by Mark Anthony
The rain grew harder. Occasional bunches of laurel leaves flopped to the ground, bounced, and lay still, like bits of forest flung by an angry, skybound god. Tanis took his position, and aimed through the slants of rain. The crowd behind him drew silent, to his surprise, though the weather may have had more to do with their quietude than courtesy had. Ulthen and Litanas looked like sea elves, their leggings damp to the knees. Selena, who had selected the favored spot in the yellow and white tent, had fared better.
Almost without thinking, Tanis released the arrow. It wobbled, caught in a fold of canvas to the right of the target, and stuck there, a bright splash of blue against a dun backing.
"Two points for the half-elf!" Tyresian called. "The next is Porthios."
The Speaker's heir, his face a mask of resignation, accepted the longbow from Tanis. "Remember, Tanis. I did not ask for this." Tanis met his stare impassively, as though they'd never met.
Porthios nocked an arrow, drew his arm back-and Tanis froze in humiliation.
Porthios was right-handed. Yet in this contest, he had reversed the bow, drawing the bow with his weaker arm. Tanis felt his face go white, then red. Shooting with the off-arm was like saying Porthios could defeat the half-elf without trying. Porthios barely seemed to aim before the crimson-feathered arrow struck solidly in the dragonseye.
"Ten points for the full elf!" Tyresian cried.
The next turn brought the same result, and the score stood at twenty for Porthios and four for Tanis.
"It's not too late to back down," Porthios said softly as he handed the bow back to Tanis after his second dragonseye. For once, Porthios's friends had grown quiet. "We could call off this farce because of rain."
The words stung like the downpour that drilled into the moss around the two contestants. Even Tyresian had moved to one of the pavilions. Only the two combatants remained in the deluge. The half-elf stepped back to the line.
On the third round, Tanis's shot slashed through the rain toward the target-and past it, chipping a shard of stone from the wall behind.
"Minus ten!" Tyresian cried. "The score stands thus: Tanthalas Half-Elven, minus six in three. Porthios, twenty in two."
Porthios sighed and gestured in a way that suggested he'd like nothing better than to abandon the contest. "Go ahead," Tanis said. "Shoot."
Porthios, still shooting left-handed, took even less time on this round, and his arrow arced overhead, striking the target a hand's breadth from the center. He barely seemed to hear Tyresian call, "Five points. The score stands at minus six for the half-elf and twenty-five for Porthios."
"There's no way you can win," Porthios urged. "Let's stop this."
Tanis felt his jaw stiffen, and Porthios looked away as the half-elf took more care than ever lining up the shot, concentrating on what was to come, visualizing a successful hit in the dragonseye. Tanis closed his eyes, willing the gods to be with him on this one. He thought of the contemptuous stares of Xenoth, Selena, and the rest, and felt anger rise like a boil within him. He narrowed his eyes against the rain, lined up the target, and released the arrow.
The cobalt-feathered projectile arced slightly, and Tanis's heart sank.
Then it arced back to earth and neatly struck the dragons-eye.
"Ten points! The score stands at plus four for Tanis, twenty-five for Porthios."
Porthios refused the bow when Tanis handed it to him. "Let it rest, Half-Elven. You are new to the sport. Let it rest."
For a moment, Tanis almost succumbed to the sympathy that sprang up once more in Porthios's green eyes. Suddenly, Tanis was painfully aware of his surroundings-the damp green smell of wet moss, the perfume of battered apples lying beneath a nearby tree, the faint cheep of a sparrow hiding from the storm in the branches of a spruce.
Then Tyresian spoke up. "Perhaps you should have chosen a more 'human' form of competition than the bow, half-elf." Tanis felt rage mount in him again.
"Shoot, Porthios," he snapped. "Or forfeit."
Obviously tired of the charade, Porthios raised his arms and, sparing only a half-glance for the target, did as Tanis demanded. The arrow missed the target by more than ten paces.
"Final score: Porthios, at fifteen, is victor. A total of four for the half-human who seeks to show his expertise at an elven sport," Tyresian said flatly, and turned on a muddy heel to head into the palace.
Even Selena and Litanas gasped at the vitriol in Tyresian's words, but they followed Tyresian toward the steel doors, which shone dully through the gray downpour. Only Ulthen protested. "Unfair, Lord Tyresian," he complained. "He did the best he could."
Tyresian's reply was smooth. "And it wasn't enough, was it?"
As the courtyard emptied, Porthios stood uncertainly before Tanis, seemingly oblivious to the deluge that bent tree branches like reeds. Something like shame showed on the elf lord's hawklike face. "Tanis, I…" he said, and trailed off.
Tanis said nothing, merely bending deliberately to pick up the discarded bow; then he paced to the wall to retrieve the arrows, blue and red, their feathers sodden in the mud that welled up around the patches of moss.
"Tanis," Porthios repeated, and his face, for once, showed the strength of character that could be his as Speaker, if he only let it grow.
"I want a rematch," Tanis interjected.
Porthios's jaw dropped, and his upper lip drew up crookedly as though he couldn't believe what he'd heard. "Have you no sense, Tanthalas? You are thirty to my eighty years. I've embarrassed myself enough already with this travesty. Would you duel with Laurana, by the gods? That's what this comedy is to me."
Tanis intentionally misunderstood Porthios. "Perhaps this is humorous to you, Porthios. It is dead serious to me. I want a rematch."
Porthios's shoulders slumped in resignation. "It is raining, Tanis. I do not want to match bows with you again…"
"Not bows," the half-elf insisted. "Fists."
"What?" the elf lord snapped. Tanis could practically hear his cousin thinking, What a human method of settling a dispute.
All the spectators but Lord Xenoth had straggled inside for dry clothes and mulled wine. Xenoth hovered near the doorway however, possibly attracted by the cutting undertone in the pair's voices. With his puffy, white hair, puckered lips and silver robe, his hands folded before his chest, the old adviser resembled an aging long-haired cat, minus a few teeth but curious still.
Fine, Tanis thought. You want something to report back to the Speaker? This will do.
And he slugged Porthios in the face.
A second later, the Speaker's heir lay sprawled on his backside in the mud, a clod of dislodged moss still sailing through the air, a look of stunned shock on Porthios's face that might have been funny in another situation. The rain had caused the colors in his long, silken tunic to run, and rivulets of yellow, green, and blue ran down the elf lord's arms. He looked positively jaundiced with surprise, and Tanis burst into laughter.
… and found himself slung against a small peach tree. It was like being tossed headfirst into a huge Darkenwood porcupine. He felt twigs scratch his face, heard small branches crack around him, and felt wet, ripe fruit bump against him as he knocked them loose. A smell of squashed peaches rose in his nostrils.
The battle escalated quickly. Porthios fought to defend himself, but Tanis battled out of sheer rage. Porthios, older and quicker, could outmaneuver Tanis. But the human blood of the half-elf gave Tanis a strength that the lithe elf lord lacked. Thus, while Porthios drubbed the half-elf early on, Tanis soon felt the tide of the fight swing his way.
"Boys! Boys!" The new voice penetrated the miasma of anger clouding Tanis's brain. The blood stopped roaring in Tanis's ears long enough for him to focus on Lord Xenoth. The old adviser danced hysterically between Porthios and Tanis, all three of them mindless now of the rain that continued to pelt them. The dye of Porthios's tunic had been washed to sickly greenish yellow, and the front had been torn from collarbone to abdomen. A rivulet of blood dripped from the
elf lord's mouth, and one eye was swelling shut. Xenoth's gown bore a splash of mud down the front. Tanis looked down at his own clothes; one mud-caked moccasin lay against a bench. The sand color of his breeches had disappeared under a coat of slimy mud. And the bow-the weapon that had started all this-was in pieces at his feet. Although spots of blood dotted his shirt, he didn't appear to be injured beyond minor bruises and cuts, however.
Then Tanis's breath caught in his throat. For on the granite path, cracked and broken, lay Flint's carving.
As the wheezing adviser helped Porthios into the palace-screeching, "You'll hear about this, half-elf!" — Tanis dropped to his knees and tenderly picked up the fragments of the carving. One fish survived unbroken, but the thin chain that had attached it to the crossbar had snapped. The crossbar itself was missing. And the base-the delightfully carved representation of the bottom of a rocky stream-had cracked right through the middle. He gathered the pieces together, finding the crossbar in a puddle about five paces away, and wrapped them in the front tail of his loose shirt.
Tanis looked up. The door had slammed behind Xenoth and Porthios, and he stood alone in the gray courtyard.
The rain continued to pour down.
* * * * *
The Speaker of the Sun strode swiftly down the corridor, his forest green cloak billowing out behind him like some fantastic storm cloud, its golden trim flashing like strange, metallic lightning. But it was the lightning in his eyes that caused startled servants and courtiers to step quickly from his path as he passed through the palace on his way toward the family chambers. All knew from experience it took much to anger the Speaker, but mercy to those unfortunate enough to be caught in his path when he was finally moved to ire.
"Tanis!" he called out sternly as he pushed through the door to the half-elf's bedchamber. "Tanthalas!"
The room was unlit by lamp, but a form, silhouetted in the red light of Lunitari, which streamed in through one window, shifted on the bed.
"Tanthalas," Solostaran repeated.
The figure sat up. "Yes." The voice was like lead-flat, heavy, immovable.
The Speaker moved to strike a flint and light a small lamp. He looked over at the slumped figure on the bed, and caught his breath.
Bruises and scabs stood out against the pale skin of Tanis's face and arms. He shifted his weight, inhaled sharply and grasped his side, then just as quickly sat up straighter.
Over the years Solostaran had learned to force his emotions into the cool mask that he presented at court. That training stood him in good stead now as he watched the adopted nephew he loved so well struggle to maintain a look of nonchalance-as though a wealth of welts and bruises were a normal part of everyday life.
The Speaker remained standing, voice devoid of warmth. "To be fair, I will tell you that Porthios refuses to explain what happened. And apparently he has cowed, coerced, or cajoled everyone else out there-even Lord Xenoth, to my surprise-into keeping silent as well. Will you tell me what occurred in the courtyard today?"
The figure on the bed remained silent. Then Tanis looked down at his lap and shook his head.
The Speaker's voice continued implacably. "Somehow, I am not surprised at your reticence, Tanthalas. And I will not force you to speak-if, indeed, I could. This appears to be something that you and Porthios must work out on your own. But I will tell you one thing." He stopped speaking. "Are you listening?"
The figure nodded but didn't look up.
The Speaker went on. "Good. Then let me tell you this: This will not happen again. Ever. I will not have my son and my… nephew rolling in the dirt, acting like… like…"
"Like humans," Tanis finished softly. The phrase shivered in the evening air.
Solostaran sighed, searched for another way to phrase it, then decided that bluntness might work best. "Yes, if you will. Like humans."
The figure on the bed waited several heartbeats and nodded again. Solostaran stepped closer; Tanis held something in his hands. A carved wooden fish? A shock of suspicion went through the Speaker.
"Don't tell me that all of this was over a broken toy," he demanded.
When Tanis didn't answer, Solostaran sighed and prepared to go. "I will send Miral with salves. Get some sleep." His tone grew gentler. "Can I have anything or anyone sent to you, Tanthalas?"
The reply, when it came, was so soft that the Speaker barely heard the words.
"Flint Fireforge."
Chapter 6
A New Friend
"You can drop that oven by the furnace, lad," Flint said as he led the way into the clutter of his shop.
With a groan of relief, Tanis let go of the heavy sack. It plummeted to the floor.
"I didn't mean that literally," Flint growled at the winded-looking half-elf as he carefully set down the sack that had rested on his own shoulder.
"Sorry," Tanis said wearily, rubbing his aching arm.
The two had just returned from an ore-gathering trip, though Tanis wondered now how he had ever managed to let the dwarf talk him into it. An hour or two ago, in the early morning sunshine, Flint had led the way south out of the city, empty sacks in hand. After a pleasant mile, the forest had given way to a rocky outcrop, littered with rusty-looking chunks of stone that Flint said was iron ore. Ten minutes later, Tanis had found himself staggering under the weight of the load the dwarf had lifted onto his shoulders.
"Wouldn't it be easier to bring a horse to carry this back?" Tanis had asked through clenched teeth.
"A horse?" Flint said with a snort. "Are you daft? Reorx! No dwarf in his right mind would trust a crazy animal to carry his ore."
Tanis knew there was little point in arguing with the dwarf. Flint had lifted his sack-which must have held five times the ore Tanis's had-as if it were filled with feathers and started back toward the city. Tanis had followed, stumbling along as best he could, reminding himself to be wary next time Flint suggested they go for "a nice little walk."
Tanis had visited with Flint nearly every day, ever since the Speaker sent the dwarf a message late in the evening a week ago, asking him to go to the half-elf in his quarters in the palace. They'd spoken of precious little of importance in that visit-weather and Solace and metalworking and carving-but Tanis, looking a bit battered, seemed to draw some comfort from the meeting. Since then, the half-elf's scrapes and bruises had nearly faded, but the rift between him and the Speaker's heir would be much longer in healing.
"But how are you going to turn that rock into iron?" Tanis asked now as the dwarf lifted the heavy cover of the furnace out behind the shop.
"You'll only learn by doing," Flint told him. "At least, that was what my father's father, old Reghar Fireforge, used to say. Or so my mother says he said."
The furnace was round, as tall as the dwarf, made of thick, fire-scorched mudbricks. The bottom was funnel-shaped with a small hole, and below that rested a crucible the size of a helmet. Under Flint's direction, Tanis half-filled the furnace with layers of iron ore, hard coal, and a chalky kind of rock that Flint called limestone. Through a small door in the bottom of the furnace, Flint lit the coal, then Tanis helped him replace the lid.
"What now?" Tanis asked.
"We wait," Flint said, dusting his sooty hands off. "Once that coal starts to burn hot, the iron will melt right out of the rock, leaving the slag behind, and drip down into the crucible. But that will take a good day, so we might as well turn our hands to another task."
Flint showed Tanis what the iron would look like after it had collected in the bowl: a heavy, black lump he called "pig iron," though Tanis didn't think it looked at all piglike.
"Is that what you forge into swords and daggers?" Tanis asked, and Flint guffawed.
"You need a few lessons in metal-smithing, lad," he commented.
"Me?" Tanis asked. He had watched the dwarf at work at the forge, and he knew how much strength and will Flint exerted to force the metal into the shape he desired. How could Tanis ever make something as hard as iron do what he
wanted?
The sparks in Flint's eyes told Tanis there was no room for argument. The half-elf listened carefully as the dwarf explained that pig iron was too brittle to make a good blade; it had to be heated to melting again. Flint showed Tanis how, putting the pig iron in a crucible and setting it amidst the coals in the fire pit by the heavy iron anvil. He made Tanis work the bellows until the coals looked like liquid jewels. As the iron melted, it gave off curls of black smoke. When it cooled, it would be wrought iron, Flint explained, and not nearly so brittle as pig iron.
"But if it's too soft, it couldn't possibly make a good sword," Tanis complained.
Flint nodded. With a pair of heavy tongs, he heated a lump of wrought iron in the coals until it was glowing hot. He set it on the face of the anvil and sprinkled it with a fine black dust that looked almost like coal dust, except it was shinier. Flint called it Reorx's Breath.
"You see, long ago," Flint said, "a wicked thane ordered his smith to forge an iron sword that would not lose its edge. If the smith failed, he would be put to death. It seemed an impossible task, but the smith was a favorite of Reorx's, and the god breathed upon the smith's soft iron sword, making it strong and hard, so that its edge would long remain bright and true."
With his hammer, Flint folded the glowing lump of metal over on itself and then pounded it flat. He heated it in the coals again, sprinkled on more of the black dust, and then pounded it flat once more. He repeated this several times.
"What we have now," Flint said with satisfaction, holding the hot lump of metal with the tongs, "is a piece of metal that will be hard enough to be strong without being so brittle that it will easily break. This, Tanis, is steel."
Tanis gazed at the glowing metal in a new light. Gold was beautiful, and elves delighted in silver, but in these dark times, steel was the most precious substance on Krynn.
"What are you going to do with it now?" Tanis asked.