Blood Gate Boxed Set

by K L Reinhart

But that careful human architecture was being disrupted from above, Terak saw. There was a plume of black smoke rising above the buildings a little way away.

  “Is that a fire?” Terak asked, but he knew that it wasn’t. Or it hadn’t started out as a fire, anyway. The black plume of smoke was too thick and too concentrated in just one way.

  “I don’t know—” Baris confessed, when all of a sudden, the pair did know.

  There was a high whistling sound in the air, and Terak turned in his saddle to see something arching through the heavens toward them. At first it appeared small and slow-moving—but the elf knew that was a trick of perspective and of the great height that it was flying from.

  It was a projectile, and it was trailing black plumes of smoke behind it like the inverse of a comet. It lanced out from the visible edge of the orcish War Burg, coming for them.

  “Ride!” Terak shouted, spurring his horse to jump forward with a panicked snort as Baris beside him did the same. Their steeds must have been able to scent the smoke in the air as well as the panic all around them as they clattered forward. The orcish barrage fell to the district behind them.

  Terak heard the roar of its impact—all too loud and close. It was like standing before the bellow of an avalanche or a flood-river. The sound exploded all around them a heartbeat before the elf felt the ground buckle and tremble under the horses’ hooves.

  The impact only caused their steeds to run forward faster. Terak heard splintering glass and cracking masonry behind them before they were pelted with rocks.

  “Ach!” Terak hunkered low over his horse’s neck, not caring where she was running, only that she was. But Baris, a little behind him, hadn’t been so quick. Terak threw a look over his shoulder to see that the youth was now slumping over his clattering steed, one side of his head bloodied.

  “Baris!” Terak shouted, but his voice was lost in the tumult. The orcish meteor had struck somewhere beside the avenue just a hundred lengths behind them. Already there were the hot billows of flame winds as it unleashed whatever fuel or incendiary that it carried.

  “Baris, damn it!” Terak urged his racing steed to match the younger guard’s, before reaching out a hand to snatch at the other’s reins, dangling from the youth’s fumbling hands.

  Baris’ steed reacted as well as it could in the circumstances, but as soon as it felt pressure on the reins it did indeed start to slow and match the speed of Terak’s own. The elf clung onto both horses in a desperate juggling act, his back aching from the effort of leaning out of the saddle at almost a right-angle.

  There. Up ahead was another of the intersections. Terak did what he could to pull his own horse toward it. The Araxians must have trained their horses well, because it only took a nudge of a suggestion to get Terak’s own steed, and then Baris’s, to take the new path.

  The pair were clattering down the smaller avenue as the rumbling of falling cobblestones and masonry faded behind them. When the air started to smell sweeter and without the heavy clog of oily smoke, Terak eased both horses to a halt. He checked on the wounded Baris.

  “Hgh?” the youth groaned. “What happened?” he slurred, his eyelids fluttering as he tried to take in his new surroundings.

  Terak looked back down the avenue. The houses obscured any direct image of the aerial bombardment. But from the avenue that they had been racing down, he could see the ball of black smoke rising high into the air and the leaping tongues of flames that kissed the air.

  “That happened,” Terak breathed, stepping close to examine the youth’s wound. “I think you were hit by a cobblestone,” he said, seeing the nasty gash on the side of his head, still bleeding. “Do you carry bandages?”

  Baris nodded that he did but was too disorientated to retrieve them, Terak quickly found the soldier’s small healing kit, where a roll of white bandage was tucked away, secured by a pin.

  “No. Wait,” Baris muttered, raising a hand to the side of his head and starting to mutter low under his breath.

  Everyone has magic in Midhara—he shouldn’t even be able to exist! Terak remembered the Chief Arcanum of the Enclave’s disdain and scorn when he had discovered that the elf was a null. Once again, Terak felt that familiar sting of shame as he saw those around him use their natural magic. A faint greenish glow appeared over Baris’s palm as he held it to the side of his own head. The glow descended on the cut there. Terak could see the flesh re-knitting itself together slowly with the edges of the wounds congealing of their own accord.

  When Baris was finished, there was still a large area of dried and matted blood on the side of the young guard’s head. There was a livid line of red and puckered skin that stretched almost from the back of his head to just above his ear—but no more gaping wound.

  Not everyone in Midhara could perform cantrips, however. Terak tried to console himself. But everyone living and breathing had some natural capacity for magic, he knew.

  Everyone but me.

  Baris clearly had the gift for a little life-based magic and had been tutored in the simple spells and enchantments that a soldier would need.

  “That’s better. Still hurts, though,” Baris now seemed more conscious and awake than before. Terak tried not to grit his teeth at how easy life appeared to be for everyone else. If all you had to do was a little magic to make your life better . . . Terak thought the same old thoughts that he always had when witnessing other Midharan’s abilities. He had no such luxury. If he got injured, he would have to bandage and treat and sometimes stitch himself together again.

  If I ever break a rib or a limb, I just have to put up with it. He glowered at the burning skies for a moment before shaking his head. It was useless dwelling on what he wasn’t, however.

  “You’re lucky to be alive,” Terak said, his tone sounding a little tighter than before as he looked around for their next step. This avenue seemed to curve slowly across the city. Terak could see the rising bulk of one of the Keep-bridges that spanned the estuary river over the house-tops.

  “Is the Palace that way?” Terak asked, earning a frown from Baris.

  “Are you sure it wasn’t you who was hit in the head with a rock?” The youthful guard laughed. “That is the Palace!”

  “Oh, of course,” Terak tried to sound embarrassed, rather than just surprised, as he returned his gaze to his destination.

  He had seen three such giant bridges spanning the estuary-river that curled through the heart of Araxia. Each was as wide and as large as the entire Black Keep of the Enclave, by the elf’s reckoning. And each one had been built up with towers and turrets and walls, so that they no longer resembled bridges anymore, but a new, odd form of castle standing on multiple stanchion legs.

  Now it seemed that only two of those largest bridges (Terak had seen far smaller and narrower bridges crossing the estuary that appeared to be just what they expected to be) were actually ways of passage from one side of the city to another. The central one that was a little way ahead of them, which was also the largest, was the convenient heart of Araxia. From here, King Serretti of Ara could reach out to every district of the city—and his kingdom beyond—in equal measure.

  But Terak’s exploration of the city was interrupted by another sudden boom, as behind them, another of the orcish War Burg’s meteors hit the cityscape. It was far from where they were, but the effect was the same: the rising plume of thick, black oily smoke and the sudden outburst of flames.

  “Come on,” Baris breathed in horror, spurring his horse onwards toward the Palace of Araxia.

  6

  The Fourth Family of the Elves

  The entrance to the Palace of Araxia glared at the wide plaza it sat upon, which was currently busy with the marquee tents of reserve guards being drafted to the war effort.

  Behind Terak and Baris, there were more sounds of the incendiaries being cast from the orcish War Burg. Baris negotiated with the very stern Palace Gate guards standing at attention with red-gold breastplates and tall plumes of feathers on the sid
es of their helmets. Terak watched the pulverization of the city.

  The War Burg had something like catapults mounted on the iron, teeth-like plates, from which they fired their burning missiles. It hung ominously, far above and just in front of Araxia’s walls, casting a looming shadow that cut deep into the heart of the city.

  “What can we do against that!?” Terak heard the low, muttered murmurs from some of the more anxious reservists. King Serretti had gone on an all-out offensive, it seemed. Every man and woman who was able to wield a weapon was apparently being drafted into service.

  And all to soften up the human kingdoms for the Ungol armies! Terak realized, before correcting himself. No. This was to buy time for the Baleful Signs to complete themselves and for the Blood Gate to finally open.

  “Hoi! With me!” one of the Palace Guards was shouting to Terak, who hastily dismounted to follow the man’s urging.

  “Baris—” Terak paused just briefly before the younger guard, already turning back to his own horse.

  “Yes, sir?” The younger guard, still with the remnants of his wound on the side of his head, looked across at him. His eyes had that haunted look of someone too young to be asked to be so brave. But Terak saw that there was a steel in his eyes, too.

  “All we can do is walk the path before us,” Terak repeated the only piece of advice that he had.

  Baris nodded seriously.

  “That seems about right.” He looked up at the War Burg with a shadow of doubt, and Terak knew there was no way to take away that fear.

  Fear isn’t something to run away from but to live through, Terak thought, as Baris took his leave. The elf hurried after the impatient Palace Guard, and into the Bridge-Keep of the King.

  Inside, the Palace reminded Terak a little of the Black Keep—although the elf had to admit that was the only comparison he had. But this part of the Palace was full of stone halls, corridors, and stairs and was larger than Terak had been expecting.

  Guards jogged from this archway to another. Terak could feel the tension in the air, see it in their tight faces.

  “Up here.” The Palace Guard escorting Terak led him up a set of stairs toward an outer wing of the Palace, and one which seemed to have been built over the stanchions of the bridge itself.

  There was one big difference between the Palace of Araxia and the Black Keep, however. That was the fact that it was designed not only for defense but also for luxury. Terak saw that there were rich tapestries hanging from the walls depicting baroque heroes giving pronouncements or standing on battlefields. There were marble vases as tall as Terak in alcoves, sometimes containing miniature tree-like plants with rounded rubbery leaves. Here and there were small window galleries that looked out over the churning river below, with small upholstered benches installed for the courtly viewer.

  The Black Keep didn’t allow time for rest, Terak thought. For a moment, he wondered how his life would have been different if he hadn’t been raised in the austere monastic community dedicated to understanding and learning from pain.

  “Here.” The Palace Guard left the elf at the open wooden door entrance to a suite of rooms that were bright and airy with more green plants trained up the walls beside wide stained-glass windows. There were small side tables and couches dotted around the side of the room. Standing in the center was a tall elf that Terak had never seen before.

  “Who are you?” The elf was thin and taller even than Lord Alathaer of the Second Family, with long white hair and piercing blue eyes. He wore long robes of a golden hue over cream, with a simple gold belt tooled in fantastic shapes of dragons.

  “Ah—” Terak was suddenly very aware that he was still wearing the jerkin and black cloak and attire of the Enclave-External and didn’t look anything like he belonged to a part of the elvish family.

  Terak took a step into the room and fell to one knee. “My Lord Yuliel.” He introduced himself, figuring that was who this man was. “My name is Terak Var—” Terak Vardalion, my mother wanted to call me, the thought flashed through his mind.

  “Var?” Yuliel said in a high, cultivated tone. “‘Dagger’ in Old High Elvish. A very . . . combative name for one so young,” Yuliel said shrewdly.

  “Yes, my lord—” How could Terak explain the fact that Mother Istarion of distant Everdell had called him “dagger” because she had believed that the fate of the Second Family was caught up in his life? That she had wanted him to be trained in the harshest school of the Enclave, even from birth?

  How could Terak tell this lord of the elves that he was here to kill the High Chancellor?

  Especially when a new voice entered the room, belonging to a human surrounded by other elves wearing similar cream and soft orange robes.

  “I see you have a visitor, Lord Yuliel,” purred the man. Terak lifted his head to see a human in perhaps his early forties, with a crop of short brown hair that was so dark as to be almost black. He had a pallid sort of complexion for a human, but his eyes glittered with a dark intensity. The man wore a deep blue shirt and dark trews, as well as a heavy gold chain of office.

  “Yes, High Chancellor. I was just seeing what he wants,” Yuliel intoned, and Terak’s heart jumped in his chest.

  High Chancellor. This man is the High Chancellor.

  The Hexan.

  7

  The Hexan

  Terak stared at the man whom he had come to kill. He still had Vorg’s blade at his side, tucked into his belt. He knew at least three ways to throw it—And then this might all be over . . .

  As the elf assassin slowly rose from his crouch before the man, his eyes flickered to the other people in the room. There was the Lord Yuliel, looking at him inquisitively. The High Chancellor, looking bored. And four more elves, men and women in robes who looked to be a part of the Fourth Family’s delegation.

  Terak thought like Father Jacques had taught him how to think. You have to be the one to make the difficult choices, he heard the Father’s words in his head. Who lives and who dies.

  How do I know that Yuliel and the Fourth Family aren’t in league with the Hexan? Terak thought.

  “Well?” Yuliel coughed, urging Terak to come up with some answer for his intrusion.

  “I am from the Second Family.” Terak remembered the words of Lord Alathaer, overheard in conversation with Mother Istarion. It was a half-truth really, as Terak was born of the Second Family. “They need help. The Blood Gate—” Terak studied the eyes of Yuliel as he said it and was rewarded by a sudden narrowing and a low, cat-like hiss.

  “The Baleful Signs are visible in the north, my lords,” Terak continued to say, straightening himself as he readied his hands.

  If the Fourth Family is in league with the Hexan, then they’ll kill me in an instant, he knew. And even if they weren’t, the sudden assassination of one of their hosts before their very eyes might just result in the same thing anyway.

  “What!?” the High Chancellor suddenly said. “Are you certain of this? The Blood Gate has been dormant for centuries!”

  Terak barely managed to control the curl of his lip as the Chancellor pretended not to know anything about it. But wait. Terak forced his anger down, deep into his chest. It was only Vorg the orc’s word that had claimed that this man was also the Hexan, the most powerful human sorcerer in all of the realms, intent on the destruction of Midhara.

  I need proof, Terak thought, as he nodded gravely. “I am most certain, sir—I saw the Ungol-light and the Estreek myself.”

  “Hsst!” Yuliel let out an angered hiss. “Don’t speak of those foul things here!”

  Terak took a breath, steeled himself, “I’m afraid that I must speak of these things, Lord Yuliel. The Blood Gate is opening. All of Midhara is threatened—”

  “High Chancellor, sir!” There was another interruption into their meeting as a team of Palace Guards appeared at the door.

  “What is it? Can’t you see that I am busy?” The High Chancellor frowned deeply at the Palace Guards, who—although looking sl
ightly panicked at angering this lord of their kingdom—were also deeply driven.

  “His majesty requests your presence, High Chancellor,” the leading guard intoned, which was enough to show everyone in the room how important the matter was.

  No! I need him to stay! Terak gritted his teeth behind his closed mouth.

  “My apologies, my Lord Yuliel. We will have to continue our discussions at a later date.” The High Chancellor nodded briefly. He took his leave and joined the four guards to disappear quickly into the Palace.

  Yuliel gave a small, disappointed sigh at the intrusion before turning his attention once again to the elf before him. “So, the Second Family sent you all this way to ask for aid from me?”

  Terak’s mind was still on the vanished spot that the High Chancellor—the Hexan—had occupied. “This evil threatens us all, my Lord. If we do not stand together as one, as strong as we can, then I fear that the Ungol will overwhelm us all,” he said quietly.

  “My forces are currently being committed in support of Araxia,” Lord Yuliel responded, moving quickly to look out of the window at the landscape that was under attack by the orcish War Burg. Several more plumes of black smoke had risen in the air since they had started talking. Although the War Burg was taking its time, Terak couldn’t see any reason why their attack would halt any time soon.

  They’ll just sit up there and pulverize the city until it’s a burning ruin!

  “If I let the Araxians fall to the orcs, we will lose humanity’s greatest armies in the event of any direct Ungol incursion,” Yuliel was saying.

  “But, my lord,” Terak attempted to point out. “Even that War Burg cannot compare to the horrors of the Ungol, can it?”

  Every soldier—whether man or elf—that falls here is one less soldier against the beasts and monsters of the nightmare realm . . . Terak thought in exasperation.

  “Terak Var,” Yuliel turned on his heel to regard the smaller and younger elf seriously. He carried all of the authority that Lord Alathaer had, and his gaze was intense. “I thank you for your bravery in delivering this message to me, and I wish that I could help the Second Family, but for now—while the orcs fly over Araxia—I cannot.”