Soul Seeker (The World of Lasniniar Book 1)

by Smith, Jacquelyn

  To reach Dwarfhaven, they would have to take Traitor’s Road past the Southern Passage, where the enemy was camped. Iarion hoped the cover of darkness would be enough. With only seven of them, they could not afford a head-on battle.

  It was a cloudy night. The moon and stars were hidden from even Iarion’s view. He took it to be a good sign.

  He was glad to be on the move once more. The delay at Belierumar had cost them precious time. Iarion felt the familiar weight of the Levniquenya in his pack. The thought of finally being able to move into the northlands with it filled him with anticipation. The promise of a possible reunion with the Quenya drew him onward.

  The others seemed to have different feelings about the quest. Iarion considered them each in turn. Silvaranwyn rode her mount bareback with grace and confidence, but her eyes were grim and resigned. He wondered what fate the Quenya had planned for her.

  Linwyn was still coming to terms with what had happened on the battlefield. Her gaze often rested on Silvaranwyn before shying away. She rode tall and alert in the saddle, her sword loose in its scabbard. Her mount sensed her nervous excitement and often needed to be reined in.

  Golaron was at her side, as always. He also watched Silvaranwyn with covert glances, his expression filled with awe. An invisible weight seemed to lift from his shoulders as he left the shadow of his father’s presence.

  Lorugo rode with Lysandir in the lead. The young dwarf had been persuaded to ride with less difficulty than Barlo, who was riding with Iarion. The elf watched Lysandir’s straight back on the horse in front of him.

  As usual, the Learnéd One was a mystery. Iarion had met him more than a thousand years ago, but he still found the man difficult to read. Iarion knew the others, with perhaps the exception of Silvaranwyn, still doubted Lysandir’s loyalty. Lord Eranander’s speech had done nothing to help the situation. But Iarion remained steadfast. It was unbelievable to him that someone who had the complete trust of the Linadar could be false.

  Iarion looked down at Barlo and smiled. He knew his dwarf friend would stay with him, no matter where the adventure led. He hoped Barlo’s loyalty would not cost him his life. But Iarion knew he had no chance of dissuading the dwarf from coming along, and he was glad of his company.

  Lysandir slowed to a stop once they were near the Southern Passage. They had been riding for several hours and had several more ahead of them if they were going to reach Dwarfhaven before dawn. The Learnéd One gestured for Iarion to dismount and approach. Ignoring Barlo’s look of protest at being left alone on the horse, Iarion swung down from the saddle and walked over to Lysandir’s mount. Lorugo’s black beard swung toward him from his place in front of Lysandir, his green eyes studying Iarion with interest.

  “We cannot afford to continue blindly,” the Learnéd One spoke in a hushed voice. “We must know whether the way is clear before we dare continue past the enemy camp.”

  “I’ll scout ahead,” Iarion said without hesitation.

  Lysandir nodded his approval. “You had best do it on foot. Hoofbeats would only alert them to your presence. We will wait for you here.”

  Iarion went back to his horse to leave his pack with Barlo. If the worst should happen and he were captured or killed, the Levniquenya must not fall into enemy hands. He explained the situation to the dwarf as he slung his bow and quiver into position on his shoulder.

  “I don’t like it,” Barlo said in a hushed voice. “Is he trying to get you killed? Help me down from here and I’ll go with you.”

  “I’ll be caught for certain if I have you tromping along behind me!” Iarion said with a grin. “Stay here and take care of my pack. I’ll be back soon.” Iarion drew the hood of his cloak.

  “Tromping!” Barlo muttered. “If I could get down from this wretched beast, you’d be quick to change your tune.”

  Iarion shook his head as he headed off into the night. He left the road to travel just north of it, in case there were any sentries waiting. He blended into the shadows of the Barrier Mountains and peered into the darkness. He could sense no movement on or off the road. He continued with one hand close to his knife as he approached the pass.

  Now he could make out the light of campfires and the shadows of dark creatures huddled around them. Hugging the mountainside, he moved closer to try to observe the state of the dark army.

  No sentries had been posted. Scuffles broke out here and there as the dark creatures fought for supremacy among their peers. The sly goblins seemed keen to take advantage of their chaotic situation.

  Iarion crept as close as he dared to see if he could hear anything of interest. The new, self-proclaimed leaders ranted in the Black Tongue, trying to stir up the others.

  “The proud men think they have won, but they are fools! They have no hope against the Khashad and his Narashu,” a large and wicked-looking goblin said, using the Black Tongue titles for their master and his Forsworn.

  “The proud men are fierce warriors. They have a Tremblash of fire with them. You saw what he did to the Narashu! Now the shadvaru and prochamdu have come to help them,” a dissident goblin said, mentioning Belierumar’s new elf and dwarf allies. The others hissed and spat, but listened to its words.

  “I will not die like the others on their cruel steel. I say we go back north where the Khashad is strong and we are feared.” This suggestion was met with mutters of assent.

  “If you are such a coward, then leave,” the first goblin sneered. “I’m sure the Narashu will understand when I tell them your decision.” It gave a sly smile, its red eyes glowing. The other goblin shook his head in protest and the mutters went silent.

  “Where are the Narashu?” a dim-witted ogre grunted into the fearful silence. The large goblin backhanded him across the face.

  “Who are you to question their actions? They are resting. When the time comes, they will return to lead us against the proud men and their new friends, and then we will see. The land will run red with their foul blood. The world will be ours. The will of the Khashad will prevail!” The creature raised its jagged knife in the air and the others cheered at its words.

  Iarion backed away. He had all the information he needed. All he had to do was return to his friends. No one from the camp had noticed him.

  Iarion sucked in a startled breath as he bumped into something that was not rock. He spun around. He had backed right into a goblin that had left the camp to relieve itself. The goblin turned with a grunt of complaint.

  “Shadvar!” it hissed, as its slitted, red eyes pierced the darkness.

  There was no time for Iarion to draw his knife. He had to silence the goblin before it alerted any others. The creature was already fumbling for its weapon.

  Spinning into action, Iarion kicked the goblin hard in the stomach. It doubled over with a grunt. He smashed his knee into its face. A dark spray of blood erupted from its nose as its head snapped backward. It fell to its knees, its face smashed open. Iarion kicked the wretched thing onto its back and used his boot to pin it down by its throat.

  The goblin’s eyes went wide as it tried to call for help. All that emerged was a wheeze. The creature clawed at Iarion’s leg, its pointed teeth bared. Iarion sighed. This was not the way he preferred to fight, but it had to be done. He leaned over and placed the tip of his knife under the goblin’s chin, sliding it home. The thing quivered for a moment before going still.

  Iarion removed his blade and began to slice open the goblin’s torso. His killing blow was too clean. If he wanted the other creatures to believe the goblin had been killed by one of their own, he wound have to mimic their clumsy strokes.

  Iarion tried not to gag as dark blood spilled on the ground, filling the air with a foul, metallic reek. Once he was satisfied with his handiwork, he wiped his blade clean on the unfortunate goblin’s tunic. He looked around to see whether its absence had been noticed. The speeches and arguments around the fires continued without interruption.

  Iarion ducked back into the shadows of the mountains and r
etreated, moving as quickly as he dared. He kept his knife drawn the entire way. It wasn’t until he saw the road that he relaxed. He sheathed his weapon and took a moment to calm himself before approaching his companions.

  They had tethered their horses and made a cold camp south of the road. Iarion looked up at the sky. It was difficult to say with the clouds, but he judged he had only been gone for two hours. The members of the party spoke to one another in hushed voices, unaware of Iarion’s approach.

  Iarion pulled back his hood and stepped forward. “The way is clear.”

  Barlo uttered a startled yelp and put a hand to his chest. “Great Galrin’s beard! What are you doing, sneaking up on us like that?”

  Only Silvaranwyn seemed unfazed by his sudden appearance. “There is blood on your cloak.”

  Iarion looked down to find his cloak spattered with the black ichor of goblin blood. He shrugged. “I had to take care of something.”

  “What news?” Lysandir said.

  “The army will not trouble us. They are too busy fighting among themselves. They don’t even have sentries posted.” Iarion gave Linwyn and Golaron a measured look. “The Forsworn have not returned, but the creatures plan to wait for them. Once they are back to lead them, the dark army will try another assault on Belierumar.”

  A bleak expression flitted across Linwyn’s face, but she shrugged it off. “My father knows they will return. Our people are as prepared as they can be.”

  “Then you will continue on with us?” Lysandir asked.

  Linwyn gave the Learnéd One a dark look and opened her mouth to make her response, but Golaron cut her off.

  “We have given our word.” His gaze lingered on Silvaranwyn. “We will stay with you.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Lysandir said. “We take the horses past the Southern Passage at a walk. There may not be sentries, but there is no reason to draw any undue attention. Once we are out of earshot, we will make a run for Dwarfhaven. If our movements are to remain secret, we must reach the dwarven city before dawn.”

  They broke camp and mounted. Barlo and Lorugo both had to be boosted into the saddle, much to their embarrassment. The others were wise enough not to comment.

  “It’s unnatural, that’s what it is,” Barlo grumbled to Iarion as the elf swung up behind him with his usual fluid grace. “And what were you doing snooping around the enemy camp? You were only supposed to scout the area south of the pass!” Barlo twisted around to glare at him.

  “I thought the information I could gather might be useful.” Iarion shrugged. “As I said, they didn’t have any sentries posted. It was too good an opportunity to pass up.”

  “Well, it came at a price, judging by the looks of your cloak.”

  “Don’t worry. None of the blood is mine.”

  “I’m just saying maybe next time you should let me come with you to watch your back, is all.” Barlo fell just short of saying ‘I told you so.’

  Iarion was about to retort, but Lysandir looked back to shush them with a fierce expression. Their group had reached the mouth of the pass. Each of the companions looked northward as their horses walked by, alert for any sound or movement of the enemy. Iarion could tell Barlo was holding his breath and hid a smile.

  They cleared the area without being spotted. Once it was safe to do so, Lysandir led them to a gallop. Barlo let out his breath in an explosive gasp as Iarion nudged their horse onward. The mountains to the north flowed past as they entered the easternmost part of the Lower Daran Nunadan. It was several hours before they forded the Slipstream River. They had to dismount to lead their horses across the narrow ford.

  Iarion listened to the river’s song as they crossed in the darkness. The Slipstream River flowed out of the Barrier Mountains and traveled southward to form the northern border of Melaralva before entering the Eastern Sea.

  Would he ever walk beneath Melaralva’s ancient boughs again? He had lived in many places during his long life, but the wood would always be home to him. It was where he had been born. Iarion shrugged off his melancholy and focused instead on what it would be like to finally be connected with the Quenya and know his true purpose. Nothing else mattered.

  The sky was beginning to lighten when their path swung north toward the mountains once more. The horses hung their heads in exhaustion from the long ride. Barlo was asleep in the saddle, snoring softly. Iarion gave him a nudge. They were approaching Dwarfhaven. No one other than the dwarves who lived there, Lysandir, and Iarasinta, the Sintadain messenger, had seen the place in well over two thousand years.

  Barlo snorted and came awake at Iarion’s insistent prodding. After everyone took a moment to dismount, Lorugo led the rest of the way on foot. The gray mountains towered before them. They followed a small dirt path that wound between two of the peaks and continued until they reached the largest of the mountains, deep within the range. The coming dawn painted the eastern sky a pale pink.

  “This doesn’t feel right,” Barlo said to Iarion. “Why aren’t there any sentries?”

  “We have already passed several sentries on our way here,” Lorugo said, hearing Barlo’s words as they echoed off the rocks. “They have relayed news of our approach. If I were not traveling with you, you would have been stopped well before you found the path into the mountains.” Barlo snapped his mouth shut.

  They reached the gate. Like Dwarvenhome, it was a huge set of stone doors set into the mountainside, inscribed with Dwarvish runes. The runes were inlaid with starsilver. Lorugo stepped up to the gate, and the huge doors swung open. The young dwarf led the group inside.

  As Iarion’s eyes adjusted, they widened at the sight within. Even Barlo was speechless.

  They were in a main hall that branched off into several directions. The hallway was wide enough for all of them to stand with their horses without being crowded. The floor was smooth and polished beneath their feet. The ceiling arched high above even Lysandir’s head.

  Huge torch-bearing pillars lined the walls, inlaid with more starsilver. The highly sought metal was as tough as diamonds, but could be delicately wrought. It twinkled with its own internal light, causing the torchlight to dance and reflect as though they were standing underwater. No one spoke. Barlo ran an appreciative hand over the rare metal.

  “We have had no one to trade with and nothing to do but improve our halls over the long years,” Lorugo said.

  “It is beautiful,” Silvaranwyn said, her golden eyes filled with wonder.

  Lorugo beamed at Silvaranwyn’s compliment. “Your horses will be cared for and sent back to Belierumar,” he said as other dwarves arrived to take their mounts. “They will not fit through the tunnel you plan to use. Tomorrow, I will lead you through the passage to the Hills of Mist, but today you should rest.” He made a bow and gestured for the group to follow him.

  “Welcome to Dwarfhaven.”

  – Chapter Fifteen –

  Hidar

  Iarion and his companions spent the day resting in the halls of Dwarfhaven. That evening, the dwarves held an enormous banquet that lasted for hours. Aside from Lysandir, it was the first time in living memory they had ever entertained outsiders.

  Many of the dwarves were shy around their guests, having never seen men or elves before. But once the ale was flowing, their curiosity got the better of them. Iarion and his friends were bombarded with stilted questions in the Common Tongue. It was a long, but entertaining evening.

  The companions spent the next morning packing their supplies and preparing to move on. The dwarves had added to their stores. Iarion hefted his full pack onto his shoulders. Beside him, Barlo let out a huge yawn. The dwarf had spent most of the previous day wandering the halls and mines of Dwarfhaven instead of resting with the others. Lorugo had been eager to show Barlo around. Now Barlo was paying the price. It appeared the new peace between Dwarfhaven and Dwarvenhome would be a lasting one.

  Lorugo popped his head through the door to the sitting room that connected the chambers their group had been
staying in.

  “It is time.” He flashed them a grin.

  The young dwarf was enjoying his new status as guide to the exciting outsiders. Iarion and his companions shouldered their packs and followed him out of the room.

  Lorugo led them through a maze of halls and chambers that lay deep beneath the mountains. From the way they had been constructed, it was almost easy to forget they were under several tons of rock. The chambers were spacious and the ceilings high. The occasional window or skylight allowed daylight to filter down under the mountains.

  Iarion’s mind reeled as he considered how much work had gone into the construction of Dwarfhaven. Dwarvenhome was well built, but the dwarves of Dwarfhaven had had little to do with themselves over the last two thousand years except improve their craft. The result was breathtaking.

  As they traveled northward, the hallways became smaller until they reached a chamber that stored barrels of ale, which appeared to be a dead end. Lorugo chose one of the many barrels and pushed it across the floor. The movement triggered a set of doors in the stone wall, which were impossible to see until they began to swing open.

  “This is our escape route, should Dwarfhaven ever fall,” Lorugo said. He gestured for the others to follow.

  Once they were all on the other side of the door, Lorugo triggered another hidden lever to seal the entrance behind them. Everyone except the two dwarves was forced to stoop. The roughly hewn tunnel had been made dwarf-height and narrow to slow any pursuit, should it ever be discovered. It wound deep into the mountains, twisting as it went.

  The torches on the walls were spaced far apart, creating welcome pools of light in the gloom. Iarion found himself beginning to sweat in the tunnel’s close confines. Ahead of him, Silvaranwyn was trembling as she made her way along, her dimmed, golden hair falling in her face and becoming plastered there. Only Barlo and Lorugo seemed untroubled.