Legends of Lasniniar Bond Forger Collection

Mum’s the Word-2

Iarion eyed the somewhat lumpy, orange mass on his lap. “I don’t know about this...”

“Come on, I worked really hard on it! We’ll try it together on three. Ready?” Barlo picked up his half and waited. Iarion reluctantly followed suit. “One, two, three!”

Barlo took an enthusiastic bite. Iarion visibly steeled himself and shoved his entire portion in his mouth. Barlo chewed slowly, trying to savor his creation. It was... strange. The outside was crispy, but the inside was mushy and a little damp. There were also a few chunks of ingredients he hadn’t mixed thoroughly enough. At first, it didn’t taste that bad, but the more he chewed, the worse it got. His mouth puckered and he gagged a little bit as the flavor became more rancid. He closed his eyes and forced himself to swallow before turning to face Iarion.

“Well, what do you think?”

Iarion was using the contents of his waterskin to force his portion down his throat. He grimaced, rinsing his mouth clean before speaking.

“I’ve never tasted anything quite like it.” His voice was a little hoarse. “It’s quite... full bodied. I think your recipe might need some work before you give one to Narilga.”

“You might be right,” Barlo said, nodding to himself. “I should try using less cave fungus next time...”

Iarion turned an interesting shade of green. “That might be it. I think I’ll lie down now.”

“Good idea.”

It seemed as though Barlo had just closed his eyes when he heard Iarion stirring. He propped himself up on one elbow to look. The elf was scrambling outside the lean-to, heedless of the pounding rain. He disappeared into the grass. A few moments later, Barlo heard retching. Iarion sounded as if he were throwing up his toenails. Just when Barlo thought he must be finished, the elf uttered an incoherent mumble of distress. Sounds of a very different kind of bodily function followed, accompanied by groans of pain. Barlo winced in sympathy.

Iarion trudged back into the shelter, looking wan. Barlo didn’t think he had ever seen an elf look as pathetic as Iarion did in that moment. His clothes were soaked from the rain, but there were spatters of something else on the front of his shirt. His white braids were plastered to his skull, and he held one arm protectively over his abdomen. An unpleasant scent followed in his wake, making Barlo wrinkle his nose.

“Bad fruit rations?” Barlo asked.

Iarion gave him a flat look. “Yeah, that must be it.”

He lay down again, but only for a few moments before he went tearing back out of the lean-to. This time as Barlo listened to Iarion’s sounds of gastrointestinal distress, he felt his own stomach tighten into an ominous clench. He swallowed, tasting bile. He charged after Iarion, emptying the contents of his stomach practically at the elf’s feet. The wind wasn’t any help, blowing some of the mess back into his face. He took several ragged breaths with his hands on his knees as the rain seemed to come at him from all directions. He looked up at Iarion, who was trying to shield himself from view with the tall grass while squatting and biting his lower lip.

Barlo felt his stomach give another heave. “Bad news. I don’t think it was the fruit rations.”

The morning sun shone directly into the lean-to, waking both Barlo and Iarion. Barlo rose with a groan, rubbing the grit from his swollen eyes. Between the storm and stomach issues, neither of them had gotten much sleep. Iarion’s long braids were a snarled mess, but the young elf didn’t seem to care. Barlo’s beard resembled a brown haystack, sticking out at all angles. He tried to run his fingers through it, but pulled his hand away with a shudder as he encountered dried chunks around his mouth. It would take more than his fingers to take care of the unpleasant reminders of the events of the night before.

Iarion opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by a loud sneeze that even seemed to surprise himself. He went to wipe his nose with the back of his hand and came away with a slimy, yellow mess. Barlo pulled a tartan handkerchief from his pack and handed it to him. Iarion gave him a miserable nod of thanks and blew his nose. He held the used handkerchief out to Barlo when he had finished.

Barlo gave it a dubious look. “You keep it. Your nose is running again already.”

Iarion made a sound of disgust and wiped at his red nose. “I don’t feel berry good.” His voice was thick and congested.

Barlo stifled a curse. How had everything gone so wrong? They were only a one-day journey from Melaquenya!

“You probably caught a cold from the damp last night. Do you want to go back?” he asked Iarion, dreading the answer. What would Eransinta think if Barlo returned her precious son in his current condition?

Iarion shook his head. “No. Mother will never let me leave again if I go back now.”

“Once we get to Dwarvenhome, Narilga can brew you something to clear everything right up. I’m sure of it.” Barlo kept his voice light and cheerful. “Why don’t you rest and have some breakfast while I pack up?”

Iarion moaned. “After last night, I don’t think I ever want to eat again.”

“Really?” Barlo said as he dismantled the ragged remains of the shelter. “My stomach is grumbling again already. Must be my hardy dwarven constitution.” Iarion managed a weak smile. “Well, at least get some water in you. Maybe your appetite will come back once we’ve walked for a bit.”

Iarion’s movements were sluggish as he changed into some fresh clothes. As soon as everything was packed, Barlo led him northeast toward the Wandering River. Their waterskins would need refilling soon, and they both could do with a proper wash. Barlo made sure to keep an easy pace. Both he and Iarion were raw in the nether regions after all the squatting the night before. They ambled through the grass with a wincing, bowlegged gait. For once, Barlo managed to keep pace with Iarion, despite his shorter stride. Barlo made a few attempts at his usual banter, but his heart wasn’t in it. Iarion remained silent for the most part, other than the occasional sneeze or blow of his nose.

Night was falling as they reached the river. Barlo wasted no time kneeling on the southern bank to wash his face and beard. Iarion shed his clothes and immersed himself in the rushing water with chattering teeth. Barlo considered doing the same, but the water was very cold, and the river was deep. Dwarves were not swimmers. He decided he could wait until he reached Dwarvenhome for a decent bath.

He set up camp as Iarion dried himself off and attempted to comb the tangles from his long hair. Barlo inspected the night sky. At least it didn’t look like it was going to rain. He would have liked to build a fire, but there was no kindling to be found. Setting a fire in the grasslands was always a tricky business anyway. Instead, he pulled an extra blanket from his pack and handed it to Iarion. Fortunately, they had managed to keep most of their belongings dry by sheltering them with their bodies the night before. Iarion accepted the second blanket with a mumbled thanks, wrapping it around his shivering body and uttering another sneeze.

“We’ll have to swing north tomorrow to get back on course,” Barlo said. Iarion gave a dull nod, his eyelids drooping. “Why don’t I take the first watch? You look like you’re about to fall over.”

Iarion yawned and wiped his swollen nose. “Thanks. Wake me when it’s my turn.” He rolled up in his blankets and was asleep in moments.

Barlo stared out into the darkness keeping watch for as long as he could, thinking to spare Iarion as much as possible. But eventually, his head began to nod, and he knew it was time to switch. It took several moments for him to shake Iarion awake. Even then, the elf seemed a bit groggy, but Barlo was too tired to do anything about it. He lay down and closed his eyes, trusting Iarion to watch over him.

Barlo was having the most lovely dream about eating waffles with Narilga. He frowned as he heard someone in the distance call his name, but then Narilga started to pour the syrup, distracting him. The next thing he knew, a blast of water was hitting him in the face. He coughed and spluttered as his eyes flew open.

The sky was still dark. His waterskin was on the ground nearby. Iarion’s boot pressed against the side of it, spraying the contents at him. Once Barlo realized what was going on, he rolled away from the stream of water with a yelp of protest.

“I tried to wake you, but you didn’t hear me,” Iarion said. It took Barlo a moment to translate the words through Iarion’s congested voice. He sounded out of breath.

“You could have at least tried shaking me,” Barlo grumbled.

“I was a little busy.”

Barlo suddenly realized Iarion was fending off three ogres with his knife. The dwarf blinked and crouched to retrieve his ax. “Oh. How did they get so close? Did you at least shoot one of them?” Iarion’s bow and quiver lay on the ground several feet away.

“I fell asleep and they snuck up on me.”

Barlo shook his head, thinking he must have heard wrong. “They snuck up on you. Three bumbling ogres snuck up on an elf?”

“Can we please talk about this later? I’m having a hard enough time breeding as it is.”

Barlo frowned. “Breeding? Uh, what exactly are you trying to do to those ogres?”

“Breeding! Through my dose!” Iarion looked away from his opponents for a moment to gesture to his nose.

“Breathing, right. That makes more sense.”

Barlo gripped his ax and plunged into the fray. The stench of the ogres was almost overpowering. One of them turned away from Iarion to face him. Its sharp tusks protruded from beneath its shaggy face. It grunted, swinging at Barlo with its cudgel. Barlo dodged the blow. As he stepped to the side, he swung his ax out to lop off the top half of the crude weapon. The ogre dropped the remaining useless chunk of wood, its small eyes narrowing.

Even though he knew it was coming, Barlo still didn’t manage to move away from the ogre’s charge in time. It was all he could do to avoid its tusks. The creature landed against him, slamming him into the ground and knocking the breath from his lungs. His ax slipped from his hand. The creature writhed on top of him, trying to drive its tusks into Barlo’s body.

“Ugh.” Barlo spat out a mouthful of ogre hair in disgust. “Get off me, you filthy lummox!” He set his forearm against the ogre’s chest to keep it at bay.

The ogre continued its gyrations, looking for an opening to gore the dwarf. Barlo reached out with his other arm, his fingers searching for the haft of his ax. Warm spittle dripped down from the ogre’s gaping mouth to land on Barlo’s cheek, distracting him from his goal. He jerked his head to the side, but the slimy gob only continued to slide down toward his ear. He shuddered and the ogre uttered a gruff chuckle.

Finally, Barlo’s fingers closed around the haft of his ax. He slammed it into the ogre’s side with as much strength as he could muster. Ogres had tough skin, but Barlo’s ax struck deep. The ogre squealed, its eyes widening. With an awkward pull, Barlo wrenched his ax free and struck again. The ogre squirmed atop him with another earsplitting squeal. The third blow severed its spine. The light faded from the ogre’s beady eyes and it finally went limp.

Barlo lay still for a moment, trying to get his breath. He heard a prolonged nose blow, followed by light footsteps. He looked up to see Iarion standing over him.

“And what exactly are you trying to do with that ogre?” he asked with a smirk. “Should I give you two a moment?”

Barlo rolled his eyes. “Very funny. Now can you help me get him off?” Barlo pushed against the ogre, but it hardly budged.

“If you think about what you just asked me, I think you’ll see why you’re on your own. We’re not that close, Barlo.” Iarion’s lips twitched.

“I’m glad to see you’re in better spirits,” Barlo said as he continued to struggle against the ogre’s dead weight.