Kishpa laughed. “You like that one?”
“Oh, yes,” she cried, an eye on the half-elf. “When you used it on Mertwig, I had him dust the floor with his bare feet.”
Kishpa adopted a jovial tone. “You see? I keep telling you my spells aren’t completely useless.”
Tanis didn’t know what to make of this. “A spell to make someone’s toes sticky?” he asked. “What’s the point?”
“None,” Kishpa replied, a broad smile creasing his thin face. “I just collect spells that are stupid, foolish, and—so Yeblidod often says—useless. I’ve got one,” he said, warming to his subject, “that takes the white out of snow. Another will provide a black mustache to everyone within a one-mile radius, be they man, woman, child, or even animal.” He gestured from horizon to horizon and turned the sweeping gesture into a bow.
Tanis chuckled despite himself. Scowarr, on the other hand, appeared unwilling to encourage anyone’s humor but his own. Instead, the humorist studied the ship riding the waves in the harbor to the south.
“Have you ever used the mustache spell?” asked Tanis.
“What? And gotten run out of Ankatavaka?” Kishpa threw his head back and roared with laughter at the thought of the entire elven village wearing mustaches. Facial hair was a rarity among elves.
Yeblidod and Tanis joined the laughter, while Little Shoulders Scowarr waited for the right moment to spring a joke of his own. When the others finally quieted, he said, “There was this farmer who had a daughter—”
“Quiet!” ordered Kishpa, cutting Scowarr off in mid-sentence. “Listen!”
Over the sound of the thrashing sea came the thunder of drumbeats. The four grew somber.
“The human army is advancing,” said Tanis.
“I shouldn’t have spent so much time here,” Kishpa spat out angrily, his mood instantly dark. “I’m needed on the battlements, and I waste my time here saving two who care nothing for my village.”
“That’s not true,” Tanis said defiantly. He had to get into the village if he was going to find Brandella and his father. If it meant taking sides in the war, then that’s what he’d do. “I’ve fought humans before, and I will fight them again,” he declared. “I told you I’m loyal to those who call me friend. You saved my life. I will fight by your side to protect you and those you care about. And so will my friend. Isn’t that right, Scowarr?”
“Me?” The slender human looked shocked. His voice squeaked. “Fight?” He grew pale.
Tanis nodded sharply. Scowarr hastened to recover, casting nervous glances at the wizard whose magic had rescued him from a deadly tumble into the sea—and whose magic, presumably, could reverse the process just as easily. “Yes, of course, without question,” he gibbered. “Just give me a sword. A stick. Anything you say.”
“Very convincing,” said Kishpa, his voice dripping sarcasm. He turned partially away from the half-elf and the funny man, speaking to an obviously embarrassed Yeblidod. “Of course, all our elven allies will be delighted to have a human they do not know fighting side by side with them.” The mage whirled and began to stomp off through the wildflowers.
Tanis sidestepped to intercept Kishpa’s passage; the mage glowered. “A matter easily addressed,” the half-elf said. “We’ll bandage his head as if he were badly wounded.”
“You can cut up my last shawl for the bandages,” volunteered Yeblidod in a soothing voice, seemingly anxious to resolve the dispute.
“Scowarr’s clothes are already so tattered that they could just as easily be elven as human,” Tanis continued, ignoring Scowarr’s wounded look. “Besides, his stature is such that, once his head is covered, no one will doubt that he is elven—just as long as he keeps his jokes to himself,” he added pointedly, glancing in Little Shoulders’s direction.
The mage looked at Yeblidod, out to sea, and back at the village, where the sounds of a populace preparing for defense shivered through the moist air. Then he shrugged. “We’ll need anyone who will fight. Bandage him on the way,” Kishpa said. “Come now. We’ll be needed on the barricades.”
The truth of his words could hardly be doubted. A mere fraction of an instant passed between the utterance and the moment when Tanis, Kishpa, and Scowarr found themselves on the battlements surrounding the village of Ankatavaka. The dwarven woman was nowhere to be seen.
Neither Kishpa nor Scowarr nor any of the elven defenders who surrounded them seemed either surprised or perplexed by the newcomers’ sudden appearance. Tanis’s first thought was that Kishpa had cast a spell that had sped them to this place. Yet the half-elf had heard no uttered words of magic nor any mention of a spell. His head spinning, Tanis finally realized that the old mage, fighting for his life on a sandy beach three days west of Solace, probably had forgotten his frantic rush from the seacliff to the village nearly one hundred years earlier. Once forgotten, it was as if the journey had never occurred, at least to the mage.
There was no time, however, to dwell on such riddles. The drums of the massed human army sounded insistently. From his vantage point atop an overturned wagon blocking the main street of the village, Tanis saw them coming. Thousands stormed out of the woods and into the open meadow that led to the village. From their ragtag uniforms and undisciplined charge, they seemed more like a huge mob than a well-trained army. Unfortunately, the elven defenders who manned the barricades were no better trained than their human enemy.
Tanis quickly studied the village defenses. He was appalled. No water brigades stood by in case of fire. No reinforcements waited in reserve in case a section of the barricade was breached. No one was assigned to gather arrows shot over the barricades by the enemy.
Even as Tanis scanned the barricades, so did Kishpa. But unlike the half-elf, the mage searched for a single face. “Where is Mertwig?” he exclaimed. “Has anyone seen him? Is he all right?”
“The old dwarf said not to start the fight without him,” an elf by the main gate called back with a nervous laugh.
“Old?” bellowed a craggy-faced dwarf who lumbered down the street toward the main barricade. “Who said I’m old?”
When the dwarf reached the barricade, he stopped and stared at the strangers. He looked questioningly at Kishpa, who glanced at Tanis and Scowarr and nodded his head as if to say, “I know them; don’t worry.”
Mertwig shrugged. “I’m coming up,” he said.
While the dwarf climbed the battlement, Kishpa turned and stared at the oncoming human army. He stood atop the barricade like a red-robed beacon of indestructible hope. The elves behind him looked to him as their savior; the humans who were fast approaching looked to him as their principal target. Despite Kishpa’s one-quarter-elven blood, it was obvious which side held his sympathies, his loyalty, even his love.
“I hope your magic is strong,” Tanis called up to Kishpa. “This village isn’t prepared to withstand a long siege.”
The mage didn’t appear to have heard him. Kishpa was mumbling dark words. The conjuring had begun.
Tanis waited for something dramatic to happen. The only thing that changed was the proximity of the attacking hordes. The humans, in need of new lands and weaned on distrust and hatred of everything and everyone unlike themselves, surged forward. Soon they would be in longbow range.
Kishpa continued to chant, his eyes closed, his arms in constant motion, his skin seeming to glow with a faint silver aura, perhaps caused by the changing light of the early afternoon sun. A fast-moving dark cloud hung low in the sky.
The front ranks of the human army stopped their charge, knelt with their longbows, nocked their arrows, and sent them flying at the barricades … and at Kishpa.
Tanis immediately leaped from behind his cover and grabbed the mage around the knees, knocking him off his feet as a storm of arrows ripped through the air above them. The two of them rolled heavily down the side of the wagon and thudded to the ground on the inside of the barricade, landing in a heap of dust.
More than a dozen elves, led by the dwar
f, Mertwig, rushed to help Kishpa up off the ground. He shooed them away, telling them to get back to their posts. “I suppose you think this settles your debt with me,” said the mage to Tanis.
Tanis felt his lips tighten in the face of the mage’s implacable air. “In time of war, there is no such thing as a debt for saving a life,” he said with dignity. “It is one of the duties of a warrior to save the lives of his fellow soldiers; one should not keep score of such things.”
“You have character,” said the mage, mollified.
Tanis decided candidness was his best tactic. “It will do me little good if your magic doesn’t work,” he said, keeping his gaze locked on Kishpa’s. “And I fear your spell-casting has had little effect except to draw several hundred arrows in your direction.”
Kishpa barely suppressed a laugh.
“Do I sound like Scowarr?” Tanis asked.
“No,” the mage said. “But you are unintentionally funny. Look over the barricade, and judge my magic anew.”
Tanis scrambled up the side of the overturned wagon and gazed out over a marsh of mud and slime. The sky above the open field had turned black with heavy rain clouds, which poured down a deluge that was blinding in its intensity. In a matter of minutes, the field had turned into a swamp.
The elves cheered. Many left their positions on the north and south sides of the village perimeter to congregate on the eastern barricade and enjoy the spectacle of Kishpa’s magic and to create their own special brand of rainfall: arrows that sprayed down upon the helpless humans in a deadly shower.
The human army was being decimated, and the charge from the east had been stopped cold. But while the larger human force was mired in mud and blood, a second force attacked virtually unseen from the south. The cries for help from the beleaguered elven defenders who had stayed at their posts went largely unheard over the roar of seeming victory on the east.
Without thinking, hundreds of elves watched the enemy become mired ever deeper in the east while others raced to do hand-to-hand battle with the humans who had breached the eastern wall and were entering the village. Tanis knew that the greatest danger wasn’t from those humans. “Follow me!” he shouted to any elf who was within earshot. “We must take back the southern barricade. Whoever controls that wall will control your fate.”
They were a small band of elves against an ever-growing number of humans. Tanis saw that Scowarr, bandages flapping around his head, was silently running to the attack alongside him.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Little Shoulders rasped as he ran. “You’re thinking, ‘Why isn’t he making jokes now?’ Well, I’ll tell you why: When you’re in deep water,” he said, “the best thing to do is shut your mouth.”
9
The Sacrifice
The human soldiers flowed over the southern barricade like water rushing over a falls. But there was a dam up ahead that sought to stop the onrushing tide, a dam not of earth and wood, but of a small phalanx of elven villagers led by Tanis.
As Tanis raced into the fray, he felt a fear that was new to him. He was confident enough fighting several enemies at once; he’d done it many times. But he had never taken on so many foes without his good and true companions at his side.
Yet he charged on.
He was used to having Flint Fireforge on his right, waving his fearsome battle-axe, Sturm Brightblade on his left, wielding his deadly sword, and Caramon Majere tossing bodies in all directions, making his presence felt in a thousand ways. Kit’s swordplay, Tas’s hoopak, and Raistlin’s magic could always be counted upon to help even the odds. He was fearless when he went into battle with them. He was full of fear without them.
Yet he charged on.
He had no idea if the elven villagers who raced to the battlements with him could be counted upon to fight like soldiers. In fact, he had no idea how many of the elves had actually heeded his call to storm the barricades. It might have been as few as three or four or as many as twenty or thirty. He did not have the nerve to look back and count.
Yet he charged on.
Tanis knew only that Scowarr had been alongside him when the charge began, and the human was still there as they neared the barricades. Little Shoulders was no Flint, but he would have to do.
A woman stood on a balcony. Directly below her she saw humans fighting with elves in the streets. To the east, she could see the main army of the humans struggling in the unrelenting downpour that rained only on them. It was the sight to the south, however, that filled her with dread. The barricades had been breached. A small branch of the human army had broken through, and all of Kishpa’s warnings to leave Ankatavaka came home to her. But she dismissed them now as she had dismissed them then. She would not flee her home, not while she still had the power to fight back.
The woman appeared fragile, but she was not; a great heart beat in her chest. Her exquisite face, however, belied the woman’s fighting spirit. She seemed eternally, mysteriously feminine, with shining brown eyes so dark they appeared almost black, fringed by improbably thick lashes. Her glistening eyes, which mesmerized almost like Kishpa’s magic, contrasted sharply with her delicately pale skin. She had a strong, proud nose, a delicate, sensuous mouth, and thick, curly hair that spilled nearly to her waist. Each of her features, alone, was startling in its perfection. All her features, together, were breathtaking.
She was Brandella.
With a longbow in her hands and a pile of arrows beside her, Brandella took aim at a human climbing over the barricade and let loose of the bowstring. She didn’t see her target as a fellow human, but rather as an enemy. She had qualms about killing, certainly, but not about defending her home, her friends, and her life with Kishpa. Her arrow struck its mark, lodging deep in the human soldier’s left thigh. He fell backward, clutching his leg, then tumbled off the outer edge of the barricade and out of sight.
It was then that Brandella saw the elven charge to retake the battlement. She estimated nearly one hundred humans were swarming over the barricades, yet only a force of a dozen or so villagers were attempting to retake it.
With controlled fury, she began shooting her arrows at the enemy atop the barricades, trying desperately to buy a few moments more for the handful of elven martyrs.
Despite her barrage of arrows, she expected the charging elves to be quickly slaughtered by the far-superior human forces. Although some elves did fall, the rest still managed to fight on, driving the humans, step by step, back up toward the top of the battlements. Brandella looked closely and saw someone she’d never seen before. He was taller than the other elves, and he fought with a ferocity she’d never witnessed. He ranged in front of the others, muscular body lithe in tooled leather, urging the elven soldiers on, battling like a brave warrior she had dreamed about as a little girl, a man who would come to her from a mythical world and take her on a grand journey to eternity.
With all her heart, she hoped he would not die.
Tanis had no idea how many humans he had slain. He was drenched with blood and his own sweat. His broadsword slashed through his enemies, cutting a swath of red for the rest of his small and ever-diminishing contingent to follow.
Unknown to Tanis, the group had a secret weapon in its midst. It was Scowarr. With his head wrapped thoroughly in bandages, except for small slits for his eyes, nose, mouth, and ears, he was a fearsome sight. He had the appearance of a creature risen from the dead, a ghostlike apparition that could kill but could not be killed in turn. The horrible screams and cries that spewed from his mask of bandages sounded unearthly and terrible. The humans had no way of knowing that those screams were the hysterical ravings of a terrified man who had no idea what he was shouting in his abject fear. Neither did his fellow fighters, who pushed themselves faster and fiercer, following his example.
Wherever he charged, the humans fell away, stumbling back in dread of his wildly swinging sword. Soon Tanis and many of the remaining elven fighters took advantage of the effect Scowarr had on the enemy and attacked
those who were already stumbling backward in fear.
The desperate tactic worked, and the line of humans began to falter and break. Tanis plunged forward, parrying the blow from a battle-axe, then kicking his foe in the stomach and knocking him backward from the top of the barricade. Another human dove at Tanis, attempting to wrap his arms around the half-elf’s legs and wrestle him to the ground.
What the human hadn’t counted on was the arrow that came out of nowhere to lodge in the back of his neck. His arms went slack as his limp body slammed into Tanis. The half-elf recovered his balance, wondering who had shot the arrow that had saved his life.
Brandella smiled grimly as she plucked another arrow from her rapidly diminishing pile.
The battle for the barricade was hardly over. Although Tanis and the others had gained the top of the battlement, now they had to hold it until the village reinforced them. The twilight made their situation that much more difficult.
Only eight of the elves who had joined him in the charge remained on their feet, and several were badly wounded. They couldn’t hold out for long. Brandella nocked another arrow for her longbow, and let the deadly missile fly. Then a frantic voice challenged her from below the balcony.
“Brandella! You’re still here!” Kishpa cried in anguish. “I hoped you were on that ship in the harbor.”
Brandella saw the mage below her on the street. “Never mind me,” she called back. “You must use your magic to save our people on the southern barricade.”
Kishpa shook his head. “I can’t,” he intoned with a groan. “I exhausted myself with the storm spell; I won’t have enough strength for another spell until morning. Mertwig says—”
Brandella slung another arrow onto her bow. She took aim on the distant barricade as she shot sharp words at her lover. “Never mind what Mertwig says. Have you seen what our people have done, how they have fought?” she insisted.
Tanis the Shadow Years Page 6
