Godmaker: A Novel of Lasniniar

Chapter Four-1

Chapter FourMoving Targets

Barlo lagged behind Iarion and Lodariel, allowing them to walk as far ahead of him as possible while still keeping them in sight between the gentle, green rises of the Rolling Hills. The tension between the two elves since they had set out from Melaquenya three days prior was palpable. Between their argument over Felara, and Lodariel’s waspishness over leaving Daroandir behind, they made poor traveling companions. Barlo was more than happy to have Golhura as a distraction from the awkward silence and pensive glances. The wildcat strode beside him, her movements smooth and graceful. Her golden eyes were alert for signs of danger, and her tufted ears pricked forward, flicking backward whenever Barlo decided to talk to her in an effort to break the silence.

She was alert and on guard while they traveled, but the evenings brought out her playful side. After her evening meal, which she would catch herself, she tussled with Barlo. The first time she had instigated the practice, she had nearly given him a heart attack. Sinstari had rarely done such a thing, preferring more ‘sophisticated’ pranks, such as fooling Barlo into walking through a pile of animal droppings for his own amusement.

Even though Barlo found himself liking Golhura and he was grateful for Iarion’s gift, her presence inevitably brought back memories of Sinstari. He and Golhura’s grand-sire had been wary allies at first, but Iarion’s death in his previous incarnation had brought them together.

Barlo’s memories of Sinstari inevitably brought back thoughts of Narilga as well. His beloved wife had died centuries ago, but he had never stopped missing her. His only solace came from the knowledge that time had little meaning in the First Father’s Hall, and his memories of her there. When he finally returned to her, she would have no idea how long he had been gone. Knowing Sinstari waited with her, keeping her company, also gave him comfort. Narilga had always understood Barlo’s need for adventure. She had been the one to persuade him to leave when Galrin had revealed he had a rare opportunity to be reborn—a chance that had never been offered to any dwarf until now.

How would she deal with Iarion and Lodariel’s domestic squabbling? She would know what to do...

Barlo glared at the backs of the two elves in front of him. He had known things might be awkward between them, but this had been going on for days, and Felara hadn’t even shown her face yet. Iarion and Lodariel needed to sort themselves out and build a unified front between them before the Unborn spirit arrived to complicate matters.

I’ve tried talking to them together and separately. Nothing I say seems to make any difference. They’re both too stubborn.

Barlo’s only hope was that when Felara did arrive, which was inevitable, she became a common enemy that brought them together, which seemed unlikely given Iarion’s high opinion of her.

Beside him, Golhura came to a sudden stop. Barlo looked up, startled from his thoughts. A wide expanse of sand dunes stretched as far as he could see to both the east and west. The peaks of the Copper Mountains loomed in the distance to the south. The grassy edge of the Rolling Hills had become brown and dry beneath his boots. They had reached the Shifting Sands.

The wildcat gave him a curious look and Barlo suddenly realized she probably hadn’t been beyond the borders of Melaquenya before. The desert must seem very strange to her. He gave her large head a reassuring pat. He and Golhura had stopped, but Iarion and Lodariel continued marching ahead of them, both seeming too lost in their own thoughts to notice where they were. Barlo rolled his eyes and cleared his throat to get their attention. Both elves stumbled to a stop to give him a questioning look over their shoulders.

“We’ve reached the desert,” Barlo said, feeling the need to state the obvious. “Shouldn’t we take a few moments to rest and properly arm ourselves?”

Iarion gave himself a shake. “Of course.”

He and Lodariel wandered back to where Barlo was standing. The three of them sat together on the prickly grass in awkward silence. Both Iarion and Lodariel had dark circles under their eyes. Barlo suppressed a sigh.

“I know this probably isn’t any of my business,” Barlo said in a casual voice, “but are the two of you going to be moping about like this for the entire trip? You’re not exactly the best travel companions right now.”

Lodariel sniffed. “That depends entirely on Iarion. If he doesn’t send Felara away when she finally decides to show up, then this will be exactly what the rest of the journey is like.”

Iarion opened his mouth to protest, but Barlo cut him off. “You know that’s not fair,” the dwarf said. “Felara isn’t Iarion’s pet. She comes and goes as she pleases. Not only that, but she’s so contrary, if Iarion tries to tell her to leave, it will probably only convince her to stay.”

Iarion’s eyes widened as if the thought had never occurred to him. “You’re probably right.”

Lodariel’s expression turned sour. “So how do we get rid of her?”

Barlo shrugged. “We don’t let her get the better of us. If we act as if her presence is no big deal, she’ll get bored eventually and find some other people to torment. Iarion can’t be her only toy.”

“It sounds so simple.” Lodariel bit her lip and gave Barlo a dubious look. “Will that really work?”

“She won’t make it easy,” Barlo warned. “She likes to tease and bait people to see how they respond. Some of us might have a harder time resisting than others.” He gave Lodariel a pointed look.

Lodariel’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?” Her voice was low and dangerous.

“That.” Barlo said, gesturing toward her. “You have a short temper. It’s hardly a secret. Felara will use that to try to get a rise out of you. I know it will be hard, but you can’t give her the satisfaction.”

Iarion opened his mouth again, but Barlo shook his head to silence him. Anything Iarion said right now could set Lodariel off. If she was going to get upset, Barlo preferred to be the only target. Iarion had suffered enough over the past few days.

Keep your mouth shut, so I can fix this.

Barlo didn’t know whether his friend could hear his thoughts through their bond or only read them in his expression. Either way, Iarion had the wisdom to remain silent as Lodariel digested his words, wrestling with her own temper.

“I don’t like it,” she said after several moments. “But what you say makes sense. Iarion wouldn’t leave me behind, so she’ll want to bully me to try to drive a wedge between us or get me to leave.”

“Exactly,” Barlo said with a nod. “We can’t let that happen. You have to stay strong. If Iarion tries to shelter you from her, it will only make things worse. She’ll see it as a sign of your weakness.”

Lodariel snorted. “She obviously doesn’t know me very well.” She straightened her shoulders, her eyes meeting her mate’s. “Iarion, I know I’ve been difficult these past few days, but I’m not going to allow that creature to come between us.” Her expression was fierce.

Iarion reached out to squeeze her hand. “Good.” She gave him a small smile of apology and the cloud of tension that had been hovering over them lifted. Barlo breathed a sigh.

Thank the First Father.

“Now that we’ve gotten that all sorted out, do we want to set out now or after nightfall?” Barlo asked.

Iarion eyed the desert. “I know traveling during the heat of the day seems unwise, but Rasniwyn and the Sea Elves have already been gone so long, I don’t want to waste any more time. If we wait until nightfall, we’ll lose an entire day.”

Barlo sighed. He had feared that was what his answer would be.

“You know what that means, Barlo,” Iarion said with a teasing smile.

Barlo cursed. “Yes, it means I have to wear that blasted salve.”

The nomadic Dune People still traded with the elves of Melaquenya. They crafted several specialized products, including a salve that protected fair skin from the heat of the sun. It worked well, but Barlo considered it a torment. It made his beard a gooey mess and gave his face a slimy sheen. Still, he knew from experience it was better than the alternative. He only wished the two Light Elves could join him in his misery, but their golden skin seemed resistant to sunburn.

Golhura watched with interest as he and the two elves girded themselves. Each of them wrapped their head with a flowing burnoose woven of pale, lightweight fabric. Once they were ready, Iarion led the way into the desert.

Like every journey he had ever made across the Shifting Sands, Barlo was struck by the overwhelming silence. Gone was the rustling of the grass and the chirping of insects. The sudden absence of background sounds that hinted at the world of life around him made the whistle of the wind sound very lonely to his ears. He trudged through the sand as a prickle of sweat broke out on his brow and he tried not to flounder. Of course, Iarion and Lodariel seemed to make their way without effort, their feet leaving only the barest of impressions on the sand’s surface before the wind swept their prints away. Golhura had some trouble at first. She was unused to the desert’s yielding surface. After a few moments of flailing confusion, she seemed to get the hang of things and began moving almost as gracefully as the two elves, much to Barlo’s annoyance.

The wind was the only indication that winter had arrived in Lasniniar. Barlo found it a pleasant change from the breathless oven of the desert’s usual heat. But the sun still beat down on their heads like a hammer, and the wind was hot on his face, often tearing his burnoose aside to fill his mouth and beard with gritty sand.

He and his friends traveled in silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts. The air was too dry for prolonged conversation even if the wind didn’t make listening impossible. Even though Barlo had made a point to drink well before entering the desert, it didn’t take long for his lips to start cracking and his tongue to get glued to the roof of his mouth. He sipped sparingly from his waterskin, knowing the danger of running out of water all too well. He began fixed his gaze on the mountains, trying to gauge whether they were getting any closer. Between the silence, the heat, and his thirst, it was easy to feel as if he had slipped into some kind of bad dream, where he was doomed to walk an endless desert for eternity.

Golhura batted him with her paw, distracting him. He stumbled, turning to see what she wanted. A cloud of dust shimmered to the west, kicked up by a group of riders on horseback. Barlo’s eyes narrowed. At first glance, he thought them men of one of the desert tribes, but the Dune People did not ride during the heat of day except at great need. The riders’ ragged robes and the sorry condition of their ungroomed, underfed mounts raised his suspicions further. The men were riding straight for them.

“Iarion!” he squawked in warning over the wind, his voice rough with disuse.

Iarion and Lodariel turned, their gazes following Barlo’s outstretched arm. Their expressions turned grim.

Barlo took in their surroundings. The mountains were still out of reach and the Rolling Hills were far behind them, so there was nowhere to run. There were at least fifteen to twenty riders as far as Barlo could tell. He pulled his ax from his belt.

“Why don’t you shoot?” he demanded, gesturing to Iarion’s and Lodariel’s bows.

Iarion gave a helpless shrug. “We don’t know their intentions yet.”

“Well, you can at least get an arrow nocked and ready!” Barlo snapped. “They might not be hostile, but they don’t look friendly either.”

His words seemed to startle the elves into motion. Before he could blink, both had strung their bows. Golhura lowered herself into a crouch at Barlo’s side, ready for action.

As the riders got closer, Barlo noticed they all seemed to be wearing a copper token on a thong around their neck. The emblem was unlike any he was familiar with, portraying an etching of a flame.

Huh. Wonder what that means...