Recovering from his near fatal wounds at the Battle of Lavanham, Chork, the last born elf, resumes his quest for knighthood. But first, he must complete the task magically and irrevocably given him by Prince Bomelith – to seek out Cenedril’s last born Billy Tipton, an authority on The Last Born Prophecy.

With dire wolves Maul and Dirk at his side, the young elf befriends Elvenhawk, and together, all four set out for Northbridge and the Tower of Learning. Their path leads them through the Wasteland, a dark and dead battle site rife with ghouls and revenants, to the Elven Enclave of Ailinmar, where friends and aid are not who or what they seem.

 On the other side of the world, Billy leaves the Tower to hunt for a saboteur, a powerful and ruthless sorceress. Billy and her friends, fellow elf Pox, and twin dwarves Citra and Sitca, follow a trail of death and destruction through bugbear infested lands along the Ice River in pursuit of their quarry.

Decision at Donham, the second book in The Last Elf Series, continues the epic tale of Chork, the last elf born in the fantasy world of Brehm – a land of magic and ancient and young races unaware of the schemes of an evil sorcerer bent on “dominion over every drop of water, every speck of dust, every seed, and every life.”

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Below is a short sample of the story that awaits you.

Prologue

Armed with Pyrfurion’s vast treasure hoard, the might of the Tower of Sorcery, and the cunning of his own devious mind, Emperor Jolph Rhince had embarked on bringing down the realms of Lower Brehm. The nations of Lower Brehm were larger and stronger than those he had already brought under his dominion, yet he viewed them with disdain. They were ruled by the same weaklings susceptible to the same plots and schemes as those to the north. The cost may be greater, but so what?  It would still be no more than a pittance of the dragon’s gold.  The riches he would acquire would more than return the investment, and in but a few years’ time.

True, Lower Brehm presented special problems and was more complicated.  More than just humans lived there. The lingering domains of the ancient races would also need to be assimilated – the Giants’ Knots living on his doorsteps in the Elemental Mountains, the Dwarves’ Holdfast hiding in the Aril Mountains, the Orc’s Crush infesting the western wilderness, the Lizardmen’s Lairs roaming the Sun’s Anvil, the Bugbear Mobs teeming south of the Ice Mountains, the Gnoll Gangs swarming in the eastern plains and forests, and the Elven Enclaves dotting the whole of Lower Brehm. The Elves would be most troublesome as this ancient race had never been defeated in battle, corrupted by gold, or deceived by wit or word – at least, not yet.

Rhince had a plan.  A plan so deliciously cunning that he licked his lips as he reviewed it.  The ancient races were distrustful, even hateful, of each other.  Though they had lived in an uneasy truce since the Great Wars, old flames could be rekindled, ancient grudges resurrected, and new effronteries manufactured.

He looked down at his map table.  The pieces there told the tale of his operatives already dispatched, guileful and astute sorcerers who would sow the seeds of treachery and civil unrest in every realm throughout Lower Brehm. In some, civil strife would lead to civil war. In others, war between neighbors would weaken both. Weakened nations and rulers become receptive to offers that promise the restoration of peace and prosperity, even to the point of surrendering their realms.

Today, he turned himself to the next step.  The flames of one hatred still smoldered in the Orc Crush of Kurfu, where descendants of the orc king waited for an opportunity to avenge old defeats and slain ancestors. Rhince planned to provide that opportunity.  His lips curled in that childish smile he had never lost as he envisioned the victories he would claim.

“Beg pardon, Your Imperial Majesty.” Etta’Enn, Rhince’s chief chambermaid, lay prostrate on the floor just inside the door.

“What is it?” Rhince snapped, angry to be interrupted.

“That,” the venom in Etta’Enn’s voice dripped, “that woman is here. The one Your Imperial Majesty summoned.”

“Send her in,” Rhince commanded. As a precaution, he conjured a killing spell by circling his right forefinger.

Ruby ‘t Marchet, dressed in a sheer white clinging gown slit to her left hip, entered, knelt, and placed her forehead on the floor. “Your Imperial Majesty,” she said flatly, as if she were merely calling a rock a rock. She laid a woven reed basket on the floor beside her.

Rhince frowned and said, “Etta’Enn, leave us.” For a moment, the Emperor studied the woman. As before, this view of her briefly stirred his loins, but that quickly passed. Though she possessed no ability for magic, she was as dangerous as any sorcerer. She had worn this gown to show him she carried no weapons, not that she needed one to kill.

“Were you successful?” Rhince asked. He decided the longer she remained kneeling on the floor, the safer he would feel. He moved to put the long table between them.

“Do you doubt my ability?” the raven-haired woman replied.

Rhince smirked. No, he didn’t, though he didn’t say so. Instead, he delivered a gentle threat. “For your disrespect, with a flick of our wrist, we could kill you there as you kiss the floor.”

At this, ‘t Marchet smirked, though Rhince couldn’t see it. “Possibly.”

Rhince grunted. It sounded like an infant’s cough. “You may rise.”

‘t Marchet gracefully rose to her feet, upon which she wore open-toed white sandals with thin soles and heels. The slit in her gown revealed shapely, supple legs, the most pleasing Rhince had ever seen. Again, his desire began to rise, but stalled as he looked at her face. It was long. Too long. With a long thin aquiline nose set above a thick upper lip and a thin lower lip. Her square chin was interrupted by an ever-so-slight cleft, which curved to the right. High cheekbones guarded her ebony eyes that never were still. Her waist was small. Her hips were wide. Her bosom had no cleavage, and from the front was not discernible. It was said she often passed as a man when her need arose.

With her right big toe, she kicked over the basket. The lid fell off and locks of greasy black hair fell out. “As you requested. Haden Gehis, god-king of Seppa, though unlike other gods, this one proved to be mortal. His younger brother, Jeden, has assumed the throne and his own claim to immortality.”

The corners of Rhince’s mouth turned upward in a toothless smile. Setting his dagger on the table, he grabbed a large purse and threw it to her. She deftly caught it and hefted its weight. “More than our bargain,” she stated.

“A bonus for your alacrity.” He retrieved a scroll from his desk and handed it to her. “Read this,” he commanded.

‘t Marchet marked that the visibly upset Rhince no longer held his killing spell. Within a heartbeat, she could kill him with his own dagger. This pleased her. With a slight grin, ‘t Marchet read aloud:

 Ancient Race take heed,

From the North comes Greed, intent on vile deed,

To the Mothers dread,

The Life-giving Thread, now forever dead.

Yet, Small Evil-Eyes is blind to what lies where the She-Wurm dies.

From dragon’s last wheeze,

Springs hope for the Trees, birds buzzing like bees.

Now, gather Thirteen,

Those Last to be born from Homes Made of Green,

To battle the Eight who wield magic to hate, altering our fate.

Then comes The Last Born,

On midsummer’s morn, to mend what was torn.

Near the She-Wurm’s shade,

With words and a blade, their lives they do trade.

And, lo, the Last Leaf, overcome with grief, gives birth to belief.

“It’s said that Jhodon Rafke was a great prophet,” ‘t Marchet commented. “Perhaps that first stanza describes someone we know?” She said this with a sly look on her face. “Now, the ancient race and the ‘last to be born from homes made of green.’ That sounds like elves.”

“Elves,” he spat. He grimaced. “This false prophecy could unite those pointy-eared fairies against me.” Rhince subdued his anger and forced his mind to focus on the woman in front of him and of what she was capable.

‘t Marchet saw no need to respond. She waited to be dismissed. If she had wanted to take Rhince’s life, her best opportunity had now passed.

“These 13 last-born elves,” he barked. “You will find them.” He pointed to the basket on the floor. “You will bring them to me like that.”

“Last born? They would all be children, 15 or 16 years of age.”

“Some are in their 20’s, born years before what they call the ‘Blight.’”

“Not a fruitful race before the scourge took them.” The assassin grinned.

Rhince grinned and shook his head. To himself, he thought, she looks like a dying horse. To her, he said, “No, not prolific, but they seemingly live forever.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“More gold than you can carry. Enough to buy your own kingdom.” Rhince paused, his anger leaching. He tilted his head, waiting for her reply.

“Agreed.” ‘t Marchet barely showed her grin. With that much gold, she wouldn’t have to buy a kingdom. She could buy enough fellow assassins to take an empire.