Soul Seeker (The World of Lasniniar Book 1) (2 page)

“Men!” She sighed in frustration, rolling her eyes. “Well, I’m going back to bed. I’ll see you both in the morning.” She picked up the tray and left.

Barlo gave Iarion a wince of sympathy. “Want something to drink?” Iarion nodded.

The dwarf left the room and returned a few moments later with two full tankards. Iarion took a sip. The cool liquid slid down his throat. Although he preferred wine, he had developed a fondness for dwarven ale over the years. He leaned back on the couch and sighed, basking in the heat of the fire. The new log crackled, filling the air with a fresh, pine scent. A warm languor suffused his limbs as he allowed himself to relax.

“So where are you coming back from this time?” Barlo asked.

“The western lands.”

“And? What did you find there?”

“Empty, untamed wilderness,” Iarion said, tasting bitterness. “I never found any civilized people.”

“So your search continues.”

Iarion nodded and slumped his shoulders. Would he ever find the answers he sought? He had searched for so long… But until he succeeded, he was doomed to spend eternity wandering. Thousands of years had already passed since he had been born into this life, longer than the lifespan of any of his kind. Iarion was tired. He was also running out of places to look.

“Where will you go now?” Barlo’s words startled Iarion from his reverie.

“There is only one other place that I have not tried,” Iarion said.

“Melaquenya.”

“Melaquenya.” Iarion nodded. “The
Linadar
have the best chance of helping me.”

“The Light Elves. Why haven’t you sought them out before?”

“The
Linadar
and the
Goladar
have lived apart since before I was born.” Iarion shrugged his good shoulder. “The
Linadar
are what we strive to become. We do not intrude upon them lightly. As far as I know, no Shadow Elf has entered Melaquenya since the Age of Betrayal.”

Barlo looked away for a moment. The Age of Betrayal was not a proud time for the dwarves. “Do you think the Light Elves would help you?”

“I would like to think they would, if it were within their power. Even if they aren’t interested in my problem, they should know Saviadro’s creatures are abroad in the midlands and organized. As you say, he’s up to something.”

“Whatever it is,” Barlo said, “it doesn’t bode well for the Free Races.”

They contemplated the dark truth of his words in silence for several long moments until Barlo stood, stretching.

“Well, if we’re going to set out tomorrow, we’d best get some rest.”

“You’re coming with me?” Iarion gave a wry smile.

“It’s been too long since our last journey together. I’ve been stuck here with the children, sitting in on clan meetings. It’ll be good to get away. Besides, you need a sturdy dwarf to watch your back, since you’re clearly incapable of taking care of yourself.” Barlo chuckled before turning serious. “I just hope the missus doesn’t kick up a fuss.”

–
Chapter Two –

Bad News from an Old Friend

As Iarion had expected, Narilga didn’t mind at all. Despite how things seemed to outsiders, it was the women who ruled Dwarvenhome. To maintain their husbands’ pride, they played along with their charade most of the time. As wife of the Chief of Clans, Narilga was the highest-ranking dwarf in the city, next to Barlo. When her husband went away on journeys, she could exercise her power openly, which she enjoyed. She and the three children saw Barlo and Iarion off the next morning.

“I’ll miss you, Father.” Ralla stood on tiptoe to hug Barlo. She gave a shy wave to her ‘Uncle’ Iarion.

Barlo kissed her on the cheek. “Stay close to your mother and learn everything you can.”

“Oh, I will.” She flashed a dimpled smile.

“Khalid,” Barlo said, “you’re man of the house while I’m gone. See that you take good care of your mother, and your brother and sister.” Khalid nodded before giving his father a brief embrace. The young dwarf’s beard was just starting to come in.

“Come here, you.” Barlo crouched and his youngest son, Fidar, rushed into his arms.

“Can I come with you,
Zaga
?” His blue eyes filled with tears as he clutched at his father’s beard, calling him ‘Daddy’ in the Dwarven Tongue.

“No, Son,” Barlo said. “You have to stay here. Uncle Iarion and I have some things to take care of. I’ll be back as soon as I can. You be a good boy for your mother.”

Fidar began to cry. Ralla took him in her arms and carried him to the corner, shushing him while stroking his hair.

Narilga stepped forward to say farewell to her husband. “Be safe,” she said, wrapping him in her arms. She whispered something else that brought a flush to Barlo’s cheeks before releasing him to move on to Iarion.

“You take good care of him,” she said. “See that he comes back in one piece.” Her blue eyes bored into his.

“I promise.” Iarion bent down to hug the dwarven woman.

Once they had said their good-byes, Barlo and Iarion traveled the streets of Dwarvenhome to the main gate. Other dwarves called out greetings as they passed. With Barlo beside him, Iarion left the shadow of the Jagged Mountains behind and headed south.

It was noon by the time Iarion and Barlo reached the southern fork of the Wandering River. They stopped to rest and fill their waterskins. Iarion splashed some cool water on his face.

It was nearing the end of summer in the Adar Daran. The sky was a cloudless blue and the air was hot and dry. The grasslands stretched to the east, south, and west as far as the eye could see. Birds, hidden in the grass, piped calls to one another at irregular intervals. The Jagged Mountains were a gray shadow on the horizon behind them. They were making good time.

Iarion gently stretched his injured shoulder. It was already beginning to heal. Elven flesh knitted quickly once it had been cleaned and tended to. It was still tender though. He hoped he would have no reason to use his bow over the next few days.

Once both elf and dwarf were rested, they moved on in companionable silence. The tall grass reached Iarion’s waist. Barlo walked behind him. He was too short to see over the stalks.

They continued south until late afternoon, when Iarion felt the air go still. Even the birds were silent. He held up a hand for Barlo to stop as he cocked his head to listen. The grass swayed in the warm breeze. A thrill of tension went through him.

They were not alone.

Iarion retrieved his bow and drew an arrow from his quiver. He ignored the aching protest of his wounded shoulder as he nocked the arrow and turned in a slow circle. His eyes narrowed, looking for shadows or movement. Behind him, Barlo slipped his ax free from his belt and held it ready. The unnatural hush deepened.

The attack came a moment later. A tribe of Darkling Men rose from their hiding place and charged with a battle cry. The men had painted faces and wore crude, dark armor.

Iarion wasted no time loosing his arrows. With each one he let fly, a Darkling Man fell. Iarion nocked each arrow as quickly as he could, but he was slowed by his injured shoulder. At least ten of their enemies fell before they got close enough for Iarion to draw his knife.

Barlo swung his ax at the men who were closest. He took down three, but it was difficult for him to see his opponents over the tall grass. He and Iarion fought back to back as the men moved in.

Iarion stabbed a man in the gut and twisted. He fell in a heap at the elf’s feet. The grass around them was stained red with the blood of the Darkling Men. Still more came, surrounding the pair. Iarion could hear Barlo panting with exertion. Iarion’s shoulder burned. His reactions slowed.

Where had these men come from? What were they doing in the Adar Daran?

Iarion blinked the sweat from his eyes and pushed his questions aside to focus on the men in front of him. It seemed hopeless, but he hadn’t spent thousands of years wandering Lasniniar to be killed by some Darkling Men before he found his answers. He fought with renewed purpose, pushing the surprised men back. He heard a startled yell.

“
Tremblash!”

It meant ‘trickster’ in the Black Tongue, which was what the Marred Races called the Learnéd. Iarion’s eyes darted, searching as he fought until he spotted a familiar figure.

A tall man approached through the grass. The hood of his dark cloak was thrown back to reveal his salt and pepper hair and closely cropped beard. His expression was calm and his arms were raised. His crimson robes stirred in an unnatural breeze. A few moments later, the group of men closest to Iarion and Barlo burst into flame. Startled birds took to the air in panic.

Both elf and dwarf were quick to use the diversion to move away from the Darkling Men, who rolled in the grass in an effort to quench the flames. No matter what they did, the fire would not go out. It also did not transfer to the grass.

Screams of terror and agony filled the air as the men were roasted alive. The stench of charred hair and flesh assaulted Iarion’s nostrils. Barlo watched, transfixed. Iarion used the distraction to finish off the few men who had escaped the wrath of the flames.

Barlo thought the screams would never end. An eternity seemed to pass before the last of the men died and there was complete silence. He stood openmouthed, staring at the smoking remains. He had never seen such a display of raw power.

“Well met, old friend.” Iarion held out his good arm, which the bearded man clasped in greeting. “Barlo, come over here.”

Barlo shook his head in disbelief and waded through the grass toward them.

“Barlo,” Iarion said, “this is Lysandir.”

Barlo’s eyes narrowed in recognition. So this was the Learnéd fire sorcerer who had somehow managed to escape Saviadro’s clutches. He considered for a long moment before holding out his arm.

“Iarion speaks highly of you,” he said as the tall man reached down to greet him.

“He has told me much of you also.” Lysandir’s silver eyes held Barlo’s. “He is an excellent judge of character, is he not?”

“I suppose he is at that, at least for an elf.” Barlo forced out the words and tore his gaze away to hide his discomfort. Despite his doubts about the sorcerer’s loyalties, it was wise to be courteous to someone who could incinerate people with a mere gesture.

“So what are you doing in this part of the world?” Lysandir asked Iarion. “I don’t believe I have ever seen you wander this far south.”

“My search continues.”

Lysandir nodded at Iarion’s words. He seemed familiar with Iarion’s story.

“I have decided to ask the
Linadar
for assistance,” Iarion said. “Do you think they will help me?”

“They might,” Lysandir said. “If they believe it is part of their destiny to do so. I had wondered when you would finally seek them out.”

“We also wanted to bring them some news,” Iarion said. “I was attacked last night in the Narrow Pass by goblins. It was an organized ambush.” He indicated his wounded shoulder, which had started to bleed again, torn open by the battle. “And now we’ve been attacked by Darkling Men in the Adar Daran. Something dark is afoot.”

“You are correct.” Lysandir’s gaze turned distant. “This has not been my first encounter with the Marred Races in the Free Lands either. Saviadro is planning something. There have been sightings in the north of the Forsworn.”

Iarion went pale at Lysandir’s words. Barlo looked at the faces of both man and elf, frowning.

“I’ve heard tales of the Forsworn,” he said. “I thought them only stories to scare children. What are these creatures?”

“All I will tell you now is they are very real,” Lysandir said. “I, too, travel to Melaquenya to bring this news to the
Linadar
and seek their counsel.”

“Then it only makes sense we travel together.” Iarion gave a wry smile. “I don’t know about our sturdy dwarf here, but I’m not ready to take on another attack. It will be safer. Any dark creatures will hesitate to attack with a mighty
Tremblash
at our side.”