Legends of Lasniniar A Close Shave coverLegends of Lasniniar: A Close Shave

Series: The World of Lasniniar

A cold welcome in Dwarvenhome. Even after a few years as Barlo’s friend, Iarion still feels like an intruder in the underground city.

The dwarves’ usual wariness toward elves does not bother him. But Iarion senses something more at work. All of the dwarves seem on edge. Barlo included.

And when Iarion learns the real reason behind the rising tensions, he knows he has his work cut out for him.

A stand-alone story of friendship, beards, and magic from the World of Lasniniar epic fantasy series by Jacquelyn Smith.

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This title is also available as part of the Legends of Lasniniar Legacy Hunter Collection.

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A Close Shave Excerpt

Iarion walked briskly along the underground streets of Dwarvenhome, eager to reach Barlo’s front door. He did his best to ignore looks of askance as he passed. He knew he shouldn’t be surprised by the lack of welcome—he was an elf, after all—but this was hardly his first visit to the dwarven city. He had thought most of the dwarves had come to tolerate him. He felt painfully conspicuous among the short, bulky figures and bearded faces with his tall, lean frame. His complete lack of facial hair did nothing to disguise his angular features, and the tips of his pointed ears poked out from under his long, silver braids. The streets were well lit by rows of torches, so even his silent tread and dusky skin could not help him blend in.

He found his fingers drifting toward the knife at his belt and forced them away. The guards at the mountain gate had argued about allowing him to enter the city with his blade and bow, but in the end, they had grudgingly permitted him to remain armed. In all the years since his first visit to Dwarvenhome, he had never encountered such a dubious welcome.

What’s going on here? Everyone seems to be on edge.

In fact, the suspicious glares the dwarves were throwing about weren’t limited to Iarion. He passed several knots of dwarven men, women, and children on the streets who spoke to one another with tense expressions in their own hash tongue, their fists clenching as if spoiling for a fight. Iarion walked past them as quickly as he dared, not wanting to draw any more attention to himself.

A flood of relief washed over him as he reached Barlo’s familiar front door, marked by his clan’s tartan flag. Iarion’s nervous knock was a bit more frantic than he had intended. He heard shuffling feet approaching from the other side of the door, accompanied by muffled grumbling, punctuated by curses. Iarion stepped back, preparing himself to greet Barlo. The door jerked inward to reveal a flush-faced Narilga instead. Barlo’s wife wore a waspish expression Iarion had never seen on her before, her long, dark hair in tangles.

“Thank the First Father you’re here,” she said without preamble. “I can’t deal with him anymore.”

[Copyright © Jacquelyn Smith, 2021]

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