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- Herausgeber: WaywardScribe Press
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
(Previously published as “Legends of Lasniniar: Quicksilver” by Jacquelyn Smith.)
Hero of Lasniniar. Dwarvenhome’s Chief of Clans. Barlo can claim both these titles, and more. (But never ‘Master Chef.’)
Brave, stubborn, and loyal to a fault, he takes pride in his judgment of character. And he holds no qualms about sharing his opinions. (Much to his elf friend Iarion’s chagrin.)
...Even when it means he must tell an unwelcome truth.
A stand-alone story of the infamous Barlo and Iarion from the Legends of Lasniniar fantasy series by the author of the Fatal Empire series, Jacquelyn Smith. (This adventure takes place between the World of Lasniniar novels Wave Runners and Godmaker.)
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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QUICKSILVER
A LEGENDS OF LASNINIAR SHORT
JACQUELYN SMITH
WAYWARDSCRIBE PRESS
Quicksilver: A Legends of Lasniniar Short
Copyright © 2023 Jacquelyn Smith
Published by WaywardScribe Press
First published in December, 2019 as “Legends of Lasniniar: Quicksilver”
Cover and layout copyright © Jacquelyn Smith
Cover design by Jacquelyn Smith/WaywardScribe Press
Cover art copyright © Ekosuwandono/Dreamstime
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
CONTENTS
Quicksilver
Goddess Almighty
About Jacquelyn Smith
QUICKSILVER
Barlo softly hummed a dwarven tune as he checked on the contents of his compact, iron stove for the umpteenth time. Hot air warmed his face and made the whiskers of his long, brown beard seem to sizzle. His bushy brows knit together in a scowl.
The cake hadn’t risen yet.
The edges were browning, sure enough. But the middle was still a sunken, sodden mess.
He slammed the metal door closed with a curse. How? How had he managed to mess it up this time?
He had followed the instructions of Narilga’s recipe exactly. He went to the sanded, wooden table and ran a finger along his deceased wife’s elegant scrawl in the hand-bound recipe book to check again.
Wait. Did I use one third of a cup of toadstools, or two thirds?
He threw his callused hands in the air and turned away with a grumble of annoyance.
Bah! Why am I even bothering with this nonsense anyway?
Barlo was no chef, and he had no real desire to become one. He was happy enough being the former Chief of Clans of Dwarvenhome, a hero of Lasniniar, and the only dwarf to ever be reborn.
No, the cake was meant to prove a point.
For years, Iarion had mocked Barlo about the cake he had attempted to make for Narilga’s birthday. Barlo and his elf friend had consumed the initial test-run version, and it had ended badly for both of them. Barlo’s lips twitched. The only silver lining of the event was the memory of Iarion heaving from both ends, so to speak.
Still, Barlo tired of Iarion’s continual references to the failed cake, to the point where he was actually trying to redeem himself.
Not that it was going very well.
Maybe Narilga didn’t make the recipe exactly as it’s written.
For centuries, Barlo had been a metalsmith by trade, which was hardly an exact science. No, you had to make adjustments as you went along, depending on how things went. He pursed his lips. Perhaps baking was the same…
An abrupt knock at the door of his burrow scattered his thoughts. He left the kitchen and walked past the sitting room to answer.
He found Lodariel waiting on the other side, her knuckles still raised.
“He’s seeing her again, isn’t he?” the elf woman said as she ducked through the low door and shouldered her way inside.
“Hello, Lodariel,” Barlo said in a dry voice as he closed the sturdy, wooden door behind her. “Nice to see you too.”
Lodariel flopped onto the battered couch that dominated the sitting room and faced the burrow’s rounded window.
“I’m sorry.” Lodariel gave a negligent wave. “But he is, isn’t he?”
She wore her usual scouting leathers and soft-soled boots. If she had brought her spear and bow, she had remembered enough of her courtesy to leave them outside the burrow. Despite her dramatic entrance, she moved with languid grace, running an anxious hand through her long, red-gold braids and revealing the tips of her pointed ears. Her golden skin seemed to glow in the slanting, afternoon light as it filtered through the window.
Her nose wrinkled as she looked up at him from where she sat. “Ugh. Were you in the middle of something before I got here?”
She jerked her head in the direction of Barlo’s personal indoor facilities, which happened to be down the hallway, past the kitchen. He suddenly realized he had forgotten his cake. The air was filled with the acrid scent of burning fungus.
“What?” Barlo flushed at the idea. “No, I—”
“It happens to the best of us, Barlo.” Lodariel gave him another wave. “Was it a bad bit of meat?” She pulled another face. “Phew. Definitely something rancid.”
Barlo sighed and scurried over to the stove. “I was trying to bake something.”
