The Least of Elves Read online

  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 o
f 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.”