Soul Seeker (The World of Lasniniar Book 1)

by Smith, Jacquelyn

  Soul Seeker – A Novel of Lasniniar

  Jacquelyn Smith

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright 2011 Jacquelyn Smith

  Cover design by Robin Ludwig Design Inc.

  Stock images: “DREAMLAND” by Leeloomultipass, “WOOD ELF” by 3dclipartsde, “FIRE SMOKE” by Akv2006

  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 Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Contents

  Maps

  Chapter One -- Ambush

  Chapter Two -- Bad News from an Old Friend

  Chapter Three -- A Fragile Hope

  Chapter Four -- Finiferia

  Chapter Five -- The Levniquenya

  Chapter Six -- A Dark Past

  Chapter Seven -- Friends in Need

  Chapter Eight -- Missing

  Chapter Nine -- Strengths and Weaknesses

  Chapter Ten -- Family Troubles

  Chapter Eleven -- The Element of Surprise

  Chapter Twelve -- Under Siege

  Chapter Thirteen -- Making Amends

  Chapter Fourteen -- Scouting Ahead

  Chapter Fifteen -- Hidar

  Chapter Sixteen -- A Change in Plan

  Chapter Seventeen -- Consequences

  Chapter Eighteen -- Old Flames

  Chapter Nineteen -- What Comes After

  Chapter Twenty -- Chance Meetings

  Chapter Twenty-One -- The Kinslaying

  Chapter Twenty-Two -- Enemy Territory

  Chapter Twenty-Three -- Betrayal

  Chapter Twenty-Four -- Stariquenya

  Chapter Twenty-Five -- Diversion

  Chapter Twenty-Six -- Dark Waters

  Chapter Twenty-Seven -- A Heavy Burden

  Chapter Twenty-Eight -- Homecoming

  Chapter Twenty-Nine -- Separate Ways

  Chapter Thirty -- Captive

  Chapter Thirty-One -- Dark Dreams

  Chapter Thirty-Two -- Decisions

  Chapter Thirty-Three -- Worst Fears Realized

  Chapter Thirty-Four -- Diplomacy

  Chapter Thirty-Five -- Torn

  Chapter Thirty-Six -- The Call to Battle

  Chapter Thirty-Seven -- Catching Up

  Chapter Thirty-Eight -- Playing it Safe

  Chapter Thirty-Nine -- The Art of Persuasion

  Chapter Forty -- A Cold Welcome

  Chapter Forty-One -- Confrontation

  Chapter Forty-Two -- Dwarf Code

  Chapter Forty-Three -- News from the South

  Chapter Forty-Four -- Blood Ties

  Chapter Forty-Five -- A Desperate Plan

  Chapter Forty-Six -- In the Dark

  Chapter Forty-Seven -- Among the Enemy

  Chapter Forty-Eight -- Forsworn

  Chapter Forty-Nine -- The Tide Turns

  Chapter Fifty -- The Final Betrayal

  Chapter Fifty-One -- Shadow Elf

  Chapter Fifty-Two -- Reunion

  Chapter Fifty-Three -- In the Eye of the Storm

  Chapter Fifty-Four -- The Quenya

  Chapter Fifty-Five -- Aftermath

  Chapter Fifty-Six -- Revelations

  Chapter Fifty-Seven -- Destiny

  Chapter Fifty-Eight -- Parting Ways

  Light Chasers Sneak Preview

  Afterword

  Join the Tribe

  Appendices

  Guide to Pronunciation

  Languages of Lasniniar

  Historic Overview of the Elven Tribes

  About the Author

  Connect With Jacquelyn Smith Online

  Other Books by Jacquelyn Smith

  Soul Seeker

  Jacquelyn Smith

  For my husband, Mark.

  Thank you for always believing in me. I couldn’t have done this without you.

  – Chapter One –

  Ambush

  Iarion walked alone on Traitor’s Road. Midnight had already come and gone. The world of Lasniniar was silent, except for the patter of the falling rain.

  Was he truly alone?

  He kept his pointed ears strained for any sound of pursuit. His elven eyes pierced the darkness with ease, twin points of silver-shot sapphire.

  Nothing.

  Iarion shivered. He was already soaked through. His shoulder throbbed in pain from an arrow wound. He had managed to pull the shaft free, but his left arm hung limp at his side. As far as he could tell, there was no festering burn of poison, but it was difficult to say for certain. Every drop of rain that trickled into his pierced flesh stung.

  He cursed his inattention. He was used to traveling alone and taking care of himself. He should know better. But he was in familiar territory and so close to home that he had allowed himself to become complacent.

  Had he killed all the goblins? He thought so, but there had been so many. There shouldn’t be any goblins in the midlands, so far from their home in the north. It was a bad sign.

  The Jagged Mountains loomed to his left, keeping the road cloaked in darkness. Being Goladain—a Shadow Elf—had its advantages. If anyone was following him, at least his dusky skin and silver braids would make him difficult to spot.

  Iarion muttered a curse as he shifted his pack, pulling his injured shoulder. At least Dwarvenhome was close by. He had already planned to visit Barlo before returning to his own kind in Melaralva. Now that visit had become a necessity. He smiled to think of how the dwarf would scold him when he saw Iarion’s wound.

  Iarion was careful to maintain his tense vigil for the remainder of the journey. Of his goblin attackers, there was no sign. His aching muscles went slack with relief when the dwarf stronghold came into view. The huge stone entryway was an imposing work of beauty, carved right into the mountainside. It was guarded by several dwarves bearing axes. Various clan tartans were visible among their armor.

  One of the older dwarves recognized Iarion and gestured for him to pass, while the younger ones looked on in surprise at their elven visitor.

  Had it been that long? Iarion used to know all the guards.

  Under the mountain, the polished stone streets were empty. Iarion followed the lamplit route that led to Barlo’s home. Carved reliefs of dwarven history and legend, accented with metal and gems, flickered as he passed. Barlo’s clan lived in the eastern section of the sprawling dwarven city. As Dwarvenhome’s Chief of Clans, Barlo had the largest dwelling.

  Iarion arrived at the arched stone doorway marked by a flag of Barlo’s personal tartan and tapped softly with the bronze knocker. After a few moments, he heard the sound of muffled footsteps from inside. The door opened a crack and a pair of sleepy, deep blue eyes peered up at him.

  “Narilga,” Iarion whispered in the Common Tongue so as not to wake the dwarven children who slept inside. “It’s me.” The door opened, revealing a dwarven woman with long, tousled black hair wearing a linen shift.

  “Iarion.” She nodded a greeting, as though late night elf visitors were a common occurrence. Her eyes narrowed as she noticed his limp arm.

  “Well, it seems you’ve gone and gotten yourself injured again. You’d best come in.”

  She stepped aside to allow Iarion to enter, holding a finger to her lips. Iarion had to duck his head to get through the door.

  “You sit there,” she said in a hushed voice, gesturing to a couch by the fireplace. “I’ll go wake Barlo and put the kettle on.
”

  Iarion hung his dripping cloak on a peg by the door and took a seat near the banked embers of the fire. A few moments later, Barlo shuffled into the room on bare feet, rubbing his eyes and yawning hugely.

  “So you’re back.” He cracked his brown eyes open wide enough to get a good look at his friend. His roving gaze stopped at Iarion’s shoulder wound.

  “You’ve hurt it again? Well, that’s what you get for traveling without me, you fool elf. What was it this time?” He rubbed at his thick, brown hair before trying to smooth down his beard.

  Iarion rolled his eyes and smiled before turning serious. “Goblins. They were in the Narrow Pass.”

  “Ha! They even jumped you in the same place. You should have been paying more attention. But seriously, goblins shouldn’t be this far south. No one’s seen any dark creatures ’round here since you got jumped twenty years ago.” Barlo tossed a fresh log into the fireplace and stirred the flames back to life.

  “I know. That’s why they caught me off guard. They attacked under the cover of darkness as a storm was coming in.”

  “Too crafty by half for goblins. I don’t like it. Saviadro’s up to something.”

  Narilga came back into the room, bearing a tray of bandages, herbs, and steaming water. She jerked her chin toward the elf.

  “Let me see it.”

  Iarion pried off his tunic with a hiss. His dried blood had stuck the fabric to his skin in some places. He crouched so Narilga could get a better look.

  “Well, it’s not as bad as it could be,” she said. “It doesn’t look to be poisoned. If it were, you’d have passed out by now. Still, you’re lucky those wretched creatures don’t use arrowheads. Now let me patch it up for you.”

  She poured the boiled water on the wound. Iarion bit back a scream. For a moment, his vision swam.

  “That was the hard part,” Narilga said. “This should help the pain and keep it from going septic.” She smeared some mashed up herbs on his skin. A cooling sensation spread across Iarion’s shoulder. He let out the breath he had been holding and blinked his eyes to clear them.

  “There. Now, I’m just going to bandage that up for you.” She bound the shoulder with deft fingers. “All done. You’re going to want to try to rest that arm for the next few days.” She gave Iarion a pointed look. Iarion did his best to appear meek.

  “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, pi
ped 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.