Clotnik seemed well satisfied with the reaction his comment had had on Tanis. So he turned to Otik and declared, “As for you, my fine innkeeper, have I paid my bill?”
This time it was Otik’s turn to squirm; he hated giving away his hard-brewed ale. Yet the juggler had truly put on a magnificent show. “Don’t you have anything you can give me toward the settlement of this debt?” Otik pleaded.
“Not a thing,” admitted Clotnik, “except my showmanship. Come now, isn’t that worth more than any metal coin?”
“Well—”
“So it’s settled,” he announced triumphantly. “Now, where are the three mugs of ale that are part of our bargain?”
To Otik’s surprise, Tika was already carrying them out of the kitchen.
Tanis stood on a rise looking back at Solace in the valley below. He and Clotnik had left before dawn, and just then, as the sun’s first rays flooded across the top of the valley, they illuminated the village’s majestic treetops like a crown of jewels. Lower down, radiant golden shadows traced the homes and businesses in the vallenwood limbs in which they were perched. By far the dominant feature in the landscape was the Inn of the Last Home, nestled in tree branches atop a staircase that spiraled around the trunk of the huge tree. Tanis resolutely shoved aside the memories of convivial times at the Inn; the future beckoned now. If only it were as predictable, as illuminated, as the staircase to Otik’s establishment.
“How long before we meet this man you spoke of?” Tanis asked.
Clotnik, his ears drooping still farther in the throes of what appeared to be a minotaur-sized hangover, wincedat Tanis’s brisk tone. “Several days,” he said quietly. “Maybe longer. You must be patient.”
“Did this man know my father personally?”
“He’ll tell you everything when you meet him.”
“Were they good friends?” Tanis persisted.
The dwarf sighed and clutched his head. “Just wait,” he begged. “What’s your hurry? You’ve waited ninety-seven years to learn more of your father. What matters a few more days?”
“Every day matters,” Tanis replied, noting that Clotnik somehow knew exactly how old he was. Very few knew his total years. Any doubts he harbored about the juggler’s genuine knowledge about his father were muted by that one offhand remark. “I have something to do as soon as I finish meeting with your friend,” the half-elf added vaguely.
“And what might that be?” the dwarf casually asked as they trudged along a sun-dappled road to the west.
Tanis did not answer. The real reason he had suggested that the companions separate for five years was not entirely noble. He wanted to strike out on his own, alone, to find something to believe in, something in which he could take some pride.
He had watched others grab at life while he stopped and considered, balanced his options. Some might have said that as a half-elf, his options and possibilities were limited by virtue of his birth. He didn’t want to believe that. Those he knew and loved best had a purpose in their lives. He had none.
Kit, much as he thought her mercenary ways immoral, reveled in her military skills. Then there was Raistlin; he wanted to be a great wizard, and he was willing to sacrifice anything for that. Caramon, Raistlin’s warrior twin, had a purpose, too—to care for his brother. Sturm Brightblade believed in his knighthood, in his Code, and it gave him strength and dignity. Flint Fireforge had his metalsmithing, a trade and art that gave the dwarf pleasure as well as pride. And Tasslehoff Burrfoot … well, Tas was a kender, and that didn’t count.
Tanis fell into a dark mood. What had his ambition been? To sit around the Inn of the Last Home and listen to his friends tell tales of their exploits while he slowly grew old and did nothing?
He had had an idea, a thought, a wild dream. But he had told no one. It had been his secret, something he dared not share with his companions for fear that if he failed, he would, in his own mind, further lose their respect. But Clotnik was a stranger. Why not tell him?
“I am going to become a sculptor,” he blurted, realizing he had been nearly bursting to share his ambition.
“In wood? Stone? Clay?” asked Clotnik, seemingly pleased to find the half-elf finally willing to talk.
“Stone, I think. Something that will last.”
The juggler gave Tanis a long, thoughtful stare.
2
Fire in the Night
“It’s cold and it’s wet, but it’s not nearly as satisfying as Otik’s ale,” said Clotnik as he drank deeply from the clear, clean little lake they’d found at the edge of a wood. It was nearly dark, but they still could see beyond the trees to where the land opened into rolling meadows and fields.
Tanis dunked his head into the water. Then, like a dog, he shook his wet mane of reddish-brown hair; droplets rained around him on the sand. Refreshed, he sat down and leaned back against a tree, comfortable in his soft leather traveling gear and cloak.
He closed his eyes and, in a habit he had begun after leaving Solace three days earlier, tried to picture what his father must have looked like. It made some sense that there would be a family resemblance—at least in regard to his human features. He imagined a tall, broad-shouldered man with deep-set eyes, a dimpled chin, and a mouth with a slight downward turn of the lips. He liked to think that his father was handsome, strong, and intelligent. All he knew for certain, though, was that his father was a man who would take brazen advantage of a defenseless woman. The half-elf wanted desperately to discover something good about the man who had done so much harm to his mother. And soon he would know. The juggler had promised.
A worrisome scent suddenly caught his attention. Tanis opened his eyes and asked, “Do you smell something?”
The dwarf looked offended. “Look, I intend to bathe,” he blustered.
Tanis smiled humorlessly, his eyes somber slits. Clotnik caught the half-elf’s concern and sniffed audibly. Then he shook his head. “I smell nothing out of the ordinary,” the dwarf said.
The half-elf, however, continued to scan the horizon—what little of it could be seen through the trees. “Smoke,” he said brusquely, staring into the tree line.
“Oh!” said Clotnik, alarmed. He scrambled to his feet, ready to run but apparently uncertain which direction was best. Ignoring the panicky dwarf, the half-elf stood and walked calmly to the edge of the wood.
Clotnik dogged his steps. “Elves have such good vision. Do you see anything?”
“I’m not sure …” Tanis replied slowly. “The sky beyond those hills to the north seems a little brighter, but the twilight can fool the eyes. We’ll know better when the sun goes down.”
The juggler alternately wrung his hands and tugged at his brown beard. Around them, the breeze began to pick up. When he spoke, his voice was pitched half an octave higher than normal. “You don’t think the fire is behind us, do you? I mean, the forest isn’t burning, is it?”
Tanis hesitated, still gazing into the trees and wishing he could hasten nightfall. “I don’t think so,” he answered slowly. “The wind is blowing from the north, and there’s the smell of cinders on it.” At that moment, the wind briefly shifted and Tanis lost the scent, causing him a moment’s doubt. “Maybe it’s nothing,” he added, unconvinced.
They waited and watched the northern sky. The twilight slowly faded, bringing darkness everywhere—except to the north. To their horror, the sky before their eyes danced with an ever-brightening light. They could see no flames, but there was no doubt that behind the hills, a great grass fire blazed. And if the wind continued to blow in their direction, the fire certainly would overtake them.
Clotnik’s fidgeting had increased; seemingly unaware of his actions, he pulled small tufts from his brown beard. “We’ve got to run!” he blurted.
But Tanis shook his head and stopped the dwarf from edging away with a curt wave of one hand. “Impossible,” the half-elf replied. “You can’t outrun a grass fire. Besides, it could be miles wide. We’d never outflank it. Our best chanc
e is right here; we’ve got the lake to protect us.”
“We could go back the way we came. The fire wouldn’t burn through the woods as fast as it will sweep down the meadows.”
“That’s true,” conceded Tanis.
“Then let’s go!”
“No.”
The small dwarven body nearly vibrated with frustration. “Why not?” he demanded.
Tanis, sympathizing with his companion’s fear, tried to keep his voice soothing. “This wood is small. We came through meadows to get here. This is like an island of trees, and we could get trapped in an inferno. No, this is the safest place to make our stand.” The half-elf smiled reassuringly as the dwarf made a visible attempt to control his nerves, shoving his fists deep into the pockets of his dark brown trousers and acting as though witnessing killer grass fires were as everyday an event as juggling for travelers in far-flung inns.
“What do we do?” asked Clotnik.
“There’s a fallen tree back by the edge of the lake,” Tanis recalled. “Let’s shove it into the water. At least we’ll have something to hold on to.”
Clotnik began to turn and run, but Tanis grabbed him by the edge of his green tunic. “Fill the water pouches. When this is over, the lake may be full of soot and ash.”
The juggler nodded and hurried toward the lake.
Tanis’s elven vision allowed him to see well in the darkness, and he busied himself with digging a shallow hole in the ground, where he tossed their packs and the carefully crafted silver-inlaid broadsword that Flint had forged and given him as a gift during their last night at the Inn of the Last Home. The broadsword reminded him vividly of the differences between the two dwarves—irascible old Flint Fireforge, tough and true as the metal he forged, and the excitable Clotnik, as changeable as the whirling designs he created with his juggling balls. Of course, a difference of nearly a century in their ages could account for some of that, Tanis thought.
No more than six or seven minutes had passed while Tanis buried everything, yet in that short time, the sky had gone vermilion and smoke had begun to choke the air. Tanis glanced at the closest hill to the north and saw the blaze sweep over its crest. Plants exploded into red, orange, and yellow from the heat of the blaze. Small animals dashed, panic-stricken, from the grasslands to the lake. The inferno was moving fast in the wind, gobbling up the tall grass in the meadow with insatiable hunger.
“Quick!” ordered Tanis. “Help me push that log into the water!”
“Where is it?” cried Clotnik in a panic. He suddenly broke into a coughing fit from the smoke. “I can’t see it!” he finally managed to sputter.
Acrid smoke and ash flew in clouds through the air. Fortunately, Tanis’s elvensight allowed him to see the warm red glow cast by every living thing, although the aura that outlined Clotnik’s stocky body blended increasingly with the growing heat. The half-elf hurried to his companion, who stood at the edge of the lake. Tanis ripped a piece of cloth from his tunic, dipped it into the water, then held it over Clotnik’s mouth and nose. “Tie it around your face,” he called over the roar of the encroaching fire. “It’ll help you breathe.”
Clotnik tied the wet cloth over his face while Tanis created his own mask from another piece of cloth. Then Tanis led the juggler to the nearby log, and they put their shoulders to the heavy fallen tree and heaved.
It didn’t move.
“Again!” Tanis commanded.
They threw their shoulders against it.
Nothing.
Tanis turned to look behind him. The fire was halfway down the hill.
“Push or die!” shouted Tanis.
They pushed. With a loud sucking noise, the log came free of the mud at the lake’s edge.
“It’s moving!” Clotnik cried.
“Keep pushing!”
They planted their feet as best they could in the slippery muck and shoved one more time. The log suddenly swung free and eased into the water, rolled several times, and then floated slowly out toward the center of the lake.
Clotnik fell to his hands and knees, his lumpy face pale with exhaustion under the dirt and ash.
“Catch your breath,” Tanis said—somewhat needlessly, he realized; Clotnik could do little else but gulp for air. “We’ll need long, sturdy sticks to push away any burning debris that falls near us. I’ll find them. You wait here.”
The half-elf searched the ground nearby, doing his best to ignore the flames rushing down the hill toward the woods, until a terrible cry reached his ears.
His head shot up, and he squinted into the bright, leaping flames that stretched from east to west along the northern sky as far as he could see.
At first he saw nothing except a blaze of bright yellow and red. Then a shadow, standing out from the background scarlet, leaped across his line of vision.
Tanis shielded his eyes from the blinding light and the heavy smoke that was sweeping in ahead of the flames.
The shadow was a figure, and it was moving. But was it a man? Instinctively, without hesitation, Tanis took long strides away from the safety of the lake, toward the edge of the woods, hoping for a better look.
“Where are you going?” demanded Clotnik.
“I think someone’s out there.”
“Oh, no!” The horror in the dwarf’s tone outpaced any panic the little man had shown until now. To Tanis’s surprise, the juggler raced to join him. The half-elf reacted with a panic of his own. What if the man out there was the one who had known his father?
By this time, the front edge of the grass fire was no more than a hundred yards from the tree line.
“Help …” came a ragged cry.
“Over there! To the right!” Clotnik shrieked. “Did you hear it?”
Tanis didn’t bother answering. He saw the movement, captured the image of a man’s silhouette against the nearly blinding flames, and ran as fast as he could toward the conflagration.
The roar of the fire and the choking wind that swept before it were nearly as overwhelming as the blistering heat. Still, Tanis fought his way forward. Someone was running toward him; a figure in a long robe stumbled just barely ahead of the leaping flames of the grass fire.
“This way!” shouted Tanis, waving his arms.
The man looked up; fire had scorched the rear hem of his dark robe. The man and the half-elf were no more than ten yards apart when the man held out his arms, called out something unintelligible, and collapsed in a heap. His robe smoldered; the fire raced to consume him.
Tanis was faster.
He practically vaulted the last ten yards and scooped the man into his arms. The leading edge of the grass fire nipped at the edge of Tanis’s leather tunic as he moved as fast as he could away from the flames. He was running downhill with the powerful hot wind at his back, so despite the weight in his arms, Tanis was able to stay ahead of the fast-moving fire, but not by much. Soon the swirling smoke enveloped him. Breathing heavily, his eyes burning, Tanis lost sight of the woods. He stopped, confused, the man a dead weight in his arms.
“Where …?” the half-elf stammered. He didn’t know which way to run. The sound of the fire seemed to surround him, and there was no hope of catching a glimpse of Clotnik, elvensight or no elvensight. He wondered, for the first time, what it would feel like to burn to death.
Just then a hand reached out and grabbed his arm. “This way!” said a choked voice only barely recognizable as Clotnik’s. “You got turned around. The trees are over here. Hurry!”
Relief showered over Tanis like a spring rain. Once again the juggler had surprised him. The half-elf followed Clotnik’s lead, and a few seconds later they emerged from the cloud of smoke into the temporary shelter of the trees. The fire leaped bare yards behind them.
They ran toward the lake as the tree line at the edge of the meadow exploded into flames. Tongues of fire shot up along the bark and ignited the limbs above. The heat was so intense that leaves began to burn even before the flames had reached them.
“
Is he alive?” Clotnik asked worriedly as they began wading into the lake.
Tanis looked down and saw that he held an old man, his iron-gray hair streaked with ash and his thin face seamed with age. “I think he’s still breathing,” said the half-elf, “but he’s badly burned.” As if to give credence to Tanis’s words, the old man’s skin sizzled and smoked as it came in contact with the cold water of the lake.
When the water became too deep for wading, Clotnik and Tanis, with the old man in tow, swam toward the log, about twelve yards away. The grass, bushes, and trees all around the lake burned orange, red, and blue, with flaming branches raining down around Tanis and Clotnik as if there’d been a cloudburst of fire.
Then, finally, Tanis asked the question that burned as hotly in his heart as the flames that surrounded them: “Is he the one who knew my father?”
The juggler nodded.
Tanis clenched his teeth until his jaws ached. He wanted to scream, to slash at fate with his sword so that it could never tease him so cruelly again. Somehow, he kept his silence.
As the night wore on, Tanis and Clotnik clung to the log, taking turns keeping the old man’s head above the water. They had no sticks to push away burning debris, so they had to use their feet to shove away anything dangerous that came crashing down near them. More worrisome, though, were the hot cinders that filled the air above the lake, hissing as they splattered into the water. Any one of the cinders could burn out an eye or disfigure a face. They had to be on constant guard, not only for themselves, but for the old man. More than once, they had to pull him under the water to keep him from getting burned. He coughed and choked, letting them know that he was still among the living, although just barely.
Tanis the Shadow Years Page 2
