The Least of Elves by Robin Glassey

Author:Robin Glassey [Glassey, Robin]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: elementals, elves, Fantasy, lds fiction, magic, Young Adult
Publisher: Createspace
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

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

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