Blood Gate Boxed Set

by K L Reinhart

  The elf growled in frustration at his dilemma. The Mother of the Second Family of elves in Everdell Forest had been the first person other than Father Jacques to welcome him and seem to respect him for who and what he was—a null. He felt like the Aesther spirit was blackmailing him.

  Terak reached to snatch up his broken blade. He broke into a jog toward the stairs and the embattled Palace above.

  15

  The Battle for Araxia, Part 1

  The corridors of the Palace were filled with the distant sound of fighting and sword clashes as Terak stepped out from the hidden door and back into the passage.

  Smoke, Terak’s sensitive nose detected. He paused, wondering which way to take.

  I stayed here to try and kill the Hexan, who has now left for the Vandra Mountains . . .

  He had felt a loyalty to the Fourth Family of the elves, his kin in some distant way. But they had been betrayed by their own lord and now had a special ticket to survive the apocalypse.

  “That leaves the Araxians.” Terak started to glower, deeper and deeper, at the featureless stones. The terrible thing was that Lord Yuliel had been right. If the Blood Gate was opened, and the orcish forces were rampaging the south, then the other kingdoms of both man and elf would have next to no chance to fight on two fronts.

  But what could he do, just one elf?

  “We are the ones who have to make the hard choices,” Terak murmured to himself. He moved off to where he thought the nearest hall was, gripping his sword-stub in hand. The truth was, there was nothing that he could do to save an entire kingdom, was there?

  And he had obligations to the north. In a strange way, nothing had changed. He still had to find and stop the Hexan from allowing the Blood Gate to open. And he still had to get warning to his fellow Brothers and Sisters of the Enclave.

  “Grargh!” There was an ugly, orcish roar from up ahead of him, around the nearest corner, and a sudden scream of pain. With his newfound strength and all of the desperation and terrible hopelessness of knowing that he could do nothing to save the majority of the citizens here, Terak loped forward, turning the corner.

  It led to one of the long, narrow halls of the Palace of Araxia. It looked to be the aftermath of some sort of skirmish. Banqueting tables and marble vases had been cast aside and smashed, and the dead bodies of both orcs and humans littered the ground. They were splayed in a variety of agonizing, horrible positions where their own unique and particular deaths had overtaken them.

  All apart from two figures, that was. A human Palace Guard, his head bloodied where he had lost a helmet, staggered behind an overturned table. A wounded orc, dressed in part-leather, part-mail armor, attempted to reach him with a metal-spiked mace. The orc had rivers of green ichor running from numerous small wounds all over its frame, arms, and legs, but that didn’t stop it from bringing the mace down on the barricade-table, splintering it instantly.

  Terak ran, his feet soft and silent, leaping over shattered chairs and between contorted bodies.

  The guard’s eyes registered Terak in shock a second before the orc must have sensed him and turned with a grunt.

  But Terak was already leaping through the air and slamming the snapped edge of the blade into the orc’s neck with all of his new-found vitality.

  “Grghhh!” With a sickening gurgle and one last, hopeless flail, the orc went down in a crash with Terak’s weapon still embedded in the side of its neck. A pool of thick green life-stuff slowly ebbed from its body.

  “Who—who are you!” The Palace Guard held up his blade at the silver-armed Terak.

  Good question, Terak thought as he turned to one of the nearer human bodies. He picked up a heavier broadsword and tested the weight. It was a little too heavy for his liking but, given the circumstances, it looked as though it would be the perfect weapon. He added to this another, smaller dagger from the man’s belt. He didn’t feel bad at all for taking something that would be of more use to him than it would be to the dead human.

  Who am I? Terak the Enclave novitiate? Terak wondered for a moment, feeling the strangeness of his situation and actions so far removed from the quiet subterfuge of the Enclave.

  Am I Terak Vardalion? The elf his real mother had wanted him to be. A child of the Second Family—whom he had never really known.

  “Var,” Terak heard himself say. A dagger for dark times.

  “The walls are down.” The guard was clearly too shocked to question the strange arrival of this elf. “No one knows how they did it, but the orcs brought the walls down. No one can find the High Chancellor . . .”

  “Is the King safe?” Terak asked quickly.

  The Palace Guard nodded. “That is why we were here.” The elf saw the human’s eyes flicker to the room filled with bodies. “We’re a part of the rear-guard action, buying the King time to flee on the Royal Galleon.”

  “Hmm.” Terak nodded. He could respect that this human had decided to stay here and give his life for his lord.

  Foolish, but noble, Terak considered sadly.

  “And the Araxians? The people?” Terak asked.

  At this, the Palace Guard’s face fell into dismay. “The people are fleeing through the northern gates with what soldiers and militia we have to defend them. But the runners couldn’t spread word to every district of the city. They were either picked off by the wyvern-riders or blocked by the fires.”

  “Can we signal them? These citizens, I mean,” Terak asked, casting a glance to the distant doors where he heard yet more sounds of clashing swords and grunting elves.

  “The Old Watch Tower Bells,” the guard said immediately. Terak saw hope lightening his face. “They were rung in times of fire and plague, but we thought the walls would hold.”

  “Where are they?” Terak took a deep breath. Maybe there is something that I can do to help save a city after all—or what was left of it . . . “If the citizens heard them, then some might think to flee while they can.”

  “Yes,” the guard agreed. “Come, I’ll show you . . .”

  And at that, Terak Var, the Dagger of the World, sought to save the ruins of a city that he had never called home.

  “Not that way!” The guard, a young man named Homuz, said, clutching at Terak’s sword arm. They were about to take the wide stairs that ran down to the ground floor of the Bridge Keep. An instant later, Terak heard the growl and grunt of orcs outside.

  The warbands had reached the plaza and the Palace. The front gate-hall was a mess of bodies and shattered wood. Homuz dragged Terak back into the shadowy corners of the wide gallery corridor and instead led the way toward a smaller set of stairs, discrete at the back.

  “Servants’ stairs,” Homuz said. “Because the Palace is built as a bridge, there are lots of stockrooms loaded directly to the wharfs under the Palace itself.”

  Once again, Terak had that wry awareness that maybe all human castles were the same. Just like the Black Keep, they were riddled with secret passageways here and there.

  The stairs were narrow and lightless, but Terak’s sharp eyes could pick out the shapes and shadows of the stairs as they descended in a tight circle. They were met by a lighter glow of banked fires. The elf realized they had emerged into a low-ceilinged kitchen. One side of the walls was given over to stone fires and ovens with a snaking system of pipes above them. Terak guessed they took warm water or warm air from the fires to warm distant parts of the Palace.

  It was deserted down here. The large wooden benches still held the abandoned preparations of meals: slabs of meat, bread, cheese, bowls of dates, seeds.

  “Take what you can carry,” Terak said, recalling the wisdom of Father Jacques. For himself, he selected cheeses, seeds, nuts and dried fruit, tying them in a couple of linen hand cloths and stuffing them under the battered Fourth Family breastplate he still wore. He added to this a skin of water to hang at his belt.

  “We don’t know how long this night will be nor when we will get the chance to eat again,” he murmured. He was surprised
that the Palace Guard didn’t think to do this. As a stationary guard, Terak realized that he was accustomed to shift-work and having a constant supply of food, rest, and healing.

  The Enclave-External had taught Terak differently, however. Even though he had been trained alongside others, Father Jacques trained each one to act independently and to always be able to survive.

  Now provisioned, he motioned for Homuz to lead the way. The floors above rocked and thudded with the sound of orcish incursion. To Terak’s finer ears, the brutes appeared to know that they had broken the resistance of the city. They were enjoying themselves as they caterwauled, howled, and threw things against the walls.

  Good, Terak thought. They will be a little less interested in hunting down survivors, hopefully.

  Homuz led them to the rear of the kitchens where an open archway led to still more steps and a waft of cooler, saltier air. “The storehouses are right over the river where it’s cooler,” he explained.

  The Palace Guard was right. It was cooler down here, but not damp, Terak was surprised to discover. He found himself padding behind the guard alongside rows of boxes and grains—and people.

  “Ixcht!” The guard almost jumped out of his skin as rows of scared faces and bright eyes appeared from behind the crates.

  It was the servants from the kitchens, at least ten or twelve of them. Terak counted quickly. Most were women of varying ages, but there were a few younger and aging men as well. One of them, a thin man with balding black hair, stood up holding the largest kitchen knife that Terak had ever seen.

  “It’s going to be okay,” Terak said quickly, relaxing his sword and his stance. These people were terrified and liable to scream and alert any potential orcs of their position.

  “Why didn’t you take the loading gate out of here!? What are you doing here!” Homuz appeared mortified that there were civilians still in the Palace.

  “I—I was about to, sir,” said the balding man with the knife. “But there were orcs on the wharf docks. So, I thought we could hide, wait until morning . . .”

  “The orcs will have overrun the entire city by then,” Terak said firmly. “And, from the sound of what they are doing up in the Palace above–they haven’t got any plans for moving . . .” Orcs have a militaristic society. Terak remembered the bestiaries of the Chief Martial of the Enclave. Given their intense passions and strong sense of pride, the elf thought they would probably spend a long time ransacking the city.

  “We have to get you out tonight, now,” Terak said, speaking calmly but with force to the man with the knife. He tried to project confidence and authority—which wasn’t a natural thing for him to do. But perhaps it was the fact that Terak appeared so strange and otherworldly, with his elvish breastplate, his broadsword, and his silver arm, that made the servants give small sounds of agreement.

  “Homuz,” Terak turned. “How far away is the Old Clock Tower?”

  The Palace Guard blinked a few times and then pointed off to his left. “It’s not far, on the edge of the docks . . .” Terak saw the guard’s face lighten a little as he seemed to alight on an idea. “But the docks might have ships. Will have ships. Not every merchant and sailor will have had time to launch their spare boats. We could—”

  “We could use the river to escape,” Terak nodded, seeing the plan immediately. “Okay. I want everyone to drink a little water right now. Then stay low and follow Homuz,” he said, standing at the Palace Guard’s side. He turned to speak in a lower voice to the Palace Guard, once again trying to impart that sense of quiet authority that he had seen the Father Jacques give many times.

  “You need to be strong enough to lead these people out of here. You are strong enough to lead these people out of here, Homuz,” Terak said. “As soon as we reach the Old Clock Tower, I will wait for you to move off, and then I will ring the bell for the other citizens. Got that?”

  “But the sound will draw the orcs to us!” one of the younger serving boys said in alarm.

  “No,” Terak shook his head. “It will draw the warbands to me.”

  The elf didn’t wait to see the looks of astonishment, trepidation, and worry from the small company he now kept. He gestured for Homuz to lead the way. The guard took one deep, shuddering breath before straightening his own breastplate and tunics, nodding, and then turning to the back of the storehouses.

  The storehouses opened out onto a small hall with wide iron gates. The black-haired servant, some kind of house steward, Terak saw, had the keys. On the other side of the gates was a stone slipway climbing straight up to a low wharf built into the river wall. Terak and Homuz halted their group in the hall as they padded slowly onto the slipway, seeing guttering lanterns atop tall iron poles above them.

  “Grrgh!” There was the sound of distant smashing and cursing as the orcs looted the city.

  “But they’re not close,” Terak breathed to the guard.

  “How can you tell?” Homuz’s eyes were wide in the deep night, and Terak saw them flicker with the reflected light of the lanterns. In response, the elf merely cocked his head, indicating his long and tapered ears. That was part of the reason. The other was that he had been trained by Father Jacques to pay attention to his senses in far greater detail than most.

  “Oh, of course,” Homuz raised his eyebrows and then beckoned for the servants to follow him as he jogged forward.

  Terak broke into a soft, padding run at the same time. He kept pace with Homuz a little further apart. He wanted to be able to see the threats that might surround them and be able to react to whatever happened at any point in their escape.

  The wharf was really just a wide flat area of stone. It had another slipway heading down toward the river and a large turning-circle where presumably wagons and carts would roll through at every hour of the day, picking up or unloading the goods that the city needed to survive. On the far side was a line of heavy stone warehouses with wooden, closed-mouth doors. None of them had been broken into yet, but Terak was sure that it would only be a matter of time.

  “We follow Fisherman’s Lane,” his sensitive ears picked up Homuz saying as he indicated the closest street to the river. The curving street was edged on both sides by either stone warehouses or what looked to be more elaborate, balconied guild huts. Terak saw painted signs blowing gently in the breeze on iron chains declaring their particular trade: Small-boat Fishermen, Sail-menders, The Honorable Lodge of Carpenters.

  It wasn’t really a lane, Terak saw, but a wide, cobbled street suitable for the constant traffic that this busy city must accrue. It was dark in this part of the city, as most everyone had already fled. But there was a small glare of light several streets away and a hundred feet up in the sky . . .

  The Old Clock Tower. Terak saw the ghostly face of a large circle edged with smaller lanterns. It wouldn’t take them long to get there, he promised himself.

  “Wait!” Terak suddenly tensed as he picked up movement a couple of warehouses down. Flickering torch light casting long and lumbering shadows in Fisherman’s Lane.

  “This way!” Homuz hissed, urging the people down the nearest side-alley between the guild huts where the shadows where thick. Terak crouched on the opposite side of the street in the shadow of a warehouse wall. He watched as Homuz was the last to follow the group. Even in his new role, the Palace Guard appeared committed to being the last one out of danger.

  And danger it was that spilled out onto Fisherman’s Lane. Terak felt his lips draw back in a silent growl of anger as several lumbering and large shapes stumbled and loped between the warehouses. They were no longer intent on hunting, and their raucous and harsh voices followed them.

  “Gerr’up here, now!” One of the orcs was gesturing to a slower member limping behind them.

  It looks as though the Araxians haven’t been giving themselves up so easily, Terak thought with a grim smile.

  “It’s the Palace! There’ll be some rich picking up there, I tell ya!” another, smaller orc said in apparent glee. He raise
d a blade and whooping in his guttural voice as he waved it over his rounded head.

  “You eejit, Hok,” snarled the first, commanding orc. “All the warbands are heading for the fancy halls like that there Palace. Whatever bit o’ gold you want out of there—you’ll have to fight for it!”

  “Do I look scared to you, Wekun?” The smaller orc suddenly straightened up, snarling at his fellow. “Human, elf, or orc, I, Hok, have killed ‘em all!” he said proudly.

  “Go and get yerself slotted then,” the larger, much calmer orc Wekun grumbled, instead pointing to the guild huts on the servant’s side of the road. They were far finer-built than the warehouses were, after all. “Ain’t nobody taken a peek in those yet, and I intend to be a rich orc by morning, not a dead orc!”

  This logic seemed to finally sway the boisterous Hok. He grumbled and followed Wekun and two others toward the nearest guild hut.

  Wekun, Hok, the injured orc, and two more . . . Terak counted. Five orcs. He had only ever managed to kill one at a time. Even that had been difficult, as the orcs were naturally much larger, stockier, and fought with a savage intensity, ignoring the sorts of wounds that felled any human or elf.

  The numbers were all wrong to Terak’s Enclave-trained mind. This was not a fight that they could win, even with Homuz and twelve house servants.

  Terak waited for Wekun to kick down the locked door to the Guild of Net-Makers and for the small warband to cluster up the steps and hoot and whoop into the hut behind their leader.

  “Go!” Terak raised himself from his crouch, whispering and gesturing for Homuz to lead the servants toward the river, past the guild huts and away from the orcs.

  He saw Homuz’s worried glance look back at him. Then the human nodded, and moved back into the shadows. Terak waited for the sound of padding feet from the servants—

  “Old bits of rope!” Came Hok’s cry of outrage, as the more boisterous and arrogant orc burst back out of the Guild of Net-Makers followed by the rest of the warband. “What good is old bits of rope to us!?”