“I am sorry to say I have not,” Lord Andiraron said. “If I had, I would certainly have tried to enlist his aid.” He frowned. “But I would not say your quest is impossible. Although the Great North Road is blocked both to the north and east, there is another way. You could travel west to the Fey Wood and try to treat with the Wild Elves who dwell there. It is they who provide us with our horse breeding stock. They are reclusive, but you have two elves with you. Perhaps they will aid one of their own.”
Lysandir gave Iarion a pointed look. Iarion refused to meet the Learnéd One’s gaze. He could feel the eyes of his companions on him, curious about the silent exchange. Lysandir looked ready to probe him further, but Barlo pulled Iarion aside.
“I can tell you don’t like it,” the dwarf said. “But it might be the only choice we have. Do you think they would help us?”
“Not if you went on your own, but with me there, they might. I can’t be certain.” Iarion frowned.
“Then what’s the problem?”
“It’s just a part of my past I never thought I would have to revisit. I lived among the Beliadar for many years. I became one of them. You know this. I thought maybe they had the answers I sought. They are different from all the other Shadow Elf tribes. They aren’t called Wild Elves for nothing.”
“I know. I understand. Lysandir and Silvaranwyn will probably understand too. I’m not so sure about the twins.” Barlo forced Iarion to meet his gaze. “What you need to ask yourself is whether it’s worth the cost if it means we can fulfill our quest. Iarion, you’ve done lots of things you probably would never do again to find some connection with the Quenya. How is this any different?”
Iarion sighed. “You’re right, of course. Who would have thought that an elf would ever say those words to a dwarf?” Iarion allowed himself to smile.
“Don’t start with me.” Barlo shook his fist in mock anger.
Iarion turned to face the others. “We will meet with the Wild Elves. I do not know for certain whether they will aid us, but it’s the best chance we have.”
Lord Andiraron signaled for a map to be brought over. He rose from his seat and unrolled the parchment onto a table, placing his finger on a location just north of the Barrier Mountains and east of the Wild River.
“This is where they usually meet with us to trade,” he said. “It is watched. If you go there, they should at least talk to you.”
“Thank you,” Lysandir said. “Your information has proved quite valuable.”
“Rest here tonight and set out fresh tomorrow,” the lord said. “Your quest is dangerous. I would ask you to stay and help us here, but I know if you are not successful, then any battle fought here will be meaningless. The people of Nal Huraseadro must stand on their own.”
A page led the group to a dining room where a meal was already laid out for them. No one spoke. They were all still digesting the news. Eventually, Hidar broke the silence.
“I do not blame you for not telling me of your quest,” he said. “You did not know whether I could be trusted.”
“You never asked Lord Andiraron for aid,” Iarion said, realizing it for the first time.
“His people are clearly in no position to offer assistance.” Hidar shrugged. He tore off a chunk from a loaf of bread. “So when do we set out tomorrow?”
“Who said you were coming?” Golaron asked.
“Your quest is dangerous. You need all the help you can get.”
“And what about your people?” Golaron folded his arms. “Are you just going to abandon them?”
“It is clear to me now there is no one who can come to the aid of my tribe.” Hidar sighed. “All of Lasniniar is looking to defend itself from the coming darkness. If I come with you and we are successful, my tribe will be saved. It is the best I can hope for.”
“Why don’t you return to your people and make a last stand with them? Surely you could aid them in the coming battle.” Golaron’s eyes narrowed.
Iarion was curious about the exchange. It was the most he had ever heard Golaron speak. His hinted accusations reminded the elf of Golaron’s father.
“Make no mistake, I am a strong warrior—one of the best of my people. But against a force like the Fallen One’s army, my presence would make little difference. As I said, the best chance for my people is traveling with you.” Hidar met Golaron’s challenging gaze.
“Enough!” Lysandir said. “Let us discuss whether Hidar comes with us. I think the decision should lie with Iarion. What do the rest of you say?” The others nodded their agreement, even Golaron.
Iarion shot Lysandir a glare. He did not like having the decision placed squarely on his shoulders.
“Very well,” the elf said. “Give me some time to think.”
Barlo pulled him aside. “Don’t do it. What do we know about this man? It’s bad enough we have him with us.” He jerked his head in Lysandir’s direction.
“I need to talk to Silvaranwyn,” Iarion said. “I think she knows something.” Iarion left his friend and walked over to the Linadain.
“You have a difficult decision to make,” Silvaranwyn said in her soft voice as he approached.
Iarion guided her to a corner of the room. “What do you know of Hidar?” he asked in Elvish. “How can you possibly know him? He shows no sign of knowing you.”
“I have seen him before,” she said. “But not face to face. Before I left Melaquenya, the Quenya revealed many things to me. I knew it would be the last time I would be able to commune with it fully. It showed me all the members of our group, traveling together to the dark lands. Hidar was with us.”
“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 w
ould 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 s
ingle 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.
Soul Seeker (The World of Lasniniar Book 1) Page 14
