Imagine you are the prophesied last born of a dying race. Do you heed the angry cries of the old and seek vengeance for the death blow? Or, do you listen to the whispered hopes of the young and search for a way to restore your race to its ancient glory?

Chork, the last elf born, not knowing how to do either, wants neither.

The Last Born is a coming-of-age tale that introduces 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.”

Rejecting his prophesied destiny, Chork flees his elven home and finds refuge in the human town of Kent. There, he settles into a life of service and purpose, of hopes and dreams, of respect and honor.

When a disgraced constable commits a heinous murder and helps to destroy Kent, Chork pledges revenge and chases the murderer across Brehm. Along the way, he bonds with two dire wolves, makes new friends, and meets the mysterious and contrary hummingbird wizards.

Will you follow the path of Chork, the last born elf?

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

 

Prologue

A rolling wave of fire surged through the tunnel, its intense heat leaving the rock hissing and smoking.

To avoid the fatal flames, Jolph Rhince slipped into an alcove. He cursed. He had hoped the dragon would not awaken until all the soldiers had reached their positions. However, at the first human footfall, the beast had been aware. Now, of the 5,000 who had entered this massive lair, less than 600 remained.

Another blast of fire rolled through the tunnel. Melting stone hissed as it dripped into puddles on the floor.

“Have you come to steal my treasure?” a guttural voice boomed.

Rhince waved his soldiers to move faster. Reluctantly, they went.

The dragon gave a huge snort. “Men! I smell your fear!”

Rhince closed his eyes. He counted 20 heartbeats. Opening his eyes, he pointed to the herald and said, “Now.”

The soldier worked saliva into his mouth and blew one long note on a ram’s horn.

A massive roar erupted in the cavern. The bellow came not from the dragon. It sounded from the soldiers who emerged as one from the tunnels and side caves. Dressed in mithril armor, carrying long pikes with mithril tips, they poured into the lair.

“What’s this,” taunted the dragon, “you come to slay me!” He reared his massive head and sucked air into his gullet. The furnace in his chest thundered, preparing a fire stream strong enough to melt a small mountain.

The soldiers were but a diversion.

Rhince stepped from the tunnel. Lifting his right arm as if it carried a yoke of oxen, he hurled his blizzard spell at the dragon. The enchantment, the largest and most powerful Rhince had ever made, hit the dragon’s snout.

Caught by surprise and the utter cold, the dragon choked back his fire.

Rhince fell to his knees behind a mountain of golden goblets. Creating and sustaining the spell while he had wended his way into the dragon’s lair had taxed him to his limit. Launching it at the dragon had spent Rhince’s last ounce of energy.

The soldiers rushed in, their pike tips twinkling red from the firelight.

Coughing and sputtering, the dragon swatted a hundred men with his left foreleg. He swung his tail and swept away the soldiers on the right.

Then, a deafening rumble arose. It sounded as if hundreds of massive boulders rolled down a mountainside.

The dragon’s chest exploded.

The force of the explosion killed all but a handful of the soldiers.

Rhince was lucky. The goblet pile shielded him from the main shock. He lay against the far wall, battered, bruised, and bleeding from a score of wounds.

“Milord?” The herald stepped from the tunnel and stood over Rhince. “Milord are you hurt?”

“Of course, I am, you fool!” Rhince got to his knees. Using the cave wall for support, he stood.

The stench of burning dragon and human almost returned him to his knees.

Rhince looked toward the dragon, writhing in its death throes. The sorcerer took a measured step and then another toward the dragon.

“Milord!” cried the herald. “It’s not dead!”

Rhince pointed to the massive hole in the dragon’s chest. “It soon will be.”

Now opposite the great lizard’s head, Rhince marked its eyes. They remain closed. He slowly walked by its large razor-sharp claws. They remained motionless.

Rhince stepped to within an arm’s length of the half-exposed, slowly beating heart. He drew his dagger and plunged it into the heart.

One beat … another … The cave fell silent. The last dragon died.

As the last beat faded, something awakened.

Rhince heard a whir, a humming so rapid it sounded like bees buzzing.

A flock of hummingbirds swooped toward him.

He wondered from where they came. From behind the dragon? From within? Really? From within the dead beast?

They dove at him, their pointy beaks aimed at his eyes and ears.

Rhince threw his hands up and swatted at the birds.

A ruby-throated male drove its beak into Rhince’s cheek. Its tiny tongue licked at the sorcerer’s blood.

The sorcerer cried out in pain. He could feel its little tongue tasting his blood. He smacked a second bird from the air and grunted with satisfaction as the bird hit the cave floor, damaging its right wing and tiny right foot.

Before Rhince could squash it with his boot, two other birds swooped in and carried the hurt male to safety.

The stunned sorcerer voiced his amazement, “How is that possible?”

The remaining birds pressed their assault.

Rhince rolled his right hand and conjured a wind spell.

Before he could unleash it, the birds flew up and away. The enraged sorcerer bellowed his anger and loosed the spell at a nearby mound of gold coins.

The sorcerer and the herald dropped to the cave floor to avoid the flying coins.

✽✽✽

In the Elven Enclave of Emig, 2,600 miles south, as the last beat of the dragon’s heart faded, a different sound pierced the noon sky. The shriek lingered in the air, until all movement in the forest stopped. Then, it ebbed to end with a single sob.

At that moment, each elf felt a pang in his or her heart. Each elf had one thought in mind.

Gisel Hummien’dulin, holding her newborn babe only minutes alive, gave voice to that thought, “The Mother Tree!”

A Mother Tree stands at the center of every Elven Enclave. It connects every elf with a vast spiritual network. This network teaches elves how to co-exist with and support every other living thing. Most importantly, this connection bestows immortality to the ancient race.

They all ran to Her now. They gathered in a circle at the edge of Her boughs.

They watched in silence.

The first leaf to turn yellow was near the top. It faded to brown, then spoiled black. It fell. Another leaf did the same, and another, and another. When the last black leaf touched the ground, each elf felt an agonizing loss. In his and her mind, each elf knew that the last of their race had been born. No more would follow. And, none, not one of them, would ever pass through this world to join The Only One in paradise.

Across Brehm, the scenario repeated itself in the other eight remaining Enclaves. From the Ice Mountains in the far north to Qannoc in the southern desert. From Dalathbar on the west plains to Cenedril in the eastern woods. Each Enclave was silent. Each elf knew that the Last had been born.

In Emig, Gisel looked at her first and now only child, The Last Born Elf. “That’s it then. The time has come. You are the one foretold, my son. You shall be called Lye Tella’estela, “Our Last Hope.” She smiled and teased his cheek with her little finger.

“A burdensome name for one so small,” remarked Erison, her husband. “And much to carry throughout his life.” He leaned in and kissed his son on the forehead. “Though your mother has named you, to me, you shall be Chork, after the sound of …”

A deep vibrating thrum interrupted the elf. The air above seemed to fold, and a hummingbird swooped from the sky, leading a small flock. They flit this way and that. Their antics brought smiles to the couple’s faces. The leader, a ruby-throated male, hovered above the baby’s head for a moment, chirping. With a bow of its head, its tiny tongued flicked a kiss on the babe’s forehead. At a second nod, the ruby-throat led the flock of dancing birds away.