A Solstice Celebration: A Legends of Lasniniar Holiday Collection

A Solstice Tale “Is it a new pair of boots?” Barlo asked as he walked at Iarion’s side, taking two strides for every one of the elf’s as they traveled along the snow-dusted road. Sinstari trotted after them on large, silent paws. The wildcat’s green eyes surveyed the northern countryside, his tufted ears alert and his whiskers twitching, a ghostly, charcoal shadow in the swirling snow. “Nope,” Iarion said, his expression bland. Barlo sighed, his breath streaming from his lips in a steady plume. He tugged at his graying brown beard in frustration. “I’ve been guessing for the better part of an hour now! Would you even tell me if I got it right?” Iarion paused for a moment as if considering before giving his dwarven friend a sidelong glance with golden-flecked, sapphire eyes. “Probably not.” “Well that’s hardly fair! I would tell you, if you guessed your Solstice gift. You haven’t even bothered trying.” Iarion shook his head. “That’s because it’s supposed to be a surprise.” Barlo frowned. “Where’s the fun in that? Besides, who made you the boss of Solstice?” Iarion gave him a long-suffering look. “The elves did invent the holiday, you know.” “It’s hardly my fault the dwarfs were born later. I’m sure we would have thought of it ourselves. Celebrating the longest night of the year isn’t exactly specific to the elves, or even that creative, for that matter.” Barlo snorted. Iarion’s eyes rolled heavenward. “One more day,” he said in an effort to console himself. “Just one more day. Then all this endless harassment will be over.” “I wonder what Solstice will be like in Nal Huraseadro,” Barlo mused. “I’ve never spent the holiday among humans before. The snow has really slowed us down. I would usually be at Dwarfhaven by now.” “I guess we’ll find out,” Iarion said as they passed the city gates. The guards gave them a cursory glance before waving them through. In other times, the city’s security hadn’t been as casual, but Lasniniar had been at peace for over forty years since the fall of Saviadro. “Are Narilga and the children disappointed you won’t be home with them?” “No, they know we’ll celebrate when I get back. Besides, I usually find all the best presents for them on this trip.” Every year since the Third War of the Quenya, the Chief of Clans of Dwarfwatch, Dwarfhaven, or Dwarvenhome made a journey to the other two dwarven cities to renew ties and hammer out trade agreements for the coming year. To keep things fair, the leaders took turns. This year it was Barlo’s responsibility as Chief of Clans for Dwarvenhome. “I’m glad your mother finally let you come this time,” Barlo said with a grin. “It’s usually just me. No other dwarves are interested in travel, especially not at this time of year.” “I’m glad too,” Iarion said with an answering smile. “Convincing my mother was my father’s Solstice gift.” Even though Iarion was over thirty years old, he was still young—almost a child by elven standards. His overprotective mother was quick to remind him of the fact. The thought of spending the holiday cooped up with her after a long and boring autumn had been more than Iarion could bear. Thankfully, his father understood his need to roam, and treated him as the adult he was—one who had already lived a previous lifetime spanning thousands of years, which more than compensated for his youth in his current incarnation. Iarion and Barlo wound their way through the crowded city marketplace, which was packed with last-minute shoppers. Vendors hawked their wares from their stalls, ranging from hot food, to jewelry, to toys. The scent of spiced meat filled Iarion’s nostrils, only to be replaced by the smell of freshly carved wood. Many of the stalls were decorated with pine boughs and ribbons in honor of the holiday. “I think I’ll drop my armor off for a good scouring,” Barlo said, picking at his chain mail shirt. “This snow is making it rust like crazy. My helm could use a polish too. I don’t want to show up at Dwarfhaven looking like some sort of vagabond when I’m representing Dwarvenhome.” He shouldered his way through the crowd, leaving Iarion and Sinstari to follow in his wake as he headed for a blacksmith’s stall. Other than a few muttered curses, Barlo’s passage went mostly unnoticed, but Iarion’s angular features, golden skin, and long, white braids drew some interested looks. Elves did not travel to Nal Huraseadro often—especially not Light Elves, who made their home far to the south in Melaquenya. Only those wandering closest noticed Sinstari, giving him a wide berth. The wildcat ignored the shoppers’ discomfort with a sniff of disdain. After a lively haggling session, Barlo left his armor and helm in the care of the blacksmith, who promised it would be ready the day after Solstice. Barlo left the stall, his brown eyes alight with the thrill of a good bargain. He flashed a smile at Iarion. “You know,” he said in a deceptively casual voice, “my firestarting kit is looking worse for wear. Maybe I should pick up a new one while we’re here...” Iarion gave him a pointed look. “I didn’t get you a new firestarting kit. Now stop fishing. I refuse to answer any more Solstice gift-related questions, direct or implied.” Barlo sighed. “Fine. If that’s the way you’re going to be—” The rest of his words were cut off by a host of angry voices shouting nearby. He and Iarion shared a wordless glance and began working their way through the press of bodies toward the ruckus until they found themselves standing at the edge of the crowd, which had drawn back to create a ragged circle where two men stood glaring. “First, your tribe goes running to Saviadro’s side like a pack of whipped dogs as soon as he sends his first delegation, then you have the gall to steal our tribe’s totem!” A man with red hair, wearing leather armor marked with a familiar, scarlet horn shouted, his pale face flushed. “You are lucky we do not cut you down right here!” A group of men behind him shouted in agreement, shaking knives and spears. Iarion recognized them as the Tribe of Horn. Hidar—a onetime companion, who had accompanied Iarion and Barlo on their quest to overthrow Saviadro—had been the son of the tribe’s chief. Both he and his father had lost their lives in the war. Even if they hadn’t, they would likely have been dead by now. Lesser Men were not graced with long lifespans, only a few of them reaching their hundredth year. They stood out from Nal Huraseadro’s citizens, whose bronze skin marked them as their Greater cousins. A hawk-faced, blond man stood across from the Horn tribesman, gripping his spear, nostrils flaring. A claw earring dangled from one ear. “The men and women of the Claw may have been the first to turn, but you seem to forget your people did the same in the end,” he said in a dangerous voice. “And who are you to accuse my people? You are the ones who stole our totem necklace!” Pale-skinned, armed men rallied behind the second man, glaring at the Tribe of Horn. The city folk hung back, watching the exchange. Iarion noticed a pale, wiry man with gray eyes, standing apart from both tribes, despite his obvious Lesser Man blood. He wore no armor, and bore no obvious weapon. His ragged, blond hair framed weathered features. He stood among the people of Nal Huraseadro, dressed as one of them, wearing a plain, dark cloak over his tunic and breeches. The two tribes began shouting at one another once more, drawing Iarion’s attention. By the time he looked back, the man had slipped into the crowd and out of sight. The City Watch arrived on the scene, pushing their way toward the knot of Lesser Men. The tribesmen bristled at the intrusion, but the men of the Watch wore matching steel breastplates, and each carried a sword at his waist. The Lesser Men fell back to let them pass. The men of the Watch were led by a grim-faced man with red plumes on his helm. “I am Captain of the Guard here in Nal Huraseadro,” he said in a hard voice. “What passes here?” “I am Chief of the Tribe of Horn,” the redhead said, throwing back his shoulders. “These men have stolen from us. We want nothing more than to claim our due.” “Lies!” the blond leader with the earring shouted. “I am Chief of the Tribe of Claw. It is they who have stolen our totem necklace.” “Enough!” the captain shouted, drowning out the ensuing racket from both parties. “This is a tribal matter. I will not have you disturbing the peace of the city, especially not on Solstice Eve. All of you must leave now. We will escort you to the city gates.” The City Watch began herding the tribesmen away from the market. The Chief of the Tribe of Claw favored the Chief of the Tribe of Horn with a parting glare. “We will maintain our tribe’s honor and leave peacefully, but this is not over. If our totem necklace is not returned by dawn tomorrow, the men of the Claw will go to war.” “Who are you to speak of honor?” The Chief of Horn spat. “If your people do not return our totem horn before the night is over, we will face you on the battlefield.” The captain sighed. “If this dispute results in a war, we will have no choice but to seal the city. Nal Huraseadro will take no sides in this matter.” People in the crowd murmured at these words. Nal Huraseadro was situated at the crossroads of the Great North Road, which connected Middle Lasniniar to the settlements to the north, and the territory of Lesser Men in the Daran Falnun. The city had not been sealed since the time of Saviadro. Both leaders blanched at the captain’s words. All of the tribes had become dependent on trade from the city since the war had ended, which was likely what had brought them to Nal Huraseadro in the first place. “That is a price we are willing to pay,” the Chief of Horn said, raising his chin. Several men of the City Watch surrounded him, while others did the same to the Chief of Claw, effectively separating the two. “We will meet again at dawn,” the Chief of Claw said as he was escorted off with his tribesmen, the men of Horn a short distance behind. As the Lesser Men left the market, a babble of voices erupted as shoppers discussed the confrontation and its potential outcome. “Come on,” Iarion said, nudging Barlo’s shoulder. “Let’s get out of here and find an inn.” “Do you think we should offer to help?” Barlo asked. Iarion shrugged. “What can we do? This affair has nothing to do with us, and the City Watch seems to have things well in hand. Even if the city is sealed, I’m sure we can find a way out. Besides, it’s almost Solstice, and we’ve been on the road for days. I think we deserve a bit of relaxation, don’t you?” Barlo pulled his lingering gaze from the retreating tribesmen. “I suppose you’re right.” Barlo followed Iarion through the crowded streets to an inn marked with a painted sign of a red boar. He was doing his best to forget about the scene they had witnessed in the marketplace. The tribesmen of the Daran Falnun were avid hunters, providing good leather and furs that were traded up and down the eastern coast of Lasniniar. If they went to war, and Nal Huraseadro was sealed, no one would profit. The city’s famous mead—its main export—would also become a rare commodity. He could understand why the captain was threatening to seal the city gates. The matter would only get worse if Nal Huraseadro got involved. The men of Horn and the men of Claw composed only two of the many tribes in the Daran Falnun, who functioned on an elaborate and often tenuous set of alliances. If the Lesser Men thought any of their Greater cousins were taking sides, the dispute could quickly escalate into a civil war that involved all the tribes. Barlo found himself brainstorming solutions to the problem. Perhaps he and Iarion could offer their services to one of the tribes to investigate the theft of their totem? But which tribe would they choose... He discarded the idea, along with several others before stopping himself. Force of habit, I suppose. The First Father knows Iarion and I have solved worse problems than this one. But Iarion’s right. It’s not our business. I might as well forget about it and try to relax... “What in Lasniniar is that beast doing inside my inn?”