The Least
of
Elves
A Land of Fathara Novella
ROBIN GLASSEY
The Least of Elves Originally published by Salt Lake Community College April 2014
Cover illustration by Allie Ellerman
Copyright © 2014 Robin Glassey
ISBN 978-1500101510
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Dedicated to my family —
Thanks for your belief, support and love.
Works by Robin Glassey:
The Least of Elves: Prequel to The Azetha Series
Secrets of Fathara: The Azetha Series – Book 1
The Veil of Death: The Azetha Series – Book 2
Journey to the Mercy Mines: The Azetha Series – Book 3
Table of Contents
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Note
Secrets of Fathara Prologue
About the Author
Prologue
The zhoban sensed the child, even though her power was somehow muted. He had long suspected her caretakers draped her in a dimmer cloak. The fools underestimated his powers, but the dark was often underestimated until it was too late — everlastingly too late. And this child had evaded him for far too long. His impatience grew.
The krixa he rode sniffed and scratched at the ground with her claws and shaking her long head feathers. The lizard-like creature would need to hunt soon. The night was chill, but the zhoban no longer felt the effects of the elements. He had stopped feeling them long ago at the time of his unmaking. His krixa shifted again, and he put a skeletal hand which barely held a thin layer of dried skin on the animal’s cold scales to still her. Clearly she was uncomfortable carrying him, but he knew she would eventually get used to him.
The child was on the move now as her caretakers had sensed something was not right. It was time for him to take action. The zhoban felt the fear they tried to contain and it pleased him, fed off it even.
He heard the child quietly crying now as he swiftly, yet silently approached the figures riding astride a collared sand tiger. He intercepted them as they entered a clearing in the forest. They looked startled, for it must have seemed as though he had appeared out of nowhere in his black flowing robes, riding a midnight black krixa.
The zhoban’s voice had a raspy quality to it, and in a tone of satisfaction he said, “There’s nowhere for you to run. The game is over and the child is mine. Leave her with me and you are free to go.”
Even as he said this, the clicking of zhralli claws drew near. He had laid more subtle traps in the past, all of which the three now in front of him had evaded, and in truth he was done with subtleties. The brutal zhralli would allow them no escape. The child would be his, or rather, his Master’s.
The trick would be getting the child out of here alive, and disposing of the Elemental and her warrior protector. In truth, he had thought he had won in his last encounter when he had collared the Elemental. At least now with a collar on she would not pose a problem.
The soldier descended from the sand tiger, drawing his sword. His other arm gestured for the Elemental to stay behind him. She wore a hooded cloak and remained on the giant tiger with her arms wrapped protectively around the toddler. He was right. The child was wrapped in a dimmer cloak and she looked at him with wide fear-rimmed eyes.
This will be so easy.
The zhralli entered the clearing behind the zhoban. Twice the size of the largest village dog, but armed with spiked backs and tails, they stared at their newest prey with soulless eyes and scored the ground with long razor-sharp claws which clicked as they walk. The very sound of their claws clacking together while running could strike fear into even the bravest of souls. For if you heard that sound you knew there was no escape. Death awaited.
The zhoban asked, “What is your answer? Do you wish to die today, or will you give me the child and live?”
The soldier replied, “Somehow I don’t think I can trust a zhoban and his companions. The child stays with us.” The man did not shout the words, yet they carried across the clearing in a bold, clear tone. Still, the zhoban sensed the man’s fury. His hand tightened on his sword, feet shifting, and eyes darting, watching from which direction danger would strike first.
“So be it,” the zhoban pronounced and raised bony arms to begin gathering the energy from around him to cast a spell.
It was then the Elemental spoke up, “Khamden! Stop him!”
Khamden reached into his vest, and with lightning speed flung a staffa knife. The knife flew straight and true, puncturing the zhoban’s robe and clattering through his ribcage. It hit him where a heart should have been. If the zhoban had been a living, breathing man, his heart would have stopped beating instantly. But it had stopped pulsing long ago.
He looked at Khamden and smiled a grisly smile with several teeth missing.
“You should have handed the child over while you had the chance.”
Undeterred, Khamden produced a flurry of knives. The zhoban was starting to look like a dressmaker’s pincushion. He no longer paid attention to Khamden’s knives, but returned to his spell with skeletal hands outstretched.
“He’s getting ready to bind her, you must do something!” The Elemental pleaded.
Khamden stepped away from the woman and child, and running forward with sword in hand plunged it into the zhoban’s krixa. She reared up, but instead of the zhoban being thrown off, he simply sprung lightly to the ground.
“Feeling disappointed are you, Khamden?” he laughed. “Don’t worry, your pain will be over soon.”
The thrashing krixa and smell of blood attracted the blood-thirsty zhralli. Waiting no longer they jumped on the dying krixa, tearing giant pieces off and swallowing them whole. The zhoban allowed them their moment to feed, but had to expend great energy to stop them from attacking the Humans. His master wanted the child alive. To see her with his own eyes — before he killed her.
However, in his efforts to control the zhralli the zhoban missed one. It was the smallest of the pack which had missed out on the krixa meal, not being strong enough to get its share. He was hungry and mad and wanted to feed. He had circled around the clearing to find a good angle of attack. Only as the zhralli was soaring through the air, leaping towards the Elemental and child, did the zhoban realize his mistake — too late.
Time seemed to slow down in that moment. He shouted, “No!” and Khamden turned to see what had drawn the zhoban’s attention.
Khamden ran back to the Elemental, but he was not fast enough. The zhralli slammed into the Elemental and child, knocking them from the sand tiger. The zhralli’s front claws dug into the lady’s shoulders and its jaws snapped at her face.
She screamed as they fell backward, both arms wrapped protectively around the child. The trio slammed into the ground and the zhralli’s claws dug into the child’s face when it shifted to get a better position to feed on the Elemental. As the zhralli shifted its claws raked across the little girl’s eyes and down the right side of her face. Even from where he stood the zhoban saw blood rising from the deep gashes. The girl screamed and kept on screaming.
The child’s wailing go
t louder and louder and the wind began to pick up, swirling in the clearing. The zhoban found himself surrounded by a tornado-like funnel of wind, so powerful it ripped his hands apart, preventing him from summoning up his magic. Beyond the funnel the zhralli staggered from the high-pitched sound of the toddler’s screams.
Desperation crawled in the zhoban’s stomach as the wind began to tear at him — he was helpless to stop it.
Was this really going to be the end? To be undone by a Human? A child?
***
Khamden looked down at Khirra and Sosha, only to see blood flowing everywhere. It was hard to tell where it was all coming from, but the deep gashes on the little girl’s face from the zhralli made him want to weep. Khirra lay still — too still. Her shoulders bore deep wounds, but otherwise he could see nothing wrong. Perhaps she was unconscious.
He looked back again to assess the danger. The zhoban was still trapped by the wind funnel, and the zhralli were still disoriented by Sosha’s screaming. He wanted to calm the little girl down, yet he feared if he did it would put them back in danger. He had no idea the child’s Elemental magic was so strong. He suspected the zhoban had no idea either.
He softly put his ear to Khirra’s heart, fully expecting to hear it beating. It was then he noticed his hand at the side of her head getting wet. He lifted it up and moonlight shone off the blood at the back of her head. When the zhralli knocked her off the sand tiger her head must have hit the ground. Just then she breathed a final breath, her body disappearing, leaving behind her clothing and the metal collar which had bound the Elemental in a helpless Human form.
Khirra was gone — her essence returned to the earth, and yet in her final moments she had cushioned her daughter, keeping the child safe.
Khamden locked down his grief for the moment, as a soldier does, for he still needed to get the distressed little girl to safety. He gently sat Sosha up, and tearing off a piece of his shirt he wrapped her still bleeding face. This took only a couple of moments and was no easy task with the distressed toddler.
Then he placed Sosha gently on the back of the sand tiger and got up behind her, being careful not to jar her. Khamden gave the tiger a nudge and Sosha paused in her panicked screaming to cry out, “Where’s Khirra?”
“She’s gone.”
As soon as Sosha understood her mother was dead the little girl screamed again, only this was a wail so full of sorrow it rent the air. The wind rushing past almost knocked the soldier off the tiger to join the whirling tornado around the zhoban.
The tornado swirled faster and faster, lifting the zhoban off the ground. The zhoban tried to bring his hands close enough to work a spell; however, the wind threw his arms apart again and again. The vengeful air also tore pieces of his robe off until only tatters of it remained, snapping angrily at each other like Pirranian eels.
The whirling tornado then sucked the zhralli in. The hound-like creatures dug their claws into the ground against the force of the wind, but it swept them up and tore the unnatural beings apart piece by piece. Beings which never should have been formed.
Their howls of rage mixed with the shrieking of the wind. It seemed like forever, yet it was only a matter of moments before the creatures of the dark were nothing but tiny fragments. The wind died down and Sosha’s sounds changed from screams to whimpers to an occasional hiccup.
Khamden wrapped his strong arms around the little girl and rocked her gently. “It’s okay Sosha, you’re okay now,” he reassured her. Even as the words sounded in the clearing, he wondered if he said them for her or for himself. No more zhralli howled in the night, but he knew they wouldn’t be the last. Mortan would send more. Khamden wouldn’t abandon Sosha, however, and vowed in his heart he’d remain at her side.
“I will always be here to protect you.”
One
He was the least of his House, the least of apprentices, the least of Elves. That was what everyone told him with their eyes, with their gestures, with their sniffs of disapproval (everyone except his mother that was). And he had certainly proven them right, considering past events and his current state of affairs. Toran’s history of apprenticeships was abysmal, and if he failed now under his current Master — well — what was left to him? He had to prove he could do something right — anything.
Toran focused on the ground in front of him, placing his feet just so. How had this happened? On the exterior he looked like any other Elf. His face reflected typical Elven features: flawless skin, perfectly white teeth, and almond-shaped eyes with golden irises. He stood tall, blonde-haired, with a slender and wiry build, seeming to have the strength and grace of his Elven race. Yet where he should have been lithe and graceful, he was clumsy and awkward. He stumbled over feet which acted as though they were too big for his body. His perfectly-proportioned limbs mocked him daily with their inability to function properly.
Toran was the second born to Theadan and Llinna il Alluminon. His father sat on the Prime Council of Elders while his older brother, Corsyn, served as messenger for the Council. Toran knew his parents loved him in their own way (at least, he hoped they did). He heard them whispering about him sometimes, for there was nothing wrong with his hearing. Llinna often reminded Theadan about the day they presented Toran to Lindra, Queen of the Elves, when he was an infant.
According to his mother, six children were brought before Lindra that day, and as she glided past the newborns, giving her blessings for long life and happiness, she paused significantly longer by Toran and gazed into his eyes. Lindra then asked for his name and pronounced Toran would be a harbinger.
As the years passed and Toran showed more and more he was less and less like a typical Elf, his parents “discussed” with increasing frequency what the queen may have meant by the word “harbinger.” Theadan surmised Toran must be a harbinger of bad things, still his mother defended Toran’s youth declaring the best was yet to be discovered. He just needed time, needed experience.
Fathara had already experienced enough of the bad without the ominous word pronounced at Toran’s naming. Xanti remained one of the few Elven cities in existence scattered throughout Fathara and Humans were not welcome. Thanks to Mortan and his reign of terror centuries ago, Humans were no longer welcome in most Elven cities. Mortan’s legacy of dark magic and evil deeds lived on, even if his memory had died in the minds of the Humans. After several wars with Mortan and his sorcerers, the Humans no longer trusted magic — most had banned it, in fact. Some Humans even hunted down magical creatures for sport.
The Forest of Xanti lay on the furthest Eastern Border of the Kingdom of Rhodea. And even though Elves were safe to roam in Rhodea, few Elves actually chose to leave the safety of Xanti and its forest.
Many Elves believed the evil sorcerer still lived, although he had not been seen in recent years. No Elf had lived that long with the exception of their queen. Some speculated she stayed alive only to watch Mortan die.
While most Elves believed in the existence of the sorcerer, they carried on with their daily lives as usual. For Toran, this meant learning a trade. Theadan had called upon some serious favors, making arrangements with a family friend for Toran to apprentice to — a glassmaker of all things.
Glass? Toran wondered what his father had been thinking when he had arranged this apprenticeship. How could the clumsy Elf have possibly succeeded in a room full of breakable things when he was not in full control of his hands and feet?
Toran had destroyed the Master glassmaker’s livelihood in one afternoon. Theadan had then made arrangements for another apprenticeship with a woodcarver. Toran now wondered if his father had intended for him to fail, for woodcarving involved the use of many sharp tools.
The young Elf had lasted longer at this apprenticeship, however.
Two days.
Well, a day and a half really. Perhaps Master Freya would have let him stay longer; however, Toran had cut himself so deeply with the staffa knife on his right hand, almost cutting two
of his fingers off completely. Toran had blacked out. He later found out Master Freya had discovered his unconscious body, staunched the wound, and rushed him to the healing house where Hwayu took care of him — again (she had tended to him countless times over the years).
Toran had attempted several more apprenticeships arranged, as always, by his father and with each apprenticeship more disastrous than the last. Now he worked for Master Kopu, making deliveries. He worried he could ruin even this seemingly simple task as well as his master’s reputation — for Master Kopu had garnered quite the reputation in both the Elven and the Human kingdoms for his footwear.
If Toran lost this delivery job he did not think he could sink any lower in the disdain of his peers, the disappointment of his father, and the dishonor to his House. Yet surprisingly, he had earned Master Kopu’s trust with his successful deliveries within the city. This would be his first delivery outside of Xanti, his first time ever to step outside the Forest of Xanti.
Toran’s stomach fluttered with nervous excitement. At seventy-five years old he was still young for an Elf so his emotions still got the better of him at times. The forest around Xanti stretched for many miles and it would take him close to two weeks to journey to Kipra, the closest Human village, to make the required delivery. He hoped he could accomplish this without losing the boots or worse — his life.
Toran was very clumsy and his magic weak should anything happen — like tripping over a log and breaking a leg. He would not have Hwayu there to heal him this time. Other Elves had enough magic to heal themselves in extreme circumstances. Not Toran. He would be on his own. He supposed if anything happened he would have to resign himself to being eaten by wild animals and hope his spirit would find its way back to the realm of Loren‐ Antiek unaided.
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