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    Elf Lord
    Elf Lord
    Elf Lord
    Ebook325 pages4 hours

    Elf Lord

    By David Wright

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    About this ebook

    Deep in the heart of Xristhana, richest city in all of Ilios, an ancient ritual is about to occur, a glaive duel between champions. It is a custom enjoyed by all noble elves, all except Ilona, fabled princess of the House of Fire. When she fails to thwart the barbaric duel with her powerful magic, she is confronted by the victor who attempts to win her heart with his prize. Before love can blossom, Mithrain, who is a lowly glaive lord’s son, must return to the battlefield. Meanwhile Ilona learns of a plot to murder him and his family. Against all reason, she journeys to the Blacklands to save him. Ten years later, Mithrain returns to Xristhana a changed elf. Violent and sullen, he seems hell-bent on revenge against the powerful magical clan of Etoca, and this time Ilona may be powerless to save him. But there are greater troubles on the horizon. Magic is about to fail the enchanted city of Xristhana, a demon is on the rise and a monster perhaps even more powerful awaits just beyond the nether vale.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDavid Wright
    Release dateMar 30, 2013
    ISBN9781301949717
    Elf Lord
    Author

    David Wright

    David Wright is a writer and teacher living on Canada’s majestic west coast. He has a lovely wife, two sparkling daughters and 50 published short stories in dozens of magazines including Neo-opsis, Martian Wave and Perihelion. David’s latest novels are available on Amazon and Smashwords. Visit his author website at davidwright812.wordpress.com.

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      Book preview

      Elf Lord - David Wright

      Elf Lord

      Elf Book I

      By David Wright

      David Wright

      Copyright 2013

      ISBN: 9781301949717

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes.

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      Books written by David Wright can be obtained at better ebook retailers everywhere:

      Books by David Wright

      Flight of the Cosmonaut

      Cosmonaut Book I

      Codename Vengeance

      Vengeance Series: Book I

      Free Audio Book

      I wish to dedicate this book to my family and friends, to Celina for the great cover art, and to Sharon for actually reading it.

      Contents

      Prologue

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Epilogue

      Map of Ilios (lesser)

      About the Author

      Flight of the Cosmonaut

      Codename Vengeance

      Prologue

      ________________

      The gem sparkles with the hue of a hundred suns, a kaleidoscope of a thousand rainbows. To mortals, such a sight would be unbearable, blinding the purest eyes, searing the most innocent of hearts and reducing the mortal flesh to a pile of ash. But no mortal views this gem, not in the ethereal halls of Aoleus. Here only gods sit on crystal thrones, and only the holiest of all gods--the keepers of creation.

      (For there are myriads of lesser deities, gods, demons and demigods, seraphim and cherubim, and fairy folk of all kinds, harpies, sprites, pixies, genies, imps, minions, ghosts and ghouls, and of course elves, who never shall see such a sight though they would gladly forfeit their own immortality to do so.)

      Before this gem is an empty throne of crystal gold in which at one time sat the prime mover, the greatest of all gods whose name has not been spoken nor his face seen since that first spark of creation in the untold ages past. The other gods, of lesser strength and power, do not deign to cross the shadow of this great empty throne, never mind touch it, lest the great unspoken god should return with a wrathful destruction equal to that of his first creation. Indeed, it is the unspoken reverence for this absent god that has kept all of the lesser gods in check, until now.

      To the right of the empty throne, P'hira sits on a golden throne of her own, her flowing robe dancing with fire and light. As goddess of fire, she commands all the incendiary elements--smoke, ash, molten lava, volcanoes, suns, stars and all forms of fire whether natural or magical. Not a spell, dweomer or incantation involving fire is cast without at least a few lines of prayer to P'hira, thus making her the chief patron of the magical arts.

      The other patrons of magic to whom mages, wizards, druids and priests daily pray, sit round her in all their glory--D'hron, god of frost, X'klotholon, god of stone, Zelenos, goddess of wind, and Myronos, goddess of water, ocean and wave. These are the greatest of the keepers of creation, but from time to time, their offspring will come and go with varying degrees of their power. One such tertiary goddess, perhaps the most beloved of all the minor deities, now gazes upon the brightest of gems in all the universe.

      Oh, mother. It is beautiful. What is it called?

      Xristhana.

      I have never seen its like. And now that I have seen it, I wish to revel in its glory for all of eternity. She coos gently, her ethereal fingers caressing the myriad rainbows like an artist's brush across a canvas.

      Daughter, you have always been the most precious of my children, P'hira responds, and the great goddess gives her colossal head a nod, her fiery locks sending glowing sparks into the liquid air. It is beautiful, my daughter, but look deeper. Do you not see what lies beneath the light?

      The lesser goddess squints her immortal eyes, straining to see that which she has missed on first glance, but there is only more light, and more colors, and beneath this façade, even more light and more colors. And if she were but a mortal child, for sure she would not live long enough to see more, but time to the immortals is but a word. And so she gazes, perhaps for days, perhaps for eons, until she sees the object of her mother's warning.

      At first it appears but a minor imperfection, a speck of dust, but as the ages pass and her vision focuses, the spec grows to a dot, and then to a spot. Eventually, the darkness spreads through every color of the thousand rainbows, through every source and corner of light until the entire gem is but a darkened, implacable shard of obsidian.

      The goddess gasps and tears stream down her perfect face. She blinks, and the gem is filled with light and color once again.

      So you see, my daughter, why the gem must be destroyed. P'hira raises her immortal hand, potent with fire.

      No, mother! the goddess cries, throwing her silken body before the sparkling gem. Do not destroy it. I beg of you. For beauty's sake.

      Foolish innocent child, you see what will happen.

      I know. I know. She hides her tears beneath ethereal hands. But is there not a way to cleanse the stone, to wash it clean like the purest snows that fall on the Aolean Mount?

      P'hira shakes her fiery locks.

      There is not. But if you so wish, I will let you try.

      Yes, mother. Please. The beautiful goddess drops to her knees before the great goddess of fire, her hands clasped in humble supplication.

      P'hira gazes upon her most favored daughter with a look of infinite pride and sadness.

      So be it, she says with the voice of thunder, and the powerful spell is cast.

      Chapter 1

      ________________

      Down in the realms of mortals, six white obelisks of polished stone stood erect around a central stage in mock, miniature imitation of the thrones of Aoleus, which the eyes of mortals had never seen. Here the noble elves gathered for an ancient ritual by setting sun, a trial of champions, in barbaric homage to their holy and revered patrons of fire, frost, earth, wind and water.

      Among these noble elves was the fair Zanphir, exalted princess of the House of Wind. A tall female, by elf standards, she was tortuously pretty, but in an icy, untouchable way. Eyes of deepest blue, clothes of finely woven mithril, her jewelry of the finest elfin craftsmanship--ageless, timeless beauty that glistened by moonlight and sparkled beneath the setting sun.

      Many a paramour had fawned over this maid from the grand House of Wind, but none had yet to capture her heart. Nor would they, for Zanphir knew her worth and would hold out for the best possible match. And, indeed, everything she did, even to the point of witnessing a bloody duel, was orchestrated towards this all-consuming end.

      And so Zanphir, cold, unattainable, but beautiful, clapped her hands together with childish glee at the coming event, drawing the eyes and hearts of many a lovesick noble male about her.

      The rules are simple, she said with much enthusiasm, and her delicate voice rang like the call of the multi-colored songbird from distant southern shores. No magic. No guile. Just steel on steel. See how pure it is? I can't believe you've never come out to witness before. It's your duty, you know, as a citizen of the capital. Zanphir shook her head in derision, her long, silver locks dancing over her bare white shoulders like a chorus to her sing-song narration.

      But if Zanphir was the prettiest blossom in a hundred, her consort, Ilona, was the queen rose in a thousand, perhaps ten thousand. In elfin culture, beauty was not something to be left to subjective taste. After ten thousand years of continuous civilization, beauty had been fully plumbed to its minutest attribute. On her fifteenth birthday, the mystic Nuns of the Aolean Coven declared her epaphra or perfect, a blessing which occurred in the elfin world only once a millennium.

      Her flawless physical form, raven hair, infinitely dark as a starless night sky, and deep green eyes, like the southern sea in summer, captured the hearts of an entire generation of young elfin males. Many thought that Ilona, the noble princess of the House of Fire, would soon wed, having been so ordained, but she did not. Years passed without as much as a hint of a union.

      But in truth, this troubled no one very much. Elfin lives were long and Ilona's beauty would not fade until the rivers had worn the mountains into the sea. And none would ever surpass her in ten generations.

      I fail to see the point, Ilona said after a moment's meditation.

      The point? What point? When the red orb of the sun licks the great waters on the western horizon, the combatants enter between the monoliths of the Kaj and cross glaives. One falls and--

      They kill each other! Ilona exclaimed with sudden understanding. Her outburst drew the eyes of a few spectators, all noble males, and Zanphir blanched with embarrassment.

      No, they don't kill each other, Zanphir whispered harshly, and then shrugged. One elf kills the other elf.

      Ilona gasped.

      Zanphir hurried to explain. But that rarely happens.

      But you said--

      I said he falls. Many blows can cause a fall. The blade can simply pierce the skin drawing the merest sliver of blood. His opponent withdraws from the Kaj to seek healing and a victor is declared. They don't have to kill each other, if they don't need to.

      Don't need to? They don't need to do any of this. It's just a stupid game. More eyes fell on the hooded pair, and some with recognition, for even under a hood Ilona's beauty could not be easily hidden.

      No, they don't need to. And would you keep your voice down. If my mother finds out I'm here, she'll send me back to the abbey with the nuns. Zanphir looked at Ilona, a wicked grin on her face. And yours will roast you like a pig.

      Ilona smiled despite her anger. Her mother was known for her fiery temper, and it was no idle threat. The Matron of Fire was an ancient mage of awesome power, and she would not approve of her youngest daughter's presence at such an event.

      Ilona knew she should leave. She should throw back her hood, cast a reproachful glare upon all about her and march out of the ancient Kaj with disdain. But that would achieve nothing. The barbaric contest would continue, another elf would fall, perhaps never to rise again, and the witnesses, having sated their baser lusts, would retire with the smug consolation that they had done their civic duty.

      But this day Ilona had something else planned for these two savages.

      Oh, there he is, Zanphir squealed, her hands clapping excitedly once again.

      A tall elf entered the Kaj, the gryphon feather in his hat making him look like a giant. He wore an expensive mithril tartan of crimson and azure, the colors of Etoca, the most ancient and revered clan in the great House of Wind. He was not particularly handsome, especially among the elves of Xristhana, whose beauty and breeding had been cultured to a point of utter perfection, but he did not need to be either, arrayed as he was in garb of such noble and coveted fashion. He raised his hands in the center of the Kaj and the arena erupted in welcoming applause.

      It's Du'ina, my cousin. He's a glaive master of the highest degree, a real devil. Zanphir chuckled wickedly, her delicate hands flapping together like the wings of a butterfly. His younger brother was defeated last week by some country glaive lord back from the war.

      Glaive lord, like love or war, was a term with multiple meanings. Literally it denoted the weapon of choice of this class of elf. The glaive, although varying in size and design, roughly consisted of a long curved blade attached to a pole. Ten millennia of war had determined the glaive to be the superior melee weapon--more powerful than the sword and more adaptable than the spear or halberd. Glaive lords commanded soldiers and earned their noble titles through military conquest and defense.

      But to some nobles in Xristhana, it was a hollow title. Glaive lords were lesser elves, at best a necessary evil. For glaive lords did no magic. By whatever evil twist of fate or cruel joke of the implacable gods, these particular elves were born without the ethereal spark that had so elevated elfin culture above the common beast. In the words of Ilona's mother, An elf without magic is to be pitied above all creatures.

      Glaive lords, Zanphir repeated with a disdainful snort. Ilona made no comment, and Zanphir eyed her suspiciously. But then she remembered the rest of her tale and her wicked smile returned. But he won't enjoy his victory long. Du'ina tricked him into another challenge.

      He tricked him?

      Congratulated him on his technique. Zanphir smiled knowingly. When Ilona again did not reciprocate the arrogant sentiment, as most elves would have, Zanphir rolled her eyes. He was insulting him, she said as if the point had been obvious. Oh Ilona, sometimes you are just so naïve.

      Ilona regarded her friend out of the corner of her eye. She was not entirely convinced that Zanphir knew that much more about male combat than she did, but she let the comment pass for the moment.

      What happened to Du'ina's brother?

      What? Zanphir was apparently too mesmerized by the coming spectacle to concentrate on anything else. Oh, nothing. Just got poked in the thigh. He crawled out of the ring crying. It was a little embarrassing, or so I heard. I wasn't here, of course. At least not for all of it.

      Zanphir shrugged again.

      Du'ina won't return the civility, I'm afraid. Oh, I don't know if he'll actually kill him. Maybe just a few tendons, or a few fingers, maybe a thumb, but the country elf will never duel again, that much is certain.

      Ilona cringed, but now she was more determined than ever to put a stop to this madness.

      Du'ina took a few more bows and then cast his glance around the stone Kaj as if to say, Where is my opponent? The elves laughed. They loved a duelist; it was true. But they loved a showman even more. That's what made a true glaive master, after all.

      Just then, a wild-looking elf stepped out from behind the monoliths on the opposite side of the small arena. His skin was tanned a deep chocolate like a common farmer, and his hair--his hair was as unruly as a lion's mane, undecided in both direction and color, at once brown and blonde, and streaked here and there with a color that was closer to the sea than the sky.

      He bowed courteously to Du'ina, and then turned to face the setting sun. He made no attempt to acknowledge the crowd of nobility who had gathered to witness the contest. Indeed, he seemed completely unaware of their existence. It was no wonder that he had garnered such disdain among the upper classes who eagerly anticipated his demise.

      When he was completely satisfied that the sun had indeed set, the country elf drew one of his weapons--a simple soldier's glaive devoid of glow or gem. How he had defeated any noble elf with such a bar of iron, Ilona could not imagine.

      May we begin? he queried, although his voice was so muted that only the keenest of elfin ears could have heard it.

      Du'ina turned to the audience for approval and they roared their consent. With a dramatic flourish, the noble elf drew forth both his glaives simultaneously. They were terrifying weapons, with razor-sharp hooks and edges on their shield guards and keen curved blades at both ends of their leather-gripped shafts.

      Although Ilona had always despised the glorification of physical combat, she knew that only a true master could fight with a double-bladed glaive. But to duel with two double-bladed glaives required a skill rarely achieved even in Xristhana’s long martial history. Was Zanphir’s cousin really such a master? Ilona had to concede that he was. How else could he have acquired such powerful weapons?

      Even where she sat two rows back, she could sense their ethereal spark. The left glaive glowed bright blue and contained the power of the icy storm. A white tiger of the most life-like impression rose from the blue hand-guard as if poised to strike with claw and tooth. The blade in his right hand, enchanted with raging fire, pulsed with magical red energy and sported a fiery black dragon on its red steel shield guard.

      Both weapons were finely crafted with glyphs of ancient design, so finely crafted, in fact, that Ilona doubted they could have been made by mortal hands. Ilona had heard of such weapons, products of the gods, some even gods themselves. But such artifacts only existed in the ancient legends. She did not believe in such fairy tales, she reminded herself, but she could not deny the ethereal energy that radiated from them. She would have to work quickly to save the country glaive lord from a short and ignominious death.

      Du’ina raised his exquisite tools of execution and the lustful crowd erupted in applause.

      They are about to begin. Oh, it's so exciting! I hope it doesn't end too quickly, Zanphir babbled over her shoulder, but Ilona could not reply. Her lips had already begun the ancient chant. She felt the innate magical energy of her ancestors welling within her like a volcano. She had not yet completed her charm when she heard the first clash of steel and saw the blinding flash of the lethal glaives.

      Never before had she witnessed such animal ferocity, such a display of raw physical power. The glaive lord dashed forward like a mighty force of nature, his single glaive spinning like a whirlwind. She heard Zanphir gasp beside her. There was no time to cheer on her champion, only to fear for his demise. Ilona pulled down her hood to cover her mouth and hurried to finish her spell, now fearing more for the life of Du'ina than for that of the glaive lord.

      Du'ina gave ground almost immediately, his glowing glaives thrust out before him in a vain attempt to fend off the onslaught. He grunted with the effort, but try as he might, he could not hold back the country elf's blinding attack. Step after step brought him closer to the outer ring, but Ilona could see that he had no choice. If he did not give ground, he would fall to the country elf's invincible blade.

      Oh no, Zanphir chirped like a frightened bird as she bolted to her feet. Ilona stood beside her. In the commotion, no one appeared to notice as she held out her hand and recited the last syllable of her charm.

      She expected the wind to howl and the ground to shake. She expected the ring to split apart and the six ancient monoliths to topple one upon another. And she fully expected to face a severe reprimand from her mother, matron of the House of Fire, upon her return home. But as it turned out, none of these things happened.

      Instead, there was a flash of red from her bloodstone ring, and then nothing. It wasn't a bright flash. In fact, nobody even noticed it, except perhaps the country elf. He turned mid swing and for an instant, Ilona thought she saw him look directly at her, and the corner of his thin lips turn up in a smile.

      Ilona felt her heart leap into her stomach. She feared she had been discovered. She cared little about the punishment she might incur. She was an heir to the House of Fire, the most powerful magic family in all of Xristhana. What could these minor nobles possibly do to her? But that didn't change the fact that she had tried to stop a civic duel--tried and failed. It was the shame she feared most of all.

      But then, without warning, the strange elf simply stepped back from his assault and harnessed his single glaive. Du'ina teetered on the edge of the raised stone circle for an interminable moment and then finally stumbled forward, his double-bladed glaives at the ready. And yet, although the country elf's glaive was still on his back, Du'ina did not seem eager to press on with the contest. Remembering the crowd, however, he bowed dramatically once again. This brought another cheer, albeit weaker than the first, which decayed into a nervous hush as the country elf slowly drew his alternate glaive with his left hand.

      Before Du'ina had time to reconsider, his opponent's thinner, longer glaive jabbed forward with blinding speed. With a quick double parry, Du'ina just barely managed to avoid being pierced through the heart, but once again he was retreating, his feet unable to obey his will.

      Another jab nearly removed his right eye, and then another threatened his groin. Not without humor, Ilona saw his predicament. Normally, expensive mithril armor, such as Du'ina wore, would have provided some protection against a bare, unenchanted blade. But this country elf did not follow the rules of etiquette. Even if he did not kill his opponent, he would leave him maimed, blind, or possibly even castrated.

      Ilona surmised that a man like Du'ina, who existed simply for pleasure and sport, could never endure such a fate. Death would be preferable.

      Sweat ran rivulets down his forehead as again and again he dodged the angry, biting blade, so much like a serpent in its attack, each step bringing him closer to a shameful fall out of the Kaj. Despite the seeming advantage of his two blades to the country elf's single glaive, Du'ina never managed a single attack. Both hands remained in constant motion in a frantic, desperate attempt to protect the more vulnerable parts of his anatomy.

      Up in the galleries, Ilona feared the end was drawing near for this poor peacock of an elf, and she seemed powerless to stop it. She considered charging down into the stone circle and placing her body physically between the two combatants, but she knew her efforts would amount to nothing. She would be removed, presumably with all gentility, and the savage ceremony would continue as it had for centuries.

      Strangely enough, her consort's fears seemed to have subsided. Zanphir now looked on with an eager, almost lustful excitement, apparently content to watch her cousin's death as long as it afforded her some relief from the monotony of her delicate, noble existence. But then, loyalty had never been her most plentiful virtue.

      Ilona had no such shortfall.

      Reaching under her robe, she drew a slender white wand. The powers of her bloodstone ring might have been suppressed by this unholy arena, but wands drew upon entirely different sources of energy, innate in the methods of their construction. And Ilona's wand was no small magical artifact.

      Centuries old and crafted from the most hallowed Starwood elm, it

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