The zhralli now became frenzied as their prey sat high above them in the branches. They began jumping up and scrambling for purchase with their sharp claws. Their heavy bodies dragged them back down, claws tearing through the bark with a horrible ripping sound. Howls of disappointment echoed through the forest, and they leapt back onto the trunks, jaws snapping and foaming, eyes wild and crazed. A few managed to gain purchase and scrambled up. Their feet were occupied with keeping balance in the branches so they used their snapping teeth to try and wound the advancing Elves.
This was Elf territory, so the warriors kept out of reach of the razor-sharp teeth and knife-like claws while inflicting wound after wound until eventually the zhralli had sustained too many injuries for even them to survive. The beasts fell to the forest floor only to be replaced by more. This pattern continued until all of the zhralli either lay dead or wandering blind from arrow wounds. Eventually even the wounded were dispatched, at which time the Elves could turn their attention to the Drover. The Drover, however, was nowhere to be found.
Ten
Elran, the leader of the warriors, turned away from dispatching the last of the evil creatures and saw Toran attempting to descend from the tree he clung to. It ended up being more of a controlled fall rather than a jump. That was when he realized Toran was gravely hurt. Blood oozed out of the young Elf’s back and he slumped on the ground with his arms wrapped protectively around his chest. Elran hurried to the injured Elf’s side. Toran breathed shallowly, his eyes closed.
“Toran, can you hear me?” he asked the young Elf.
Toran’s eyes fluttered as though finding it difficult to focus. His chest rose and fell rapidly. The Elf looked exhausted. Several faeries flew around Toran’s head chattering rapidly, and Elran waved them away in annoyance. The injured Elf tried to speak. “Must —” he coughed, winced, and tried again, “Must get her to safety.” Toran patted the lump tied to his chest and winced.
Elran looked down at the carrier on Toran’s stomach and untied the straps to see what was inside. His eyes widened in shock to see the deep blue unblinking eyes of a newborn baby. He carefully began untying the carrier and Toran grabbed his hands in an iron grip.
“No! My daughter!” he croaked out.
Daughter? How can this be? She looks human.
In spite of his questions, Elran reassured the distressed Elf, “She is fine, she is fine. I am taking this off to tend to your back. You are deeply wounded, Toran. Let me help you.” Elran carefully untied the carrier from Toran’s back, and Toran kept his daughter in his lap while the warrior wrapped white bandages around Toran’s torso. Blood quickly seeped through the layers of the wrapping and Elran signaled two Elves over.
“Toran, we must return you to Xanti as soon as possible for healing. I am afraid there is little more I can do for you here.”
The two warriors lifted Toran up and swiftly and carefully began running back to Xanti. Elran shook his head. It did not look promising for the counselor’s son.
The Elves brought Toran to the healing house at dusk. The bandages, no longer white, had soaked through Toran’s clothing with his blood. Elran wondered at the now unconscious Elf’s tale. What had brought him to the forest with twenty zhralli at his heels and an infant? Would they ever know with the condition he was now in, his head lolling to one side, still clinging to his child and teetering between life and death?
Hwayu looked up and her mouth tightened when they brought Toran in and described the attack. The healer bent down, and while stroking Toran’s forehead whispered in his ear. The tight grip on the infant loosened and the healer gently took the baby from Toran’s arms. The critically injured Elf opened his eyes, his arms reaching back out for his daughter.
Elran gave himself the assignment to break the news of Toran’s arrival and injury to his family. He arrived at the il Alluminon home just as the sun was setting. He found Llinna il Alluminon in the garden picking herbs when he ran up the path. She turned and nodded her head at him. If she thought the time of his arrival strange, she said nothing of it. Elran often had business with her husband due to Theadan’s position on the council.
He nodded respectfully and greeted her. “Raye.”
“Yana raye,” she responded automatically. “Theadan is not here, Feraona Elran.”
“Mistress Alluminon, I am afraid I have grave news for you,” he came straight to the point. “Your son Toran has returned to Xanti with an injury most dire and is at the Central Healing House. If you wish to see him alive you will want to come immediately.”
“Toran? In Xanti? And hurt? I do not understand …. ”
“The time for questions can come later. For now you will need to hurry if you wish to speak with him.”
“I see. I will go straight there. Would you please advise my husband? He is in council chambers at the moment,” she said, already hurrying down the path.
“Of course.”
“Wait for me, Toran.” Elran’s sharp hearing picked up Llindra’s whispered plea as she picked up her skirts and ran in the direction of the healing house.
Eleven
Hwayu covered Toran’s back with a sticky paste and gave him a tea with healing herbs for pain and fever, however, it was too little, too late. The poison from the claws, the loss of blood, and the pain of the injury had already overwhelmed his fragile system. Any other Elf could have recovered, yet Toran’s body was rapidly shutting down — he had minutes to live. The young Elf held on only to pass along a message.
When his mother walked through the door, Toran shuddered with relief. Her hand covered her mouth so as not to cry out. Her eyes flit back and forth between joy and horror: the joy in seeing him and the horror of his condition.
“Toran, what happened to you, my son?”
“Mother, I wish I could tell you everything from the beginning, however, there is no time. I met a beautiful woman, part Human, part Elemental and we married. That is our child.” He directed his gaze over to his daughter. Llinna’s head turned to follow Toran’s gaze, and her eyes widened slightly at the baby lying in the cradle next to Toran’s bed.
“She is beautiful, Toran. I do not understand —”
He interrupted her, “Let me finish mother. My wife, Sosha, was hunted as a child by Mortan and his zhralli. Her father hid her in Kipra where she was safe up until a few days ago when he found her again. Faeries came to warn us he now wants to kill our daughter. Sosha stayed to fight them and give me time to run her to safety ... to Xanti. It was zhralli which attacked me.”
Toran saw disbelief in his mother’s eyes, and she looked over at Elran. Elran nodded his head in agreement. “He speaks the truth. We killed several zhralli in the forest.”
Toran continued, his voice weakening, “Now it is your job to keep my daughter safe. Mortan will not stop until he kills her. Ask Queen Lindra what you must do. She understood me, she will know what is best for my daughter.”
“Toran, you have to try and get better. I cannot lose you now — not when you have just come back to us,” his mother pleaded, grasping his hand.
“My Gift is knowing my path, mother. It took me a while to understand that. When I met Sosha I knew I had finally found my way. I feel my path ending now. This is what I was meant to do — have my daughter and keep her safe ... she was my purpose.”
The least of Elves, the harbinger, having accomplished nothing yet looking over at the tiny girl jerkily punching her fists in the air, he realized he had accomplished everything. She was their hope for the future. She was Fathara’s destiny. She was Mortan’s destruction in the making.
Llinna followed his gaze. “She reminds me of you as a baby. What is her name?”
Toran looked at his daughter in the cradle and remembering his wife’s request, finally made his decision. “Her name is Tikorrah Adanne Aaneeleh.”
He closed his eyes, his chest no longer rising and falling, his soul leaving for Loren-Antiek.
***
For the first time Tikorrah Adanne Aaneeleh opened her mouth wide and cried.
*Note*
Tikorrah: Human; named after Toran’s friend Tika, in Kipra Village.
Adanne: Elven; meaning resembling her mother.
Aaneeleh: Elemental; meaning working by wind.
Excerpt from:
Secrets of Fathara
The Azetha Series — Book 1
Prologue
Sha’Chivok raised a frozen hand to the prison door and hesitated briefly. Before he could knock on the frosted barrier in front of him, Mortan called out irritably, “Enter!”
Bracing himself for the inevitable confrontation with the ancient Elf, the frozen Water Elemental turned the handle and entered the room deep in the heart of Castle Simmai, located in the northern reaches of Gor Vodi. Of all the places in Fathara, this was the perfect place for Mortan to plot and plan, experiment and expand.
Sha’Chivok was not privy to all of his master’s plans. None of the Sha’andari, of which Sha’Chivok had been the first, knew all of Mortan’s plans (for the Elf trusted no one). And yet Mortan promised them so much: power, magic, and immortality. The sorcerer had made Sha’Chivok glorious promises, grand promises. In truth, immortality was nothing to an Elemental. Sha’Chivok could choose to live forever if he wished, yet his power and magic were still limited compared to what Mortan now wielded. The sorcerer’s promises were tempting for an Elemental who had endured much — so tempting.
Sha’Chivok resisted the urge to look down at the gaping hole burned clear through the center of his stomach. His fluid nature could shift the scar, but why bother? He couldn’t make it disappear, only move its position. Only Elemental magic could damage him so. It reminded him of his carelessness in the past. Carelessness in the future would mean more than an inconvenient hole; it would mean his death.
Mortan wore his red robe with gold trim down the front today (never a good sign). On the thick gold trim were woven several magical symbols to amplify Mortan’s power. The Sha’andari often wondered how many rubies it had taken to cover the robe.
In contrast to the blood-red robe, Mortan’s chalk-white face and midnight hair stood out. At his advanced age, the Elf’s hair should have turned silver but Sha’Chivok suspected the sorcerer used alternative means to keep his original color. It was unlike an Elf to show such vanity — such weakness. There were some signs of the Elf’s age such as paper-thin skin and a few wrinkles around the eyes and the corners of his lips. Other than a few wrinkles though, Mortan’s skin remained incredibly smooth for one so old. Sha’Chivok suspected there were more signs of his age that the sorcerer kept carefully hidden using magic.
In the center of the room, suspended in mid-air by a globe of green light, hung a forest windah. The small wooden creature had clearly been tortured for some time as his bark lay in peels — scattered around on the icy floor below him. Slivers and chunks of wood also lay around the room, yet Mortan held no mortal weapon in his hands. Sap oozed slowly from several places of the windah’s body, including the corners of his tiny brown eyes. His head slumped forward with thin twigs sticking out of the top of his head like spiky hair. One solitary green leaf remained on a twig — sticking straight up — as if in defiance of the brutal torture being delivered. The windah’s arms stretched out painfully up and to the sides with his tiny wooden legs dangling uselessly below him.
Sha’Chivok suppressed a shudder at the sight as he pictured himself possibly hanging there, with chunk after chunk of ice ripped off his body. It might happen after he gave Mortan his report. The Elemental forced his eyes away from the tortured creature in the middle of the room, and waited for his master to address him.
“Tell Us what Lindra’s plan is, and all this can stop,” Mortan commanded, in voice that sounded like rushing water.
Sha’Chivok had grown accustomed to Mortan’s strange way of speaking. The Elemental knew the “Us” did not mean Mortan and Sha’Chivok, but rather the sorcerer alone. Mortan was the only Elf Sha’Chivok knew of who spoke in this manner, and he was certainly not going to correct the sorcerer. Sha’Chivok remembered when Mortan used to call himself I, however, that had been centuries ago when Mortan’s eyes were silver, not red. It would be folly to bring attention to the Elf’s odd speech. Every so often Mortan seemed his old self before the darkness overcame him, although those moments were rare and occurred less and less as time went by.
The windah who hung suspended in the room was also in no position to correct Mortan. He merely grunted in reply to Mortan’s question and was rewarded with a flick of the sorcerer’s right index finger. A chunk of wood flew off the creature, ricocheting off the cell wall. Straining against the green magical bonds, the windah gave a high-pitched squeal of pain.
Sha’Chivok doubted it really mattered what question Mortan asked. (In truth, he could have asked what the windah had eaten for breakfast.) The Elf was making no headway in his questioning, for it appeared these little creatures would not break under torture, no matter what the drovers, zhobani, or Mortan himself did to them.
Without even glancing his way, Mortan addressed Sha’Chivok brusquely, “What have you to report?” Another flick of the finger sent an even bigger chunk flying off the windah’s stomach. He howled in pain, straining against the magical bonds, but his mouth quickly clamped down and his tiny eyes glared at Mortan in obvious hatred.
Sha’Chivok was grateful to not have Mortan’s direct gaze on him. The Elf’s unnatural blood red eyes with shifting black specks unsettled even the bravest of souls. The Elemental shifted his gaze to a point on the wall beyond the defiant windah.
“The search for the child of the prophecy continues, Master. We’ve narrowed our focus to the Kingdom of Rhodea, as it contains the most unregulated use of magic. Finding Azetha remains difficult, however, as the land is full of Keepers. The use of magic within the cities and villages is constant, making it difficult to narrow down the child’s identity.”
Sha’Chivok’s eyes flickered briefly over to his master, and then back to the spot on the wall. “If there was something more you could provide that would help identify Azetha . . .”
Mortan’s full gaze turned on the frozen Elemental and Sha’Chivok cut off his sentence before finishing. The intense dark red eyes made Sha’Chivok feel as though his insides boiled, screaming for escape into the air and away from his master’s scrutiny. He forced his icy feet to remain still, and wait.
After a painful pause the Elf bit out, “Azetha has eluded you and the rest of the Sha’andari for sixteen years. Those who want the rewards must do the work. It is past time you found the child, Sha’Chivok.”
“Yes, Master. I won’t fail you, Master,” Sha’Chivok promised, bowing low.
“See that you do not. We do not look kindly on failure.” Mortan gestured at the windah who gave a final weak cry and slumped in his bonds.
Sha’Chivok took it as a dismissal and turned to leave the prison room. He grimaced at Mortan’s next words.
“What do you know about the nature of windah?”
“Master?”
“We torture them to death, and yet they refuse to answer Our questions, no matter how simple,” said Mortan, with what sounded like a hint of frustration leaking into his tone.
“Windah are fiercely loyal creatures. If they believe you mean someone or something harm they won’t cooperate, no matter what you do to them,” explained Sha’Chivok.
“Even when We try to manipulate their minds, they remain uncooperative.”
Sha’Chivok gave an apologetic shrug of his shoulders. “Windah are simple creatures, and perhaps that’s why mind manipulation doesn’t work. You can’t force your way into their memories like you can with Humans, Elves and other more complex creatures.”
If Sha’Chivok had a tongue he would have bit it. Instead he froze even harder, crackling slightly from the pressure of it. He shouldn’t have equated Humans with Elves. Mortan’s long-standing hatr
ed of Humans was legendary. It was at the heart of the ancient Elf’s war against the Humans and the rest of Elfdom.
If Mortan heard him, however, he chose to ignore the comment. The ancient Elf was obviously lost in thought, tapping a long white finger against thin lips. He muttered to himself, “We believe they are using the windah for something . . . for what?”
The Elf looked up. “Why are you still here? Find the child. Listen and look for anything out of the ordinary. The Humans today do not trust magic. They try to get rid of anything magical. The stupid beasts in Travanne do not even realize the prayers they say are really magical spells.” This produced a sharp bark of laughter from the black-haired Elf. Sha’Chivok left the cold room taking rapid strides, relieved he’d been spared for the moment. The windah proved distraction enough this time. As he left, however, he heard his master order a drover to clean up the room and prepare another windah for questioning. This time Sha’Chivok shivered, but not from the cold. He had to find Azetha before the other Sha’andari. His very existence depended on it.
About the Author
Robin was born and raised in Ontario, Canada and now resides in Utah with her incredible husband and four lively boys. She first fell in love with science fiction when she raided her father’s collection of science fiction books that he kept in their garage. Although she took a break from fantasy in her late teens, she rediscovered it in her early 20’s and has been a huge fan ever since.
Robin began writing The Least of Elves as a means of dealing with a difficult loss. The story continues in Secrets of Fathara with sixteen year old Tika, Toran and Sosha’s daughter.
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