
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

FREE DOWNLOAD

Secrets of Fathara:

The Azetha Series—Book 1

"A true hero is found." AprilE

January 28, 2015

**Get your free copy of** Secrets of Fathara **when you sign up for Robin's VIP mailing list. Get started here:**

<http://robinglassey.squarespace.com/findrobin/>

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 got 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.

As Toran walked through the forest he thought about what it would be like to speak with the villagers for the first time. His pulse quickened as nervousness overtook him. This would be his first contact with Humans and he wondered how he would fare. He had been taught the main Human languages spoken in the Civilized Kingdoms: Rhovan, Sorern, Pirich, Gladheryn. He also spoke faery (fairly well), windah (passably), dwarf (enough to order a decent sword), and giant (abominably — he just could not manage the low tones). It was required learning for Elves to study all the languages of the Civilized Kingdoms and several of the Uncivilized ones.

Learning languages came easy to an average Elf and exceptional Elves went on to learn several of the dead languages. No one considered Toran an average Elf, though, let alone an exceptional one, so of course languages came as rather a challenge. He labored and stuttered over the words and concepts, often mixing the various languages up. Toran had been a source of great frustration to his teachers. These thoughts only increased his anxiety as each day brought him closer to Kipra Village. Would they even be able to understand his halting speech?

With great relief the nervous Elf exited the forest, stepping onto the Western Plains. The abrupt transition surprised him as bright sunshine, no longer filtered by the canopy of leaves assaulted his eyes, forcing his hand up to shade them. The approach of autumn had turned the tall grasses of the plains a golden brown which sparkled here and there with the rays of the afternoon sun. The grasses shushed against each other as they swayed gently in the breeze. Toran felt relief, and more importantly, a sense of rightness to his steps as he strode away from the Forest of Xanti and onto the plains toward Kipra.

Two

Sosha felt around for her father's clay mug, crushed up some mora leaves between the palms of her hands and allowed them to fall into the mug. Using her apron, she protected her hand and searched for the handle of the kettle that sat heating over the fire. Sosha then poured the hot water over the leaves to create a tea. Her father was beyond healing at this point, but the tea would provide him some relief from the pain. Slowly and carefully she shuffled over to his bed, doing her best not to spill the tea. With one hand she held the mug while the other hand stretched out in front of her feeling for obstacles.

Normally Sosha knew the inside of their little hut by heart and her sightlessness caused her little trouble at home. But with all of the visitors coming and going lately, things had been moved around several times. She'd suffer countless bruises on her shins and hips as long as the visitors brought her father some measure of comfort.

Of course, there was always the exception to the rule. Chodah Setah. Sosha believed that man was born plotting and scheming. She'd have liked to have asked his parents if he'd ever done anything good, but they'd supposedly died under suspicious circumstances years ago, and now Sosha was the target of his attention. Her father wasn't yet dead and Chodah Setah already threatened to take away the mill. As an unmarried woman she couldn't hold property and as a blind woman (an ugly blind woman in her opinion) no one would consider her.

Well, perhaps it wasn't so much the blindness as the fact she didn't act as a blind person should. And that scared them. She walked too confidently, and spoke too confidently. The Humans had no idea she had others to be her eyes.

Even as Sosha sat down with care by her father's side a wind faery stirred her hair, probably Shiforeh. Sosha waved her hand absently at the faery, creating a breeze to blow the annoyance away. A giggle confirmed her suspicion.

_Definitely Shiforeh._

"Those faeries never leave you alone, do they?" Khamden asked, and then shook the straw mattress with a series of terrible coughs.

Sosha placed a hand of comfort on his arm, waiting for his coughing to subside. The rattling sounds slowed and finally stopped at which point she leaned in to administer the tea. Khamden's frail hands shook dangerously as they touched the mug so she held onto it, supporting the weight of the clay mug as he drank. Her father sank back into the pillows, his frail body almost disappearing, and he breathed a deep sigh of exhaustion.

"The faeries are almost always with me, father," Sosha reassured him, putting the mug down and holding his skeletally thin hand in her work-roughened fingers. She still didn't understand how this once soldier could be reduced to skin and bones.

"Whatever happens, stay close to them, my little princess."

She didn't have a chance to answer for another coughing fit started, worse than the last. When it finally stopped Sosha couldn't hear her father breathing. She put a hand on his chest and felt it rising and falling, but slowly – with great pauses in between breaths.

The blind young woman felt the change in the room as when the door is left open on a cold winter's day or when the curtains suddenly close on a well-lit room. Her happy home with her father was about to end. His time was up.

"I know you're here," she told Death. "And before you take him I have something to say." Sosha turned her head to where Death stood. Her blind eyes couldn't see him, but she sensed him standing across the room. Waiting. "I want you to know I hate you. I hate you for taking my mother from me. I hate you for what you do now. If there was anything I could do to stop you, I would."

A light went on in Sosha's head and she raised her hands. Perhaps there was something she could do after all. The air gathered in on itself and she shot dense balls of air toward Death. But she perceived a shift in the room and no change in his presence. Sosha tried again and again, yet Death remained. Shiforeh fluttered around her head, chattering about holes in walls.

A hand tugged on her skirt. Sosha paused — her father's hand.

"Sosha, stop." She grasped his hand and kissed it. Her father continued, "It's time for me to go. Remember you are loved."

And with those words Khamden, the man who had loved her, protected her, and who she had called father for most of her life left her.

Sosha didn't know how long she sat on the dirt floor at her father's side, his lifeless body getting cold and her body growing numb.

He'd promised to always protect her. But now she sat alone.

Although Kelar and Tika continued to treat her kindly, they didn't truly know her. Most of the village avoided her and she supposed she couldn't blame them. They couldn't see the faeries, and to add to it the little creatures had a mischievous streak. It meant freakish thinks often occurred around Sosha. That coupled with her blindness had meant growing up as an outsider in the village.

Sosha blew out the candles in the hut. She had no need of them. With help from Kelar she dressed Khamden in the soldier's uniform he'd worn when they'd first arrived in Kipra Village. It hung loosely on him now.

She'd been a young child when they'd moved to Kipra, her face still healing from the zhralli attack and her heart still hurting from the death of her mother. Khamden had explained to her Mortan had sent the zhralli to hunt Sosha down. Mortan didn't want her or her future children to live, for the sorcerer feared what they could do to him. She thought it ridiculous someone as insignificant as her could be important. For how could a blind girl possibly pose a threat to such a powerful Elf? The very thought was ludicrous. But Khamden had told her everyone was important — some of us just don't know it or act like it. Some of us forget it.

And so they'd hid away from Mortan's sight in Kipra, telling the villagers her injuries were from a sand tiger attack. They'd always feared Mortan would find them again — forcing them to flee once more. Now Khamden was gone. If the zhralli came back, Sosha would be on her own without her father to protect her.

A knock on the door jarred the blind young woman out of her thoughts. She reluctantly stood up and answered the door. When she smelled the man who stood at the threshold she wished she'd ignored the knock.

Chodah Setah.

She already knew what the unpleasant head of the Village Council wanted. Even before the death of her father, Chodah Setah had coveted the mill Khamden had built. Before they had arrived in Kipra the closest mill was a two-day journey to the village of Haman. Khamden had obtained property and built a mill.

The unpleasant man cleared his throat. Chodah Setah had taken several opportunities in the past to "accidentally" bump into Sosha, so she had a very good idea of what he "looked" like. He stood slightly shorter than her with straight, thinning hair. Sosha pictured his second chin wobbling a little as he spoke. And even though she knew she'd shortly be kicked out of her home, Sosha took a little satisfaction in the smell of mint leaves coming off the older man's breath. Apparently he hadn't liked it when she'd told him his breath smelled like a herd of rotting hakku. Sosha wasn't normally unkind, but the man tended to get too close when he spoke to her. Perhaps he was that way with everyone, but it made her uncomfortable.

Sosha could feel him peering around her, most likely analyzing the contents of her small hut. Her cheeks flushed red and she crossed her arms in front of her body.

He cleared his throat again. "The Village Council met today, Sosha."

"Today is not a regular day for the council to meet, Chodah Setah," she replied knowingly.

His tone grew more aggressive. "Although we're sorry for your loss, we can't leave the mill idle, and ownership must be determined." Although the man expressed sorrow, his tone lacked sincerity. He was out for blood.

"The mill belongs to me!" she exclaimed.

Sosha heard a smile in his voice. "You know the law. You're unmarried and can't own the mill." He paused. "You had your chance when my son gave you an offer."

Opin Setah's attempted groping behind the mill had been no offer. The young man was lucky to walk away from the encounter. Well actually, he'd flown a few feet when she'd blasted him with a ball of wind. Fortunately, it had hit him so hard all he'd remembered was the groping part, not how he'd ended up flat on his back.

Chodah Setah continued, "The Council gives you one week. If you're not married at the end of this time the mill will be sold to the highest bidder." It meant the mill would be sold to Chodah Setah, who had the most resources in the village.

Sosha cried out, "What you propose is impossible! There's no one in our village who'll marry me, or even in Haman for that matter!"

"One week," the council leader repeated and walked away.

Sosha slammed the door shut and growled. She refused to allow the man the satisfaction of making her cry. And yet she still found herself slumping down on the floor of the hut, hopelessness overwhelming her.

What could she do? In one week she'd be homeless, with no means of supporting herself.

Life was cruel.

Three

Toran knew he was close to the village when he came to a break in the grasses of the plains. Ahead of him lay the well-tended fields of tilla grain as well as the village gardens. They had cleared the grasses beyond their gardens by about a hundred paces to give a clear view of any advancing predators. In addition to this line of defense, huge dogs patrolled the perimeter on alert specifically for sand tiger attacks. Master Kopu had warned Toran the dogs were trained to surround strangers until the villagers arrived to decide if the strangers were friend or foe.

The nervous Elf approached Kipra Village and the yapping of dogs broke the quiet of the harvest evening as they rushed towards him, effectively surrounding him. Toran stopped in place quietly waiting while the four enormous beasts continued barking and jumping. While they did not bite, they bared deadly teeth giving no quarter, allowing him to advance no further into the village.

As he stood waiting, a crowd of people gathered close by, having emerged from the small clay-based homes of the village. A large man advanced from the crowd and whistled to the dogs, whereupon they stopped their barking and began instead to pant and wag their tails.

The stranger approached Toran boldly, stopped and folded his arms across his beefy chest. The young Elf listened with care, yet could only understand some of the villager's words, "It seems ... have ... visitor to ... village. My name... Kelar, who ... you ... friend?"

Toran blinked rapidly still overcome by the reception of the dogs and then the swift speech of the large, wide Human. Although he stood taller than Kelar by at least two hands, Toran looked like he could blow away in the next breeze compared to the brick wall of a Human rooted in front of him.

He wanted to say his name was Toran, and he was there to deliver boots to Master Kirowak. He believed he came very close to saying the right thing, yet fell short on a couple of Rhodean words. He later learned what he had actually said that day was, "My name Toran, I here to marry Mistress Kirowak."

It was an honest mistake really, and could have happened to anyone. Well, perhaps it would not have happened to just any Elf, because any other Elf would have spoken perfect Rhodean.

Kelar answered, "Welcome, Toran. Mistress Kirowak you say?"

Toran noticed everyone looking at him oddly and whispering back and forth. Elves have excellent hearing, still, with several conversations going at once and in Rhodean, he could not tease out their individual sentences and their meaning. He wondered if this attention resulted from his Elven appearance, and yet he knew this village had seen Elves before. As the closest village to Xanti, Elves had traveled through Kipra, using it as a rest stop on occasion in inclement weather and to trade items. Toran's own brother had come through Kipra before.

Toran wondered if he had slurred or perhaps stuttered. His brow wrinkled in concentration as he attempted to enunciate better. "Please could you show me the way to Mistress Kirowak home? I must to marry her." He spoke louder and clearer.

The villagers' mouths dropped open and Toran wondered what was wrong with him to produce such a reaction? His grammar must truly be atrocious. He suspected he was dropping letters and misplacing words.

Kelar gave him a firm nod of the head, motioning for Toran to follow him down the road. The giant dogs also followed with their tails wagging and feet stirring up the dust. The Elf had to run to catch up with Kelar's quick, purposeful stride.

"You know Mistress Kirowak?" Kelar asked, glancing at Toran sideways and then quickly returning his gaze to the road.

It seemed a simple enough question, yet Toran felt there was more to it in the tenseness of Kelar's body.

"I never meet Mistress Kirowak before. My Master, Master Kopu send me marry to Mistress Kirowak."

At this, Kelar stopped up short, shook his head and proceeded again down the street. "Master Kopu sent you?"

"Yes." Toran proudly answered. He could not believe he had made it to Kipra alive. Now he just had to make the delivery. Master Kopu would be very proud of him (hopefully so would Toran's father).

At the end of the village stood a mud home like any other, with a grass thatched roof. This hut was in a bit of disrepair compared to the surrounding huts as it had a few gaping holes in the front wall. Toran wondered how the owner of this home could live in such disrepair.

Kelar paused and looked Toran up and down, as though assessing him before knocking on the door. Toran noticed the door had a rough black swath of paint around the outer edge of it and wondered at its significance. Looking around he realized none of the other doors in the village had this distinct marking. Before he could ask Kelar about the black paint, the door opened a crack and a soft voice whispered, "Who's there?"

Kelar replied in his gravelly voice, "Sosha, it's Kelar. I ... brought ... visitor."

Kelar's voice softened as he spoke to the disembodied voice on the other side of the door.

"I'm not up for visitors, Kelar."

The door began to close; however, Kelar's hand quickly forestalled it. Again Toran struggled to keep up with Kelar's words. "You ... meet this visitor ... He has something ... to say to you. His name's Toran."

Kelar gently yet firmly pushed the door open, and the figure backed away into the room. They entered the dim hut and Toran's Elven eyesight quickly adjusted to the poor lighting of the room provided only by a small window. The girl had retreated into the darkest corner of the room and turning away, draped a scarf around her head, successfully hiding most of her features. Toran wondered how she could see in a room without candles since the sun had now descended below the horizon.

Kelar must have also felt the lack of light for he looked around and asked, "Are there no candles, Sosha?"

"Sorry, Kelar. I've not thought to make any since —" her voice broke.

Kelar shifted uncomfortably and quickly reassured her, "Don't worry yourself, I'll just keep the door open, if you don't mind." He then opened the door, allowing the moonlight to shine what little light it could into the small abode. Kelar sat down on the closest chair indicating Toran should also sit.

The big man cleared his throat and asked, "How fare you today, Sosha?"

"Fine, thank-you." It was a whisper, just above an Elf's hearing.

Her voice shook as she spoke and her eyes brimmed with unshed tears as she answered Kelar's inquiry. Kelar asked her a few more polite questions, and she answered in one or two-word replies. An unnamed sorrow emanated off the young lady in waves. He wondered if Kelar felt it too. When Kelar said the words holes and wall the girl's distress increased substantially.

Although Toran knew not all Kelar asked, the over‐sized man talked to her in a kind and gentle manner. It seemed the girl required comforting about something, yet about what?

Soon, however, Kelar turned to Toran and invited, "Sosha, Toran has a message for you."

Toran understood his name and the word message, and decided he would try asking the young lady where Master Kirowak was as his prior words had failed to produce the man he sought. Again his poor Rhodean came out as, "Where Mistress Kirowak? I have to marry."

Toran tried to keep up with the ensuing conversation between Kelar and Sosha. Sosha sounded angry as she addressed Kelar, "Is this ... joke? ... father ... dead ... stranger ... my home?"

Although he could pick out a few words, Toran did not understand their overall conversation, so he waited patiently, hoping Kelar would help him find the Human he sought.

Kelar shifted in his chair and beads of sweat appeared on the man's forehead. He appeared uncomfortable and yet his sincerity echoed throughout the room. "Listen,... no joke. His Master sent him... You need... help... mill ... problem solved." Kelar and Sosha then argued for a few minutes as though Toran did not even exist.

Sadly, he was used to this.

Finally, Sosha's head turned towards him, and she addressed him directly. "Toran, is it?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied.

"Where are you from?" she inquired in a measured tone.

"I from Xanti come."

"I'm confused. You... here in Kipra to marry. Correct?"

Toran nodded eagerly. She understood him. Maybe things were turning around for him. "Yes, yes! Master Kopu sent me to marry. He say I do good job to marry. I best." He wanted to take the last words back. It sounded as though he was bragging, which was not very Elven of him. Toran meant Master Kopu trusted him with this delivery. He really should keep his answers simple.

"Why did Master Kopu send you to marry?" Sosha's words came out slowly and Toran could tell she was trying very hard to enunciate and speak in a measured way.

"Kirowak send order to my Master and my Master send me."

Sosha's body language indicated puzzlement — head tilted sideways and one hand on a cheek. The growl of a sand tiger in the distance seemed overly loud in Toran's ears as the silence in the room stretched out. Perhaps they did not receive very many deliveries of footwear in this village?

She advanced slowly from the dark corner towards Toran. When she stood right in front of him, bathed by the moonlight, he realized she wore a scarf artfully wrapped around her head which concealed half of her face and completely covered her eyes. Toran felt more and more confused by the customs of this village. In all of his studies he had not read of any Rhodeans covering their eyes. She took a couple more steps forward, her hands reaching out to touch his face. Unused to such physical contact Toran automatically moved his head back.

"Sosha uses her hands to 'see' people," Kelar explained.

It was then Toran realized Sosha was blind. It explained the darkened cottage, lack of candles and her covered eyes. Toran allowed Sosha's fingertips to brush his cheeks. She gently touched his face again, tracing the contours of his features softly going over his nose, cheeks, eyebrows, chin. She touched his ears and upon reaching the elongated points she froze briefly, retracted her hands as if burned. She should have known he was an Elf when he told her he was from Xanti, still, perhaps the fact did not sink in until she touched the points of his ears.

Did he disgust her? Did she not like Elves? Toran knew many Humans feared magic users. Perhaps she was one of those. Several more questions began to race through his mind. Did she live here alone? And blind? How could she manage? The holes in the hut wall? Was that what was distressing her... that she could not fix it herself and with winter soon approaching?

Kelar slapped Toran on the back, jarring him out of his thoughts.

"Let's let Sosha rest. Come, Toran." Kelar stood up and headed towards the door, dragging Toran with him.

The young Elf felt confused over the events of the day. So far he had been accosted by dogs and been introduced to a sad blind girl. Now night had fallen and he had not yet been able to deliver the boots to Master Kirowak.

They exited Sosha's home and as they walked down the village street, Kelar's dogs yipped and jumped behind them.

"You can stay with me tonight." Kelar said.

Toran kept glancing back towards Sosha's home, nervously wringing his hands. Kelar had hauled him out of the hut so quickly he had forgotten the boots in Sosha's home. He hoped they would be safe there until he could retrieve them.

"This is my home," Kelar indicated the small brown hut they approached on their right.

A light shone inside and the sound of clinking clayware could be heard even from the street. This drew a frown on Kelar's face. Pushing open the door with an abrupt motion Kelar bellowed, "Tika! I've brought company, set another place at the table."

A red-faced Tika opened her mouth to say something to Kelar, and letting her breath out in a rush when she took in the Elf standing next to her husband. Her eyes lit up and she started chattering. "An Elf ... such an honor ... so excited ... would've cleaned ... only hakku stew ... no warning ... " and she gave Kelar a narrow-eyed glare, shooting daggers with her eyes. She quickly brushed tendrils of loose hair back from her face and wiped floury hands on her apron before approaching Toran.

"Welcome, welcome! ... sit down ... comfortable. If I'd known ... I would've been more prepared."

With this comment she sent another scathing glare at her husband. He gave her an exaggerated kiss on the cheek and told Toran Tika might forgive her husband — with time.

Toran was not so sure. This Human struck him as having a very long memory for offenses. Yet despite all of the withering stares for her husband, Tika's manner towards Toran was full of warmth and welcome.

"Tika, Toran. Toran, this... my wife, Tika. Toran is here to marry Mistress Kirowak." Kelar smiled widely at his wife.

She dropped Kelar's bowl of stew, sending it crashing to the ground, and shrieked, "What?"

The big man's grin spread even further when Toran verified his statement with the words, "Yes, I marry to Mistress Kirowak. Kelar help me to find." Tika looked over at her husband with a slight narrowing of her eyes.

"Kelar, just what do you think you're up to?"

***

The next day dawned bright and sunny, yet with a slight chill to the breeze. Toran had enjoyed a nice dinner with Kelar and Tika. She seemed much like Kelar in build and personality. It was hard again to follow their conversation and his head felt weighed down, as though a skrewk nested on his brain.

Toran did not know why he should think of skrewk, and gave a shudder. They were nasty birds of prey, twice as large as a sand tiger and much more dangerous. He did not envy anyone who crossed paths with one of those deadly animals.

Toran awoke early and left Kelar's home to watch the sun rise. Nothing rivaled the beauty in Xanti: a forest alive in color, a city of living homes carved out of giant trees. Many Elves compared the land beyond Xanti like dull silverware. Yet when the first rays of the sun shone on the endless sea of grass, lighting them up like glittering gems, Toran saw a different kind of beauty. He was so caught up in the play of the sunlight on the grass he did not notice the quiet footsteps approaching from behind until they were almost upon him.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Sosha spoke in a soft hesitant voice, speaking slowly so Toran could understand.

"Yes, very beautiful. Not like home, however," Toran said, sneaking a glance at the young woman.

Sosha had her head wrapped up again, this time in a royal blue scarf. Toran had heard of Human women, and men for that matter, in some of the Southern tribes who covered their heads only keeping their eyes visible. She had wrapped her head in such a way that kept her eyes covered along with the right side of her face down to her chin. Her mouth and ears were free to move and hear respectively. However, scar lines ran up into her hairline and down onto her neck. It appeared as though some great creature had raked its claws across her head from one end to the other.

In the rising sun he could now see Sosha's hair was actually dark brown with some red highlights which glinted in the sun. Although the scarf covered much of her face, freckles dotted the tip of her nose and even the backs of her hands. In truth, her exposed skin had turned a coppery brown by the rays of the sun. Sosha's hands were small, and rough. Working hands. She had a slim build, and for all the softness in her voice there was no accompanying softness to her figure.

Yet Toran suspected her voice was not usually this quiet. He also suspected her current sorrow had created this quiet tone for he heard a thread of determination running through her speech. And as she stood motionless next to him, she reminded him of a statue, her features and form chiseled into place, each muscle perfected, hardened by years of labor.

She was beautiful.

Elves were supposed to be breathtakingly beautiful to Humans. Yet as Toran looked at her, taking in her every detail — he looked pale in comparison.

She turned to him, breaking the silence, "Tell me about your home, Toran."

Toran tried to describe Xanti, and found he did not have the Human words for the many marvels in the forest and in the city — things she would never have encountered before: Elementals, faeries, windah, and trees which seemed to touch the sky. He found his efforts at speech halting and frustrating, yet she listened with patience. When he finally stuttered to a halt he wondered what he could safely ask of her. Why was she sad? Why was she blind? Did his appearance offend her? He desperately wanted to ask these questions, yet Elven politeness forbade it and he settled instead for, "You live here always?"

This brought a twist of a smile to her mouth as though she had eaten something unpleasant. She replied in a slow careful way, "No, my father and I moved here when I was little." Then answering his unspoken question she touched her hand to the scarred side of her face and said quietly, "Sand tiger."

A lie.

Elves were good at detecting lies. And why lie about the injury? What had really done that to her? It seemed she sensed he had detected her deception for she stood there with arms folded and chin thrust out as though daring him to disagree.

He was about to ask her more when Kelar ran up to them, the dogs trailing behind.

"Toran! There you are!" Kelar's rapid speech rattled around in Toran's head. Despite that, he thought he understood something about Tika banging dishes and breakfast. Kelar kept talking even as he pulled Toran away by the arm and patted a goodbye to Sosha.

"Well met, Sosha." Toran managed to get out the traditional greeting of Rhodea before being dragged away by Kelar.

***

Sosha reluctantly returned to her hut, her thoughts whirling around Toran. It all seemed so strange and unreal. She recognized Tika's no nonsense knock on the door and she absent-mindedly invited the older woman in. Of course as soon as Tika entered she immediately started in on the topic of the Elf and his marriage proposal.

"Sosha, I don't see what the problem is. Toran is easy on the eyes, polite, and most importantly is willing to marry you. What possible objection could you have?" Tika tapped an impatient foot on the hard packed floor of Sosha's kitchen, with her arms crossed in front of her chest.

Sosha responded quickly, "Tika, did you fail to notice he's an Elf?"

"I'm surprised at you, girl. I never thought you were prejudiced against Elves." Tika injected a little disapproval in her voice, but not too much. Tika apparently knew her well, for Sosha could be stubborn when she felt like she was being forced into something.

The blind girl defended herself nonetheless. "That's not what I'm saying. I don't have anything against Elves. I just don't see how any Elf could live here in Kipra. Did you feel his skin? It was so soft, so smooth." Sosha held out her hands and challenged. "Feel my hands. They're hard and tough. And besides, what could Toran possibly do here to help me even if he did marry me? Would he even survive the first frost?"

Sosha's voice took on a more practical tone. "Listen, Sosha, Elves have lived on Fathara much longer than Humans have and know more about survival than we do. I'm sure Toran has skills we don't even know about which will help you and the village. And the Village Council will have to accept your ownership of the mill if you're married," the older woman's voice lowered, "or become a widow even. Give it some thought, but don't take too long. You need a husband, my dear." Tika gave her a reassuring pat on the hand and her voice softened, "Even if you decide not to marry him, there's always a place for you in my home."

After Tika left, Sosha sat in her kitchen thinking over their conversation. She still didn't understand why Toran had appeared on her doorstep with a marriage proposal. It seemed like such an odd thing for her father to have arranged. She loved her father, however, and thinking about him brought a fresh wave of grief. He'd promised to always protect her. Was Toran's proposal part of Khamden's plan to keep his promise?

Khamden's funeral had been simple as most funerals tended to be in the Rhodean plains. The villagers had gathered around his pyre with heads bowed as Keeper Djohn spoke the words of leave-taking. The simple prayer would help Khamden's spirit on his journey to back to Rhava. As Khamden's only child, Sosha had lit the funeral pyre. Then the villagers' voices had joined together in the Leave-taking Prayer as the flames licked the sky. She could feel the heat of the pyre even now as she thought back on it.

Sosha was truly alone now. Because of her blindness her world had been dark for many years but never bleak, never hopeless. Her father had filled it with sound, laughter and love. Khamden knew Sosha missed Khirra, was often sad about her death, and yet he didn't let her wallow in sorrow. He taught her life doesn't always go how we plan, but we can still make the best of what we have. Khamden was grateful for what he had and didn't complain about having to raise a blind girl as his own. Where others looked on her with pity or revulsion he taught her she had other gifts to use and share.

With Khamden gone emptiness remained, not only in Sosha's home, but also in her heart. She wasn't yet sure she wanted to survive, to keep getting out of bed every morning. Life didn't have meaning for her at the moment. However, having already lost her mother Sosha knew this cutting pain would eventually pass.

If she could make it through the emptiness that yawned in front of her... find something or someone to live for.

Sosha didn't understand what was going on between her and the stranger Toran, but if she chose to keep the mill she'd have to accept his proposal. If Chodah Setah obtained the mill he'd bleed the villagers dry. And besides, the villagers needed her help with the mill whether they knew it or not. They had no idea a blind girl had been using Elemental power to help the mill function on windless days.

Even as Sosha thought this, she spread her hands apart and a swirl of air danced between her fingers before dissipating. But was helping the village and marrying this stranger the solution to the hole in her heart?

Four

With breakfast over with, Toran expected Kelar would finally take him to Master Kirowak in order to complete the boot delivery. "Will I marry Mistress Kirowak today?" Toran asked.

"Soon enough, soon enough," Kelar replied, his eyes sliding away.

"Where Mistress Kirowak?" Toran pressed, hoping to find out where he could find Master Kirowak and make his delivery of the boots.

"Not here right now," Kelar said as the two of them walked around the village. A portly man approached with a large brown birthmark on his face, breath smelling of dead animals and burst in on their conversation.

Again the Humans spoke quickly and Toran caught the words, "Kelar! ... rumor ... Sosha... married ... Elf ..."

Kelar remained unruffled by the newcomer and said with a grin, "Well met ... Chodah Setah."

The man named Chodah Setah turned beet red in the face, making the large birthmark on his beefy cheeks stand out in sharp contrast. His eyes narrowed as he looked over at Toran, yet instead of directing any remarks to the Elf he shouted at Kelar, waving his hands in the air.

"Well? ... waiting ... explanation?" Chodah Setah could not contain himself and flecks of foam gathered at the corners of his mouth as he shouted.

"Why ask me, Chodah Setah? I'm already married," Kelar answered, still smiling. "Ask Toran, he'll tell you himself," and Kelar gestured towards Toran.

Toran wondered at the anger of Chodah Setah and felt grateful all the attention so far had been directed towards Kelar. His gratitude was short‐lived, however, as the red-faced man quickly turned on him demanding, "Why are you here?"

Toran suppressed a sigh and trying in an Elfly manner to be patient said yet again, "I here to marry Mistress Kirowak. My Master send me."

The Elf watched as Kelar coughed behind his hand to cover a laugh as Chodah Setah's face went from anger to shock. His face hardened, and a large vein pulsed madly in the villager's forehead. He turned on his heel muttering, "We'll see about that."

The two watched the enraged man storm down the road, hands pumping up and down, then bang on Sosha's door. The door opened and even from a distance they heard Chodah Setah's voice rising along with Sosha's heated replies. Each word was loud and punctuated and Toran found their words fairly easy to follow as a result.

"What has you more bothered — the fact someone wants to marry a blind girl, the fact it's an Elf, or the fact that when I get married you won't get the mill?"

Sputtering Chodah Setah replied, "I've no problem with Elves, but we don't marry them. They're — different."

"I'm different. Does that mean I shouldn't get married?" challenged Sosha. Sosha's shouts carried down the street and villagers began poking their heads out of their huts, looking for the source of the noise.

"He's just too different. He wouldn't fit in!"

"Thank you for your time, Chodah Setah, and your concern," she said in a way that Toran doubted expressed any small measure of gratitude. Although perhaps he erred, for there was still so much he needed to learn about these Humans.

"Can I tell the Elf he can be on his way then?" the councilman asked.

"I'll handle the Elf," Sosha said. Toran heard that thread of determination in her voice again only stronger this time.

Chodah Setah held his hands up. "Fine, fine. Just trying to be helpful of course," insisted the village leader as he left the yard.

The door slammed shut and Kelar laughed. "Well Toran, I think Chodah Setah may have done you a favor. Perhaps you'll marry Mistress Kirowak today after all."

Toran breathed a sigh of relief. He would finally be able to make his delivery and return home.

That afternoon Kelar took him down the main road of the village, yet this time they turned right where they headed for a home which appeared different from all the others. Outside of the home hung herbs of all kinds, drying in the sun. Although most of the homes had some plants drying, this home had a proliferation of several kinds. He even recognized some grown in the Xantish forest, which meant whoever lived here roamed away from home at times to add to their collection and even traded with the Elves.

Kelar knocked on the door and a woman of middle age answered. It was obvious to Toran she was the collector of the dried creations as a she held out a hand with green-stained fingertips. Dried bits of her current project lay scattered on her grey blouse. When she caught his glance she laughed and brushed them off unselfconsciously as though it was a common occurrence.

"Blessings of the day. Well, come in, come in!" The woman ushered them in. "Sosha should be here shortly." They entered the hut and the smells from the varying herbs seemed to have soaked into the very dried mud of the walls. It made his sensitive Elven nose prickle and he tried not to sneeze. Would it be rude to ask for the door to be left open in order to have a breeze flow through? Then he realized he did not know all of the words to form that sentence anyway, so why bother? He would have to find a way to put up with the overpowering smells. Toran took shallow breaths.

"Toran this is Siphra, our healer, and her son, Keeper Djohn, who's our leader in all things spiritual. Keeper Djohn walked across the room and placed his left hand firmly on Kelar's upper right arm. Kelar returned the gesture. The Keeper then did the same to Toran and Toran looked to Kelar for guidance. He had read about the religion in Rhodea — he regretted not studying it more at the moment. Of course Elves had their own god, so Toran did not know if this greeting was meant for followers of Rhava only. Kelar nodded his head in encouragement so Toran placed his hand on Keeper Djohn's upper arm. Just in case, Toran said a silent prayer to Savandyr, hoping his action had not offended the Elven god.

"I hear you wish to marry Mistress Kirowak?" Keeper Djohn asked.

"That is right," Toran answered eagerly, hoping to finally complete his task.

"I'll be happy to help you with that," Djohn said, smiling at the Elf. "Have a seat while we wait for Mistress Kirowak."

Djohn's tan robe was tied at the waist with a simple brown sash with the hood of his robe resting on his back, revealing a bald head freshly shaven that morning. Still in his early twenties, Keeper Djohn's beard hung not overly long, yet long enough to be braided in a single braid as was required of a Keeper symbolizing Rhava, or the One God, and tied off at the bottom with a small piece of leather.

A knock on the door signaled Sosha's arrival along with Tika. Toran's eyes widened as he took in Sosha's appearance. She wore a pale pink dress which emphasized her slender figure. A pink scarf, which coordinated her dress wrapped her eyes this day. Sosha had unbound her hair, except for a small braid going around the sides of her head to the back. Tiny purple flowers decorated the braids. Even her cheeks had color — flushed pink, probably because of the brisk autumn day.

"Blessings of the day!" Siphra ushered the two women in from the doorway. The addition of two more people made the room feel even more cramped, and Keeper Djohn pushed the table against the wall to create some space. Even with the added area, too many limbs still touched for the Elf's level of comfort.

"Shall we get started?" Kelar said. "I don't see any need to wait longer. Chodah Setah has called a village council meeting. They meet in an hour."

Toran remembered the angry man and the argument Sosha had with him. Kelar looked a little worried as he mentioned Chodah Setah's name. Something was going on with the red-faced man he did not understand.

Tika glared at her husband and slapped him on the arm. "There's no rush, rocks for brains. Let's do this right shall we? Now I understand our own wedding day a little better." She harrumphed at him and then turning to Sosha she smiled and asked, "Are you ready, dear?"

"I suppose so," Sosha said.

"Good. Then you stand over here," Tika shuffled Sosha over in front of Keeper Djohn, "and you stand over here," she grabbed Toran from where he was sitting and stood him next to Sosha. Tika clapped her hands together and declared, "Okay, Keeper Djohn we are all set. Go ahead!"

Toran looked around him confused. He had still not met anyone matching the description given by Master Kopu and the boots were still back at Sosha's hut, yet the man Keeper Djohn said he would help him. He felt lost as to what was happening at the moment.

"Kelar, where boots?" Toran asked.

"Don't worry, we'll get them," reassured Kelar again, not looking Toran directly in the eyes.

Keeper Djohn drew Toran's attention back when the religious leader began talking rapidly. The confused Elf struggled to understand the words. He thought he caught a few such as man, woman, deliver, and help. Toran was concentrating so hard on trying to translate in his head he did not immediately notice Djohn had stopped talking and stared at him — waiting. Djohn repeated his last word to Toran, "Agree?"

"Yes," Toran agreed. (Of course, he thought he was agreeing to a delivery.)

Djohn turned his attention to Sosha and repeated the same words. This had Toran intrigued. What had Sosha agreed to? Was she also delivering something? Keeper Djohn then had them both drink from a cup (which Toran was prepared to do having been warned by his master Humans like to eat and drink when making and receiving deliveries). Djohn asked Toran to sign his name in a registry. Toran also expected this, having been told by his master that for many Humans a verbal promise is not enough: Elves have honor, Humans have contracts.

The wind rattled the window and Toran glanced over as he was bent over the book halfway through signing his name. No ordinary wind blew at the window, however. Tiny wind faeries spun and danced, wearing long sleeve shirts, vests, and thigh‐high boots over top of their pants. He knew the faeries moved too quickly for Human eyes to see.

Returning his gaze to the book in front of him, Toran finished signing his name. As he straightened up and set the writing instrument down, a strong gust blew the door open and one of the faeries spun into the room. As Sosha signed her name in the book the faery flew past Toran's ear and sang in a small twinkling voice, "Congratulations!"

He spoke wind faery fairly well, so he felt fairly confident he understood her felicitations.

"Congratulations on what?" he asked.

"On your wedding, of course!" She circled around him and flew away, while still more flew in to offer their congratulations.

It was then he noticed the wind faeries circled him _and_ Sosha. She smiled at their words and nodded her head. She could not see and yet she knew the faeries flew around her. Somehow the only Human in the room aware of the faeries was the blind one.

It finally donned on Toran what had happened. What had he done?

Looking back on that day it was more than honor which kept Toran wed to his new bride. More than the fact they were both different, both outcasts, more than helping Sosha keep the mill out of Chodah Setah's hands, the truth was, he had felt a connection to her. He had felt a rightness to his path. Some might call it, a step towards his destiny.

Toran quickly settled in to life with Sosha and the village, and fall turned into winter which then shifted into spring. The Elves would have disapproved of him to adapting to Human life as swiftly as he did. He was even mastering Human speech — well — understanding it better.

The needs of the village and his new responsibilities at the mill had prevented Toran from returning home in person to explain his newly married status. He did, however, send a message with a faery so his family would not worry. He had left behind a family in Xanti and created a new one in Kipra Village.

He was finally home.

Five

Corsyn suppressed a sigh of relief as he journeyed home towards the Elven city of Xanti. In the satchel slung over his shoulder he carried a sealed letter from Ambassador Heylann to Queen Lindra. These days not many Elves were willing to courier outside of Xanti, traveling in the Human lands. It was a hazardous job to be sure, yet Corsyn had his Gift to protect him, and he hoped by serving his Queen and the Prime Council it would put him in their good graces.

Traveling also allowed Corsyn time to think and ponder. He wanted to eventually gain a seat on the Prime Council like his father and knew this required a great wealth of knowledge (as well as skill) in evaluating evidence, reading between the lines, debating sides and winning the opinions of others. He knew he lacked the charisma of others, as it was not his Gift to gather friends and acquaintances. Therefore Corsyn would have to make others come to him by gaining a superior knowledge and ability to handle difficult topics and situations. Being a courier gave him freedom to think and study, albeit in an unconventional way.

Corsyn was a couple of weeks into his journey back to Xanti from the Human city of Travanne. Having already travelled along the Murra River for a few days, he kept close to its muddy banks as Pheru, his toah companion, enjoyed flying down from the sky to catch fish in the murky water. Now they travelled in the gold-ripened western grasses of Rhodea. Corsyn's ears caught even the smallest sounds in the grass — the black cricket, the striven beetle (who scurried along gathering ants to feed it's young), the keening brown bird (known for its mournful call), and the clicking jika spider. A few faeries had even breezed past him giggling and causing the grasses to sway and shush.

The early spring sky shone down comfortably, not too warm, although with a hint of a cool night to come. It did not matter to him really as he could withstand extreme temperatures well; unlike the Humans. White puffy clouds dotted the sky and he watched as Pheru dove from the heights above to snap up a small rodent from the tall grass for her dinner. She shook her head to swallow it down whole even as she flapped her brown wings, ascending back into the sky to follow Corsyn west to Xanti.

Before reaching Xanti, however, he had to stop in Kipra Village to see his brother again. His brother.

This time a sigh did escape — of disgust. As he walked, Corsyn thought about his most recent encounter with his only brother Toran. He never enjoyed having confrontations with Toran — of which there had been many throughout the years. Although to be fair, they were not so much confrontations as they were Corsyn berating Toran for dishonoring their House. Toran would hang his head every time and promise to try harder.

This last time had been different, however. Toran had shown no shame; had even defended his behavior! For the first time the bumbling younger brother had stood up to Corsyn without backing down. Astounded at this change in his brother, Corsyn worried at what it meant. How could he explain to his parents, the Prime Council, and the Elven community Toran had married a Human? And to make matters worse, they were expecting a child!

It was disgusting.

Corsyn still had a few more days left to ponder this dilemma. What to do?

Still a few days shy of Kipra Village, Corsyn kept a steady pace through the tall grasses. Wind faeries rushed by periodically, laughing and teasing one another. As usual Pheru ignored them. Most creatures know faeries taste terrible and those that do not quickly spit them out unchewed.

Corsyn strode through the grass, his long blond braids blending in with the golden tops. He wore Elven i'ahfis — supple leathers which molded to his body. His ivory face and hands stood out in contrast to the gently undulating grasses, a face women and girls sighed over in Travanne during each of his visits, despite the centuries of fear of all things magical left over from the Giddrian War.

Even though Corsyn's people fought side by side with the Humans, the fact that an Elf had led the war against them using magic as a weapon, destroying millions had not been forgotten. It was strange though the Humans did not believe Mortan still lived. How could they? Elves had long lives, and no Elf lived that long save two he knew of. Mortan and Queen Lindra.

Pheru cried a warning moments before a sand tiger growled fifty paces off to Corsyn's right in the tall desert grass surrounding him. Corsyn traveled quietly by habit; however, that did not mean the sand tiger or others in its pack were not already aware of him. He stopped and gently drew on his Elven Gift to conceal himself from the tiger and the rest of the pack he assumed must be close by. Corsyn stood quietly, his glittering silver eyes watching and waiting. The gentle breeze created a shushing sound masking the slow, careful approach of the sand tiger through the grass.

Within moments the grasses parted just five paces away to reveal a young female sand tiger with a golden brown pelt and thin black stripes across her back. She paused close to him, her shoulders equal to Corsyn's shoulders, and a deadly tooth as long as his lower arm protruding from either side of her mouth. She sniffed suspiciously in the air, and he used his subtle Gift to gently prompt her to move on. She sneezed twice and then continued on without even looking in the Elf's direction. A few seconds later, a mature male sand tiger with thick black stripes, a wide face and golden eyes passed by on the other side, again, not even paying attention to the courier. The mature tiger padded by, with tongue lolling out and stomach swaying from side to side.

Corsyn kept an eye on the toah in the sky and Pheru finally called out the signal for him to proceed. Elven couriers often travelled with toah for the birds made great scouts (when not focused on their stomachs), and should anything happen to the courier the birds could be relied on to deliver the message. On their own toahs were also great observers. Extremely intelligent birds, they watched and relayed their observations efficiently.

As the sun began it's decent and the sky turned the scattered clouds shades of red and orange, Corsyn approached his anticipated destination — a series of giant red rocks jutting out of the ground. They looked out of place rising up out of the grass, like a giant buried in the ground with only his teeth exposed. Corsyn had found a cave in one of the rocks a few years back and had established a shelter inside with simple provisions and supplies.

A sudden silence fell around him. No birds chirped. No insects buzzed. No faeries giggled. All was quiet. Not even an approaching sand tiger created this level of stillness.

Corsyn motioned for the toah to scout around and she quickly heeded his signal. With his senses alert, Corsyn's eyes rapidly scanned the area, yet he saw no apparent enemy.

The silence was deafening in its warning.

Something was wrong and Corsyn's skin tingled as he perceived a gathering of nearby magical energy. What was it? He felt as though he should recognize it, and yet the energy seemed wrong somehow. Like drinking stale water. Corsyn slid his sword out of its sheath. His knives sat easily accessible on his belt at his waist. His hands at the ready, the Elf proceeded forward slowly, yet continually looking around in all directions, ready should something attack.

Corsyn's eyes scanned the grasses around him and so he was caught by surprise when the blow hit him on the shoulders from above. As tall as an Elf with a wingspan three times as wide, the foul-smelling creature hovered over him with its talons digging into his right shoulder.

Corsyn twisted quickly so the skrewk's other set of talons only grazed his left shoulder. He knew given the chance the bird would try to lift him up high into the air and drop him to the ground. Once incapacitated or dead the creature could feed on him at will.

Although in great pain, Corsyn switched the sword to his left hand and brought it up to slash at the talons which held his shoulder. The bird screeched in pain, and reflexively dug in further. He could not let the beast overcome him, or all of his dreams for the future would come to naught.

Corsyn slashed again, all the while trying to evade the giant bird's flailing left leg with its razor-sharp talons. He heard another squawk, a familiar one, and the flap of smaller wings followed by the skrewk's cry of pain. Pheru cried out triumphantly as the skrewk abruptly let Corsyn go and flew off holding its injured leg close to its body, with blood dripping from its eye and leg to land on the parched earth below. The Elf had never heard of a skrewk flying this far south before.

The shoulder wound was deep, and the four punctures made by the talons were bleeding badly. Even though Corsyn's muscles had already begun mending, it would take a couple of days for such a terrible injury to fully heal. He could hardly move his right arm.

Corsyn assumed the nearness of the skrewk had caused the desert creatures to be silent, yet even as he knelt to get a bandage out of his pack, he saw approaching silhouettes coming from the direction of the giant red rocks.

Whoever approached must have hidden behind the rocks during the attack — using the bird as a diversion to allow them to approach. And here he sat, injured and outnumbered. Yet Pheru had scouted the area and did not report their presence. Odd. No time to consider that — he quickly wrapped his wound to staunch the bleeding, and called Pheru over quietly.

Corsyn drew the letter out of his pouch and tied it to the toah's leg as a precaution. Pheru would know to take the letter to the Queen immediately. The bird pranced nervously on the ground. Corsyn sent Pheru off, giving her careful instructions — the bird understood for she hopped along through the grass and would do so until finding it safe to take to open skies. The Elf then drew on his Gift to protect him from the strangers, keeping his left hand at the ready, prepared to wield his knives in close combat.

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.

He gently eased the window open a bit to peek in and as he did so, several faeries flew past his head and into the hut.

Toran stood stock-still, staring in confusion and horror at his wife as he took in the sight of faeries flying around her and chanting, "The zhralli are coming, the zhralli are coming!"

Siphra said to Sosha. "A few more pushes, Sosha. You can do it, dear. This baby is coming whether you will it or not."

Toran turned away. He could not watch. He could hear — and he felt at risk for passing out at any moment. He managed to stay on his feet (thanks to the wall of the hut) and he whispered encouragingly to her (although she probably could not hear him, with all the sounds she was making).

The faeries continued swirling around the room, knocking over bottles and blowing the curtains. "The zhralli are coming, you must run!"

"I can't run!" Sosha shouted.

"Don't worry, Sosha." Siphra said. "Women in labor say the strangest things sometimes."

The faeries swirled around the room, "The zhralli are coming!"

"Shut up!" Sosha yelled.

Siphra patted her on the hand. "I know you don't mean it, dear. And it seems we have a draft in here." Siphra could not see the faeries; however, she had noticed the commotion they were making and assumed it was a breeze from outside. "Toran! Close that window!" she shouted at him.

It seemed like an age later when the hut became significantly quieter — Sosha no longer cried out and Siphra no longer encouraged her to push. The faeries, on the other hand, still chanted.

Siphra ordered brusquely, "Toran, bring me a clean blanket to wrap the baby in." Apparently he did not come in fast enough, for she barked again, "A blanket, Toran! Now!"

He entered the hut as Siphra was washing the baby in a basin. The little girl — his little girl, did not make a sound. She was small in size, having been born too early, yet the healer reassured the new parents that despite her diminutive size she had all her parts and was breathing well. Siphra wrapped up the tiny girl in the blanket and laid her gently in Sosha's arms.

"You have a beautiful daughter, Sosha, with ten toes, ten fingers, blue eyes and a little bit of brown hair on the top of her head. It looks like it might stay your color. Congratulations, my dear."

"Will she be all right? It's too soon, too early," Sosha fretted as she began worriedly, yet carefully exploring her baby's features with one of her fingers.

"She's breathing well, and looks a little pale, although I think that's because she has her father's Elven coloring, not because she's unhealthy. Of course we still need to watch her carefully and make sure she gets plenty of milk — but so far so good," Siphra reassured the new mother.

"Thank you for your help, Siphra. Would it be alright if I had a moment alone with Toran?"

"Of course, dear. The baby came so quickly I didn't have a chance to bring some herbs with me that you'll need. I'll be back shortly."

The healer quietly exited the small home, still oblivious to the flying faeries. Toran turned his attention back to his wife and took in the beautiful sight of mother and daughter on the straw mattress together. His heart swelled with tenderness, and he could not believe he could feel such instant love for this new little life which had so quickly appeared on the scene. It seemed so strange to think he was a father now with greater responsibilities.

Sosha gently stroked the tiny fingers that flexed at her soft touch. Toran looked down at Sosha and frowned as he noticed the tears in his wife's sightless eyes — tears of joy mingled with tears of sorrow.

She no longer wore scarves in his presence. Turning her face towards him Sosha started to speak; however, emotion choked her words. Clearing her throat, she tried again.

"Remember when I told you how my mother sacrificed her life to save mine many years ago?" After they had married, Sosha told him the truth about her scars; a zhralli, not a sand tiger had left her blind.

"I remember. That was how your sight you lost." Toran said, gently combing his fingers through Sosha's hair, trying to sooth what distressed his wife now.

"Listen to the faeries, Toran."

"I hear them." He wanted to dismiss it as another faery prank, and yet the scars on his wife's face testified of the truth. She bore the physical reminder of their attack and the everyday fear the zhralli would one day find her again. It appeared they had finally done so.

"How have they found you?" Toran asked, his fear mounting as the implications of an imminent attack began to sink in. It was not just the zhralli, but the more powerful zhobani who controlled them — they were the greater problem. What could he do to protect his wife and child against such powerful evil creatures ... and what of the villagers? They would be completely defenseless.

"The how is not important. The faeries have warned us they are coming and we must prepare. We discussed in the winter should this day come, you would take our child to Xanti where she will be protected."

Although they had frequently discussed the possibility, Toran had never really considered the reality. So he protested, "I cannot leave you now! You are in no condition to escape."

"Toran, listen to me! Listen to the faeries! You must leave with our daughter now! I can't run as fast as you and will only slow you down. I must stay and fight to give you the head start you need. We must keep her safe at all costs — like my mother kept me safe. Do you understand?" She grasped his arm with her free hand, tears now running freely down her cheeks. "The bag is ready — you need but put the baby in it." She rocked their daughter, pressing her cheek to the downy hair of the baby's head.

"I'll ask some of the faeries to accompany you and have the remainder stay with me to help me against the dark ones. They can help protect you and find milk for the baby as I won't be there to — " she choked on a sob.

"Please, Sosha, I stay with you and fight," pleaded Toran dropping the bag, coming to her and squeezing her hand.

Sosha stiffened. "No! You must take her to safety quickly. Already we're wasting time arguing. Promise me you'll do this," she demanded.

"Sosha, please, there another way has to be!" However Toran knew she would not be moved.

"There is no other way. We can't put her in danger. She can't protect herself so you must get her to safety. You have to do this for her. Promise me, Toran," she pleaded as she brought his hand to her cheek which was still wet with her tears.

"Promise, I do" he conceded. He could deny her nothing and he hoped she and the faeries would succeed. She had, as a child, beaten the dark ones with her ability to manipulate the wind. The day they had married, Toran discovered Sosha was part Human, and part Wind Elemental. Her ability to control the wind was strong, which explained why she had survived the zhralli attack. Perhaps she could best them again as a grown woman.

Perhaps.

He had a nagging fear though, and an urgency which took hold of him. It could have been the frantic flying of the wind faeries in the room, creating an atmosphere of frenzy and foreboding, or the whispers of fate.

Toran remembered his history lessons about Mortan — the Unbound One — he who broke the greatest promise, broke the Elves, broke the vows. The prophecies surrounding Mortan claimed a child of Elf, Human and Elemental would destroy him. It stood to reason Sosha would be sought out as a child even though she only had Human and Elemental heritage. For if she married an Elf, her offspring would have the ability to destroy Mortan. The sorcerer apparently had not wanted to take that chance.

Toran looked on his daughter, his heart squeezing in fear. He felt the hand of Mortan reaching out to grasp the helpless infant.

Sosha signaled to the faeries asking them in their language if they were willing to help her and her child. They trilled their response in the affirmative.

She assigned the older and faster ones to assist Toran and the baby. The younger ones she kept back with her to fight.

"Bring the baby carrier over here so we can secure her in it." Sosha instructed. Toran brought the baby carrier over which Sosha had sewn during the winter months — no easy feat for a blind woman. He put his arms through and brought the ties around the front. Sosha handed the infant to him, and he carefully placed his newborn daughter in the carrier.

"You'll have to run fast and steady so as not to jolt her, Toran. I'm trusting her to you now."

"This I know, Sosha. Yet name her we must before I leave. What is your wish?"

"There is no time. You must go now. You will have to name her, but I want our daughter's name to reflect her heritage of Elf, Human and Elemental. Now go quickly." She reached out with her hand and he placed it on his cheek and kissed it. Toran then bent down and kissed his wife for the last time on her trembling lips. He crossed the room to the door and opening it paused to look back.

Sosha wiped the tears from her eyes and her chin tilted up. "Go, Toran! Remember I love you, and I trust you to keep her safe. You know Mortan will do everything possible to try to get her because she's special."

"I love you too, Sosha. Please be careful," he pleaded.

"I will."

He heard the lie in her voice.

Toran took in her features one last time and closed the door behind him. He began a quick, yet careful run down the street to Kelar's home in order to warn his friend of the danger to the village.

Toran was not the fastest of Elves, still, he was still faster than any Human. He now worried his clumsy nature would put his precious daughter in danger from protruding roots or rocks in his path. He need not have worried for the faeries made up for his occasional stumbles with gusts of wind to right him when he started to stumble, they bent the tall grasses out of the way making his path easier, and they brought him food to eat so he took fewer breaks.

He could not get his mind, however, off what Sosha was doing and what she would shortly be facing. He picked up his pace for he knew his part was to get their little baby to Xanti as quickly and as safely as possible.

Toran would not fail Sosha, if he could help it. He had failed at so many things in his lifetime, and he dared not fail at this.

The grasses blurred past him and the tiny infant slept on as Toran's protective arms held her steady while he raced for the safety of his ancestral home.

Eight

Back in Kipra Village Sosha cleaned herself up, changed her clothes and slipped on her boots — the very boots Toran had delivered to her only months ago. These boots had become a treasured possession because they reminded her of her father and had brought Toran to her.

Sosha jumped at the knock on the door, and relaxed only slightly when she Kelar called, "Sosha! Are you in?"

She shuffled to the door still trying to get her bearings from the quick delivery and said as she opened it, "I'm here, Kelar. I sent Toran to you to warn the village."

Kelar's huge body filled her doorway, the disapproval emanating off him in waves. No doubt he stood there with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

"Toran told me to put the village on alert, then ran off as though sand tigers nipped at his heels. He gave me no explanation as to what is going on."

"Toran simply did as I asked. Our village is about to come under attack, or rather, my family is. So I'll leave the village. I'm hoping this will keep all of you safe. It would be best, though, if you have everyone armed — just in case."

"Sosha, who would want to attack your family?"

"I don't know how much time I have to prepare, so I'll try and keep it simple. Mortan is real and has been looking for me all my life. He sent zhralli after me as a child and it was a zhralli who blinded me as a young girl — not sand tigers."

Sosha felt Kelar's disbelief. Humans used Mortan's name to scare little children to stay indoors at night. They didn't really believe he existed. She continued anyway, "Somehow they've found me again, and if they discover my daughter they'll kill her as they tried to kill me. Toran has left to take our daughter to safety, and I must stall the creatures to give him time to get away." Sosha reflexively touched her stomach which was now visibly flatter.

This brought a rush of questions. "Are you okay? Is the baby okay?"

"I'm fine and the baby's fine. But Kelar, you have to take care of the villagers while I take care of these creatures."

"If zhralli are on really on their way, I don't understand how you're going to delay them. Let the men of the village handle this, Sosha. You're barely able to stand after delivering a baby. And I hate to rub it in, knowing how capable you are, but how are you going to see these terrible creatures in order to fight them?"

"I can't stand here and debate with you any longer, Kelar. I must finish getting ready and leave the village. My friends will you please show yourselves to Kelar so he knows I have your help?"

The faeries had been there all along, but to Kelar they seemed to suddenly pop into existence, fluttering around the room.

"Will you pick him up for me please?" They giggled and quickly swooped over to him, lifting him off the ground and unceremoniously dumping him on the floor. Sosha heard him land with a loud thud and a grunt. She heard the faeries plan another lift and drop and Kelar must have realized the same thing for he cried out, "Okay, okay!" I get the point! You have help! Just do me a favor and promise me you'll send one of these little guys into the village if you need more help, all right?"

"All right, Kelar, I promise," she lied for the second time that day. "Now hurry and prepare the village." Sosha shoved him out the door, and the faeries gave him an extra push of wind.

Kelar scrambled to stay on his feet.

Sosha heard Siphra's footsteps passing Kelar in the walkway up to her hut, and the healer commented at his odd stumble. When Siphra saw Sosha standing at the door she exclaimed, "Sosha! What are you doing up? You should be resting right now. That baby will be keeping you awake for many hours soon enough, so take the rest while you can get it." She tried to get past Sosha into the little home, but Sosha blocked her way.

"Thank you again for your help today. I'm grateful for my daughter's safe delivery. Were you able to find some restorative herbs I could take? Something that works quickly?" Sosha asked.

If Siphra seemed a little flustered by Sosha's abruptness she nonetheless patiently replied, "I brought mora tea for pain, chamomile to help you sleep at night, and chora root to help restore energy. It tastes better in tea as it's rather bitter, so you'll want to add honey to take the edge off, but if you don't have time to make the root shavings into tea you can always cut a small piece and suck on it. It's not pleasant, but takes effect much faster that way."

Sosha reached out for the things Siphra brought, said a quick thank you and closed the door. She was familiar with chora root and although only a little was advised at a time, she cut off a large piece and put it in her mouth to begin sucking on it. Her mouth twisted at the bitter taste and she gagged a couple of times, forcing herself swallow. She needed the surge of energy the root would give her and waited for a tingly feeling to spread throughout her body.

Every few minutes a faery flew in to give her an update. So far, according to the faeries, all was quiet outside the village although inside the village the bell rang, alerting the men in the fields to danger. As Sosha left her home for the last time the bell stopped ringing. She was so focused on what was ahead she failed to close the door behind her.

Sosha headed down the road and out of the village to the field. As a final preparation she took her hair out of the braid and let it hang loose so Ushinu could hide in her hair and communicate with her without being seen by the zhobani as they approached. Other faeries hid themselves close by waiting for her signal.

As a final precaution, Sosha sent a few of the faeries out to erase any traces of Toran's path for a few miles outside of the village to make it difficult for the zhralli to search for him. The faeries not only erased his path to a point, but also swirled his scent at the end of it into multiple directions to make it confusing for any tracking creatures.

Sosha sat down at the edge of the field and waited. She rested her hands lightly on her knees, closed her eyes and slowed her breathing down. She needed to calm down and clear her mind — focus on her task. She tuned in to the sound of the breeze blowing gently in the field and tickling the strands of hair on her forehead. The wind was neither good nor evil — it just existed. It could be harnessed for benefit or destruction. She'd use the wind today to help her family get to safety.

Sosha didn't know how long she sat there clearing her mind and preparing herself. As the sun was heading toward the horizon, a faery sped towards her at breakneck speed with serious news. She'd spotted zhobani and zhralli approaching quickly and quietly from the north. Sosha had chosen her spot well, for if the dark ones kept on their path they'd come straight through the northern field to her before reaching the village.

She sighed and stood. It was time. She put another piece of chora root in her mouth for a final burst of energy. She hoped the faeries had done their job in scattering Toran's trail. She'd delay the hunt as long as she could and give the zhobani the fight of her life.

Although Sosha couldn't see the five hooded figures that emerged from the plains, she recognized the dark magic reaching out from them — the same dark magic she'd felt as a young girl when she had fought the zhoban. She relied on Ushinu to tell her how many there were and their locations as they approached. Her stomach clenched to think she faced not one, but five.

To make matters worse, she began to hear the telltale clicking of zhralli claws as well. Sweat broke out on her forehead at the sound. How long could she hold out against so many?

Minutes? Seconds?

Sosha needed more help. Ushinu whispered that the zhralli were still hidden in the plains. As the ominous clicking grew louder an idea came to her. She whispered a request to one of the faeries who then discretely flew off into the prairie grass. Sosha hoped her idea would work.

The hooded figures had now come within twenty-five paces of Sosha and paused. The middle one spoke, "We're priests of the Order of Tyomna traveling through Rhodea to preach our religion. Is this Kipra Village?"

Sosha realized with surprise at the zhoban's opening line they didn't know who she was. She needed to play this just right. "Indeed it is," she replied. She saw no reason to lie to the zhobani about this. They knew where they were.

"Then we have found our destination," the middle zhoban said. He appeared to be spokesperson for the group. They began to advance forward again and Sosha raised a hand to forestall them. They stopped at her raised hand.

Pretending to be priests? That was stooping really low. If they didn't want to deal directly with her, then she wouldn't deal directly with them. That served her purposes just fine. She'd keep them talking and buy more time for Toran.

"We already have our religion here and won't be needing another religion, so you've wasted your time in coming I'm afraid. You can tell your superiors we're happy with The One God and have no need of your services."

"Surely a young lady such as yourself does not speak for the whole village?"

"Ah, but someone as young as myself has been taught well by my elders. And my elders have taught me to respect and follow Rhava. So I only tell you what the village Elders will tell you and save you time, energy, and daylight — which is already failing. Pleasant journey, gentle sirs." This last was said with a touch of sarcasm. She just couldn't help herself).

Sosha could tell from his tone the middle zhoban was getting irritated with her and he clearly had a mission to complete. Knowing the zhoban had failed when she was a child these zhobani obviously wanted to be sure they found the child before they did any killing.

"Young lady, I'm surprised at your inhospitable nature. I met with a messenger Elf along the way who specifically praised the virtues of Kipra, and told me should we come through we'd be most welcome here. He specifically told us to call upon an Elf named Toran. Perhaps you could direct me to Toran's home?"

Sosha's blood ran cold when the zhoban spoke of the messenger Elf. "Corsyn?" The question escaped her mouth before she could stop herself.

"Indeed. He talked of a quaint little village he'd just passed through and we thought it would be the perfect place to share our message."

Toran's brother Corsyn had indeed visited them recently. That would explain why she was now facing imminent death and Toran was racing to Xanti with their daughter in his arms. Sosha doubted Corsyn had given the zhobani any information willingly — even if his parting words to Toran had been less than pleasant. She hated to think what means Mortan had used to torture her brother-in-law for their names and location. Yet she couldn't spare another moment wondering if the messenger Elf was alive or dead. She had to concentrate on the here and now.

Sosha cleared her throat which had started to close up with emotion over Corsyn's unknown fate and spoke, "I'm sorry to disappoint, but Toran is not home. In fact, he left the village some time ago." She made a vague gesture with her hands. "He makes deliveries of some kind." She tried to say this with disinterest to appear as a vapid young lady who only knew he was gone, but didn't care enough to know the details of the when and why.

Her ears now picked up the sound she hoped to hear — the growls of a sand tiger pack communicating to each another out in the grasses. Sand tigers were very territorial and from the sounds of it the faery had helped them catch the zhrallis' scent. The sand tigers might help eliminate a few zhralli for her.

Sosha felt a twinge of guilt over using the tigers, for it was doubtful any of them would survive this exchange either. The large cats were fierce creatures with deadly natural defenses. Zhralli were fiercer. Still, the dog-like creatures would be distracted away from Sosha. Just what she needed.

The zhoban sounded frustrated. "I'm sorry to hear that. We were looking forward to meeting Toran. Corsyn also mentioned the possibility of meeting Sosha while we are here."

They still hadn't realized who she was. He was definitely fishing. The zhobani had names and a location, but perhaps not descriptions. At the same time, she couldn't afford to have them enter the village for all it would accomplish would be villagers tortured, lives lost, and they'd end up back at her anyway. She couldn't sacrifice their lives for hers.

"Sosha you say? That's a rather common name. I don't suppose you could describe her for us?"

"Well, she'd probably be about your age — with dark brown hair," there was a short pause, "like yours. And she's with child."

Sosha imagined the zhoban taking a closer look at her as he gave the description; as though he was really seeing her for the first time. She imagined his eyes narrowing in concentration. Her stomach had not yet returned to normal size, yet it was not as big from carrying her baby. Perhaps it was the fact he was looking for a very pregnant woman which had thrown him off.

She heard a slight clicking sound (his skeletal fingers giving a signal perhaps?) and then the shuffling of feet as the hooded figures spread out from each other. Ushinu warned Sosha of their change in location.

She knew the undead man had finally made the connection when he asked, "Just out of curiosity, I notice you have scars down your face. Exactly how did you come by your injury?"

Time was up. She might be only half Wind Elemental, but she was all mother. Were they prepared for that?

Sosha's fingers twitched in readiness. She flashed them a smile that held no warmth. "I had a fight with a zhralli a long time ago," she replied. "Aren't you going to ask me who won?"

"Who won?" he asked.

Just then the sand tiger pack attacked the still hidden zhralli. The zhobanis' heads whipped around at the vicious screams of the tigers and the returning howls of the zhralli out in the prairie grasses.

"I did," Sosha said. She raised her arms and all the faeries flew up from their hiding places to surround Sosha in an instant. Before the zhobani had a chance to turn back, Sosha thrust a solid wall of wind at them, knocking the evil creatures off their feet and slamming them down to the ground.

They scrambled to get up, but with Ushinu guiding Sosha's efforts her hands quickly gathered the air, sending out whirlwinds to wrap around the zhobani.

The whirlwinds swirled the robed creatures up in the air and flung them down to the ground again. If they'd been alive their necks would have snapped — killing them instantly. But they were the living dead, so the zhobani leapt back up as though nothing had happened.

Sosha quickly thickened the air in front of her creating a "shield," although this came at a great cost to her energy reserves.

Sosha wondered how long she could keep them busy, with fatigue already setting in. She'd tear them apart one by one if she could.

Ushinu warned her the five were gathering their dark magic together between their palms. Sosha gave the faeries the job of keeping the zhobanis' arms apart so they couldn't throw deadly green magic at her. Five against one were terrible odds.

The spokesman recovered first from the whirlwind attack and struggled to join his hands, despite the faeries blasting air at him from all sides. Ushinu suggested Sosha take out the zhoban on the far right, who appeared to be the weakest of the group.

Putting her personal safety at risk for a moment, Sosha let down her shield and sent a powerful wind to her right. She focused all of her energy on the swirling wind, asking it to tear and shred, leave no solid form behind. The wind shrieked and howled and took not only the zhoban on the right, but a second zhobani also. It did as she asked, tearing and shredding and the zhobani screamed as they were rendered into tiny pieces. They became a part of the churning wind, a dark terrible tempest that whirled and whistled angrily.

With such a force behind it, this particular creation had no desire to dissipate and raced back towards its creator. Sosha was not yet ready to face Death, however, and using up even more reserves of her strength she begged the wind to diminish and pass her by gently to the south. At the last moment it seemed the shrieking gale died down, and a gentle breeze blew past her which smelled of burnt ash.

Sosha trembled with the effort of using so much power at once. If only she could have controlled the wind enough to eliminate all five zhobani! The faeries on her left had managed to tear apart another zhoban with wind, but at a terrible cost. Several of her friends lay dead in the field not far from her feet. Two zhobani still remained — the most powerful ones.

"It's useless to fight against us, Sosha. You cannot hope to win. I can see you're already tired, and you're running out of little ones to help you see. Should I pick them off one by one?" He laughed as he shot bolts of magic at the faeries. She heard the zap when each bolt hit a faery.

"Stop it!" Sosha screamed, blasting a wind bolt at the cruel shell of man. The zhoban deftly moved out of the way, continuing to fire his dark magic at the young faeries. They dropped to the ground like overfed imry bugs. She felt like dropping too — her legs wobbling dangerously with fatigue.

"What about Toran? Will we find him close by — in the village perhaps?"

He was taunting her, trying to use her emotions to get her to lose control. Sosha needed to calm down. Taking a deep breath she threw several dense balls of air in a row that knocked him back. Ushinu cheered encouragingly in her ear.

"I told the truth when I said he wasn't in the village. He and our baby are gone. I know your kind. Did you think we'd make it easy for you? Did you think we'd tell anyone in that village our plans so you could use them? They don't even know who I really am, let alone where Toran is. After what your kind did to my mother and to me — why in the world would I make it easy for you?" she spat out at him.

"I hear the truth of your words in your voice. But like you, I have also thought ahead." Sosha heard the smile in his tone and the scrape of the ground as his feet dug in for his next strike.

The zhoban declared, "And as the child is no longer with you, you are expendable."

_They hadn't been really trying to kill her so far?_

Sosha's heart tightened and Ushinu chattered a warning in her ear as an onslaught of bolts from the two zhobani raced towards her. She didn't have enough strength to create a shield.

This was it.

The last few faeries hurled themselves in front of the bolts sacrificing themselves to save Sosha.

She dodged and threw wind balls, sent out whirlwinds, but she felt her strength failing. A bolt of dark magic hit her side and Sosha fell to the ground.

As darkness closed in and Sosha sensed Death enter the field she thought, I'll always love you, my little princess.

Nine

Toran imagined his beloved wife standing before the zhobani with arms raised and all the faeries surrounding her. In his mind's eye he pictured her throwing a wall of wind at the zhobani, knocking them off their feet and slamming them down on the ground. He pictured whirlwinds lifting the skeletal creatures up and taking them away.

He knew his wishes were just that — wishes. His wife had incredible abilities; however, as a little girl she had only stood against one zhoban and a few zhralli. Toran tended to think Mortan would not make the same mistake twice. How long could she last against two, three or several? His heart froze at the thought and he almost turned back. The baby strapped against his chest wiggled, and he did not dare do it. He had someone else to save.

The distant howling of the zhralli told Toran his head start provided him by Sosha had ended — they had picked up his trail. It also meant his wife had failed. Tears pricked his eyes, and the faeries quickly dried them. He could not have his vision blurry now and they knew it. They kept a close watch on him as Sosha had ordered. The faeries continued to help him when he stumbled and even brought milk for the baby which he fed her from a hakku horn. He had no idea what kind of milk it was or where they had gotten it from. Still, she drank it up and fell back asleep as he ran.

The new father had been running steadily for two days now. Running through the night had been the most difficult part. Even though Elves have great night vision, it is not perfect and he was, after all, clumsy. Fear for his daughter had him running at his best, though, and he had never run better or harder in his life. That being said, the strain and stress of the approaching zhralli, along with very little rest had begun to take its toll. Fortunately, the baby appeared to be doing fine, having slept most of the time.

When Toran had traveled to Kipra Village he had not run at the breakneck pace he now made. This time, his trip through the plains only took him half a day and he was already making his way through the Forest of Xanti.

Toran hoped to come across an Elven scouting party who could deal with the zhralli which now tracked him. Despite the bow and arrows strapped to his back and knives at his side for close combat, he was no warrior Elf. He could not fight these creatures, and as he listened to the multiple howls carried to him by the wind and his supersensitive hearing, they served to motivate his feet to carry him faster. He needed to keep ahead of the danger.

There could be no more rests ahead — this was the run of Toran's life. The trees passed so quickly they blurred together, his feet seemed to barely touch the ground, his eyes focused ahead darting from place to place looking for the best route — the one with the least obstructions. He needed to avoid fallen trees blocking his path and annoying debris which tended to trip him up. Every few minutes the howling recommenced, sounding ever closer.

As a distraction, Toran turned his thoughts to his daughter and his wife's request he give the infant a name. This was not an easy task he had been given. He had rather hoped Sosha would do this. He had lived a life of making mistakes and to place such a huge responsibility as this on his shoulders.... Elven names carried great significance and he did not want his daughter's life to begin in error from the very beginning.

Howling interrupted his thoughts again. Too close. It echoed on both sides of him now. They had divided up into two groups, closing in. He feared they would get in front of him as well, and he did all he could to try and increase his pace. The zhralli had incredible speed to be catching up on him so quickly.

Shiforeh flew up to Toran's ear and reported there were twenty zhralli in total, divided up into two groups. In one of the groups spurring them on rode a Drover riding a dark green krixa. Drovers had no inherent magic of their own; however, they could use magical objects to control other creatures. Toran felt grateful no zhoban rode in their midst, yet his heart still constricted at the thought of a dozen zhralli and a Drover close to him. He would need help and soon.

At least he would not have to worry about encountering any other wild creatures in the forest for they would all be avoiding the zhralli as well. The forest sat strangely silent around him, except for the zhralli howls. Toran's heart constricted every time they began, and he had to concentrate to keep himself calm.

The faeries became frantic, and Toran looked back to see a black shape in the distance. One of the pack was gaining on him. He signaled the faeries by twirling his finger in the air. They knew exactly what Toran wanted.

Five faeries broke off from him, flying back to the dangerously close zhralli. The animal snapped his teeth at them, however, they stayed out of reach and raced around him in a circle creating a twister which lifted the zhralli off of the ground, placing it high up into the tops of the trees. The treetops of the Xanti forest grew so dense you could almost walk across them. They left the creature stranded on the forest tops to try and find its way down — if it could. They sped back to Toran's side to keep vigilant watch over him and the little one. She had awoken, no doubt because of the howling and clicking of zhralli claws.

Toran still stood badly outnumbered. He could not fight nineteen of these creatures and a Drover, nor could he do so while carrying his daughter. The chance she could be injured during the fight — he could not take it. He had to keep running and hope for help from a hunting or training band. So far Toran's luck was terrible, although considering his past history this came as no surprise.

Another zhralli broke away from the group — gaining on him. He could only figure the Drover forced it forward somehow. Toran tried to increase his speed, and found he could not go any faster. The Elf already pushed himself to his limit and was in fact losing speed. His heart raced, his throat burned, his legs wobbled. He mentally begged his body not to give up — to keep going. He had never pushed his body this hard for this long.

The zhralli were right behind him now. The faeries did their best to trip it and blow it off track, yet it kept regaining it's footing and accelerating. It lunged and swiped with its claws and Toran barely managed to evade them.

He finally saw his salvation up ahead and with a sharp cry of "Yishey! Yishey!" Attack! Attack! The band of Elves in the forest ahead took to the trees in preparation for attack. Toran also took to the trees, yet the zhralli behind him ran too close. As Toran began climbing claws raked down his back. He caught his breath at the searing pain, and blood wet the back of his clothing. Despite the injury, Toran still dragged himself up a tree out of reach before the zhralli could turn around and jump at him again.

It seemed as though Toran's luck had changed, for he had come upon a large training exercise band of about forty Elves. Although the warriors-in-training outnumbered the zhralli, it took great skill to bring Mortan's fierce creatures down. They rained arrows down on the beasts that at first, simply resulted in peppering their tough hides with little effect. A few of the arrows struck them in the eyes, blinding the zhralli and causing them to scratch at their own eyes in an attempt to get the offending objects out. This eliminated a few of the creatures and the Elves attempted to aim more carefully for the eyes as a viable target.

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.

FREE DOWNLOAD

Secrets of Fathara:

The Azetha Series—Book 1

"A true hero is found." AprilE

January 28, 2015

**Get your free copy of** Secrets of Fathara **when you sign up for Robin's VIP mailing list. Get started here:**

<http://robinglassey.squarespace.com/findrobin/>

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 hatred 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.

To learn more about Robin and her books visit:

<https://robinglassey.squarespace.com>

www.facebook.com/robinglassey

Find Robin on Twitter:

@RobinGlassey
