Blood Gate Boxed Set

by K L Reinhart

  “You’ll get infected! You’ll die!” the Chief External said, his blood-flecked lips trembling just slightly. And so many of us have died already. He couldn’t resist the morose feeling that swept up through him in a wave. The Blood Plague, the third of the Baleful Signs that heralded the opening of the Blood Gate, was burning its way through the north, killing one in ten at his last estimates.

  Just as it will kill me, he thought, as his feeling turned to one of deep despair.

  This was what the Enclave had been set here to do, and we have failed! the old man thought in frustration, his vision doubling. The Enclave ostensibly worked to collect lore and knowledge to hold in this icy vastness at the roof of the world for the sake of all other civilized kingdoms. But there was an even older reason why the Enclave was here, wasn’t there? A reason that was biting at Father Jacques’s soul.

  The infected man remembered his own childhood here at the Enclave. He had been born of simple stock, a Brechan drover’s family who couldn’t afford to feed their fourth child. Despite the fact that even at seven he could handle the stubborn Tartaruk goats well, they had to give him up to the orphanage that always needed a steady supply of fresh faces.

  That orphanage had been the Enclave, of course, which opened its doors to any donated youth–if they could pass the grueling entrance exams. Jacques had. Through the years of his training here under a different Chief Martial and a different Magister, but the same methuselah of the Chief Arcanum, he had displayed that same stubborn canniness that allowed him to trick and master the unruly beasts of his distant home.

  His wits, indeed, and various tasks and missions that he had succeeded at had brought him to the attention of the old Chief External–a woman as round as a barrel, and yet who could even best the old Chief Martial in a knife fight.

  Maybe Mary liked my grit, the Chief thought idly, his thoughts scattered and a little feverish.

  The old Chief External had seen something inside Jacques. A sort of determination. An unwillingness to give up–and also an aptitude for not getting into problems, even when the problem was a marauding band of orcs. Jacques had a way of outwitting and out-thinking his problems, emerging out the other side as if nothing had happened at all.

  Which, I guess, made me a perfect candidate for the quiet work . . . Jacques ill mind circled around to its original proposition. That was the real reason behind the Enclave’s existence. The first Chiefs and Brothers and Sisters had known that one day that the Blood Gate would open again.

  We have failed, Jacques returned. We were supposed to prepare for the opening of the Blood Gate and to find a way to stop it from ever happening.

  But somewhere in all of those centuries of the Enclave’s existence–Something went wrong, didn’t it? the Father thought, suddenly finding himself sad as he sat down.

  “We forgot to study the old lore, thinking that it would always come later and later,” he whispered. “And now it is too late, and I have failed.”

  But inside that sadness there was also a growing coal of anger. Anger at Magister Inedi and her predecessor, and even anger at Mary, his own mentor. None of them instructed me on the Blood Gate when I had time! He thought with dull rage. It had taken him a decade before he understood its importance. Then it had been years more until he had found that there was a null, a being without magic–an elf, too!–whom he could train to be the perfect tool to close the Gate. Only a null, without any natural magic, would be able to get even close!

  “Terak.” Father Jacques anger collapsed into weariness. And now, all hope was totally lost, wasn’t it? His elvish journeyman, his student, his dagger to use against the evils of the Ungol, had vanished into an elvish portal, presumably to fall into the near-nightmare dimension of the Ungol realm for good.

  Wait a minute. Some old piece of Jacques’s sharp wit came back to him. That can’t be true, can it? Father Jacques had sent Terak to the Everdell Forest. Terak had gone to his own kin, the Second Family of Elves, to retrieve Demiene Flowers, the one thing that would cure both the poison of the devilish Estreek vipers, and the as-yet incurable Blood Plague.

  And he had gone, too, because of his only friend in this place–Journeywoman Reticula. Jacques’s mind started to pick up speed once again. She had been bitten by one of those Estreek flying vipers and had been about to die as the black poison infected her blood stream.

  And yet, here she is, alive and well! Father Jacques forced his eyes open to see that there was the journeywoman, and she looked alive and healthy. More than healthy in fact. She fairly glowed.

  And then he himself was sitting down, surprisingly. Reticula had pulled up his comfy cushioned round-chair, and he had fallen into it in his fevered state. Now, Reticula was turning to her belt pouches to draw out two white, pure cotton bags no bigger than a tea infusion.

  Instantly, a smell of freshness filled the room, like lemons and apples and the honey-heathers of the mountains in late summer. Father Jacques breathed a sigh of relief.

  “You got them,” he whispered. Even the fragrance of the rare Demiene Flowers was enough to have a soothing effect on the Blood Plague that ravaged his system from within.

  “No, Father Jacques, Terak got them,” Reticula said, her eyes shining with pride. “He went into the Higher World of the Aesther. I don’t know what he fought or what he faced, but he returned with the Demiene Flowers, and Mother Istarion of the Second Family healed me.”

  “Ah.” Jacques felt pleased as he watched the young woman open one of the small draw-string bags. A fresh wave of lemon, apples, and cinnamon brightened the room. Reticula took out the smallest pinch of crushed petals, as white as snow, and added them to a kettle on the small iron-wrought stove in the corner. Within seconds, the fragrance of the magical flowers from another world filled the room, and Frebius started chirruping happily.

  “Where is he? He did well. Very well. We may have enough to treat the Black Keep!” Jacques burbled.

  Reticula froze for a moment at the pot, before nodding slowly. “That is what Mother Istarion thought, and why she would only let me take so little back with me.”

  Back with you? Jacques mind sharpened, as Reticula brewed and poured him his cup of restorative, and magical, tea.

  “You—you returned alone?” he said after a sip.

  “I did,” Reticula said in a low voice. “The portal wouldn’t hold long enough for Terak to jump out, or so Mother Istarion said.” Jacques saw Reticula’s lower lip quiver, and then a deep frown crease her brow, before turning into a scowl.

  “We lost him. He’s gone,” Reticula said, and broke Father Jacques’s heart.

  4

  Mutiny!

  “Urgh.” Terak groaned. It felt like every bit of him hurt. Even despite his years of training in how to not submit to physical pain, it was pretty hard when just about everything hurt right now.

  “You’re made of strong stuff, elf,” grumbled the heavy voice of Vorg, as his bald head eclipsed Terak’s view. There was a sharp prod in the elf’s ribs, eliciting another hiss of pain.

  “Ixcht! What did you do that for?” Terak groaned, sat up, and rubbed his side.

  “Just checking you were still breathing in and out,” Vorg said with a chuckle.

  The pair were sitting on the warm dirt, with the rays of the dying, but still hot, evening sun far to the west. As Terak rubbed his eyes and coughed the dust from his lungs, he saw that not far from them listed what remained of The Lady of the North, one side completely caved in against the cliff wall.

  The fires on the deck had finally been put out, and to the elf’s eyes, actually seemed like the least of the damage that had been done to the vessel. There were huddled shapes of Brecha sailors and soldiers climbing up and down the rope ladders, retrieving half-smashed crates and supplies.

  And there were a lot less of them now than there had been when Terak and Vorg had first boarded the air galleon.

  “Your human kingling says he wants to carry on for the Vault, but his men have
no bravery,” Vorg grumbled with a shrug. It was strange for Terak to think that the orcs had a better sense of honor than the human Brechans did, but it appeared as though Vorg had never expected anything better of them anyway.

  “I’d better speak to Falan,” Terak groaned, taking a breath, letting his pain and his emotions drop down into his gut, and allowing his mind to become clearer. Father Jacques would be so proud of me, Terak grumbled to himself.

  “What are you going to say? That we stay and fix the damnable thing?” Vorg grumbled, as he picked at one of the wounds on his arm where the Benuin’s magic missiles had struck.

  “No.” Terak stood, feeling a cold resolve settle into him. “I’m going to tell Falan that we need to move for the Vault and the Sword of Damiel now, before the Benuin come back.”

  The elf had already turned to stalk across the darkening sands toward the ruins of the air galleon, when he heard the orc’s response.

  “And to go kill the Hexan.” The orc’s words were deep and deadly.

  “Yes,” Terak could only agree. “To go kill the Hexan.”

  “What do you mean, you have reservations!?”

  Terak heard the angered hiss of Lord Falan long before he saw him. The young Lord was currently attempting to act in charge and with all of the authority of his station–but it was hard given that he was leaning against a pile of barrels on a deck that was slanted downwards at least thirty degrees.

  “I mean that we lost, sir,” said the salty-haired woman in Brecha greens and purples, opposite the lord of Brecha. Terak assumed that this was the last woman standing to become the senior officer. She was injured herself, with heavy bandaging up one calf, and she had streaks of blackened soot and tears throughout her clothing. But in spite of all of this, she still stood taller than the scrabbling Lord Falan. “The Lady that I have served on, girl and woman for twenty-odd years, is nigh unflyable. We’re stranded in hostile territory, and if we last the night, it will be an Ixchting miracle!”

  There was a murmur of agreement from behind the would-be ship’s captain. On the deck was a collection of other Brecha airmen and women, all looking at their liege-lord with stony eyes. One of them was casually using a small mattock to chop a crate free from a jumble of splintered wood. It was only mostly threatening, Terak thought, as he hopped onto the deck, and, with an elf-like grace, padded easily toward Falan.

  “Pointy-ears . . .” he heard one of the angered sailors mutter. Terak paused immediately and turned his head to stare at the sailor until the man fell silent and looked away.

  That’s right, Terak thought. People are so brave when they think they don’t have to walk through pain to prove their point!

  “Sire?” Terak said in a softer tone to Falan. Let these sailors know that Falan is supported, even if it is only by a strange pointy-ears like me!

  “Brother Terak,” The lord inclined his head as graciously as he could. His foot suddenly slipped on the slanting deck, and he half-stumbled until he caught at one end of a splintered railing end. There was another mutter of amusement from the sailors in front of them, and another answering scowl from Terak.

  “I was just in discussions with Acting Captain Merin, here,” Falan said bitterly, but loudly enough so that everyone could hear. “Who seems to think that the Sword of Damiel and finding the Hexan are foolish pursuits . . .”

  “Pfagh!” the salt-haired Merin coughed. She was unlike most of the others behind her, Terak saw immediately. She wasn’t afraid to challenge Falan or to revert to sneers and slights. She’ll be more dangerous. Terak’s Enclave-training kicked in.

  “I do think they are a fool’s errand,” Merin said angrily. “They are the words of this . . . elf here, whom you seem to place a higher store in than your own kingdom!”

  There was a mutter of agreement, and the chopping sound stopped as the mattock-using sailor slowly straightened up, his crate still wedged into the wreckage at his feet.

  “I believe that finding this Hexan will be the key to saving my kingdom, actually,” Falan growled back, earning a grunt of frustration from Acting Captain Merin. Terak tensed as Merin moved from foot to foot, before she slowly looked at her colleagues around her.

  Was that a signal? Terak’s ever-suspicious mind kicked in. The elf felt his muscles relax instinctively and his mind focus to a sharp point—

  “Unfortunately, sire—” Merin was saying. “We don’t see things the way you do.” Merin advanced, one hand moving to the shortsword at her hip.

  Terak’s hand flashed to the last remaining of his two knives, palming it between his fingers with a flourish that was quicker than grabbing the handle.

  “Seize them!” the mattock-bearer was shouting, jumping forward as Falan, the slower of their group, was still busy pulling his sword.

  For Terak, everything became crystal clear. Just as he had been trained time and time again to react decisively and without emotion, he saw that the mattock-wielder would reach Falan first. The elf stepped forward across the sliding deck. His eyes had already registered the soft and vulnerable points about the man’s body that would bring him down.

  Jugular. Jaw. The hollow under the collarbone.

  Mattock-wielder’s boot hit the deck as Falan’s long sword was just finishing its slide from its sheath.

  Terak knew how to kill this opponent in front of him, but he had already registered the mace-bearing sailor to one side, as well as Acting Captain Merin’s shortsword on the other side.

  No time to kill, he thought dispassionately, as Terak kicked out with the heel of one foot, catching mattock-wielder on the side of a knee. The man gave a dull cry of pain and went down, sliding on the angled deck.

  The elf had to duck for the man’s mattock to miss his head, but he was rewarded by another grunt of surprise as mattock-wielder’s fall tangled up in the mace-bearer’s charge, sending them rolling down the deck like dice.

  “Elf!” Acting Captain Merin lunged for him, and Terak had been right–she was dangerous. No wild swings from her, but instead a low thrust, straight for Terak’s stomach.

  Ixcht! Terak side-stepped, letting his weight slide down the angled deck as he turned on the balls of his feet, his own blade flashing upward.

  “Ach!” There was a spurt of red, spraying in the air between them, and a clatter as the woman’s shortsword dropped to the ground. Terak had angled his knife just perfectly, slicing up the outer fat of the woman’s hand, deep enough that she would have trouble holding a weapon with it again, at least in the short term.

  But how many are there!? Terak hopped from foot to foot to keep his balance as the other angered sailors pressed close around him. He heard a clang as Falan’s sword met another and the grunts and swearing of battle.

  Eight? Ten? Terak’s mind moved in rapid succession, sorting through his observations in the way that Father Jacques had taught him to do. He kicked another man in the fork of his trousers before spinning out of the way of a woman’s fist. There was a sudden, dull shout of pain as Falan’s blade found another—

  And suddenly it was all over.

  Terak and Falan were standing in the middle of a circle of angered sailors and soldiers, with at least five of their number in various states on the decks around them.

  No one is dead yet, Terak saw immediately. Which is probably a good thing, he considered, as a killing between lord, elf, and crew would probably be enough to spark a much larger mutiny.

  It was clear to the remaining four of the crew who stood there, that they would have a serious fight on their hands if they continued. But there were still four of them, versus just two.

  “Don’t,” Terak heard Falan growl at them.

  “What are you waiting for!” Merin shouted in frustration from her hunched place on the decks ten feet away. “Call the rest of the crew! We can take them!” She was bellowing, before Terak saw her take a much deeper breath to holler for any other disaffected Brechan soldier to come to their aid.

  “IDIOTS!” roared a voice like r
ocks being smashed and ground together. Two impossibly large feet inside metal-bound boots slammed onto the deck.

  It was Vorg, and Vorg was big.

  The orcish champion also had his very big battle-ax in his hands, which he brought down to slam into the angled deck, splitting apart two of the planks as easily as if they were made of butter.

  Even from his stance lower down on the angled deck and hunched over, it was clear to everyone that the orc in the black-iron battle plate was considerably larger than two or even three humans standing side by side. And suddenly, the four-to-two odds that the sailors had been nursing didn’t look so appealing, Terak thought with a savage grin.

  But Vorg hadn’t come to save Terak and Falan, the elf realized. Vorg one-handedly plucked his battle ax from where it had been embedded in the wood, and swung it to point back, over his shoulder, at the setting sun.

  “While you dishonorable idiots have been bickering–we’re about to get overrun!” he bellowed at them in a voice that Terak thought must have been honed in the orcish armies.

  “What?” Falan raised his head, and the elf did too—

  To see small, fast-moving lights coming toward them over the plains, from the direction of their recent battle with the Benuin.

  It was more of the magic flaming missiles, racing low over the ground and swerving around boulders and scrubby trees to find their target.

  5

  Root Magic

  “Everybody out! Move if you want to live!” Vorg shouted at the sailors and soldiers who had been attempting to nurse their wounds or salvage air galleon supplies.

  They had but a little time before the first wave of the life-seeking arrows would reach them. Terak saw that Vorg had already seized up a human shield, which looked small in comparison with the fist that held it.