The Least of Elves

by Robin Glassey

  Although the sun was almost down now, his eyesight took in all the details of the newcomers, of which there were five. They all wore close woven brown robes with hoods up and hands hidden. The figure in the center had a black band attached to the bottom of his robe and along the cuffs of his sleeves. To a Human, the facial features inside the hoods would have been hidden in shadow. Not so to an Elf, able to see in shadow and night. Corsyn knew himself to be in the deepest of perils when his eyesight pierced the shadow of the hoods.

  The faces varied in stages of decay and rot. The face on the figure to Corsyn’s far right was mostly bone and some of the flesh hung off parts of the face on the figure to his left. They stopped in unison, fifty paces away and the walking corpse in the middle smiled at him. Corsyn’s stomach clenched.

  The reason for the silence and why it felt wrong now stood before him. Unlike Elves who used magic in a beautiful way to grow and build and heal, the zhobani used magic in a warped and twisted way to corrupt, destroy and kill. The creatures standing before him were an abomination to his eyes. The natural order of death had been halted by magic and twisted to keep them in existence. Nature rebelled against them in her silence.

  Typically, the natural inclination for nature was to flee; however, there would always be those drawn to their darkness like the skrewk.

  Corsyn thought these figures to be a thing of the past — something to be studied and read about in books. The zhobani were a historic and tragic creation of the Giddrian War. To come face to face with a walking evil legend had even his blood pumping loudly in his pointy ears. Corsyn’s simple Elven Gift was obviously not working on these things, yet they were on foot and he was swift while they were — well — rotting. Perhaps he stood a chance after all.

  “Good evening, stranger,” the middle zhoban said in a deep raspy voice.

  With each word the zhoban spoke, puffs of dust escaped his mouth. Was it dust though or dried bits of his body?

  The zhoban continued, “My companions and I were settling down for the night by that rock when we heard a terrible commotion. We came to investigate and saw you struggling with a skrewk. Your handy sword work took care of it before we could render any assistance.” His shoulders shrugged apologetically.

  Corsyn remained silent, wondering what the zhoban played at. Why did they not attack?

  The zhoban pressed on, “We see you’re injured and are in need of some assistance tending your wound.” The zhoban gestured to Corsyn’s shoulder. The zhoban to the left sighed in impatience, and the leader looked at him sharply.

  Corsyn’s fingers twitched, ready to grab a knife and his weight shifted to the right. He wished his right arm worked so he could battle properly. (Not that he was the best fighter.) He was not trained as a Warrior Elf, and yet messengers had to be skilled enough to defend themselves.

  The messenger Elf answered the zhoban, “I thank you for your generous offer, however, my wound will mend on its own and I must be on my way. I believe our journeys take us on different paths, so I bid you good leave.” Corsyn nodded to them and took a couple of experimental steps to the side to give them a wide berth, while keeping a wary eye on the zhobani.

  “I wish we could allow that; however, you are our journey,” the leader said, with pleasure in his voice.

  At this, the others advanced with the intent to circle around Corsyn, and the Elf did not wait for the circle to close. With deadly accuracy he flung a series of knives at the hearts of the zhobani and turned on the ball of his front foot to begin his desperate run into the grasses. Although his aim ran true, the living dead cannot be destroyed so easily. They advanced with the knives still sticking out of their hearts, no fluid dripping out — their life’s blood having long ago been spilt.

  More skrewk approached with giant wings flapping. Corsyn spared a glance and saw three of the giant creatures descending from the sky. There was nowhere for him to hide and he was down to two throwing knives and his sword. He doubted he could take out all three skrewk on his own with three pairs of deadly talons and three sets of powerful wings which could easily knock him down and even break arms if they hit him just right (not to mention their powerful beaks they used to tear the meat off their prey). Now he was their target.

  He began running in a zigzag pattern to make it harder for them to gauge where to dive for him. The smallest of the three dove first and Corsyn dodged to the side while using one of his knives to slice at the wing. All he managed to do, however, was take out a few feathers in his glancing blow before the skrewk sailed back into the sky with an angry squawk. The second and the third quickly followed suit as they dove in and out stretching talons forward at the last second of their dive in their attempts to grasp or cut him.

  Corsyn ducked and dodged, slashed and cut. With speed in his favor, his disadvantage lay in their greater numbers and size. His initial wound from the first skrewk attack was also hampering his ability to fight. Now with even more cuts to his arms and a deep slash in his left leg, which poured blood, his strength and hope diminished. He could not stop to bandage the wounds and prevent further loss of blood.

  All during the battle the hooded figures advanced closer and closer. Corsyn needed to create more distance, still, he could not run far before the skrewk descended and attacked again. Finally with his sword, he administered a deadly slash to the throat of the smallest screwk. It fell to the ground, staggering toward him with beak snapping in a final attempt to injure him and fell forward with a thump. His victory was short-lived, however, as another skrewk flew down from the heights to join the fray.

  The zhobani now stood only ten paces away with the leader holding his arms outstretched, muttering in an ancient language Corsyn recognized from his studies. It chilled him to the bone. A sickly green swirling ball of light gathered between the zhoban’s hands, and he cried out to the skrewk, “Enough!”

  The light shot towards Corsyn, surrounding him and binding him fast. The giant birds squawked their disappointment over losing their meal and settled on eating their fallen comrade instead. Corsyn was more concerned about his own fate than to care about the sounds coming from the dead carcass being eaten a few feet away from him as the remaining skrewk fought over the pieces of flesh they ripped off of the bones.

  Straining against the unnatural magical bond, the Elf found he could not move his body. Even blood refused to flow out of his wounds now, so tightly was he bound by the green light. The zhoban approached him smiling grimly, black eyes glittering.

  “We cannot have you dying on us — yet. There are so many things my master needs to know.”

  Corsyn’s stomach sank.

  Freedom fled.

  The challenge which lay before him now became a test of mental endurance never before experienced in his life. He did not know what information they sought, yet he determined he would not give it and that meant deep meditation.

  Corsyn started his meditation immediately in case the zhoban already monitored his thoughts. Still he was not quick enough, for the zhoban wasted no time in his mental attack. Corsyn felt a stabbing pain in his head behind his eyes and unbearable pressure at his temples. If his arms had been free he would have grasped his head with his hands. He could not, however, and was left to strain against the green light in agony, with eyes bulging wide and mouth open in a soundless scream. “Elders, help me,” he prayed in his mind.

  “He prays for the ancient ones to aid him. How quaint,” the zhoban mocked. “They’re long gone, Elf. They deserted you long ago. Now let us see what you’ve been up to recently — shall we?”

  The pressure on Corsyn’s skull increased and the Elf tried to scream, and still no sound came out. The veins in his neck pulsed madly and he tried desperately to reach a meditative state, and could not. The zhoban forced his way through Corsyn’s memories starting with the most recent.

  The zhoban clucked disappointedly, “He already sent the message off with his toah so don’t bother to check his bag,” the
leader said to one of the others who was reaching for Corsyn’s bag.” The zhoban focused on the messenger Elf with grim concentration. “Ah! This looks promising —”

  He accessed Corsyn’s memory of visiting Toran, and the very pregnant Sosha, before Corsyn had a chance to block his mind.

  The memory winked out and Corsyn found himself back in the plains staring in the face of evil, unable to move or speak.

  The zhoban hissed out, “They say Elves don’t show emotions, yet you certainly feel them don’t you? How humiliating for your House — a child born of Elf and Human. My Master will be very interested to hear about this. In fact, he’s been looking for Sosha for a very long time. I need a little more information on this village of theirs. Let’s begin again —”

  Prepared for the pain this time, Corsyn braced his mind and body for the inevitable. He tried again to draw on his leaf meditation in order to block out the zhoban’s magic; sharpening the details — counting the lines in the veins of a leaf, watching the water as it changed in shade according to its depth as the leaf traveled down the swift-moving river, sensing the temperature of the snow along the shore waiting to melt and join the flow of the river.

  Sensing the change in the Elf, the zhoban narrowed his eyes. “This one is stronger than others we have encountered, but no matter. He will not be able to withstand against Mortan.” Corsyn almost broke his meditation at the mention of the Unbound One’s name.

  The zhoban pulled out from beneath his robe an intricately cut gem in a silver setting suspended on a silver chain. When Corsyn heard the clink of the chain he opened his eyes briefly and saw the red gem. He could not contain his sharp intake of breath. Now he understood why Pheru did not see the zhobani. They had used a rendering stone to travel here.

  Corsyn quickly returned to his meditation, however, because he knew only by deep meditation could he save his mind and the lives of his brother and wife. He realized now he had to have been betrayed. Someone had told the zhobani exactly where he would be. Now they wanted Toran and Sosha. And even if he was angry with Toran, Corsyn still would not betray his brother.

  Mortan had created many rendering stones in the Giddrian War. Corsyn remembered asking his father how the stones worked. His father explained that once, long ago, the Elves knew how to travel far distances across the land through asking Fathara, using their inner magic. This pure way of traveling called Portal Walking had been lost, however. Mortan had found a way to travel great distances using the rendering stones, although instead of asking Fathara for help he tore his way from place to place using dark magic.

  Mortan’s followers had used the stones to assassinate many great leaders during the Giddrian War. At great personal cost, the Elves sent elite warriors to search out the rendering stones in order to wrest them from Mortan’s followers.

  Corsyn recalled seeing rendering stones in the Hall of Antiquity when he was young. At some point they were no longer in the Hall of Antiquity and Corsyn had asked his father where they had gone. Theadan would not tell him answering, “That is Prime Council business and cannot be discussed.” And so he did not ask again. Corsyn had believed until this moment there were no more rendering stones out in the world. He wondered how many more of his beliefs would be challenged before he died — if he died. Facing the zhobani he realized there were worse things than dying.

  The rendering stone around the zhoban’s neck glowed red as his mouth whispered words of activation. Although the sky around them had darkened, the resulting words created a white jagged split in the air which shot down until it reached the ground. The zhoban brought his hands together, then slowly spread them apart. As his hands spread apart, the white light also spread apart creating an opening. Corsyn closed his eyes against the light and concentrated harder on his leaf imagery, retreating deeper into his mind. His body rose off the ground and moved. The light brightened, and he feared what awaited him on the other side of the portal. They entered the white light, and it closed up abruptly behind them, bringing him to a world of darkness.

  Corsyn’s mediation skills held out against the zhobani, however, they were no match against Mortan’s superior magic. In his lucid moments he wondered if Toran, Sosha and their child also hung in cells in Castle Simmai, or if Mortan had done far worse to them. His mind skittered away from that thought. Better to be dead, or like him — an Elf gone mad.

  Six

  Mortan had established his home centuries before beyond the Outer Rim. No living thing traveled beyond the Outer Rim — voluntarily. There were a few exceptions of course; however, those were rare — extremely rare. It was a land of extremes that struggled to sustain life. Located in the furthest regions of the North, the severe cold combined with areas of volcanic activity made it impossible for most vegetation to take hold. Along with this came tales from the tribes living below the Outer Rim of strange hideous creatures which periodically raided their villages to carry off women and children, as well as their strongest warriors.

  Most Humans believed all creatures made by Mortan were destroyed centuries ago and were now a matter of legend and faerytale, used to scare little children into staying in their beds at night. They believed the sorcerer was destroyed — some even claimed the Giddrian War never actually happened (a fabrication by historians to control the politics of the present).

  Rumors like these particularly pleased Mortan, for he counted on the ignorance of the people to give him time to bring his plans to fruition. The sorcerer had been too hasty in the past (even for an Elf): letting his anger get the better of him, making him rush into things too quickly. He realized it was better to wait and let time be his ally; let the majority of his foes simply wither away and die. Time would do his dirty work for him. If everything went his way he would be immortal (unlike their frail bodies susceptible to the sands of time).

  Mortan’s plans were progressing well despite the setback of the child, Sosha, slipping through his fingers years ago. It would mean the prophecy had a chance of getting one step closer to his possible defeat. He had confidence in his plans, however, and the seeds of dissension were spreading throughout Fathara to serve his purposes.

  A scratching at the door interrupted Mortan’s thoughts.

  “Enter,” the sorcerer’s gravelly voice said in irritation.

  The zhoban entered the room and waited for Mortan to speak. He always kept them waiting for a little while.

  Mortan sat behind an elaborately carved table made of ice. His chair, also made of ice, had a high back and curved armrests. Upon closer inspection, the feet of the table and chairs looked as though hands and heads of various creatures were trying to push their way out of the ice with mouths open in screams of agony, pain or horror, the creatures carved in painful detail for eternity.

  If the zhoban who entered the room had any pity in his heart, it would have squeezed in sympathy. Each detail of every face looked incredibly life-like, as if in a blink of an eye it could become a reality instead of a frozen chunk of water. Some wondered if it really was ice. Only Mortan knew the truth.

  “What is it?” Mortan’s voice raised a notch higher.

  The zhoban quickly responded, “My Lord, I know you hate to be disturbed about mundane excursions, still you’ve given strict instructions about the type of information you wish to hear about directly.” As the zhoban gave his report, Mortan’s lips twitched when he heard the name Sosha — he had found her at last — and she was bearing a child of an Elven father. Mortan dug his fingernails into the armrest and the ice curled up in perfect ringlets. Things should never have progressed this far.

  “You are to act upon this information without delay. Capture her if you can, yet if not, make sure she dies this time. Take all precautions, for she will not be unprotected. If you fail in this … ” The ancient Elf looked at the zhoban directly now, his red eyes burning.

  Mortan felt sure if the zhoban could have sweat he would have broken out in one directly. It was more than uncomfortable to be at
the end of such a powerful stare; it was paralyzing.

  “I won’t fail you, my Lord,” he managed.

  “See that you do not.”

  Seven

  It had been a harsh winter and a busy spring in Kipra. Although Toran wished he could have returned to Xanti to give his family the news of his wedding personally, there was too much to do and so he relied on a faery to relay the message. Faeries were never very reliable, and he worried perhaps his message had not made it home.

  A recent visit from his brother had confirmed this fact. Corsyn had been his usual disapproving self and Toran wished even more he could have given the news to his parents himself rather than have Corsyn break the news.

  Leaving had not been an option, however, for Sosha had needed him. And it felt good to be needed for a change. Although Toran had married Sosha because of a language mistake, it was no mistake he stayed married to her. Their relationship had quickly blossomed, and Toran could not imagine life without Sosha.

  Spring had arrived and Toran busied himself at the mill, making some needed repairs when Kelar came bursting through the door.

  The villager looked and sounded panicked as he shouted. “Sosha is delivering the baby!”

  It was too soon — she had three more months yet. Toran dropped the tool held, pushed past Kelar and raced home. He and Siphra ran through the door of the hut at the same time as Sosha cried out in pain.

  Siphra took one look at Toran’s panicked face and shooed him out the door. “I’ll take it from here,” she said, and closed the door in his face.

  He went to the window to try and see what was going on; however, the wavy glass did not provide a clear view.