Soul Seeker (The World of Lasniniar Book 1) (19 page)

“Do you know his purpose?”

“No. I only know it is important he come with us. You must convince the others.” Her eyes rested on Golaron.

“I’ll do what I can. Thank you.” Iarion took a good look at Silvaranwyn. “How are you feeling? You seem to have stabilized since we left Belierumar.”

“I am still becoming used to my increasing distance from the Quenya. I will be fine until I use my connection with it again.” A look of sadness passed over her.

“Then don’t use it,” Iarion said. He placed a hand on her arm.

“It will be necessary. I have seen it. It is my destiny to fade. I will not fight the will of the Quenya.” Her golden eyes held his.

Iarion looked away. “I only hope it will be worth the price,” he said. “I will talk to the others.”

–
Chapter Seventeen –

Consequences

The next day dawned overcast and gray. Iarion and his companions left the hospitality of Nal Huraseadro behind to travel west. Hidar went with them.

It had taken some fast talking on Iarion’s part, but the others had accepted his decision. Golaron had proved the most difficult to persuade. Iarion did not understand his intense dislike for Hidar. Whatever the reason, Linwyn didn’t seem to share it. Iarion hoped he would not come to regret his choice.

Barely an hour had passed when the clouds unleashed a drizzling rain. The mists from the hills rolled westward with their group. Iarion shivered. He could see his breath.

They were all wet and miserable. They walked in silence. Lysandir led them toward the Fey Wood, giving the Southern Passage a wide berth. If nothing else, the weather helped them pass unnoticed.

Iarion drew up the hood of his cloak and allowed his mind to drift into the memories of his time among the
Beliadar
. The Wild Elves were reclusive. They even had little contact with the other tribes of their own race. They lived a primitive lifestyle among the creatures of their forest.

The
Beliadar
were free spirits, who rarely took a single, permanent mate. The children were raised by all. Iarion had hoped to find his connection to the Quenya there among elves who were so in tune with the rhythms of life. Instead, he had lost himself in their hedonistic ways.

He had stayed among them for years before he came to the decision to leave. He had crept off like a coward, leaving only a note. He had no idea what sort of welcome he would receive now that he was returning.

Iarion could feel the others watching him. Linwyn’s eyes seemed glued to him. Every time he looked over, he caught her staring. She would avert her gaze and pretend to look at something else until Iarion looked away. It was unnerving.

Hidar was the only one who seemed oblivious to the silent tension. He ignored Golaron’s harsh glares and struck up quiet conversation with whoever was closest to him. Golaron made sure to stay out of earshot.

Iarion sighed. He hoped Golaron would get over his strange prejudice against the Lesser Man soon. If it came down to any sort of battle, they would need to trust one another. Between Golaron and his sister’s odd behavior, the elf’s nerves were becoming frayed.

After another dodged look from Linwyn, Iarion had had enough. He quickened his pace to match Lysandir’s.

“The dark army is still close and we have much open ground to cover,” he said. “I will scout ahead.”

The Learnéd One gave him a penetrating look. “Very well. But do not stray far.”

Iarion nodded and ran off. His feet barely touched the wet grass as he left his companions behind. He lowered his hood. It felt good to empty his mind, and let the cool air rush against his face and fill his ears. His silver hair streamed out behind him.

He ran for a while, forgetting Lysandir’s warning. It had been too long since he had some time to himself, away from the decision making and stares. A part of him wanted to keep running and leave the others to complete his quest alone. He knew it was a foolish notion. Although the quest was personal for him, the others had a right to fight against the darkness that threatened to tear Lasniniar apart.

Iarion forced himself to stop. He slowed his breathing, taking deep gulps of the damp air. He had run much farther than he should have. He could see the pale glimmer of the Wild River and the shadow of Fey Wood in the distance. The mountains loomed to his left. He knew it was time to turn back. He had found no one who would pose a threat to his companions.

Then he heard a sound. It was the faint ring of a sword clearing its sheath. Iarion drew his knife and went into a crouch.

A few moments passed and no one approached. But Iarion could hear the harsh murmur of raised voices close by. Using the mist to his advantage, he crept toward the sound.

Camped at the foot of the mountains was a band of Darkling Men. Two stood arguing in the center of the group. One had drawn a sword. Iarion frowned.

Like the Lesser Men they once were, Darkling Men usually preferred spears and daggers. The weapon must have been looted from the body of a Nal Huraseadro soldier. The scabbard bore the city’s red and brown.

There could only be one reason for these men to be so far from the dark army. They were deserters. Iarion stopped to listen.

“If we go back now, we could say we got separated when the army split up,” the man without the sword said.

He spoke in a Common dialect influenced by the Black Tongue. He was young, with shaggy, blond hair and a hint of stubble. Some of the men grunted their agreement with his words.

“If we go back now, they will kill us for our treachery,” the man with the sword said with a sneer. A puckered scar ran across his cheek, stopping just below his eye. “We must prove our worth. Across that river is a whole group of
shadvaru
, ripe for slaughter. They don’t even know we are coming. If we take the wood and return with their heads, we will be heralded as champions, perhaps even rewarded if we make it sound as if it were our plan all along.”

“The war is to the south,” the younger man insisted. “It is folly to think we can kill the
shadvaru
in their own home. We are the ones who will be slaughtered. We stand a better chance if we return to the rest of the army.”

“I told you, they will kill us, boy!” The man with the sword stepped closer, raking his greasy hair back in a frustrated gesture. “Or have you forgotten the
Narashu
?”

“Then why don’t we just go back home? We can return to our women and children.” Several of the other men nodded.

“Fool! Another
Narash
has seized Nal Nungalid. We have seen it in the skies, riding its foul beast. It’s only a matter of time before we are found if we go north.”

“If we travel in small groups and only at night—”

“The
Narashu
own the night!” The scarred man spat in disgust. “Enough. I will not abide a coward.”

He drove his sword home with his words, plunging the blade deep into the other man’s gut. The younger man doubled over, clutching his hands around the wound in a futile gesture. The scarred man gave a wicked smile and twisted his weapon. His victim groaned and slumped to the ground.

The killer pulled the blade free, with a cruel smile. He looked up at the men who had supported his opponent.

“Anyone else have a problem? Or do you have more balls than your dead friend?”

For a moment, no one moved. Then one of the dead man’s supporters rushed him. Others followed his lead. The scarred man’s lackeys stepped in to defend their leader. Iarion was suddenly watching a full-blown battle between the two factions.

The men who wanted to return to their homes fought well, but Iarion could see it was a battle they could not win. He held back and waited for things to play out. He could rush in to try to help them, but he knew the appearance of an elf—a
shadvar
—would only unite the two groups. All these men had the blood of at least one Greater Man on their hands, if not more. He would not interfere.

The battle was soon over. The scarred man and his followers were victorious. Almost fifty of them remained. But now they would try to invade the Fey Wood, which Iarion could not allow. His friends were far behind. By the time they caught up, it would be too late. Iarion had already nocked an arrow, sighting one of the men who stood between him and the leader.

“Get your gear,” the scarred man said with a grin. “Tonight, we take the wood!”

Iarion let his arrow fly, nocking a second arrow as soon as the first left his bow. The man he had sighted fell to the ground with an arrow in his throat. He was quickly followed by two more of his companions. The men tensed and looked around, but they could not see Iarion in the fog with their weak, human eyes.

“
Shadvaru
!”
one of the men cried in alarm. “They know we’re here!” The man turned and ran. Iarion let him go. The more of them he could scare off, the better his odds. The fleeing man was followed by several others.

“If any of the rest of you try to leave, I’ll kill you myself!” the scarred man raged, facing his followers.

Iarion circled around the men, changing his position. He wanted to make it seem as though there were several elves in the mist firing at them. For each arrow he let fly, a man fell to the ground. More of them decided to run. The scarred man managed to cut down a few of them before they got away. Others stood in indecision. The leader cut down these men as well. Now he was left with only fifteen followers.

“Show yourselves!” he yelled, waving his ill-gotten sword.

Iarion shifted position once more. The leader indicated the direction from where Iarion’s last arrows had originated. The men hoisted their spears and moved forward, too afraid to argue with the deranged man.

Iarion let off more shots, hitting men in the back. He silently counted how many were left as he fired.

Fourteen, thirteen, twelve, eleven, ten, nine…

Those who remained standing scattered, seeking the source of the arrows. Iarion slung his bow over his shoulder and drew his knife. He moved in on each man foolish enough to leave the safety of the group, a wraith in the fog. He lowered them to the ground as they fell, their throats slit by his knife.

Eight, seven, six, five, four…

“To me!” The leader’s voice was panicked now.

His three remaining men rushed to his side. Four to one odds were probably the best Iarion could hope for. He stepped out from the mist. The three men clutched their spears, surrounding their leader.

“You fools, there’s only one of them! We’ve been slaughtered by a single
shadvar
. Kill him!” The scarred man’s words spurred the others into action. They advanced toward Iarion while their leader watched.

Iarion sheathed his knife. The scarred man smiled, believing victory to be at hand. Iarion ducked the first two blows with the natural, lightning-quick agility of his race. He caught the third man’s spear in midair. Iarion wrenched it from his hands and swung it hard at the wielder’s face. The man collapsed to the ground with blood coming from his ears.

Three…

The two remaining lackeys worked together. Both came at Iarion at once. Iarion brought up his spear to block them. Both men pushed down on their weapons, trying to force the elf to drop his spear. It was a contest of strength Iarion could never hope to win.

He kicked one of the men hard in the stomach. His opponent dropped his spear and fell to his knees, clutching his gut. Iarion kicked him again, catching him under the chin. The man’s head snapped back with a sickening crunch. He fell back to lay spread eagle on the ground, twitching.

Two…

Now that he had a fair fight on his hands, Iarion pushed upward on his spear, sending the remaining man backward to bump into his leader. The scarred man grunted from the impact and pushed him back into the fight.

The man wasn’t ready. He was holding his spear high above his head. Iarion held his own spear low and on an angle, bracing it against the ground. The man realized his fate the moment before his momentum forced him to impale himself on Iarion’s spear. Iarion let go of the weapon in disgust, allowing the dying man to fall to the ground. He drew his knife.

One.

The scarred man was ready for him, his sword still drawn. The pair circled warily. The man took a few swings to test his opponent. Iarion sidestepped each of them. The man might have the advantage of a longer blade, but Iarion had been fighting as a trained warrior for millennia. His opponent had only owned his sword for a few weeks at most. Iarion waited to uncover his weaknesses.

The Darkling Man launched another series of attacks, coming in fast. Iarion dodged and parried, which only infuriated his opponent. The man threw himself at Iarion in a wild advance. One of his blows grazed Iarion’s upper arm, drawing a stinging line of blood. The man let out a maniacal laugh.

“I would have let you and your men live, if you had only listened to your friend and gone home,” Iarion said, ignoring his wound.

“Ha! Then you are a coward, just like him. And now I’m going to kill you too.” He grinned.

The man brought his sword in for the killing blow, but Iarion was ready. He had gotten a good feel for his opponent’s methods. He brought up his knife to block the blow. The slight curve of his own blade allowed him to catch the sword. With a deft flick of his wrist, Iarion twisted it from the man’s grip, sending it through the air to land several feet away.

Iarion didn’t hesitate to press the advantage. He sliced his dagger across the man’s throat. The man fell to the ground in an arterial spray, his eyes wide and blood seeping from between his lips.

“You were a fool to mistake mercy for cowardice,” Iarion said as he watched the light go out of the man’s eyes.

He turned away in disgust and wiped his dagger clean on the wet grass. He also cleaned the dead man’s sword and tucked it into his belt. It was time to rejoin his companions.