Tanis the shadow years

14

Scowann 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 age7' 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 joke7"

"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.

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.