Tanis the Shadow Years

by Barbara Siegel

  As soon as Mertwig had distracted the spider, Tanis tried once again to find his broadsword by feeling his way along the edges of the imprisoning web. He couldn’t locate it. He wanted to raise his head, but the restraining cocoon around his body made that impossible. Frustrated, he kicked at the lower end of the webbing with his boots, hoping to tear it.

  It did not tear or rip. His leg motion, however, caused something caught in the webbing near his right foot to rattle and scrape against the ground. Tanis heard the sound and rejoiced. He had found his sword.

  Tanis quickly rolled over on to his right side. Curling up as much as the glutinous webbing would allow, he used his right foot to push the blade higher while he bent downward to reach with his right hand.

  His fingertips touched the edge of the broadsword’s handle.

  Tanis stretched as far as he could. He gained another inch but could not quite grip the sword. His muscles felt as if they were going to snap from the strain, but he pushed them even farther. This time, his fingers were able to wrap around the end of the handle. Then he gave the handle a little tug, and it jumped up into his palm.

  The sword glowed crimson.

  Tanis lifted the blade, and it easily sliced through the webbing. He was free.

  Scrambling to his feet, the half-elf saw Mertwig’s danger as the dwarf dove behind the sack. Even as Mertwig leaped through the air, Tanis was dashing up the side of the nearby battlement with long, loping strides. At the top, he saw that the dwarf had briefly avoided the spider’s sharp-edged legs. The monster would not miss the next time.

  The half-elf had to kill it outright, or die in the attempt. Gauging the distance, Tanis ran along the top of the barricade toward the spider’s body, and then jumped out into open space. He flew through the air until he landed on the monster’s back, his sword his anchor, digging it deep into the spider’s body.

  The spider reared up in shock and pain, trying frantically to throw Tanis off its back. Tanis slid off to the right but kept both hands firmly wrapped round the handle of his broadsword. The sheer weight of the half-elf’s body caused the blade to slowly slice downward, gutting the creature.

  The spider tried to get at Tanis with its flailing legs, but the angle was impossible. Then it rammed its side against the barricade, nearly crushing Tanis. The half-elf anticipated the impact and jumped free, pulling the sword out of the spider. But before the monster could right itself, Tanis leaped up yet again. With one swift and powerful stroke, the sword came down on the center of the creature’s body, where its nerves and all its senses met. In that moment, all the wounded duplicates vanished. And the one, lone, vanquished spider curled and crumpled heavily to the ground, dead.

  Tanis fell with the creature, landing at the foot of the barricade.

  Mertwig hurried to the half-elf, kneeling at his side. “Are you hurt?” The dwarf shook uncontrollably, his face ashen.

  Tanis, breathless from the fall, could not answer at first. He pulled himself into a seated position, but his head whirled.

  Mertwig shoved the half-elf’s swimming head down between his knees. “Yeblidod makes people do this when they feel faint. Stay there, and breathe slowly. I’ll fetch the healer,” the dwarf ordered. But Tanis reached out for Mertwig’s arm and held him there. After a few moments, Tanis was able to speak. He lifted his head. “I’m all right,” he wheezed. “Help me up.”

  With the dwarf’s assistance, Tanis got to his feet. Despite some wooziness, he was relieved to find that he was still in one piece. Which was more than could be said of the spider.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it—” Mertwig began.

  Tanis would not let him finish. Instead, the half-elf said, “If not for you …” He fought back another wave of dizziness, then continued. “I owe you my life, Mertwig. If there is anything I can ever do—”

  This time Mertwig cut him off, looking up with an insulted expression. “It is I who owed you a great debt for saving my Yebbie.” But then he paused as the two heard the distant sound of people storming up the street. “But now that you mention it,” Mertwig hurriedly amended, “there is something you can do. I beg of you, tell no one I was here. You never saw me. Never. What you did, you did alone. May I have your word?”

  Tanis was bewildered. “But why …?”

  “Please. I must have your word!” insisted the dwarf.

  “Of course, but—”

  “Then it’s a solemn oath,” said Mertwig. With that, he dashed over to the heavy sack he had dropped earlier, hoisted it over his shoulder, and then ran down a dark alley. He was already out of sight when Scowarr, Kishpa, and Brandella turned a corner, leading hundreds of elves in the half-elf’s direction.

  Scowarr and the others slowed and then stopped. The sight of Tanis standing alone near the fallen spider filled them all with a sense of awe.

  Kishpa studied the half-elf.

  “I feared to find you dead and the spiders rampaging through the village,” said the mage, visibly relieved.

  Brandella’s reaction surprised everyone—especially Kishpa, it seemed. After stopping and taking in the scene, she suddenly dashed ahead of them all and wrapped her arms around the half-elf, hugging him close.

  Eyebrows were raised over numerous pairs of almond-shaped eyes, but no one spoke except Kishpa, who, when he reached Tanis, said with considerable restraint, “We are grateful for what you have done for Ankatavaka.” And then he gently but inexorably pulled Brandella away from the bloodstained half-elf.

  “Tell us how you did it,” Scowarr asked excitedly, mindless of Kishpa’s jealousy and the embarrassment of the rest of the elves.

  Tanis, taken aback by Brandella’s uninhibited approval, tried to minimize his actions, saying, “I could not have survived if not for the spell Kishpa cast over my sword. Beyond that, I simply had much luck.”

  “And much bravery,” added Scowarr, proud of his friend.

  Kishpa’s eyes narrowed. He seemed to be battling several emotions—discomfiture with Brandella’s reaction to Tanis, respect for his bravery, and perhaps jealousy over sharing the spotlight with a half-elf who increasingly appeared to be his rival. Tanis, watching, wondered which sentiment would emerge victorious.

  He got his answer when the red-robed mage turned to face the crowd. “We have yet another victory to celebrate today,” the wizard cried. “To the feast!”

  21

  The Challenge of Truth

  It was a feast that would be remembered for years ever after.

  The bonfires burned along the beach, and there was much rejoicing. Scowarr was pleased that Tanis had been right. Throughout late morning and early afternoon, the human was besieged by well-wishers who praised him for his heroism. He had not been forgotten, after all. He beamed.

  Later, when Scowarr finally sought out Tanis, he found the half-elf sitting by himself on a rock ledge at the fringe of the merriment, watching the soothing monotony of the waves.

  “Where have you been?” asked Little Shoulders.

  “Sleeping. I’d almost forgotten what it was like.”

  Just then, Mertwig arrived with Yeblidod on his arm, the bandaged cut on her temple partially concealed by a wide-brimmed hat. She was pale but seemed much stronger. The shock of the attack apparently had worn off, and a good, long rest had done her wonders.

  Canpho, the healer, rushed over to Yeblidod to see how she was feeling. He was obviously pleased with the answer because he smiled broadly and called out, “Friends, we have cheered many heroes today, but there is one here now who remains unsung. With her considerable healing skills, she helped to save many of you and your friends from certain death after the first day of battle. Herself nearly killed last night, she has come back to us whole and happy! I give you Yeblidod!”

  Everyone cheered.

  Mertwig’s face was blissful. He looked at his wife with a gaze bordering on reverence. She returned his look with one of awkward embarrassment. “I don’t know what to say,” she whispered to her h
usband.

  “Just say thank you,” he replied sweetly.

  She lowered her head humbly, unable to speak. Kishpa and Brandella applauded lustily along with everyone else.

  Mertwig quieted the crowd and proclaimed, “Canpho, you and all of our friends know how much my wife and son mean to me. Like yourselves, I wanted to send my family away before the attack. But Yeblidod, like several of the women”—and Kishpa sent a barbed look in Brandella’s direction—“would not go. She sent our boy away for his safety, but she stayed behind to add her healing powers to those of the wondrous Canpho.”

  One elf, obviously a bit worse for wear after imbibing a few tankards of victory ale, stood on the sand and burst into another hearty cheer—although it was uncertain whether he applauded Yeblidod, Canpho, the victory, or the ale. His compatriots, giggling, pulled him back down on the sand. Mertwig cast a patient look at the sky and waited for silence.

  “For my own part, like all of you I did what I could on the barricades,” he said, the sun casting strange shadows on his craggy face. “With the danger we all faced, many of you, I’m sure, made promises to your loved ones that you would do this or do that for them if all went well with the battle. I, too, made such a promise.”

  Yeblidod looked surprised as her husband continued, “And before all of you, I now keep that vow.”

  Mertwig opened a small box and took from it a fragile, delicately detailed glass ball that shimmered like a huge diamond in the sunlight. “This, before all of you, I give to my beloved Yeblidod.”

  The glass globe, which rested comfortably in Mertwig’s hand, was mostly clear, with subtle traces of azure and moss. Mertwig used two hands to pass it gently to Yeblidod. “The clearness of the glass is for the purity of my wife’s love,” he proclaimed, looking steadily at Yeblidod. “The strands of blue celebrate the sky that witnesses this moment. The green threads in the glass … well, they simply reminded me of the gentle green eyes of my own true love,” he concluded.

  The crowd heeved a collective sigh as Yeblidod, oblivious to two huge tears creeping down her cheek, stroked the glass bauble and held it up to the sun. Even Tanis was moved. There were thunderous applause and cheers from everyone—except Kishpa. The mage frowned with dismay and looked at Brandella. She, too, had a worried expression. It did not stop her, however, from clapping her hands in appreciation of the old dwarf’s romantic gesture.

  After his speech, Mertwig proudly shepherded his wife through the crowd, yet kept his distance from Kishpa. He also stayed away from Tanis. The half-elf was perplexed by Mertwig’s strange behavior.

  Suddenly, everything went black. The sun disappeared. The beach was no more. There were no sounds from the crowd. All was emptiness, except for the loud, irregular beating of a heart. There was no up or down. No east or west. Tanis found himself trapped in a void, neither rising nor falling. He groped ahead of him, reaching for whatever he might find in the darkness. But there was nothing. Only the thudding that seemed to grow weaker with each passing moment.

  The half-elf reached for his sword. It was an empty gesture; there was no enemy to fight. Helpless, not knowing what he should do, Tanis cried out, “You must live! I will save your Brandella. Keep fighting!”

  Did Kishpa hear him? Tanis would never know. But a moment later the sun reappeared. He was back on the beach, still perched on the rock, and the celebration was still on. But it was much later in the day than it had been just a moment ago. The sun was low in the sky, sending long, amber shadows across the sand. Limitari, the red moon, could be spied on the horizon.

  More worrisome yet was that the happy idyl of mere seconds before had turned into a confrontation between Mertwig and a pasty-faced elf whom Tanis did not know. The faces of the observers were somber.

  “I saw you sneak out of my uncle’s house,” declared the elf, whose honey-brown hair just brushed his shoulders. “I could not imagine what you were doing there. I knew you and he had been friends once, but that ended long ago. My uncle had no use for you and your dwarvish ways.”

  Mertwig opened his mouth, but Canpho, his brown eyes crinkled with worry, interrupted.

  “This is a joyous time,” the healer said, coming between the young, angry elf and the distressed Mertwig. Canpho faced the elf. “There is no need for these hard words. You’re upset by your uncle’s death. We understand—”

  “You understand nothing!” shouted the elf, unmollified. “This dwarf, knowing that Azurakee was dead, broke into his home and looted it while the rest of us were at the barricades!”

  At the heinous charge, the assembled elves fell silent. The waves breaking on the shore and the crackling of the dimming bonfires were all that could be heard. The faint smell of roast venison mingled with the usual scents of the seashore.

  Finally, Canpho spoke cautiously. “Think a moment, young one. Be sure of what you are saying. Mertwig will forgive you, I’m sure, if you retract your terrible accusation.”

  “I will not retract,” the elf said resolutely.

  “Then I will not forgive!” Mertwig erupted. “How dare you slander me in this way? And here, in front of my wife, my friends—”

  “You have no friends, thief!”

  Mertwig lunged at the young elf, who dodged back against his assembled kin. Canpho and several other elves grabbed the dwarf and held him back. “Dwarves!” muttered one old elf, his icy blue eyes reflecting the belief in elven superiority that was one of the least attractive attributes of the race. Tanis, himself the frequent target of hatred by both humans and elves, felt his heart go out to the brave dwarf who dared to live among elves.

  “I saw him!” insisted the youth, his soft, pallid cheeks quivering with indignation. “He came out of Azurakee’s house with a bag over his shoulder. I went in after he left, and all the valuables were gone. Stolen! He robbed the dead!”

  “Lies!” countered Mertwig, sweat slick on his slanting brow. “Don’t listen to him!”

  “What proof have you?” Canpho demanded of the young elf.

  The accuser lifted his round chin proudly. “Only what I saw with my own eyes.”

  “There!” the dwarf exploded. “He hasn’t a shred of evidence to back up his outrageous charges.”

  The elf began to struggle against the hands that still held him, his feet scuffling gouges in the sand. “I am not lying! Ask the dwarf how he managed to buy the glass ball for his wife. You all know he is poor. Ask him that!”

  Tanis had listened to all of this as he searched the crowd for Brandella. At the mention of the bag that Mertwig had supposedly carried, the half-elf gave pause. He had seen the dwarf hiding behind such a bag during the battle with the spider. Yet Mertwig had saved his life in that same battle. All he had asked for in return was Tanis’s silence, and so the promise had been given. The half-elf hoped he would not be called upon to break that vow. But mostly he hoped that Mertwig was innocent.

  Then Tanis spotted Brandella. She was sitting next to Kishpa, both with grim expressions. The half-elf slipped off the rock and sidled close enough to overhear their conversation.

  “You must speak up for Mertwig,” Brandella told the mage in a low voice, squeezing his hand.

  “And say what?” he asked in quiet, yet desperate frustration.

  “That you believe in him. Tell them that you stand by him. It will carry much weight.” Her eyes glowed dark against the deep green of her woven shirt.

  Kispha looked unconvinced. “But what if he’s guilty?”

  “Then,” Brandella argued, “you will have been wrong in one thing but right in the other.”

  “The other?” The mage raised his brows.

  “Loyalty to your friend,” the weaver said simply.

  He paused, obviously torn. “My loyalty is to the truth,” he finally said fiercely.

  Brandella cocked her head and stroked the velvety sleeve of his red robe. “Would you not defend me if I lied or stole?”

  “That’s different,” Kispha replied, looking away.
r />   “No.”

  “It is,” he insisted.

  “Not to me.”

  “Please,” he said, shaking his head. “No more of this. Let me listen.”

  She let go of his hand.

  Tanis moved through the tense and ever-angrier crowd.

  “I bartered for that glass ball in good faith,” Mertwig said indignantly.

  “With what?” demanded the elf.

  “Uh … it’s of no matter to you.”

  The crowd rumbled at the dwarf’s evasive answer.

  “From whom did you purchase the ball?” asked Canpho cautiously.

  “I’d rather not say,” said Mertwig.

  “He’d rather not say,” the young elf taunted, “because if he did, you would know that my uncle’s treasures had paid for that glass ball.”

  “Where was Mertwig when the humans began their attack?” questioned a thoughtful elf who had patiently attended to all of the charges.

  “He had gone off with Little Shoulders Scowarr to find a spider for Kishpa,” replied another elf, pointed ears peeking from ash-blond hair.

  “Yes, but he never came back,” noted yet another elf.

  Mertwig grew uneasy with the direction of the comments. “I didn’t want to return without a spider,” offered the dwarf. “And I didn’t know that Scowarr had found one so quickly.”

  “Very convenient,” the accusing elf said snidely.

  “It’s true,” insisted Mertwig.

  Scowarr pushed forward to defend the hapless dwarf. “What he says is so,” Little Shoulders offered. “We separated early on so that we’d have a better chance of finding what Kishpa needed.”

  “Where did you leave him?” persisted Canpho.

  “I don’t know the village that well,” conceded the human. “I believe it was in front of a large white hut with lots of light-blue flowers in front.”

  “That’s my uncle’s house!” declared the young elf.

  The rumble among the villagers grew more ominous. The accuser’s friends had released their hold on him.

  Canpho ran one hand over his hairless head as he surveyed the dwarf. “You had better tell us from whom you bought the glass ball,” he said. Tanis heard Yeblidod gasp.