a thing is impossible! Few have traveled there for generations. The last time the worlds aligned, it took the entire alliance of Free Races to stem the flow of the beasts, and then they only stopped because the worlds fell out of synch!”
Terak nodded. “Indeed so, sir. Well, now it might only take what Menier had discovered, before—”
Falan’s face fell. “He’s dead, isn’t he? They got to the Courtier as well . . .”
Terak nodded. “Yes, my lord.”
“And you think that is why we were attacked? The White-Faced Legion have been working to keep the Blood Gate open, all this time?”
And the orc warband that tried to stop Mother Galda from getting her elvish translator to the Enclave, Terak remembered, but said nothing, just nodded.
“Then it really is as bad as the old sagas say . . .” Falan voice went small. “All of the monsters, creatures, and spirits of the Ungol were so diverse, so ravenously hungry—as we saw with the Estreek.”
And the Mordhuk, Terak noted.
“It requires someone from our world to open the gate, doesn’t it? During the First Incursion, it was the Sorcerer Kings.”
My people. Terak coughed.
“And then, in the Second Incursion it was a band of witches who called themselves the Hexans,” Falan said.
The Hexan! Something triggered in Terak’s memory. Where had he heard that name before? Someone had talked to him about it, but who?
“And now, it appears as though it is the White-Faced Legion who has taken the mantle and seeks to control the coming horde for their own purposes.” Falan shook his head. “They are seeking to destabilize the north, so that when the Blood Gate opens there will be little opposition,” Falan calculated as Terak wracked his brains.
He was sure that he had heard the term Hexan before, but whenever he tried to recall his lore lessons with the Chief Arcanum, or the bestiary studies under the Chief Martial, he came up blank.
When he allowed his mind to clear as he had been taught and settle around the word “Hexan” he heard it come from a guttural, brutish voice.
The orcs! Terak suddenly remembered. That was where he had heard the term. The orcs had said that the Mother Galda was to be taken back to “the Hexan”—as if there were only one? Terak wondered.
“My lord,” Terak cleared his throat. “We must act. Now. Brother Menier had a secret workshop here in Aldburg, but I fear that it has already been three days since the poisoning.” Terak winced when he saw Falan’s face freeze for a moment, before he nodded.
“Of course. Give me your hand. If you know where this workshop is, then we will go there right away,”
Falan leaned down and once again offered Terak his hand, but once again, the novitiate hesitated.
“Sir, this is my task,” he murmured.
The Lord General didn’t skip a beat, “And this is my city. I told you that Brecha used to be prosperous. We also used to be called the Guardians of the North. When the Blood Gate opens, it hits my people first. Or would you deny me my right to do what is honorable?”
His code of honor is like my own Path of Pain, Terak thought. He nodded and accepted the human’s hand, swinging himself up onto the back of the pony behind the leader of Brecha.
“Workshop 7, by the river Ald,” Terak breathed.
“I know precisely where that is,” Falan said, and drove the pony into a clattering gallop through the city streets.
18
The Traitor
Workshop 7 was one in a line of long, low stone and wood buildings that stood near a bend in the river. Several of the buildings had their own private moorings and small, planked piers out over the dark waters.
The street in front of the workshops was dark and quiet.
Too quiet, Terak thought as he slipped from the back of the pony and held up a silent hand to caution the Lord General.
Very carefully, Terak pulled his shortsword from its scabbard, and ghosted across the street to the eaves of the workshops, making his way under signs that spoke of the owners of each establishment: Alchemist’s Emporium, Pepper’s Premium Goods, Holstaff’s Outfitters, and so on.
This part of Aldburg was unaffected by the fires of the Ixcht, but Terak could clearly see the ruddy-orange glows over the rooftops when he looked back the way they had come. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought there might be fewer fires than there had been. Did that mean that Brecha had turned the tide of the battle?
Or was there just less city to burn now? Terak thought. He ghosted in front of the buildings, eventually coming to Workshop number 5, 6, and then the very last one in this part of the town, before a set of metal railings cut across the street and revealed a river-land park on the far side.
This is it, Terak thought. The last workshop on that side of the street was nondescript and shabby, looking for all the world like it was abandoned or used to store old boxes and goods.
A perfect place to conduct your secret studies, Terak thought, holding his hand up to signal to the Lord General that it was safe for him to follow. Terak waited while Falan carefully slipped from his steed and tied her reins to one of the distant workshop door posts. He then did his best to copy Terak’s example in moving quietly through the shadows.
He didn’t do such a bad job, Terak thought, but twice, the young human’s riding boots kicked stones or crunched on something on the ground, making the elf wince.
Thump. He heard a sound from inside Workshop 7.
“Someone is inside,” Terak breathed as Falan caught up with him. “Wait here while I investigate.” Terak looked down the thin alleyway between the workshops. There was a clouded window, partially covered in tarred paper, and a glow of orange light came from inside. The front of the building held a set of main doors, and Terak presumed another exit opened on the river-side.
“Wait by the front door. If I flush someone out . . .” Terak whispered, and Falan nodded, raising his longsword meaningfully.
Dear First Moon, Terak thought. If there is any way I don’t have to involve the Lord of Brecha in this. The possibilities of what would happen if Lord General Falan got injured didn’t bear thinking about.
But there is only the right path and the wrong one ahead, isn’t there? He took a breath, allowed his emotions to lower themselves through his body, leaving his mind feeling clear and poised. Then he moved . . .
Father Jacques’s training served him well, as he moved like a piece of the night itself to the window. He crouched and breathed shallowly as he listened. There were more sounds inside—muffled thumps and thuds, as if someone inside Brother Menier’s secret workshop was ransacking it.
Terak raised himself to the edge of the windowsill, seeing the dried black-tarred paper on the glass. A ripped corner revealed an orange glow. He moved closer, setting his eye to the corner.
He saw rows of tables and benches, as well as cloaks and outfits hanging from hooks on the walls. A set of wooden stairs went upward to some sort of balcony office at the river-side of the building. Inside the office, there was a moving glow of a lantern. Terak squinted and saw a dark shadow move across the interior office windows and heard the sound of a heavy crash. He couldn’t make out any more than that.
It has to be someone seeking the Loranthian Amulet, Terak thought. Maybe it was even one of the Ixcht.
He spared a look back at Falan, who hovered at the front of the workshop.
“Wait!” Terak mouthed at him, then turned back to the window. He quietly selected the proper tools from his Enclave-External harness to get the job down—in this case, a thin shim of steel and a rod. It didn’t take long for Terak to break the jam of the window. Then, holding the window open with the shim, he used the rod to carefully nudge the edge of the wooden latch on the inside.
Thock! The latch turned, and the window jumped in its seating, making the elf freeze. He quickly peered back through the ripped corner and saw that the light was still in the upper part of the workshop, and still moving.
Thank the Stars, Terak thought. The intruder’s own noise had hidden his. If he’d had time, he would have smeared goose grease or sprinkled oil on the window seals, so that they wouldn’t creak. Unfortunately, the elf had neither time nor materials, so he heaved at the outer window, pushing it up and jamming it open by standing the shim on its end.
Creeek! The window groaned, and Terak could now clearly see the yellow light above pause. Dammit! Had he been discovered? Or had the intruder found what they were looking for?
Terak wasted no time in pulling himself through the window. He landed lightly on his soft-soled shoes on the dusty wooden floor inside. He didn’t have time to hide, he knew—if he was discovered, he was discovered.
He crouched by the edge of one of the large benches, whose arrangement reminded the elf of the workbenches in his own Enclave-External rooms. There were a wide collection of artifacts—everything from bits of leather harnesses and tack that were being mended, to strangely-colored crystals, mortars and pestles, jars of unguents or powders, weapons, and books.
But his attention was focused purely on the wooden steps that rose to the upper office floor, over what appeared to be the riverside loading room at the rear of the workshop.
The golden glow from behind the windows hadn’t moved at all, and Terak gritted his teeth in frustration. He would have to go up there, and those stairs probably creaked. There was no way he could keep his arrival a secret for much longer. So, he drew out a throwing knife from his harness, and ghosted forward, knife held in his lead hand, and the shortsword in his other hand.
Suddenly, the door in front of the stairs opened, and the golden light flared out, filling the room, along with a voice.
A woman’s voice.
“I wondered how long it would be before I had to deal with one of you rodents!” snarled the figure illuminated in the doorway. It was none other than the frizzy red-haired Counsellor Annas, her face now a mask of hatred.
“I should have summoned twice the number of Estreeks as I did. I won’t make the same mistake again!” the Counsellor said, weaving a hand in front of her in an arc. Her eyes flushed white, and she started to mutter in a horrible, corrupt language . . .
19
The Right Side of History
I won’t stand a chance against a horde of those feathered snake things! Terak surged into motion, throwing the knife he held in one hand as he broke into a run for the stairs.
“Hgh!” He heard a grunt from above him. The accursed muttering stopped, and the feeling of magic prickling at the back of his neck stopped, too.
But if Terak thought he might have luckily killed her already, he was in for a surprise. As he se
ized the bannister with his now-free hand and jumped up to the second step, he looked ahead to see that Counsellor Annas had stumbled back into the office. Hazes of blue-purple light radiated from around her, and the knife was caught in their grasp, slowly turning in place.
Ixcht, Terak had a chance to think, as he saw Counsellor Annas glare at him and throw her hands out. His own floating knife abruptly turned and shot in his direction like a dart.
Terak hissed, reacting with cat-like grace. He brought his shortsword up just in time. There was a clang and a strike of sparks as he deflected the magically-flung weapon. The elf leaped up the next two stairs and then to the landing.
The Counsellor had retreated into the room that was obviously the inner sanctum of Brother Menier’s work. The walls were lined with scrolls and books, and a simple desk sat in the middle of the room near a metal chest.
“Pyrrhia!” Terak had a moment to hear the Counsellor say, as the blue haze flushed a deep red, and an inferno of fire threw itself at him.
The elf had no choice but to jump, grabbing onto the railing as he swung his legs over the bannister. He thumped his already-injured body against the wooden stairs as the fire scorched the air where he had been.
Of course, now he was hanging by one hand from a banister, clinging on for dear life.
“Counsellor!” Terak heard a voice shout, and, even in his agitation, he glanced to where Lord General Falan had apparently followed him through the window and was pointing his long sword up at the woman above them.
“What is the meaning of this? Did you kill my father!?” the human demanded, his eyes sparking with fury.
