Tanis the Shadow Years

by Barbara Siegel

  Yeblidod raised her arms weakly to her husband as Tanis stepped out of the way. The dwarf wept at her bedside as she patted his head. “I’m all right,” she reassured him in a thin whisper, a raspy imitation of her formerly warm alto. “Some rest, a little soup, and I’ll be just fine.”

  “What happened? Who did this to you?” Mertwig asked, weak chin wobbly in his craggy face. He wiped his eyes with the tail of his dark brown shirt.

  “A human. But he,” she said, indicating Tanis, who stood quietly in a dark corner, “he fought him and drove him away.”

  Mertwig nodded at Tanis in gratitude, clearly unable to say what was in his heart. The half-elf understood; the dwarf Flint was much the same way.

  Hurt though she was, Yeblidod appeared mostly frightened and shaken by her ordeal. Brandella shooed Mertwig away and looked after the matronly dwarf.

  “Where is Canpho?” asked the old fisherman in a low rumble.

  “I couldn’t find the healer, Reehsha,” Brandella answered softly, without looking up from her seat on a low, three-legged stool next to the rickety bed. “There are many who are sick and dying. He could be anywhere.” She cast a distracted look at Kishpa, lying without movement on a fur pallet on the floor.

  “But Canpho would come if he knew it was Kishpa,” insisted the frustrated fisherman. His gestures made wild shadows on the bare walls of the candlelit shack. “They would find him for you and send him.”

  “We couldn’t risk it,” Brandella said plaintively. “If everyone knew that Kishpa was ill and unable to cast his magic to defend the village, there would be panic. As it is, many are worried that our mage is nowhere to be found. If they hadn’t discovered a distraction, Ankatavaka would be awash in fear.”

  “A distraction?” Tanis asked.

  Brandella nodded without glancing his way. “A funny little human they have dubbed a hero,” she explained, wiping Yeblidod’s forehead gently with a moistened fragment of one of her shawls. Brandella glanced over her shoulder at the old fisherman. “I’m afraid that we alone must fear for the village. And I with guilt,” she added, her eyes suddenly filling with tears, “because it was my fault that he has come to this state.”

  The old elf stepped forward, quickly flaring to anger. “You’re at fault? How?”

  She turned back to her nursing of Yeblidod, ignoring Reehsha’s implicit threat. “I asked too much of him,” she tried to say evenly, though Tanis could clearly see the hurt in her eyes. “The humans were about to break through the south wall,” she said. “There were only a handful of defenders left, and I begged him to use his magic to save them because they had been so valiant. He told me that it was too soon for him to use his magic again, but I insisted.”

  Brandella faltered, then took a deep breath and steadied herself by covering Yeblidod with a blanket, her ministrations completed. The dwarven woman, soothed by her friend’s calming hands, slipped quickly into sleep.

  Tears glittered on the weaver’s thick lashes. “He cast his spell,” she continued. “I don’t know what it was or even if it worked, but he collapsed right after that. He hasn’t regained consciousness.” It was a statement, not a question. A tear trickled down her face. She didn’t wipe it away.

  “He warned you!” bellowed the old fisherman. “If he dies, it’s on your head! And if he dies, by the gods, I’ll have your head, too! I’ll feed it to the fish!” Reehsha stomped about the room, clearly forgetting the two invalids lying a short distance away.

  “Enough!” Tanis shouted. In the same instant, he drew his broadsword, its ominous red glow filling the small shack. He now knew full well the source of his blade’s power. It had been Kishpa who had enchanted the sword, saving his life and, quite possibly, the village of Ankatavaka. “I told you,” the half-elf growled. “Kishpa will survive. Be a good friend to your mage, and swallow your oaths.”

  Mertwig, shaking with the strain of the evening, shouted, “Don’t kill him!” Brandella tried to shush him, glancing repeatedly at the motionless Yeblidod and Kishpa.

  “A warrior wizard!” Reehsha exclaimed. “I have never seen one!”

  “I am no wizard,” said Tanis harshly, lowering his sword so that its point tilted toward the old elf’s face and lowering his voice to please Brandella. “I am just a friend to Kishpa and a servant of his lady.”

  “You lie!” Reehsha shot back, undeterred by the blade’s proximity to his nose. “You must be a warrior wizard. You have a magic broadsword, and you have now twice foretold the future. How do you know that Kishpa will live?”

  Before Tanis could answer, Brandella grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “Is it true? Will Kishpa be all right?” she begged softly, dark brown eyes aflame with hope.

  Although well aware that he would be hard-pressed to explain how he knew it, Tanis couldn’t deny her the peace she so desperately needed. “Yes,” he said. “He will live.”

  A sob escaped Brandella’s throat. Then she looked at Tanis again, more closely, and a sudden, strange flash of recognition leaped in her eyes. She gasped.

  “I … I don’t know how … how soon Kishpa will revive,” Tanis offered, embarrassed by her reaction to him. He swallowed and took control of himself, adding, “I don’t know if he will be able to help Ankatavaka when the sun rises and the humans renew their attack. I know only that he will have a long life.”

  “Then you are a mage,” Reehsha intoned, self-satisfied. “You could help Ankatavaka!”

  “I told you I am no mage. But I know this mage,” Tanis said cryptically, pointing at the unconscious Kishpa. “And you need not worry for his health.”

  “What of Yeblidod?” begged Mertwig. “Do you also know how she will fare?”

  “She will be fine,” the half-elf said, deciding there was no reason to say otherwise. “You need not worry about her.”

  Mertwig and Reehsha finally appeared at a loss for words. For the first time in long moments, silence fell on the fisherman’s ramshackle quarters. Reehsha’s face still showed suspicion, Mertwig’s face, only relief. Brandella had dried her tears and watched the half-elf intently.

  “Who are you?” the dark-eyed weaver finally asked, quietly and kindly. Her voice was steady. “You are a stranger to Ankatavaka, yet you claim to know my Kishpa. You call him friend and declare yourself my protector. Why is this? And by what magic do you possess such a sword?”

  “All good questions, Brandella.” Tanis dared to gaze into her eyes. Her tears had made her appear that much more pallid, yet the half-elf realized there was a cord of steel beneath the soft demeanor that was as strong as the broadsword he now sheathed.

  “You know my name?” she asked.

  “I know it well.”

  “Then use it well and tell me both what I wish to know and what I need to know.”

  “My name is Tanis,” he began slowly, trying to decide how much he should tell her. The candle sputtered. Mertwig resumed his vigil by his wife’s side, and the fisherman slumped onto a wooden bench by the door.

  Tanis’s problem, he knew, was that at some point he would have to escape the elder Kishpa’s memory. He had been told that Kishpa would help him. But how? And when? Without that knowledge, he was reluctant to tell Brandella too much of the truth for fear that she would laugh at him. And he didn’t know yet whether she would confide immediately in her lover—the man who would try to prevent her from leaving this time and place.

  “I come from somewhere far away,” he began, not quite sure of what he was going to say. “And I possess no magic except for what has been given to me by Kishpa. It is he who brought me here. And it is he who enchanted my sword. You see, I was on the south wall of the village when your mage cast his spell.…”

  Brandella heard nothing else that he said. She simply stared at Tanis, remembering how he had looked from afar on the battlement. Yes, she thought, it was him … the man from the dream.

  14

  At Last, A Hero

  Scowarr stood on a heavy wooden table, surrounded by
a sea of happy, hero-worshiping elven faces. He had them just where he wanted them: listening …

  The funny man’s patter was coming fast and sure tonight. He ran one hand through his short hair—the elves seemed to find the cut of his hair especially amusing—and launched into a new joke. “I once asked an elderly elf, To what do you attribute your old age?’ His answer? The fact that I was born a long time ago!’ ” He widened his amber eyes and nodded significantly at the crowd.

  The elves roared with laughter. Scowarr glanced down modestly, taking the opportunity to steal a glimpse of the elves’ gift to him; they’d provided the slender human with a new set of clothes, the forest-green slacks and jerkins that Ankatavakan men preferred, to replace the filthy rags he’d worn while fighting the human soldiers.

  After a day of carnage and death, Scowarr’s jokes were a welcome release, a way to forget and to ignore what would come on the fast-approaching morn.

  “And talk about the weather,” he rambled on, “the only good thing about rain is that you don’t have to shovel it.”

  In the back row, a middle-aged elven woman, one of several women who’d chosen to stay and fight beside brothers and husbands, yelped and poked her mate; again the crowd erupted with guffaws and applause.

  Scowarr had been at it for more than two hours. He’d dredged up just about every joke he knew and more than a few that he’d made up on the spot.

  “It’s a miracle,” he murmured, adding mentally, Or maybe it’s magic. In the back of his mind, he wondered if that young mage, Kishpa, had cast a spell making him genuinely funny or had conjured up a village full of laughing elves. The very fact that the elves were giggling at his jokes seemed even more amazing to him than their hailing him as a great warrior. Elves did not have the greatest sense of humor on Krynn—at least from a human point of view, he thought charitably. Elven folks tended to be rather sober and serious.

  But they were anything but serious tonight. Scowarr drank in their laughter until he reeled with it.

  It might have gone on like that until dawn, had not a village elder rushed into the hall, calling out, “To the streets! Everyone! We must find Kishpa!”

  Scowarr frowned; his audience was distracted. “What is it?” he asked the intruder. “Is there trouble?”

  “Magic-users!” cried the elder, blue eyes flashing under a shock of white-blond hair. “One of our spies has come back from the human encampment. He says they have wizards to aid them tomorrow. We must find Kishpa!”

  Unwilling to yield his place of honor, Scowarr boldly shouted, “If the mage must be found, then I will help you find him!” Then he knelt and softly asked, “Does anybody know where he could be? Any idea at all?”

  “Some say he used his magic to turn into a field of shimmerweeds,” a young, wide-eyed villager said.

  Scowarr hated to show his ignorance, but he asked the question anyway. “Why would he do that?”

  Another villager laughed. “Is this another joke?”

  “No. Really,” Scowarr protested, keeping his voice low. The elves closest to the table were beginning to exchange amazed glances, and the comedian was loath to tarnish the newfound shine on his reputation.

  “You don’t know what a shimmerweed is?” the same villager asked, surprised. When Scowarr shook his head, the elf went on. “It blooms only at night, getting the only light it needs from the moonlight. But when the petals catch the light just so, the shimmerweed blinds anyone nearby and causes him great confusion.”

  “Oh,” said Scowarr, sagely nodding his head. “That shimmerweed. I knew that. So Kishpa is surrounding the human encampment, keeping them from attacking us during the night? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  Another villager interjected, “That’s not what I heard.” He edged in front of the first speaker and said, “My uncle told me that someone saw Kishpa become invisible so that he could walk among the humans, undetected, and learn their plans of war.” Other elves murmured and added their conjectures.

  “We’re wasting time,” complained the village elder who had sounded the warning. He forced his way toward the center of the room where Scowarr held sway. “These are just rumors, idle talk, foolish gossip. It isn’t like Kishpa to disappear without a trace. Even his human lover, Brandella, has vanished. But Kishpa must be found and told of this new threat. Without his help, the humans will drive us into the Straits of Algoni.”

  “Brandella didn’t vanish,” piped up an elf from the back of the room. “I saw her just a short while ago, hurrying down toward the fishing boats.”

  “She was alone?” asked the elder.

  “No, she was with the dwarf, Mertwig, but it was odd. They seemed to be hiding in the shadows.”

  “To the fishing boats!” ordered Scowarr, relishing the ring of his commanding baritone. Even more pleasing to him was the reaction of the elves. They did as he said!

  “Do you hear something?” Mertwig asked from his perch near his wife’s bed.

  “Someone’s out there,” Tanis agreed from the back of the room, hearing the faint sound of a voice on the wind. He turned to Reehsha, who had moved from the bench to the window and pulled aside the fishnets that served as curtains. “Can you see anything?”

  “It’s a mob!” the old fisherman replied, visibly startled. “I can’t tell how big, but there look to be at least fifty torches lighting the far side of the pier, where the fishing boats are moored.”

  “What are they doing?” Brandella asked in a whisper.

  Tanis went to the window to see for himself. He grimaced. “They seem to have a purpose. It looks like they’re looking for something—”

  “Or someone,” Brandella interrupted, staring down at Kishpa, who lay unaware beside her. One hand continued to stroke the wizard’s brow.

  “Trouble!” Reehsha suddenly blurted.

  “What is it?” Mertwig and Brandella asked together.

  “They’re coming this way,” said Tanis, trying not to alarm the woman who cared so deeply for her mage.

  Her hand went to her throat. “They must not know!” she protested. “They’ll lose hope. Don’t let them inside!”

  “We may not have a choice,” said Tanis.

  Brandella rose and lunged across the room toward the half-elf. She took his hands in hers and squeezed them. Her closeness nearly unnerved him. Kit was a beauty, and Laurana the epitome of young, elven loveliness, but Brandella’s very essence was heart-shattering. At her touch, he felt himself go as red as his glowing sword.

  “You said he’d recover,” she said. “You said he’d live. Think now of all those who will die if Ankatavaka’s people panic.”

  Brandella’s skin was as delicate as porcelain above the black shirt and the loose green skirt, both obvious products of her loom. Tanis felt his blushing creep inexorably to his hairline. The young weaver appeared unaware of the effect she was having on him, however. “There’s no place to run,” she continued. “A few may survive by taking to the fishing boats, but the rest will be slaughtered if our defenses crumble. I beg you; stall for time! Don’t let them know the truth. If the villagers fight, they have a chance. If they run, they’ll die. You’re a warrior. You know what I say is true.”

  The woman’s beauty was almost more than he could bear. The warmth of her hands, the scent of her hair and skin, the perfection of every feature, all made Tanis’s mouth go dry. Yet there was more to her than the appeal of her flesh. There was the same energy and passion that had drawn him to Kitiara. Without, he hoped, the all-too-human yearning for power.

  “I will do what I can,” Tanis promised.

  “You are a worthy man,” she said simply, looking up into his blushing face.

  He wanted to ask her if he was worthy of her, but he refrained. Nonetheless, he found himself unwilling to let go of her hands. A moment passed. Was it his imagination, or did she seem reluctant to let go, too?

  “They’re getting closer,” Reehsha announced.<
br />
  Tanis freed her hands. Brandella gave him a shy smile.

  A moment later, Tanis opened the door, stepped outside, and with fingers gripping the handle of his sword in its scabbard, he faced the oncoming mob.

  15

  In Search of the Mage

  “Look!” cried an elf, apparently tired of tromping around in the wet sand near the fishing boats. “There’s a light in Reehsha’s window!”

  “Maybe he’s seen Brandella and Mertwig,” suggested another elf. “Let’s go ask him.”

  A murmur of assent went up among the elves, who numbered almost one hundred, and Scowarr was quick to jump out in front of the crowd, shouting, “We won’t rest until we find Kishpa!”

  It wasn’t all bravado on Scowarr’s part. He enjoyed the role, playing the hero to the hilt, but he also was worried about the mage. After all, Kishpa had saved his life on the seacliff, and the human was not unmindful of his debt. If Kishpa needed rescuing, Scowarr was willing to do his part. He even thought he was capable of it.

  The torches blazed, lighting the way across the beach for the anxious elves and their temporary leader. The waves crashed at their feet, reflecting the torches’ glow.

  When the searchers climbed the rocks toward Reehsha’s shack, Scowarr felt his legs and arms aching. Exhaustion was catching up with him, but he refused to give in to it. He wanted to be a hero again—and that meant finding Kishpa.

  As Scowarr led the crowd toward the shack, the door to the crumbling old building suddenly swung ajar. Golden light illuminated the darkness, and the silhouette of a fighting man, strong and straight, walked into the shimmering aura and waited.

  Tanis decided to keep the door to Reehsha’s shack open. Closing it behind him would have suggested that he was trying to keep the crowd from entering. Rather, he reasoned, let it appear as if he had nothing to hide from them.