Legends of Lasniniar: The Wanderer

Series: The World of Lasniniar

A hidden obstacle in the tall grass. Between the human zealots, demons, and other dark creatures roaming Lasniniar, Barlo never expected to get taken down by some stupid piece of wood.

But the dwarf and his elf friend Iarion always seem to attract trouble, turning even a simple camping trip into an unexpected adventure.

And the strange staff that tripped him becomes only the first of Barlo’s problems…

A stand-alone misadventure story from the World of Lasniniar epic fantasy series by Jacquelyn Smith.

→ Read an Excerpt

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The Wanderer Excerpt

Barlo blamed the tall grass of the Adar Daran for his fall. The blasted stuff stood almost to his broad shoulders. At least it helped to soften his fall as he landed face-first with a heavy thump. He filled the air with Dwarvish curses as he felt his ankle twist beneath him. The scent of crushed grass filled his nostrils. He heaved himself up onto his forearms and spat out a mouthful of it, along with a decent portion of his long, brown beard. Something cool and damp brushed the back of his calloused hand, making him flinch.

He looked up to see a pair of golden, feline eyes staring down at him. A moment later, a set of large paws began to circle him as Golhura sniffed him over.

“Yes, yes,” Barlo grumbled as he batted his wildcat companion away. “I’m fine, thanks for asking. But I would be better if you had bothered to let me know I was about to trip.”

Golhura sat back on her haunches—a large, charcoal shadow in the tall grass. She looked down at him with one of her unreadable looks, but her tail twitched in amusement.

“Maybe that’s because she assumed you would be watching where you were going,” a familiar voice said from above. “Most people do, you know.”

Barlo craned his neck to scowl at the owner of the voice. He wasn’t surprised to find Iarion smirking down at him. From this angle, the elf’s long, white braids dangled around his golden-skinned face like a beaded curtain. Iarion brushed them behind his pointed ears and extended his arm to offer Barlo a hand up.

Barlo thought about ignoring it, but his ankle was already throbbing, and between his helm, chain mail, and heavy pack, he felt like an oversized turtle. He swallowed his dwarven pride and reached out—only to find his friend’s hand was still beyond his grasp. The blasted elf was too tall. Iarion uttered a wry chuckle and crouched to close the gap.

“You would think standing closer to the ground would give you the advantage when it comes to spotting obstacles,” the elf said with a twitch of his lips.

Barlo cursed him out in Dwarvish as he hauled himself unceremoniously to his feet, nearly knocking the elf over in the process as his boots got tangled again.

“What in the First Father’s name is down there?” Barlo demanded.

[Copyright © Jacquelyn Smith, 2021]

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