Blood Gate Boxed Set

by K L Reinhart

  “Jump!” he said to Vorg, as the first, flailing rope ladder flashed and swam through the air toward them.

  “Ixchting. Crazy. Insane. Pointy-ears—” Vorg was muttering and grumbling. Terak heard the howls of outrage as the orc fighters below them found the bell room empty and raced toward the broken clock-face windows.

  “Grargh!” With a powerful bound, Terak felt the roof of the Old Clock Tower reverberate with the explosive force of Vorg the Unwanted’s leap into the skies. For a crystal-clear moment, Terak saw the outstretched, flailing arms of the orc, still in his ridiculously heavy suit of iron armor—

  With a grunt, his claws snatched at the rope, and then started to slide downwards as first one rope rung and then the other snapped under his weight.

  No! Terak gritted his teeth as he tensed for his own leap, seeing the form of Vorg flying out, hands still on the fraying ladder

  Until finally, a few rungs from the end of the ladder, Vorg’s grip held. The ladder was no longer snapping under his weight but holding secure.

  “Get him!” Terak saw the flash of weapons in the dawn-light and the reaching claws as the orcs in the bell room started to climb out of the window toward him.

  But the second rope ladder was flying toward him as the Lady of the North thundered overhead. Terak heard the pheet of the arrows passing by, and the screech of angered wyverns as he kicked out from the roof, willing his aching and pained body to stretch and elongate as far and as high as it could—

  Gotcha! To catch hold of the rungs of the rope ladder and to swing and spiral through the smoke of a ruined city, the Lady of the North rising higher, and higher, and put on speed.

  Terak clung to the rope ladder with all his might. He saw the swinging, swaying form of Vorg the Unwanted do the same a little way ahead of him under the air galleon.

  And they were flying out of the night and into a new dawn.

  The Ungol Blade

  Dagger of the World, Book 5

  1

  The Benuin

  Terak slumped on the high railings of the air galleon The Lady of the North and squinted at the purpling, bruise-like horizon on their stern. It wasn’t evening yet. Although it was early, it was still a watch past dawn, so the strange light that hung to one side of the ship was odd and fretful.

  “The Ungol-light,” murmured a voice behind the elf, surprising him. Usually, the pale-skinned and bright-eyed Terak Var would have heard the approach of the young Lord Falan way before he opened his mouth to speak. But Terak, the null and assassin of the secretive order known as the Enclave, was preoccupied.

  “It’s getting stronger every day.” Terak nodded at the horizon. Every watch, in fact, he thought with a grimace and a flash of his white, slightly pointed teeth. The Blood Gate is almost open, the young elf thought, before heaving a sigh and looking across at his companion.

  Lord Falan Brecha was barely into his twentieth summer. He was already the liege-lord of the scattered and wild northern kingdom of Brecha, following the assassination of his father. His choppy brown hair had been tamed into a warrior’s tail down his back, and the youth looked more resolute and more certain than Terak remembered him.

  Behind the air galleon lay the smoking ruins of the human city of Araxia, the most advanced city and the strongest human kingdom in all of Midhara. Terak could still see the distant shadow of the floating orcish War Burg hanging over the desecrated city, celebrating its victory.

  “The South will be lost,” Falan said grimly, eyeing the city. “And the Blood Plague is spreading through the North.”

  Terak hissed in agitation. The Blood Plague was one of the five Baleful Signs that preceded the imminent opening of the hell-gate that allowed the armies of the Ungol to flood into their world.

  Light, Monsters, Plague, Darkness, and then . . . Terak thought through the lore that his tutor, Brother Jacques of the Enclave, had explained to him. Then came the Gatekeeper. The Ungol’s champion who would open the Blood Gate and herald the destruction and enslavement of everything.

  “The Everdell?” Terak asked. The northern forest was the home of the Second Family of the Elves. My family, he thought. He had been given over to the human-only order of the Enclave when he had been just a babe, simply because he had no magic. Because he was a null.

  “Lord Alathaer has taken what remains of the Second Family to Brecha,” Falan said. Terak recognized the slight grimace that the young lord had when thinking about the proud and difficult Lord Alathaer. He was the war-leader of the Second Family, captain of the Brilliant Host, in constant argument with Mother Istarion, the spiritual leader of the Second Family of Elves.

  “Can we do it? Close the Blood Gate?” Terak heard Lord Falan whisper, the first recognition of weakness from the tall young man.

  Terak looked at Falan sharply. He had not had training as Terak had, from the Book of Corrections and its Path of Pain. The elf considered telling the human a lie, that there was still hope.

  But sometimes you have to fight without hope, Terak remembered from his training. “Maybe,” he said softly, and Falan let out a slow hiss of high emotion.

  “If we can find the Hexan, the one who set the motions to open the Blood Gate in the first place,” Terak considered. “Then we may be able to find a way to close it.”

  “Those are two serious ifs and maybes,” Falan said dourly.

  They are, Terak thought. But what other options did they have? There was the Loranthian Scroll, in the hands of Father Jacques.

  If he’s still alive and hasn’t succumbed to the Blood Plague himself. Terak winced inwardly. The scroll detailed the original construction of the Blood Gate by the now-deceased First Family of elves. There was also the Architect’s Amulet, which Terak himself had retrieved from Brecha, and supposedly had something to do with its construction.

  But we still have no idea how to use them, Terak remembered. Or even if we can use them to close the Blood Gate! And it was clear from the spectral bruise on the horizon that Father Jacques still hadn’t figured it out, either.

  “And if we don’t find the Hexan?” Falan looked across the deck of the ship to the other side, where the line of the Vandra Mountains, tall-peaked and deep gray, stood. That was where he was supposed to be. Terak had heard the evil sorcerer’s plans firsthand.

  To find something called the Sword of Damiel, in the Vault of Heroes, Terak remembered with a shudder. He had overhead this conversation between the Hexan and–something else . . .

  An Ungol spirit, Ung’olut, or the Queen of a Thousand Tears.

  “If we don’t find the Hexan, then the world is doomed,” Terak iterated clearly, and then added with a savage grimace, “And we will be fighting wherever we stand.” He held Lord Falan’s eyes for a moment, until he saw the flicker of resolve there.

  “Yes,” the young lord said grimly.

  There was a heavy thump and a growled yawn from further behind them on the deck of The Lady, as Vorg the Unwanted, the heretic orcish champion, clambered, groaning, onto the deck. Vorg was the largest orc that Terak had ever seen in his life, and it appeared he was also terrible at mornings.

  “How much further, in the name of raw hell, do we have to go on this thing!?” The gray and green-tinged orc, with his tracery of black lines from Estreek poison, stumbled to his feet, rocked back and forth, and took a careful, staggering step.

  It appeared the mightiest orc in all of Midhara was terrible at airships, too. Terak and Falan saw a couple of the Brecha airmen hurriedly change direction to avoid the orc as Vorg snarled and growled at them.

  “That’s the Vandra Mountains,” Falan called out, pointing at the tall shadows. It was a hotter landscape this far south, and Terak saw small stands of wiry-looking trees, but also acres and acres of sandy scrubland. “It’s home to the Benuin people, tribes who have never shown much interest in the politics of the kingdoms,” Falan continued.

  “More Ixchting humans,” Vorg grumbled, turning away to stumble to the nearest water bucket,
rip off the lid with just two fingers and dunk his entire head inside.

  “But I am sure once we talk to them and explain what is happening to the world, they will take us to the Vault of Heroes—” Falan was saying, a little hesitantly, as he attempted to calm the orc.

  “Are you sure about that?” Terak was still looking at the distant hotlands, his sharp elvish eyes squinting.

  “Of course!” Lord Falan said as confidently as he was able.

  “Oh.” Terak’s eyes had spotted movement out there on the hotlands. Small puffs of sand and dirt, as shapes started to rise from the earth.

  They were people. Humans, Terak realized. People who had been camouflaged against the rocks and sands were now crouching and raising their hands toward the sky. Holding bows.

  “Then why are they pointing their weapons at us?” Terak asked, as the first shots were fired.

  2

  Magic Missile

  “Attackers! Fore and lee-ward!” shouted one of the scouts atop the high crow’s nest of The Lady. The air galleon started to slowly and laboriously turn to present its stout hull to the enemy so far below.

  The Lady of the North erupted into activity, with the clamor of a bell from somewhere near the quartermaster’s office. The sudden stamp and charge of feet sounded as Brecha airmen and soldiers ran up the ladders and stairs to get to their weapons.

  “Don’t worry, they’ve only got arrows!” Terak heard the scout holler again, sounding relieved at this fact. The Benuin tribe’s warriors–If that is who they are, Terak thought with a growl–were only using short bows. The elf didn’t think that they would have the strength to lift their arrows this high! Surely, any that did would find the foot-thick hull more than a match!

  But, with a sound like tearing paper over the still air, Terak saw something happen to the arrows. First one, then another and another of the small cloud of arrows heading toward them burst into flames.

  What? It was a magical flame! Terak could see the tinge of a spectral green to their fires, trailing behind them like a comet’s tail.

  And then, just as each arrow erupted into flame, it also suddenly added a burst of speed to its flight, changing course dramatically and sweeping upward as if every flaming arrow had a mind of its own.

  “Duck!” Terak shouted. Some premonition of disaster made him throw himself to the floor to crouch under the railings.

  Pheet! Suddenly, one of the strangely-alive, burning arrows swept over the railing and through the space where Terak had been standing a moment before. It embedded itself with a dull thud onto the nearby wall of the quartermaster’s office.

  “Argh!” There was a sudden scream from somewhere above. Terak saw one of the flaming arrows change direction and shoot upwards to find one of the air galleon’s scouts, tumbling him over the railings and to the deck below.

  They’re seeking us out! Terak realized, as he watched another fiery missile race down the length of the deck, and then turn the corner of the aft storehouse to take an airman clear off his feet.

  “FIRE CANNONS!” Falan roared. He spun around, his green, bear-fur-lined cloak flailing as another flaming arrow tangled in its folds. Falan quickly released the catch and stamped hard on the smoking bundle of cloth. Terak heard a sharp snap as the arrow’s spine broke.

  The Lady shook as weapon shutters banged open all along the length of the hull. The long-nosed cannons gasped and belched smoke and fire—

  Pheet! More arrows were flinging themselves over the railings. Terak saw the sudden sizzle of blue magic as some of the more magically capable of the airmen and women summoned their small protective shields.

  Not that the spinning disks of faint blue seemed to help them, however. Terak watched one of the Benuin’s death-seeking arrows explode against a soldier’s magic shield, for another one to slam into the man’s unprotected back—

  We’re being picked off, one by one! Terak thought, scanning for some way to stop this slaughter. Nothing I can do, he growled in frustration. He was only a null, someone who had no magical capabilities at all.

  There at the edge of the quartermaster’s office that stood proud on the deck opposite Terak were the large barrels of fresh water. There were already numerous small fires starting up across the decks of The Lady of the North, and Terak knew that he could do something about them, if not the arrows.

  The elf tensed his legs and then leapt, keeping his head low as he sprinted for the water barrels.

  The deck underfoot shuddered and shook with the coughing release of The Lady’s cannons. Terak could hear the dull booms and screams of the Benuin archers below as surely some of the cannons found their mark.

  Pheet! Terak caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. One of the arrows was coming straight for him. He jumped to the quartermaster’s wall–but almost wasn’t quick enough, and his heart hammered.

  Terak’s shoulder hit the wooden wall, and the flaming arrow swept past, straight across the deck to hit the door of the opposing cabin.

  It didn’t change course to find me. The thought was small and insistent, but Terak had no time to consider it as he reached the first barrel and ripped off the lid.

  Thock! The wooden water butt lid was torn from his hand, as a flaming arrow bit deeply into it.

  That was close! Inside the water butt was a metal pail on a length of rope, just slightly longer than the elf’s outstretched arms. It will take too long to undo the rope and carry the water . . . Terak could see flames licking at the edges of the railings, catching on the stairs to his level.

  With a snarl of frustration, Terak heaved at the barrel, pushing it with all of his wiry strength as the flames grew stronger and higher.

  “Grargh!” The elf’s muscles bunched, and his arms shook and screamed in pain.

  But pain was one thing that any member of the Enclave was good at. Terak allowed the pain to shout at him, but ultimately ignored it as the water butt wobbled, then shook, then started to rock, and then—

  With an almighty crash, the first barrel hit the floor. A rippling wave of water splashed out to douse the flames from seizing the stairs.

  Another sharp, angry thock sounded as another of the flaming arrows missed Terak’s shaking, exhausted form and embedded itself into the cabin wall a few hands from his shoulder.

  They’re missing me, the elf suddenly realized. He had been exhausted and not even moving when that last arrow had hit the quartermaster’s cabin. I didn’t duck or dodge at all.

  A memory slammed into Terak’s mind. The tormenting pain of the protection circle that he had to crawl through to retrieve the Loranthian Scroll. It hurt, but it had been nowhere nearly as bad for him as it had been for the murderous Torin who tried to follow him. For the other human acolyte of the Enclave, the pain had been many times worse and had broken his mind . . .

  But the Chief External and Magister Inedi of the Enclave chose me precisely because a null would have the best chance of getting through the curse-circle, Terak remembered. He had heard the austere Magister say as much.

  Does the fact that I am a null also mean that magic cannot find me? See me? Terak frowned.

  There was a loud roar, Terak dropped into a crouch near the floor and looked across the deck to see that Vorg wasn’t doing so well. He was the largest being there and already had two arrows stuck in him, still smoking.

  “Vorg!” Terak shouted, as he watched the orc use his own water butt lid to bat the next arrow out of the air. He spun with surprising speed to hit another one aiming for him and bounded for the edge of the quartermaster’s cabin, thudding his back against the wood.

  “At least I can see the little buggers coming,” Vorg growled next to Terak, as he held his shield in front of him.

  Elsewhere across the decks, other airmen and airwomen had similar ideas, huddling or crouching with their backs to the walls, so the arrows only had one route of attack. In a few places, the soldiers had formed shield huddles, making circles of the overlapping round shields of B
recha, already festooned with burning arrows, and taking more every moment.

  “Where’s Falan!?” Terak shouted over the grunts and shouts of pain, as well as the boom and roar of the cannons. Before Vorg could answer him, Terak found out just where the young lord was, as he heard the human shout and bellow above them.

  Above!? What under the skies is he doing!? Terak looked up—

  “Fire incendiaries! Cannons aren’t working!” Falan was hollering his commands as he climbed up the tree-trunk-like mast of the mainsail, looking past the decks to where the Benuin must be below.

  “Idiot,” Vorg grunted. Terak had to remind himself that his new friend was still an orc. Orcs weren’t renowned for their compassion, after all.

  “He’s no idiot,” Terak growled, suddenly realizing what the ruler of an entire kingdom was up to. He wasn’t just acting as a scout for The Lady of the North, since all the others had been thrown to the decks or the dusty grounds by the magic missiles. The elf raised his gaze to see that the mainsail was catching flame. Already, there were at least three tendrils of fire racing across its canvas, threatening to merge. Even in the heartbeat of time that it took for Terak to watch, he saw flaming fragments of sailcloth detach and float for a moment in the eddies of air over the deck, before slowly settling down.

  “If that sail goes, then she’ll cover the ship!” Terak snapped. Falan must have noticed it and was trying to avoid such a calamity.

  “Ach!” A gasp of pain from the human lord, and he suddenly swung himself outwards from the mast on one of the sail ropes, as a flaming missile thocked heavily into the wood where he had been. Terak saw Falan scissor his legs and try to regain his composure, but he was failing. The only thing that stopped him from becoming a human pin cushion was the fact that he was swinging about at the end of a rope without any control.

  But the arrows can’t track me, Terak thought, leaping into a low run across the deck—