Azoun quietly conferred with Torg and Vangerdahast for a moment. All three men stepped to the fore. The wizard readied a protective spell as Azoun moved past the lines and held out his empty hands. "I am King Azoun of Cormyr," he yelled in Common, enunciating each word slowly for the creatures arrayed before him. "We don't want to fight, but we will if necessary."

Something Azoun said had an electrifying effect on the orcish troops. The soldier that had been pushed forward rushed back to the large orc, presumably Vrakk. The leather-armored troops broke into loud debate. A few waved their weapons menacingly at the king and some continued to sprawl on the ground, but most argued heatedly with their comrades.

Finally the large orc stepped forward, punching a trooper who stood in his way. He took a dozen steps into the space between the armies and slapped his hands to his hips. "You Ak-soon," he growled in horribly belabored Common. After pounding his chest with one long-nailed hand, he added, "I Vrakk from Zhentil Keep. I here to fight horsemen with you."

9

The Patchwork Army

Dwarves crowded one side of the pavilion; orcs milled together on the other. At the long, low table, King Azoun, Princess Alusair, and Vangerdahast sat together. Torg and Vrakk glared at one another spitefully over mugs of ale.

Though there was a murmur of Orcish rumbling through the room, none of the dwarves and no one at the main table spoke.

Vrakk, leader of the orcs, hefted his silver mug and gulped a mouthful of ale. The brown liquid rolled down the side of his gray-green face and dribbled off of his lower canine teeth, which protruded from his large mouth. "We fight for Ak-soon," he said at last. "Masters at Keep no tell us to fight for dglinkarz."

The orcish leader lifted his piggish snout a bit and sneered at Torg.

The orcs in the tent grunted and snarled their agreement. Many of the sweaty, drooling soldiers repeated the word dglinkarz and nodded. The dwarves already had a hand on their sword hilts, so the orcs didn't notice them almost universally tighten their grips.

Azoun looked to Vangerdahast, who shrugged. The wizard had cast spells enabling himself to understand what the dwarves and orcs said, but the term the orcish leader had used seemed untranslatable. "Fight for whom?"

Vangerdahast said to Vrakk in Common.

The orc narrowed his beady red eyes. "Dglinkarz," he snapped, pointing at the dwarven king. With a sweeping gesture, he indicated all the dwarven troops. "They all dglinkarz." It was obvious from the tone the orc used that it was a venomous insult.

Torg curled his hand into a fist and held it in front of his mouth. "I will not stand for this, Azoun," he growled. "I will not sit idly by while this beast insults me."

The Cormyrian king turned sharply to the orcish leader. "And if I order you to fight alongside the dwarves?"

"If Ak-soon orders," Vrakk said, "we follow." He dropped one elbow to the table, slouched slightly, and scratched the coarse hair on his arm. "That be law from Zhentil Keep."

Azoun leaned forward. "Even if I tell you to fight on the side of—" he paused and glanced at Torg "—dglinkarz?"

Scowling so much that his yellowed lower canines almost jutted to his snout, Vrakk nodded. "We follow Ak-soon."

"He may follow you," Torg snapped as he stood. "I will not. All the denizens from the Realm of the Dead could attack Faerun before I'd fight beside this rabble." The ironlord angrily motioned his guards to leave, then stomped from the pavilion himself. The orcs' jeers followed the armored dwarves out of the tent.

Azoun could hear Torg issue a loud string of orders outside. Alusair leaned close to her father and said, "He's commanded the guards to kill any orcs that haven't left the camp in an hour."

"Dwarves not so good warriors, eh, Ak-soon?" the orcish leader bellowed.

He slapped the table so hard it rattled, then broke into a loud, snorting fit of laughter. The rest of his party followed suit.

Her hand on the hilt of her sword, Alusair stood. "I'll see if I can talk to the ironlord, Father." She paused, scanned the room of orcish troops, and added coldly, "Unless you want to see a battle start in camp, tell these ... troops to muster where we met them, in the field to the east. Torg isn't bluffing about killing any orcs found in camp."

Vrakk stopped laughing abruptly. "What you say, girlie? You think dglinkarz frighten us?" He smashed his silver mug on the table's edge, denting it. "We no leave until ready."

Alusair drew her sword, an action that was answered in kind by the dozen orcs in the tent. Azoun and Vangerdahast stood up slowly, and the wizard prepared a spell that would extricate the humans from the situation if need be.

For a long moment, there was no sound save for the orcs' heavy, grunting breaths.

Surprisingly Vrakk didn't move. He sat at the table, gripping the dented mug, staring at the princess. "You not like Ak-soon, girlie. You like dglinkarz, bad soldier."

"Look at that mug you're holding, pig," Alusair hissed. "You see those skulls the dwarves are piling up? Those are orc skulls." She pointed the tip of her sword at Vrakk. "Torg will add your skull to that pile, and I'll be happy to help him."

Azoun slapped the princess's blade down. "Enough!" he shouted. "Get out of here, Allie. I'll see you at Torg's tent in a minute."

"Not until you're safely away from these animals," Alusair replied, still glaring at Vrakk.

"I said go Alusair," Azoun repeated sharply. He grabbed his wayward daughter by the shoulders and spun her to face him. "Right now."

The princess knew from the look in the king's eyes that there was no point in arguing further. She assuaged her fear for her father by deciding that Vangerdahast would certainly guarantee Azoun's safety. With only a single, threatening look at Vrakk, she stormed from the tent.

His daughter gone, Azoun noticed that the tension in the pavilion eased noticeably. Vangerdahast was still rigid with concentration, preparing himself to use a spell if necessary, despite the fact that many of the orcs had sheathed their weapons. Vrakk lounged at the table, studying the dwarven mug closely.

"We follow Ak-soon," the orcish commander rumbled, "but we not let Torg take skulls." Vrakk raised his eyes from the dented silver mug and studied Azoun's face. "What you want orc soldiers do?"

The king rubbed a hand across his forehead. "I think it would be best if you gathered your troops in the field to the east, as the dwarves ask."

Without a pause or another word, Vrakk stood and grunted a command in Orcish. The Zhentish soldiers muttered to themselves, but they filed out of the pavilion and headed east. Most of the orcish army was still gathered in the field, but a few had wandered into the dwarven camp. Whenever he saw one of his men, Vrakk would yell out orders. Any orcs slow in responding got a solid blow to the head to remind him of his duty.

As soon as Vrakk and his leather-armored orcs were gone from camp, Azoun and Vangerdahast hurried to Torg's tent. As they crossed the compound, the king and the mage noted that the dwarves were breaking down tents. Like everything else they did, the troops from Earthfast dismantled their bivouac with steadfast deliberation.

"I think I prefer the orcs," Vangerdahast said as he watched a pair of gray-bearded dwarves take down a tent in silence.

Azoun shook his head. "We need Torg and his troops, Vangy. I don't know if we can beat the Tuigan without them."

The guards opened the door to the ironlord's tent as soon as Azoun and Vangerdahast got close. The Cormyrian king noticed that twice as many armed and armored sentries, all wearing the black surcoat of the ironlord's elite guard, stood watch around Torg's tent. The dwarves' spotless armor and perfect military formation as they paced a perimeter around their leader's tent gave Azoun an idea.

Upon entering the dark tent, the king said, "I'm disappointed in you, Ironlord. I'd heard your word was worth more than this." Vangerdahast cast a surprised look at his friend; he hadn't expected Azoun to take the offensive in this matter so quickly.

Torg, who was supervising the packing of his few belongings, frowned. The ironlord's black beard hid the expression, but Azoun and Vangerdahast saw the dwarf's anger in his eyes. "It's no use, Azoun. We're going back to Earthfast. My men won't fight alongside orcs."

The Cormyrian monarch glanced at his daughter. She sat silently at the edge of the tent, her drawn sword resting on her lap. "Your soldiers would fight at my side if you ordered them to, if you allowed them to," the king said harshly, returning his eyes to Torg.

Azoun's tone made the statement sound like an accusation. To Torg, it seemed as if the king was saying that it was only his reluctance—or cowardice—that prevented the dwarves from joining the crusade.

Which was precisely the impression that Azoun wanted to give.

Looking at the sentries outside, the king had realized that there were only two things that seemed important to the dwarves of Earthfast: order and honor. With a little work, he knew that he might be able to show Torg how leaving the crusade was contrary to both of these—despite the troops they had to fight beside.

Bristling at the slightly veiled insult to his bravery, Torg whirled on the king.

"We fight only for good causes," the ironlord hissed. "I doubt any cause that draws scum like that to rally to it."

"Indeed," Alusair said from the shadows. "More than that, Father, it makes me wonder what you gave the Keep to secure their cooperation. I hope it was worth it."

"We're not talking about Zhentil Keep or my policies," Azoun snapped. He took a step toward Torg. "I have your word of honor that two thousand dwarves from Earthfast will stand against the Tuigan. Are you going to break that promise?"

The dwarves' actions indicated that they intended to do exactly that, but Torg hedged when confronted with the question. He mumbled something into his beard, then said, "You've broken your part of the bargain, Azoun."

Without hesitation, Vangerdahast pointed a finger at the ironlord. "Far from it," he said coldly. "King Azoun has not broken any such bargain; he offered you nothing in return for your troops but the honor of defending Faerun."

Alusair had moved to Torg's side during the exchange. She sheathed her sword and glared at her father. "This is all political rhetoric. It isn't dishonorable to refuse to fight on the side of ... of murdering animals."

Clenching his teeth, Azoun forced back the growing rage he felt within him.

"By that logic, Allie," he said flatly, "you'd fight for the horsewarriors just because they oppose the orcs. That's foolish."

Alusair put her hands on her hips. "But it isn't—"

"No, Princess," Torg grumbled, putting a hand on Alusair's arm. "Your father is right." The ironlord narrowed his eyes and studied the Cormyrian king for a moment. "I want retribution for the soldiers who were slain."

"That's reasonable," Azoun conceded. He looked at Alusair, but she would not meet his gaze.

"And I will not allow the orcs to travel with my troops," Torg added. "You will take them down the coast in your ships. We will march the rest of the way and meet you in Thesk."

Azoun had known from the start that the troops from Earthfast would not travel by boat. Some clans of dwarves preferred to keep in contact with the earth, the source of their prosperity, the sustainer of their mining cities. The king suddenly realized that Torg's demand that the orcs be taken to Telflamm by ship was, in fact, something the dwarf could tell his generals he received as a concession from the humans. Though he hadn't yet discussed it with the ironlord, Azoun had intended taking the Zhentish troops aboard his ships from the start.

The king nodded. "Your demands are fair, Ironlord. I will transport the orcs."

"This is all rather absurd," Vangerdahast said. "Why is the dwarven army walking all that way when we could easily provide transport for them, too?"

"You may understand magic, wizard," Torg replied, turning his back on Vangerdahast, "but you don't understand dwarves. I gave my word to fight, so I will honor that." He paused and rattled his birdcage. "To ask my troops to travel by sea is to ask them not to be dwarves."

A dwarven officer entered the tent and kneeled. "We'll be ready to leave by highsun," he reported.

Pausing for only an instant, Torg said, "Tell the troops to prepare for the march south."

The officer started to speak, then thought better of it and stood. "By your command, Ironlord," he said and spun sharply on his heels.

When the officer was gone, Torg sighed. "We can set up the logistics of the march later. Now, I want Vrakk to give me the orcs responsible for the deaths of my soldiers."

Within minutes, Azoun, Vangerdahast, Torg, and Alusair found themselves once again in the field to the east of camp. The sun was high over the hills, close to its zenith. A group of five hundred or so dwarves stood at attention in the hot sun, adorned in full armor. The orcs sprawled on the ground, shielding their faces from the bright sunshine with rat-eaten cloaks, packs, or whatever else they could find. At the center of this ragtag group, Vrakk and his lieutenants huddled around the giant's skull standard, arguing noisily. If they noticed Azoun's approach, the orcs didn't show it.

"Commander Vrakk," the king said sharply when he reached the standard,

"we must discuss an incident that possibly involved your men."

Alusair and Torg nervously eyed the soldiers, and both of them kept their hands close to their weapons. Vangerdahast stood behind Azoun, a spell ready in his mind. He tapped his foot in irritation, as well. The orcs were not nearly so concerned with their camp as the dwarves were, and even that temporary resting spot was cluttered with garbage and puddles of waste; the smell alone was making the mage queasy.

A short orc with an especially piggish snout started to speak, but Vrakk kicked him in the back. "What problem now, Ak-soon?" the orcish commander asked, a bit of a whine in his voice. "We want to fight, not sit in sun all day."

"There was a dwarven patrol of three murdered yesterday on its way to the shore," Azoun said, the accusation clear in his voice.

Vrakk nodded. "They attack orc scouts," he responded casually. Grabbing a piece of meat from one of the other orcish soldiers, he stuffed the raw flesh into his mouth.

Torg stepped forward. "I want blood-payment," he rumbled. An orcish lieutenant moved between the ironlord and Vrakk, but Alusair drew her sword.

Before the orc could respond, the princess's blade rested at his throat. Two dozen other Zhentish soldiers leaped to their feet and drew their weapons. As Vangerdahast prepared to cast his spell, the dwarven troops began a quick march across the field to their ironlord.

Before anyone drew blood, however, Vrakk yelled a single command in Orcish. Thanks to the spell he had cast previously, Vangerdahast could understand what the orcish leader was yelling. Still, he wasn't all that sure the troops would "stand down" as Vrakk demanded.

"Lower your weapon, Allie," Azoun said, taking a slow, careful step toward his daughter. "We're all dead if you don't."

The princess pushed the blade against the orc's throat just hard enough to draw a trickle of blood, then lowered it. The orcs around Azoun's party relaxed slightly. However, they, too, kept their weapons at the ready.

Vrakk pushed the orc on whom Alusair had drawn her sword. Looking down on Torg with dark, beady eyes, he asked, "What about orcs you kill last night?"

"They were spies," Alusair said. "You killed soldiers assigned to escort King Azoun from his ship."

After gnashing his teeth together for a moment, seemingly lost in thought, Vrakk replied, "OK. I give blood-payment. Then Ak-soon take us to fight."

Torg was surprised that the orc agreed so readily. "The blood of one for each dwarf killed." The ironlord held up three stubby fingers.

The dwarven troops had reached the orcish line by now. Torg's soldiers stood silently as the orcs jeered at them. All along both lines, swords stood at the ready.

"Be prepared to grab Alusair's arm and reach for my hand if anything goes wrong," Vangerdahast whispered in Azoun's ear. "This is far too dangerous for us to chance any longer."

Vrakk shouted out three names. A trio of orcish soldiers lazily appeared next to the standard. Waving his arms wide to spread his troops out in a semicircle, Vrakk grunted a command. One of his lieutenants took the three ores' swords, then shoved the soldiers one by one onto the ground. The prisoners squealed curses, but didn't fight their captors. They knew resistance was futile.

Grandly the orcish commander gestured to Torg, then to the prostrate soldiers. "These three guilty," he said loudly. "I take blood-payment." Without another word, he drew his weapon—a huge, darkly stained bastard sword—

and nodded to the lieutenant.

Vrakk's assistant dropped to his knees on one of the murderers' backs.

Another orc rushed forward and grabbed the prisoner's left arm at the wrist and pulled it straight. With a shout, Vrakk raised the blade over his head and brought it down, two hands on the hilt. He hit the prisoner's arm between the shoulder and the elbow, right where the red armband with their god's symbol lay.

As one of the lieutenants raised the severed arm up high, another two rushed forward and the punishment was meted out on another murderer. The orcish soldiers cheered and made bets on who would cry out or who might struggle. Azoun stood grimly by, but he noticed that Torg seemed to be pleased by the grisly scene. Alusair and Vangerdahast simply turned away.

The last murderer did try to stand when his turn came, but Vrakk kicked him in the face, knocking him senseless. A few hunks of meat and copper coins changed hands in the orcish crowd, the wagers won and lost by the prisoner's actions. With a third and louder shout, Vrakk raised his sword and finished the task.

With a sharp nod of approval, Torg signaled his troops to return to their camp. He glanced at the sun, then at Azoun and said, "We march in less than one hour. Stop by my tent so we can discuss how best to unload the supplies from your ships." That said, he spun around and marched through the tall grass after his soldiers.

As soon as the ironlord was out of earshot, Vrakk began to growl a series of orders in Orcish. Five Zhentish soldiers, wearing tattered, long robes instead of leather armor, rushed forward. The orcish commander pointed at the three dying murderers and grunted.

As the five robed orcs started to chant and wave small skull-headed wands over the wounded prisoners, Vangerdahast said "Shamans." Alusair wrinkled her nose in disgust as the priests bloodied the skulls on the severed arms.

Vrakk strode proudly to Azoun's side. "They probably live," he noted in broken Common. "Cut arms only way to shut up dglinkarz. 'Sides, our god heal so orcs fight and make better deaths."

"But they can't fight after this," Azoun gasped. He motioned to the three severed arms that still littered the ground. "Their wounds—"

Vrakk grunted a laugh. "That why we cut left arm. They still fight." He glanced warily at Alusair, then added, "She no tell dwarf. They demand them dead again."

"Don't worry," Alusair said coldly, directing her answer to her father. "If you're going to allow the orcs to break a blood-payment, I won't stand in your way." With that, she stormed off after Torg.

The robed orcs had finished their wild incantation to Lord Cyric. The three wounded soldiers on the ground didn't look much better, but the stumps where their arms had been weren't bleeding as freely. Azoun swallowed hard to push back the disgust he felt. "March your troops to the shore, Vrakk. Find the ships there and wait. You will help us unload some supplies, then board."

The Cormyrian king nodded to Vangerdahast, and the two set out for Torg's tent. The wizard walked with his hands clenched behind his back. Every few steps he glanced at Azoun, who was as silent as the dwarves breaking camp.

"I think you did the right thing," Vangerdahast ventured after a while.

Azoun stopped walking. "The right thing?" he exclaimed, shaking his head.

"I'm afraid Allie is right. I've offended good allies for the sake of monsters."

"Perhaps," Vangerdahast said sagely. Patting the king on the shoulder, he started toward the tent again. "But you know as well as I that Zhentil Keep will use any slight against these troops as provocation to break the treaty."

Azoun could only agree. The happiness of the dwarves was not worth a war with Zhentil Keep.

Torg was in a fury when the king and the wizard arrived. He shouted at his squire three times as Azoun tried to set up a rendezvous point in Thesk. After one half-hour, however, the spot was decided. The dwarves were to meet the Army of the Alliance between the cities of Telflamm and Tammar, along the trade route known as the Golden Way.

"While you wait, you can drill your troops," Torg told Azoun as the meeting was concluding. "You won't have long. I'll press my men to get them there as quickly as possible."

Torg's mood shifted suddenly, and he smiled for the first time in hours.

"Ha!" the ironlord cried and slapped Azoun's arm. "We'll work this out after all!" He stood and gestured broadly. "My troops will be ready for bear when we reach Thesk. Just bring on those horsemen!"

Azoun returned the smile weakly. His hours without sleep were beginning to take their toll. He felt washed out and slightly dizzy. "Come, Vangy," the king said as he stood. "Back to the Welleran. You too, Allie."

"No."

The king stared at the princess. "I'm going with the dwarves," she said defiantly. "I won't travel with the orcs."

"Who said anything about you accompanying us to Thesk?" Vangerdahast snapped. "I think you should go straight back to the palace in Suzail." He dug a handful of spell components out of his robe and turned to Azoun. "I can send her right now, Your Highness. Just say the word."

Before Azoun could answer, Torg slapped Vangerdahast's hand with the flat of his sword. "You'll not be casting spells in my tent," he growled.

"Besides, Alusair has every right to decide her own fate."

"I've had enough of this," the mage said sharply, rubbing his hand. He looked at the spot where Torg had struck him; a painful red welt had blossomed there. "And you should be ashamed of yourself, Princess, disobeying your father like this."

"I'm her father, not her master," Azoun noted quietly from the doorway of the tent. "She—" He studied Alusair's face for a moment, noting the hard determination that had settled in her eyes. "She can make up her own mind."

Torg shot a spiteful look at Vangerdahast, as if he were saying, "I was right all along and now your king realizes it, too." The wizard ignored the ironlord, concentrating instead on Azoun and his daughter. They stood a few feet apart, but the distance might as well have been miles. Alusair seemed genuinely surprised by her father's words. The king, on the other hand, looked pained, as if it had hurt him physically to admit his child's freedom of choice.

"Come, Vangy," Azoun said after a moment. "We've got troops to get to Telflamm." He stopped and faced Alusair again. "We'll need to communicate with you," he noted, pulling the signet ring from his finger and holding it out to his daughter. "Take it."

The princess stepped forward tentatively. A sly smile suddenly crossed her lips. "The ring has a spell on it, doesn't it?"

"What else would you expect?" the king replied, his daughter's smile lightening his dark mood somewhat. "And like your last ring, burying this one in a few hundred fathoms of water will negate the spell quite effectively—so be careful, won't you?"

Alusair took off the plain gold band that prevented her from being magically tracked and slipped the signet ring on in its place. "I'll see you in Thesk."

For an awkward moment, the two stood face-to-face. Finally Azoun said,

"Be careful, Allie," and turned to go.

The princess almost stepped forward then, almost embraced her father as he left Torg's tent. But she didn't. As she made her way to her tent through the silent, orderly dwarven camp, Alusair wondered why she couldn't make that sign of affection.

The dwarves had been on the march for almost eighteen hours when Azoun finally returned to Telflamm's harbor. The sun was coming up over the city, its first rays casting a pale halo around the high, onion-shaped spires that so characterized Telflamm's skyline. The docks were still aglow with torches, and the myriad of vessels crowding the harbor were spotted with faint flickering lights cast by watchmen's lanterns.

The Cormyrian ships were once again empty, having left their cargo of orcish troops to the south of the city. Azoun and Vangerdahast knew that they had no other choice; the Zhentish soldiers were likely to cause more trouble in the city than they had in Torg's camp. Now, all the king had to do was gather his own forces and begin the march to the east.

That proved far more difficult than Azoun had expected.

Telflamm provided too many distractions for the Alliance's soldiers and sailors, most of whom had never traveled more than a few miles from their own homes. Refugees from the onslaught of the Tuigan—now less than five hundred miles to the east—crowded the streets. Along with the refugees came vice and corruption. Thieves flourished, as did a black market in food, clothes, even human life. Brothels sprang up overnight throughout the city, often right next door to makeshift arenas where the foolish and the brave could battle to the death for a handful of gold. The city watch, sorely undermanned for the task of policing a transient army and a horde of refugees, found it easier to take bribes and look the other way.

"I don't care if the local watch isn't any help," Azoun said loudly. He glared at Lord Harcourt, the commander of the Alliance's cavalry. "Why aren't the nobles doing something about this? We should have some type of military watch." He paced nervously around the temporary command center, located in Telflamm's government offices.

The general shrugged. "Well, Your Highness," he began tentatively. "It's, uh, a, uh—"

Brunthar Elventree leaned back in his chair. "What Lord Harcourt is trying to say is that his men are right alongside mine—passed out in an alley somewhere or spending their day in a whorehouse." The red-haired dalesman smiled. "However, I don't see what the problem is," he added snidely. "If you'll let us fight beside orcs, a little debauchery won't—"

"That's enough, General Elventree," Azoun snapped. "One more insubordinate comment like that and you'll be relieved of your command." He stormed across the room and stood in front of the dalesman. "I need your cooperation, now more than ever. I have accepted the orcs to fight the Tuigan. You will enforce that. Do you understand?"

Brunthar slowly sat up straight. The poor lighting in the room cast deep shadows over his face, masking his expression, but making him look demonic. "Yes, Your Highness."

"Then that's settled," Azoun said firmly. "This crusade is floundering. If we are going to be able to face the Tuigan, we need to get the men out of here right away." The king paused for a moment, then turned to the dalesman.

"General Elventree, since your men are lying facedown next to Lord Harcourt's, you two will gather the troops together. Any questions?"

The dalesman smiled at the king's slight jab at the nobleman. "No, Your Highness."

Lord Harcourt had been a soldier long enough to realize what Azoun was doing. Even though he disliked the commoners from the Dales, he knew the king had to find some way to draw the army together. "Anything you command, Your Highness," he replied as cheerfully as he could. Straightening his ever present mail shirt, the nobleman stood and bowed.

"Good," the king said. "I'll find Vangerdahast and Farl, and we'll do what we can from here." As the generals prepared to leave, Azoun added, "I want the army on the march by highsun tomorrow at the latest."

Neither Brunthar Elventree nor Lord Harcourt thought that possible, but they didn't say so. Instead they made their way into the streets and started a search for soldiers sober enough to serve as military police. Luckily they were more successful than they'd hoped possible. The city did offer a myriad of distractions, but the mercenary troops hired by the Sembians were generally far too experienced as campaigners to fall prey to the vices of a port of call.

Within twenty-four hours, much of the Army of the Alliance had gathered to the south, outside the walls of the city.

Razor John was very pleased to learn of the mustering. Though he, like many of his companions, had never been outside Cormyr before, he rarely drank to excess and never dabbled in other vices, even when he was at home. Why start now? he reasoned. After all, Telflamm offered little that couldn't be purchased in Suzail. The price would be higher in Cormyr, of course, and each particular vice wouldn't be advertised so openly, but that made little difference to the fletcher.

Many of John's compatriots found the invitation to debauchery irresistible.

Mal, in particular, had spent his time in Telflamm drinking and fighting. The ham-fisted man had even registered himself for a death duel in an arena.

John and Kiri had managed to talk Mal out of fighting, but the temptation was great to let him go through with the duel. The last the fletcher had seen of the soldier, he was holed up in a stinking little waterfront tavern called the Broken Lance.

It was this establishment that John sought as he wound his way through the narrow, dirty alleys of Telflamm's harbor. Homeless refugees and resident beggars lined the streets. Some offered black market goods or services in exchange for money, others merely pleaded for a few copper pieces to get them through the day. The pitiable pleas tugged at the fletcher's heart, but he didn't dip his hand into his purse for the ragged children or diseased old men. John had no money left. He'd given much of his wealth to the poor his first day ashore; the rest had been stolen by cut-purses soon after that.

Razor John thought longingly about the crowded marketplace in Cormyr.

How different it was from the squalor in Telflamm. He looked up at the sky, but could see little of it. The dilapidated buildings to either side of the narrow alley leaned together so that they almost blocked out the sunlight completely.

It's probably for the best, the fletcher decided bitterly. Too much direct sun and the garbage that filled the side streets would stink worse than it already did.

As quickly as he could, John walked the rest of the way to the Broken Lance. A thief was searching the pockets of an unconscious soldier resting facedown at the front door. As the fletcher got closer, the pickpocket looked up at him and ran off. John was glad the thief had fled, since he wasn't quite sure what he would have done otherwise. After checking to see that the soldier was alive, he entered the bar.

The Broken Lance was a small, dark place. Weak light filtered through sooty windows on one side of the room, and sour-smelling tallow candles burned at some of the tables. A large fire sputtered across from the door, sending oily peat smoke up toward the ceiling, where it swirled around before leaking out through various gaps in the poorly constructed roof. The sound of raucous laughter mixed with bawdy sea chants and bursts of swearing. Rats scurried freely across the floor, ignored by most of the patrons.

Razor John spotted Mal immediately. The big soldier was locked in an arm wrestling contest. A few men stood around Mal's table, cheering and cursing.

Most of the inn's patrons sat huddled over their tarnished tankards, swilling watery ale. Mal won the contest just as the fletcher reached his side. The soldier slammed the other man's hand to the table, sloshing wine from the large wineskin that rested there. Coins exchanged hands, and most of the men drifted back to their own tables. Mal rubbed his arm and only nodded to John as a greeting.

"We're supposed to be ready to march by highsun," the fletcher said softly.

He took off his black felt hat and held it before him, twisting it nervously.

"Is that what you're here for?" Mal asked incredulously. He leered and added, "Shouldn't you and your lady love be off somewhere? I hear Kiri's—"

"That's enough!" John said forcefully. His feelings for Kiri Trollslayer had grown steadily over the trip to Telflamm, and he wasn't about to let a drunken soldier—especially one who was supposed to be her friend—start ugly rumors about her.

Mal looked in turn at each of the other two men who sat at the table. One of them, a dalesman by the roughspun tan tunic and breeches he wore, grinned broadly. The other was a dark-eyed, well-armed mercenary, with a sizable and rather ugly scar running along his cheek. He simply snorted and took a long draw from the large tankard set before him. It amazed John to see Mal, who claimed to hate Sembians and dalesmen, drinking with these two soldiers. But then, the fletcher knew that Mal would drink with almost anyone.

John frowned. "The king's back from the north with the Zhentish troops. It's time to go."

"Zhentish troops!" The dalesman spat. "I hear they're orcs, the whole bunch of them. Fine lot of good they'll do us in a battle." He swilled some wine into his tankard. "More'n likely they'll slit our throats when we're sleeping."

"Maybe they're here for us to warm up on," Mal suggested darkly. He lifted the wineskin to pour himself another tankardful, then stopped. He swished the wine around in the skin and announced, "Last swallows." Both he and Razor John looked about the room.

The Sembian mercenary watched the two Cormyrians for a moment, then asked, "What do you think you're doing?"

"Looking for someone of the nobility," John offered. "It's a Cormyrian tradition that the nobleman of the greatest lineage or the highest ranking officer in the taproom gets the last drink from a cask or wineskin."

"If there were any officers in this place, you'd not be giving that wine to them," the dalesman snapped, making a feeble grab for the skin. Mal slapped a hand over the man's thin face and pushed him back in his chair.

As Mal was dealing with the dalesman, the mercenary snatched the wineskin from his hand. "The person who bought it gets to decide what to do with the last swallow," he said loudly. A few heads turned toward the table.

Mal swore and stood up. As he leaned forward to grab the skin from the Sembian, the mercenary drew a dagger and held it to Mal's throat.

"No weapons!" the barkeep cried, then ducked into the back room. A few men and women drew their swords. One or two made for the door.

Mal slowly sat back down and slid his hand around his tankard. The Sembian's evil grin only made his scar turn red and, if possible, more ugly. He handed the wineskin to the dalesman. "You bought it, archer. It's yours."

As the dalesman smiled and uncorked the wineskin, Razor John reached for his own dagger. He certainly didn't intend to fight over something as ridiculous as a mouthful of cheap wine, but he wasn't about to let someone attack him either. "Let's go, Mal," he rumbled, taking a step away from the table. "This isn't worth it." When his countryman didn't stand, John looked down in amazement.

Mal sat hunched over his tankard, which he gripped tightly in his left hand.

Beneath a tangle of blond curls, his broad, thick-boned face was caught somewhere between an expression of bewilderment and rage. "Damn Sembians," he muttered. "Damned dalesmen. I should've known better than to drink with merchants and farmers."

"At least this wine's going where it belongs," the dalesman said happily, He pulled the cork and upended the wineskin. The last of the red liquid poured onto the dirty floor, startling a few insects. Before the wine had drained through the widely spaced floorboards, the tan-clad soldier repeated a short, ritualistic prayer to the God of Agriculture.

A few people at nearby tables laughed. The Sembian mercenary stood, slack-jawed and staring. Mal, his alcohol-numbed brain only now registering what had happened, cursed again and stood. His dirty, sweat-soaked clothes clung to his muscular form like a second skin.

"No hard feelings," the dalesman said, offering his hand to Mal. "You've got your traditions; we've got ours."

John saw Mal tense his arm, but the realization that he was going to lash out came to the fletcher too late for action. The warrior swung with his left in a vicious backhanded slap. The dalesman, his reflexes dulled by wine, couldn't get out of the way of the tarnished tankard. With a dull clang, the heavy metal mug hit him square in the face, shattering his nose and more than a few of his teeth.

The dalesman hit the floor with a muffled thud, his blood mixing with the dregs of the spilled wine. The skitter of a dozen swords leaving their sheaths underscored the muttered curses and oaths.

Mal, the tankard still dangling in his left hand, stared dumbly at his victim.

"Get up," he said roughly, kicking the body with his mud-caked boots.

With a gasp, Razor John dropped to his knees. He put his ear close to the dalesman's bloody mouth. "He's not breathing." A few tears began to well in the fletcher's eyes. "You idiot!" he screamed. "You killed him over a tankard of wine!"

The Sembian mercenary took a step back and sheathed his dagger. "The generals'll hang you for this. They'll not let murder go unpunished."

The dented, bloodied tankard dropped to the floor with a hollow clang. Mal shook his head, started to speak, then kicked the dalesman again instead.

"Get up, you bastard. You're not dead."

Razor John stood and turned toward another commotion that was breaking out near the door. The innkeeper, followed by two soldiers and a member of the city watch, was pushing his way through the crowd. The fletcher recognized one of the soldiers as Farl Bloodaxe, commander of the Alliance's infantry.

"I knew this would happen," the barkeep babbled as he got close. He pointed to Mal. "I could tell he was a bad sort from the moment he walked in here."

"We'll all be glad when your troops leave," the watchman said loudly. Like all of Telflamm's city watch, this man wore a long, bright red overcoat, sashed tight at the waist with shiny black cloth. His high, square black hat was tassled in silver, and a broad, curved sword hung prominently at his side. The guard kicked a chair with the silver toecap of a well-polished boot. "You've been nothing but trouble since you arrived."

"That's enough," Farl said. The ebony-skinned general sighed and looked around. "Any of you care to tell me what happened?"

Over the next fifteen minutes, Razor John, Mal, and a few others told their versions of the incident. Unsurprisingly, Mal claimed the dalesman had drawn a blade. No one corroborated his story, but Mal seemed unaffected by that.

When John denied the tale's veracity, the murderer narrowed his eyes and shook his head.

All the time that Farl was conducting his interviews, John felt a growing wave of nausea wash over him. He had never really liked Mal. In fact, the fletcher had agreed to look for the soldier only because he was a fellow Cormyrian and an acquaintance of Kiri's. Still, he had never really disliked him either. Now John saw his countryman for what he really was—a drunken, violent bully.

As quickly as the murder had occurred, Mal's fate was decided. The soldier suddenly became very calm, more quiet, in fact, than John had ever seen him. Irons were placed on his large hands, and Farl ordered the dalesman's body to be taken out and burned. Before the red-coated guardsman could lead Mal to his fate, the doomed Cormyrian soldier leaned close to the fletcher.

"I thought you would have stuck by me," Mal whispered through clenched teeth. "Backed up my story. We're two of a kind, you and me."

"No," Razor John said sharply. "I came to find you because we're both from Cormyr, but—"

"Not that," Mal said. The guard tugged on the irons and pulled the soldier a step away from John. "What you did aboard the Sarnath and all." As the watchman pulled Mal another step away, he snapped viciously, "All right.

You'll have me hanging soon enough."

Razor John watched in numbed silence as the crowd parted for the watchman and his prisoner. Nausea washed over the fletcher again, and he slumped into a chair. The inn's customers went back to their business, though subdued slightly. John sat for a moment, turning Mal's words over and over in his mind. Then his eyes drifted to the floor, where the dented tankard still lay.

Silently the fletcher picked up the tarnished mug. In his mind, John saw his bow and the arrows he'd used to kill the sailor and the priest who'd visited the plague ship. He'd believed his conscience reconciled with those deeds, but he wondered now how an officer's orders had made his act any different from Mal's.

Tucking the silver tankard under his cloak, John rose swiftly and made his way out of the city to find Kiri and begin the march into Thesk. Thoughts of the incidents at the Broken Lance and aboard the Sarnath plagued the fletcher all through the long, hard march away from the coast.

10

Birds of Prey

Malmondes of Suzail dangled from a rope on a makeshift scaffold south of Telflamm for eight days, a stark example of military justice. In that time, Alusair and the dwarven army made their way south across the green rolling hills of the Great Dale. Now, ten days and almost seventy miles after parting with King Azoun, Torg's soldiers stood on the edge of Lethyr Forest.

As he had each evening of the march, Torg traveled from clan to clan, marked in camp by their different standards. Before the soldiers went about their duties or to sleep, the ironlord gave them a short, direct speech about the crusade. The orcs, he told the army, were an evil they would put up with until the battle was over. Then the Zhentish beasts, or whatever was left of them, would answer to the troops of Earthfast for their insult.

As the soldiers from Earthfast silently set up camp for the night, Princess Alusair studied the dark edge of the forest to the east. The area the dwarves had been crossing was grassland, generally devoid of trees, so the huge expanse of woods presented an imposing front. And though the most direct route to the location where they would join up with the Army of the Alliance was through the forest, Torg refused to consider taking his troops that way.

"Only elves and other such questionable creatures lurk in forests," the ironlord had told Alusair. "I'll not put my soldiers in danger needlessly by taking a shortcut through an obvious haven for traps. We'll go south, then skirt the forest and head east."

Alusair wasn't quite sure who the ironlord thought would set a trap for the dwarves, but she really didn't care. Torg's inflexibility on the matter only fostered a vague but growing dissatisfaction the princess felt with the ironlord's army. Nine months past, in the middle of autumn, Alusair had gone to the Earthfast Mountains in search of a lost artifact. Instead, she found a small but proud group of dwarves defending their decaying underground city against a seemingly endless onslaught of evil orcs and goblins. Always searching for a worthy cause, the princess joined the fight. Her knowledge of military strategy, gained from her father when she was still a child, proved invaluable to the dwarves of Earthfast. The orcs were routed, and the crumbling city was saved.

Most of the time Alusair had spent with the dwarves had been taken up with battles against orcs and goblins. The princess had never felt anything for the soldiers other than respect or the camaraderie one has for an ally in battle. Until now.

Torg cared little for the tremendous confusion Alusair felt. She'd tried to speak to the ironlord about her father on the first day's march, but he had simply dismissed the topic as idle chatter. The princess knew that few of the dwarves had families; the orcs and goblins had slain most of the women and children in Earthfast years ago. Even Torg's queen had been killed in a battle fifteen years past.

That shouldn't make them so cold, Alusair decided as she watched a lone falcon soar up into the twilight. It moved out from the forest's edge and circled idly over the camp. Occasionally, the bird of prey shrieked. The noise echoed mournfully in the warm early summer's night.

The princess sighed and turned toward her tent, wondering over the fact that Torg had sent a letter to Azoun agreeing to supply troops to the crusade at the end of winter, almost four months past. The year was soaring by as quickly as the bird overhead.

The dwarven sentry that Alusair passed on the way to camp only nodded.

Apart from a few softly spoken orders and the unavoidable noise made setting up tents and building watchfires, the camp was silent. Once, Alusair had found the peace and quiet relaxing; now it left her too much time to think. That was the last thing she wanted.

Azoun's actions had puzzled the princess and made her, perhaps, a bit sad. She'd certainly expected the conflict over her leaving home. However, Alusair hadn't believed it possible her father would admit she had control of her own life. She had been ready to take the moral high ground in the dispute, ready to prove to the king how her actions weren't so very different from his own as a youth. She looked at the signet ring Azoun had left with her and cursed.

Her father's less dogmatic attitude toward her independence might have meant an easy reconciliation a few months ago, but not after what Alusair had seen in the dwarves' camp. Her father had openly allied with orcs, creatures of evil. She saw the alliance as the unpardonable product of moral backsliding for political ends. Now Alusair wasn't even sure she wanted to be reconciled with Azoun; he really didn't seem like the good, noble man she remembered from four years ago.

What should I do? she wondered, reviewing the painful question in her mind. No easy answer came.

The princess finally reached her darkened tent. For a moment, she considered contacting Vangerdahast and Azoun using the ring, but decided against it. Instead, she lay on her blankets and listened to the falcon cry out in the growing darkness. Alusair concluded from the lessening sound that the bird was moving back toward the forest. She could still hear the shrill sounds of its call as she drifted off to sleep.

The rain that fell that night didn't wake Alusair, but she felt the cold and damp in her joints when she awoke the next morning. The day dawned gray and cloudy, and a light drizzle fell over the camp. With as little emotion as they showed at most other times, the troops from Earthfast broke camp and moved on. Alusair joined them, sullenly and silently.

The next three days and nights passed the same way. The dwarves marched anywhere from ten to fifteen miles a day, quite a feat for a group of two thousand soldiers and a train of supplies. Alusair was certain that Azoun's troops would cover no more than five miles in the same time. The dwarves were much better organized and rarely stopped to rest or to eat. They used fewer wagons than the humans, too, which allowed them greater mobility. The few stout wooden conveyances they did have were pulled by hearty little mountain ponies or mules. Most of the dwarves carried heavy loads in addition to their weapons and armor.

By the second tenday of what she considered a forced march, Alusair started to wonder if she'd be able to keep up. She did, though she paid for the pace every night in sore muscles and blistered feet.

Each night, the princess wearily studied the woods to the east before collapsing into a deep sleep. Falcons seemed to follow the camp, and Alusair found that watching the beautiful birds of prey soar in the sky was quite relaxing. It made her feel free and, more importantly, allowed her to forget her troubles, if only for a little while.

On one particular night, the princess sat in the warm darkness a hundred yards from the edge of camp, closer to the trees. A falcon lofted overhead.

She wondered for a moment if the bird was the same one she'd seen on the first night they camped outside the forest. It's possible, Alusair decided after watching the bird turn lazy circles in the sky. The dwarves were scaring up enough field mice and rabbits in their trek across the rolling farmlands to keep a dozen such birds well fed.

Without warning, Alusair's signet ring began to glow brightly. The princess shielded the light with her hand; in the growing darkness, the ring might be an unwanted beacon to creatures prowling around the camp. Every camp attracted scavengers—wolves, jackals, and other, more exotic monsters.

Alusair had enough campaign experience to know that it was very unwise to underestimate such creatures.

Allie?

The princess looked at the ring, puzzled. She had heard her father's voice in her head. Usually Alusair was comfortable with magic, but this was something she had never experienced before.

Princess? Can you hear us? This time the words were Vangerdahast's. An annoying buzzing took hold in Alusair's ears. She dismissed it as a side effect of the spell on the ring.

Holding the gold ring close to her mouth, the princess said, "Yes, I can hear you." She spoke the words softly, so no one or no creature could hear.

What? I can't hear you. Are you all right? Alusair heard her father ask. She didn't like to admit it, but she was happy to hear the concern in his voice.

Vangerdahast sighed in annoyance inside the princess's head. You are trying to talk into the ring, I'd imagine, the mage said sharply, his patience fleeing. Well, that won't work. Just concentrate. I can sense your mind through my scrying spell, but we won't have full contact until you concentrate on us.

Alusair focused her mind on the sound of the wizard's voice, and the buzz in her ears vanished. Ah, there you are, Allie, she heard her father say happily.

She could almost picture Azoun, sitting in his tent with Vangerdahast, hovering over some scrying mirror or crystal ball. Without realizing it, the princess pictured her father five years younger, more as she remembered him from their days in Suzail. His brown beard was less sprinkled with silver, and the deep wrinkles around his eyes were barely noticeable.

We can see you, Princess, but the ring will only allow you to hear us, Vangerdahast explained. As long as you—

I'm sure she's figured out how this works by now, Azoun said, abruptly ending the wizard's lecture. There was a brief but pregnant silence, then the king said, Where are you, Allie? How are Torg's troops holding up?

Alusair quickly and succinctly reported on the dwarven army's disposition.

At the rate we're moving, the princess concluded, we should meet up with you in about twenty-five days.

That soon? Azoun asked, surprise evident in his voice.

We're about halfway to the meeting spot ourselves, with two more tendays march ahead of us. I was hoping to have some time to drill the troops before we met up.

You'll have about five days, then, Father, the princess thought. A short silence followed, so Alusair assumed there was nothing more to say. With little prelude, she bid her father and Vangerdahast good night and pulled the ring from her finger. The light from the gold ring faded, then winked out.

Studying the expertly engraved dragon on the signet, Alusair rose to her feet. The falcon overhead cried out, and the princess looked up to see it diving toward the trees. The bird shrieked again. This time, however, Alusair thought she heard a shrill whistle from the forest answer the cry.

Now a dark speck against the darker sky, the falcon disappeared into the trees. Alusair paused for a moment and narrowed her eyes in an attempt to see into the murky outline of the woods. After a time, she dismissed the whistle as a product of her imagination or an aftereffect of the spell. With a single glance over her shoulder, she turned from Lethyr Forest and made her way to her bed.

The next day started warm, bright, and sunny—in fact, a rather typical day for the early summer month of Kythorn—but an almost palpable uneasiness hung over the dwarven camp. Alusair learned from Torg that the sentries had reported possible movement by mounted troops at the edge of the wood during the night. The ironlord had passed word through the ranks that every soldier was to be prepared for battle, and the princess assumed correctly that this was the source of the army's restlessness.

Despite Torg's orders, Alusair didn't wear her armor that day, donning instead a clean doublet, rough leather leggings, and high leather boots. She found it far easier to march dressed that way, though perspiration still plastered her short blond hair to her head. The ironlord scowled at Alusair, but made no comment on her dress.

Clouds rolled across the sky far to the south as the dwarves began their march, but the sun still shone cheerily overhead. Torg paid little attention to the fine weather, forcing his soldiers to march through their noon meal. They stopped at dusk, and as soon as the column halted to set up camp, soldiers spotted a horseman leaving Lethyr Forest.

At least he appeared to be a mounted rider from a long way off. As the creature got closer, Torg was surprised to find that a centaur, not a man, raced toward the dwarves at a full gallop. He carried a banner in one hand and seemed to be unarmed.

"Load bows!" Torg growled. A young dwarf at his side dipped the ironlord's standard. The standard-bearers for each clan mirrored the movement, and all along the column, packs were dropped and crossbows cranked to the ready.

Alusair, too, dropped her pack, but she didn't draw a weapon. Centaurs were often very reasonable creatures, dedicated to guarding their forest homes. She doubted that the messenger galloping toward the dwarven king was bringing tidings of war. Even though the princess stood right next to Torg, she didn't bother to tell him this; Alusair knew he wouldn't listen.

The centaur headed straight for Torg's banner. The cloth standard, embroidered with the phoenix and hammer symbol of Earthfast, was the largest banner and flew in the army's front rank. It was reasonable to assume it belonged to the soldiers' commander.

"Hail, dwarves of Earthfast," the centaur called in Common when he got close. Many of Torg's troops shifted uneasily. They had never seen anything like this half-man, half-horse before.

The crossbowmen in Torg's bodyguard aimed their weapons at the herald.

"State your business," the ironlord replied crossly.

Alusair and the herald both frowned at the clipped, insulting reply. The centaur stopped abruptly, kicking up clods from the field with his large hooves.

He glanced over the column, and a trace of discomfort crossed his tanned, heavily bearded face. "I am the speaker for Tribe Pastilar of the Forest of Lethyr," he said formally, fear edging his voice. "You fly the banner of Earthfast. Are you—"

"Yes, yes," Torg said impatiently. "I am Torg mac Cei, Ironlord of Earthfast.

What do you want?"

The centaur herald's massive, muscular chest heaved slightly as he let out a sigh of relief. For a moment, he had thought the scouts had mistakenly identified the dwarves' standard. "You are passing close to our territory," the herald continued, a bit more relaxed, "and we simply wish to know your intentions."

Torg paused and eyed the centaur coolly. Alusair knew that a curt reply here might draw suspicion to the troops, so she stepped forward and spoke up. "We are moving past your forest on the way to Thesk. There we rendezvous with King Azoun of Cormyr to fight a barbarian incursion from the east."

The herald's sunburned face brightened visibly. "We hear much good about Azoun of Cormyr, even in this isolated part of Faerun." He dipped his standard twice in quick succession. It was obviously a signal to centaur troops waiting at the fringes of the forest, and many of the dwarves cast nervous glances at the tree line, waiting for an attack.

Torg, annoyed at Alusair for presuming to speak for him, moved next to the human princess and scowled at the herald. "Now that you know where we're headed, can we be on our way? We stayed out of your woods, so we expect you to leave us alone."

The herald's face betrayed his confusion. "We do not intend to delay your troops, Ironlord. We know how urgently the humans in Thesk need your assistance. But are you not ready to camp for the night?"

"We haven't decided that yet," Torg snapped. He glanced at his standard-bearer and muttered something in Dwarvish. Before the young dwarf could send the signal for the new orders, Torg grabbed the standard's pole and held it straight.

Alusair was stewing quietly about the ironlord's foolish antipathy toward the centaur. She noted that Torg was staring past the herald and turned to see for herself what attracted his attention so fully. There, charging across the field, was a group of four more centaurs.

"Is this some kind of trick?" Torg growled.

The herald swished his tail around his chestnut-brown rump to chase away a horsefly that had settled there. Turning at the waist, he glanced behind him, then looked back at the ironlord. "No. That is our tribal leader. He simply wishes to meet you before you move on."

Torg grumbled a curse in Dwarvish, then let go of the standard. He nodded curtly to the standard-bearer, who signaled the rest of the army to lower their weapons. The army, slowly but steadily broke into small groups and started to set up their tents. Alusair and two guards stayed by Torg. The princess thanked whatever god gave Torg enough sense not to openly insult the chieftain of Lethyr's centaurs by meeting him with loaded weapons.

As the four centaurs got closer, Alusair saw that three of them were armed.

Whereas the herald carried the tall standard of his tribe, the chieftain's escort hefted long lances. The leader of the centaurs had no weapons himself, but wore a vest of treated animal skins and a broad black belt with a pouch around his waist. A long, thin rod of silver, wrapped with thick twine in the middle, hung from the belt, too.

"Hail, Ironlord of Earthfast," the centaur chieftain said brightly and clattered to a stop. Alusair, who was herself only average height for a human, noted with some amusement that the man-horses from Lethyr were almost twice as tall as Torg and his soldiers. The grass, which came to the dwarves' waists, climbed only a little way up the centaurs' legs.

Torg gave the chieftain a formal, if rather cold, greeting, and the centaur introduced himself as Jad Eyesbright. Before the dwarven lord could say anything in reply, a beautiful falcon dove out of the darkening sky and skimmed the grass a few yards ahead of the ironlord. Alusair held her breath and found her eyes riveted to the beautiful black, gray, and white predator.

Torg, too, watched the graceful bird as it gyred back up in the purple evening sky.

The centaur chieftain noted the looks on Torg's and Alusair's faces, then smiled. "You have an appreciation for birds of prey," he noted. "That is good.

They are beautiful creatures. That one serves our tribe." He pointed to the falcon as it wheeled above the army.

"It's been following us," Alusair said, her eyes still on the falcon. She let her gaze drift to the centaurs and added, "I noticed it, and another falcon, circling the camp. I thought they followed us for the small birds we frightened into the open."

Jad Eyesbright shook a lock of his long black hair out of his eyes. He thrust his distinctive, almost square chin forward a little as he studied Alusair closely.

"Very observant," he said. "How do you know that bird was a falcon? Most humans simply call all raptors 'hawks.' "

"I grew up in a castle that had a very large mew, with hawks, falcons, and owls," the princess said. "I spent a lot of time with the falconers, learning about the birds." A happy memory of helping the hawkmaster train a young black hawk came unbidden to Alusair's mind, and a slight smile crept to her lips.

Torg crossed his arms and tapped his foot on the ground. Had the dwarf been in a close cave of stone, as he often was, his action would have loudly signaled his impatience. In the field, the ironlord's steel-shod boot thudded dully and almost silently against the fertile earth.

Jad Eyesbright had launched into an animated discussion of birds of prey with Princess Alusair, so he missed Torg's none-too-subtle expression of annoyance. The herald, however, did not. The brown-haired centaur cleared his throat noisily, producing a sound much like a whinny.

"The ironlord has been marching all day, Chieftain," the centaur herald said, bowing his head slightly. "Perhaps it would be best—"

"How thoughtless of me!" Jad Eyesbright exclaimed, tossing his hands into the air. He nodded to Torg. "Forgive me, Ironlord. You must want to rest."

Torg stopped tapping his foot. "Indeed," he mumbled. "We have a long march tomorrow, so we'd best get some sleep." He glanced at Alusair, hoping she would agree. The princess, however, was too pleased to be talking to the centaurs to want the meeting to end so quickly. After days of the dwarves'

silence, the garrulous centaurs were a most welcome change.

Jad grinned a broad, large-toothed smile. He pawed the ground with his front hooves and bowed slightly. "I'll have some fresh food sent out for your troops. I'm sure you're tired of rations of dried meat." He nodded to one of his escorts, who dashed back toward the forest. "Is there anything else you need?"

Torg, who really hadn't expected the centaur chieftain's generosity, stood fidgeting. "No," he said, a bit nonplussed. After dismissing his guards with a wave of his hand, Torg mumbled, "Come, Alusair. We have battle strategies to go over."

"Alusair?" Jad asked, tilting his head slightly as he looked at the princess.

"The daughter of Azoun of Cormyr?"

Frowning slightly, Alusair nodded an affirmation.

"Well," Jad said happily, "we must have a talk. I've heard a great deal about you." The chieftain turned to his guards. "You may go. I'll stay here with Torg and the princess awhile." As the guards braced their lances and cantered about, preparing for the run back to the woods, Jad added, "And make sure that food I asked for gets out here quickly."

Torg sighed, resigning himself to having a guest in camp, at least for a short time. He, however, was going to beg out of entertaining the centaur. "I have things to see to, Chief," the dwarven king began.

Before Torg could add any embellishment to his excuse, Jad nodded and smiled. "Of course, Ironlord. No insult taken." The man-horse twisted at the waist and glanced at Alusair. "I hope, however, that the princess has time to talk."

"Certainly," Alusair said quickly. And a bit too enthusiastically, she noted with a twinge of guilt when she saw Torg furrow his brows. The feeling lasted only a second, as the seemingly endless days of silence with the dwarves pushed back into her consciousness.

Torg shuffled his feet uncomfortably for a moment, then bid Jad and Alusair good night and stalked off to his tent.

"Torg is everything I'd been led to believe," Jad said, his voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. He looked at Alusair, gauging her reaction. His tail twitched nervously behind him.

The princess smothered a short laugh. "And more, I'm sure," she noted, her voice lowered to match the chief's. After pausing for an instant, Alusair tilted her head. "You've 'heard' quite a lot for someone living in a rather isolated part of the world."

For a moment, Jad Eyesbright was silent. He removed a large brown glove that hung at his belt and slid it over his left hand. When the glove was in place, he said, "Information is easy to come by. We stop many travelers in and around the forest, and some of them are friendly enough to tell us the news in Faerun." He motioned toward the ground with his empty right hand.

Alusair understood the gesture and nodded. She took a seat as Jad folded his beautifully muscled black legs under him. The centaur sat with a slight grunt, then squirmed for a moment to get comfortable. "I've heard a great deal about your father from various mercenaries and traders, the same folk who warned me about King Torg's short temper and distrust of anything non-dwarven," the centaur explained casually.

Alusair swatted away a bug. "And me?" she asked.

"Bounty hunters spoke of you most frequently," the chieftain replied. He paused again, then lifted his left hand. Putting his right hand to his mouth, Jad whistled. Alusair started, and two dwarven sentries stationed nearby came running at a trot.

"Oh, dear," Jad said when he noticed them coming toward him. "You'd best tell them there's nothing—"

Before the centaur chieftain could finish his sentence, the falcon arced down from the twilight and swooped onto his gloved, outstretched left hand.

Alusair said a few words in Dwarvish. The two sentries silently returned to their posts, pushing through the tall grass.

As Jad grabbed the jesses attached to the bird's legs, the falcon tightened its grip on the glove. The centaur deftly snatched the leather straps with his right hand and slid them into the grip of his left. The bird's sharp talons bit into the leather glove, and it squeaked a short, piercing note. "Yes, yes," Jad said paternally, moving his face close to the falcon's. "You've done your job well."

He pulled a small piece of food from his pouch and fed it to the bird.

"He's very beautiful," Alusair said. She studied the falcon's plumage—its darkly hooded head and yellow legs. "A peregrine, if I know my hunting birds."

Jad nodded appreciatively. "Right again, Princess," he chimed.

"And you can communicate with him somehow, if he's been spying for you."

The centaur chieftain held up his right hand. For the first time, Alusair noticed a thin silver bracelet around his wrist. "A present from a mage my tribe once helped. It has a spell on it that lets me talk to, even see through the eyes of, any bird I choose. With the bracelet and the falcons, I've been watching the dwarves for the last few days."

Alusair pulled up a thin stalk of grass and twirled it between her thumb and index finger. She watched the hawk's bright, steady eyes and wondered what it was like to see the world soar underneath as you lofted over trees and lakes and armies. "The freedom must be wonderful," she said after a while.

Jad only nodded. "But what of you, Princess?" he asked. "From the stories I'd heard, I didn't expect to find you going off to fight alongside your father."

When Alusair paused and stopped twirling the grass, the centaur offered an apologetic smile. "Forgive me," he said sincerely. "I shouldn't pry."

Alusair smiled weakly, but the direct question had shocked her into uneasiness. "Now I see how you learn so much," she said, a bit sarcastically.

"You interrogate anyone who'll talk to you." When she saw the pained expression on the chieftain's face, she added, "I never expected to be fighting beside my father either."

Relief spread over Jad's face. He reached into his bag and pulled out a small leather hood, decorated with tiny gems. The precious stones reflected the last rays of the setting sun as the centaur held it out to the princess.

"Could you help me with this?" he asked.

As Alusair carefully hooded the falcon for the night, Jad reached for the long piece of metal. "And this," he said when the hood was secure, "is his perch." The princess took the rod and bent it into a U. She stuck the ends into the ground, and Jad coaxed the falcon onto the twined area, where its talons could find a comfortable purchase.

The centaur rubbed his arms. "Much better," he sighed. "Now, where were we? Ah, yes, marching off to war."

Alusair and the chieftain talked casually for over an hour, until even the last, faint traces of the sun had disappeared in the western sky. The moon came out, trailed by the cluster of stars that always hung behind it in the sky.

The bright orb of Selune lit up the field, casting a frosty radiance over the lines of tents and the dark outline of the forest. Jad's troops returned with baskets of nuts and berries and even some freshly baked bread. After taking a little for themselves, Jad and Alusair sent the rest of the food to Torg.

As the evening passed, the princess studied the dark-maned centaur chieftain. His friendly, sincere smile and captivatingly dark eyes seemed to reveal him as an honest, kindhearted soul. As they walked slowly around the camp's perimeter, Alusair found herself discussing much about her father and the upcoming battle, though she certainly never intended to do so. Jad, for his part, listened with interest, asking a few questions and relating the little he knew of the Tuigan.

Eventually the strain of the long day's march started to show on Alusair's face. "Perhaps you should get some rest," Jad told her after her third yawn in as many minutes.

The princess could only agree. "We do have a long march ahead of us. The spot on the Golden Way where we're meeting my father is some distance from here."

Jad tossed his head to again remove an unruly lock of hair from his eyes. "I have a wonderful idea," he said brightly. "I can offer Torg a guide, one who could take you through the forest. There are many more direct routes to your meeting place, and that will cut days off your trek."

Shaking her head, Alusair frowned slightly. "I don't think so." She motioned to the forest. "Torg won't go through there, with or without a guide. I think it's a fine idea, too, but Torg simply won't see past his mistrust of, well, everything."

"We'll see about that," the centaur exclaimed. He trotted off, leaving Alusair to walk briskly in his wake just to catch up. She attempted to stop Jad, but he rushed down the lines of darkened tents toward the open central area. Once there, he easily spotted Torg's tent, larger than the others, with the standard of Earthfast posted at the door.

The guards wouldn't let the centaur enter, but Jad made enough of a racket to draw Torg out. When Alusair finally reached the ironlord's tent, a heated discussion was already underway.

"You're being a fool," the centaur said sharply. Jad pranced back and forth, towering over the dwarven king and his two guards. "I can help you."

Torg pushed the gold-bound black forks of his beard aside and folded his arms across his chest. "I've tried to be polite about this, centaur. Obviously that doesn't work." Spreading his feet apart a little, he said, "Let's try this, then: the dwarves of Earthfast don't need help from creatures like you."

Jad exhaled sharply, making a sound that reminded Alusair of nothing so much as a horse snorting angrily. She was angry herself as she moved to the centaur's side. "Why, Torg?" she asked. "The centaurs can make this journey easier for us, but you—"

"I won't have my troops allying with forest-bound riffraff like him," the ironlord growled, his face growing red beneath his beard.

Jad looked down at Alusair, then at Torg. "Race is no guide to character,"

he said, trying to subdue his anger. "I've known dwarves who were intelligent and wise. Nothing like you at all." Without another word, he reared on his hind legs and headed away from Torg at a canter.

"Wait!" Alusair called. She glanced over her shoulder at Torg. The ironlord was scowling into his beard, muttering something in Dwarvish. Alusair raced after the centaur chieftain.

As she made her way to the edge of the camp, the princess saw the centaur in the bright moonlight. Jad kneeled where he'd set up the falcon's perch. He was struggling with the heavy leather glove when Alusair reached his side.

The centaur turned at her approach. "That—that—" Bowing his head, he breathed deeply. When Jad looked up again, Alusair saw that some calm was reflected in his eyes. "He's made me so angry I can't even talk!"

"I'm sorry," Alusair offered.

"It's not your place to apologize for Torg, Princess." The centaur glanced back toward the camp, then pulled on the leather hawking glove. "To be honest, I don't know why your father called on him for assistance."

"Father has stranger allies than the dwarves of Earthfast," Alusair mumbled, a little bitterness creeping into her voice.

"The orcs you told me about?" Jad asked as he attempted to nudge the drowsy falcon onto his gloved hand. The hawk cried out irritably, and the centaur paused. "Perhaps," he ventured. "Though I'd be willing to guess the King Azoun I've heard so much about had good reason for accepting their aid."

Alusair let the subject drop, more for the feeling of guilt that was beginning to plague her than for any disagreement with Jad's observations. This latest, most puzzling display of Torg's narrow-mindedness was weighing upon her heavily. "I'm just sorry Torg wouldn't allow you to help us," she said after a moment.

Jad snorted. "When I offered the guide to him, the buffoon asked why we weren't coming along to fight. I told him that we're obligated to protect the forest, that we couldn't just leave. Anyway, we'll be here to help if the battle ranges this far west. And I offered supplies, too."

"And he wouldn't hear of it," Alusair concluded.

"Worse still," Jad said, the anger rising in his voice again, "he insulted me, said that I was just laying a trap for them, that I was probably allied with elves or orcs or worse." He clenched his fists and tried to relax.

Alusair rested a hand on the centaur's arm. "I'll tell Azoun of your generosity, Jad," she said. "I'm sure he'll appreciate the offer."

The chieftain looked down at the falcon, which was fidgeting nervously on its perch. "Perhaps there is something I can do to help," he said. He smiled and added, "but I'm sure Torg will think I'm doing it to spy on you."

"You can't give me the hawk." Alusair motioned toward the bird. "You need it to patrol your borders."

"Not really," Jad said, handing the hawking glove to the princess. "We know the woods better than anyone, so it's easy for us to creep close to camps and spy."

When Alusair hesitated, Jad pushed the glove toward her. Eventually he took her hand in his own and placed the leather glove in her fingers. Finally, he unclasped the thin silver bracelet and put it around Alusair's wrist. It was much looser on her arm than it had been on Jad's thick wrist; Alusair held her arm high, and the silver ring slid halfway to her elbow.

Jad briefly explained how the bracelet worked. All Alusair had to do was concentrate on a particular bird, and the bracelet would allow her to see through its eyes for as long as she wanted. The chieftain then added a few cautions about delving too deeply into any bird's mind, and the lesson was over. The princess listened, but her eyes wandered often to the peregrine, now sitting comfortably on the perch, its head tucked down for sleep.

"And I'll expect the bracelet and the falcon returned after you take care of the barbarians," Jad noted, only half in jest. Alusair agreed, and with little further ado, the centaur stood. "My regards to your father," he said as he turned to go. "I hope to meet him someday."

Alusair watched sadly as the centaur chieftain galloped toward the forest.

Though the moonlight was bright, she lost sight of Jad Eyesbright in the tall grass long before he reached the tree line. However, even after she could no longer see the centaur, Alusair stood in the field, studying the dark, uneven edge of Lethyr Forest, After a while, she looked around at the silent rows of tents in the dark dwarven camp.

Quickly she coaxed the falcon onto her gloved hand and pulled up his perch. The bird cried noisily, but the unnerving sound was music to Alusair.

By the time she headed for her tent, the princess was already anxious for tomorrow to dawn so she could let the falcon soar. The bird shrieked again, and a dwarven sentry frowned at the peregrine as Alusair carried it past. It was clear that the dour soldiers from Earthfast would not appreciate the centaur chieftain's gift.

The princess smiled when she realized they wouldn't.

11

Speaking in Tongues

The gentle rhythm of the rain on the tent's roof and sides was interrupted by a sharp wind, then the steady, soothing noise continued. Stroking his beard, which he believed was grayer now than when he'd received the letter from Torg four months past, King Azoun sighed. He stared at the jumble of words on the yellowed parchment before him for a moment, then sighed again. When he looked up, the king saw that both Thom Reaverson and Vangerdahast were deeply absorbed in their own work. The wizard was seated in a corner, under the glow of a lantern, while the bard sat directly across the table from Azoun. The lanterns did little to augment the weak daylight bleeding through the tent from the cloudy day outside.

"Are you sure there's no spell you can cast that will allow me to learn to speak Tuigan?" the king asked.

Vangerdahast looked up. "Eh?" he said wearily. A long scroll slid from his hands onto the tent's canvas floor. "No, Azoun, there's not. There's a spell that will allow me to speak with them, but that's all I can do. Actually, that should be enough. I can be a capable negotiator if the need arises."

A rather malicious smile crossed Azoun's lips, and he replied, "That's exactly why I'm trying to learn Tuigan—so the need won't arise."

Thom Reaverson stifled a chuckle. He glanced at Azoun, who was smiling, too, then returned his attention to the paper in front of him. Like Azoun, the bard-historian was reviewing a list of common Tuigan phrases, greetings and the like. The foreign words were rendered in Common, spelled phonetically so any westerner could learn them. Both he and Azoun were studying the language in the unlikely event that a diplomatic meeting could be arranged with Yamun Khahan and Vangerdahast's spells didn't work.

Noting the scowl that was slowly spreading over the wizard's wrinkled face, Azoun apologized. "Sorry to interrupt your work, Vangy. I didn't realize you were so wrapped up in those spells lists. I hope you're having more success than I am."

The royal magician rubbed his red eyes. "I should certainly hope so," he mumbled. He pushed the papers spread at his feet into a neat pile, then bent over and reached for the scroll on the floor. The wizard put his hand on his paunch and groaned slightly as he did so.

"This is not easy work," Vangerdahast noted when he'd recovered the scroll. "Each of the spellcasters in the army commands different spells. For the magic units to be of any use, I have to know their potential, know what incantation I can expect from each man and woman." He glanced at Thom, who was still slouched over the Tuigan vocabulary list. "And you, Master Bard.

Are you finding the Tuigan tongue easier to glean than your king is?"

Tossing his black braid over his shoulder, the bard met Vangerdahast's gaze. "It's not that difficult," he said affably. He looked across the table at Azoun, who was watching him carefully. "Of course, I've had a little exposure to it before."

Azoun motioned to a thin, battered book that lay to his right on the table.

"This was Thom's, remember? He'd read it—how many times?"

"Four," the bard answered.

"Four times," Azoun noted to Vangerdahast, holding up the appropriate number of fingers. "It's no wonder, he's picking this up faster than I am." The king reached for the book and opened it to a random page. "Does Lord Rayburton have much to say about the Tuigan themselves, or did he just take notes on their language?"

Straightening in his seat, Thom said, "His comments on their dress and the language notes he made are the only things of value. That's why I didn't bring the book to your attention earlier, milord. It's mostly filled with value judgments about the Tuigan's 'barbarism.'"

Azoun raised an eyebrow. "Does Rayburton depict the Tuigan as greater savages than the representative from Rashemen did during the council?"

"Yes, but what makes me doubt his word is the way he describes Shou Lung," the bard replied. "He calls the Shou savages, too, and we know that's not true."

Thom reached for the battered tome and searched for a specific illustration.

"Still, Lord Rayburton was an adventurer—one of the first men to cross from the West to Shou Lung without magical aid," he explained as he leafed through the book. He paused and added, "There are some wonderful songs about him, I'll sing you one some time."

"The Tuigan," Vangerdahast prompted.

Thom found the page he was searching for and returned the book to Azoun. "Before Yamun Khahan, the steppe riders were only nomadic clans, far less organized than they are now. Still, from all I've heard, their basic culture has advanced little since Rayburton's time."

The illustration made Azoun gasp. There, in crude line drawings, was a depiction of a horsewarrior flaying a man alive. To the warrior's right, another soldier was slitting his horse's leg and drinking its blood. A line of sticks with heads impaled upon them served as a backdrop for the grisly scene. The king passed the book to the royal wizard, who only shrugged.

"Let's hope, for our emissaries' sake, that Rayburton and Fonjara Galth were exaggerating the Tuigan's cruelty," Vangerdahast noted as he stood and stretched.

The rain continued to beat a lulling rhythm on the canvas, a sound that was punctuated only by strong gusts of wind and the noise from the Alliance's camp. Azoun silently wondered if he had sent the envoys to their deaths. The thought pained him greatly, even though he knew that he and the whole crusading force were in great danger now.

The king and the Army of the Alliance had reached a suitable site for a camp along the Golden Way—as the frequently traveled trade route was called—three days earlier. The men had been exhausted after the slow, grueling march from Telflamm, so Azoun had let them rest for one day before he started drilling them. Trained soldiers and experienced mercenaries made up a portion of the army, so the generals didn't need to teach them how to march or handle a weapon. They did, however, need to break the soldiers into units of manageable size and make them familiar with the signals that would be used during the battle.

Any relief the men might have taken from a break in their march was mitigated by the news from the east. A steady stream of ragged refugees from Thesk had poured past the army all along their trek down the Golden Way.

The hungry, exhausted farmers and wareless merchants told wildly varying stories. Some claimed that the Tuigan were bogged down in a battle far to the east, others cast nervous glances over their shoulders and said the horselords were only a day or so behind them. Soldiers from the broken armies of Thesk passed by, too. Some of them joined Azoun's forces. Most fled the plains for the relative safety of walled cities like Telflamm.

By the second day, Azoun had learned the true position of the Tuigan horde. A pair of scouts, Red Plumes from the city of Hillsfar, had dashed into the royal compound at the center of camp and blurted out a report. Tuigan scouts had been spotted to the east, not thirty miles from the Alliance's present position. Azoun had immediately contacted Alusair, but learned the dwarves were still at least two days away. The king then sent a pair of emissaries—a Cormyrian captain to assess the Tuigan's battle strength and a soldier from Thesk who could speak the horsewarriors' hard, guttural language—to meet with the barbarians.

Now, one day later, Azoun awaited word from these messengers and hoped the Tuigan would slow their advance long enough for Torg's troops to join the rest of the army.

A trumpet blast signaling the return of some scouts broke the reverie, in the tent. Vangerdahast stuffed his lists of spells into a polished leather pouch and slung it over his shoulder. "It must be getting close to eveningfeast," he said wearily. "I'm going back to my tent to make a few notes before we eat." The wizard nodded at Thom and added, "Keep him at the Tuigan lessons. I know from experience that he's a slacker when it comes to studying."

Thom laughed at the barb, for it was easy to see that the wizard's comment was only a jest. Azoun was renowned as a great scholar, and the bard's own presence at court, along with a number of sculptors, musicians, and other artists, testified to the king's love of the arts.

Squinting against the rain, the wizard ducked out of the Royal Pavilion and made his way across the muddy ground to his own dwelling. Brunthar Elventree, the dalesman who commanded the archers, was hurrying through the compound, too, his head bowed against the rain. "Any problem with the orcs?" the wizard asked loudly.

The rain-soaked dalesman stopped, wiped the wet red hair out of his eyes, then nodded to the royal magician. "Well met, Vangerdahast," he said apologetically. "I didn't—"

The wizard scowled and hugged his pouch tighter to his side. "Forget the greeting," he said coldly. "Just answer my question before I drown." The dalesman had grown a little more respectful of Azoun's position during the march through Thesk, but Vangerdahast still saw him as a brash upstart.

Brunthar shook his head, sending beads of water sailing from his hair. "No.

No trouble with the orcs since last night. We've put—"

Nodding and motioning for the man to go on his way, Vangerdahast muttered, "Fine, thank you," and continued toward his tent. He breathed a sigh of relief through his sodden beard, thanking the gods for small favors.

As Azoun and Vangerdahast had expected, the human troops did not accept the Zhentish orcs any more readily than the dwarves had. The Cormyrian soldier who'd been hanged outside of Telflamm for killing a fellow crusader had served as adequate warning against violence for most of the troops. And though insults and cruel, even dangerous practical jokes were often hurled at the orcs, no one had seemed intent on starting a fight with them—until last night.

The fistfight had been only one of a half-dozen in camp that evening. Word of the Tuigan's proximity and the delay of the dwarven troops had put everyone on edge. But while most of the scuffles were easily settled, swords had been drawn at the edge of the orcs' ring of tents, and it took Azoun himself to avert bloodshed.

"We should probably just let them kill each other and go home before the barbarians get here," Vangerdahast muttered to himself as reached his tent.

The guard stationed outside, his surcoat soaked onto his armor, gave the wizard a short bow. Vangerdahast returned it perfunctorily and ducked inside.

The tent was dark and musty. Vangerdahast recalled a spell that would kindle a warm light, but quickly dismissed it. The Tuigan might attack at any time, so every spell, no matter how simple, might prove useful. With a string of grumbled expletives, the wizard dumped his pouch onto his cot and fumbled with a tinderbox. After lighting the lantern that hung from the tent's center support, he shucked off his wet robe.

The lantern spread a weak light through the tent, revealing a huge assortment of books, scrolls, and other, more curious items. A live hedgehog lay sleeping in a large glass jar, which itself was bumped up against a box of dragon scales of various colors. Oils and liquids stood in neat rows, their tightly stoppered containers clearly labeled. Mortars and pestals were stored neatly in one corner, next to a large shelf filled with spellbooks. In short, the tent was incredibly organized for the amount of material it held.

But then, that was Vangerdahast's way. He hated clutter and confusion.

"An untidy room is the sign of a sloppy mind," he always said. "And people with sloppy minds can't be trusted in a pinch." That saying applied to the fabled mage, Elminster of Shadowdale, too. Vangerdahast had visited the ancient sorcerer's home many times. He was always astounded to find the place in utter disarray—though Elminster claimed to know where every item was.

Vangerdahast doubted that the Sage of Shadowdale even knew what every item in the cluttered tower was, let alone its location.

As he glanced around the tent, the royal mage thought of Elminster, then cursed again. "I wish ye were in this gods-forsaken place instead of me," he muttered, using the dialect Elminster favored. Vangerdahast talked to himself aloud quite often when he was alone. It was a habit he'd picked up in his sixty-odd years of magical research, conducted largely in isolation.

That habit did not reflect a deteriorating mind, however. For a man of almost eighty years, Vangerdahast was in good shape, both mentally and physically. An occasional spell had bolstered his health and perhaps added a few years to his life, but all in all the royal wizard was as fit as most men half his age. His weight was a bit of a problem, to be sure, but his paunch had been the result of too little physical activity, not too much wild living.

With a heavy sigh, Vangerdahast folded his robe and placed it neatly on a chair to dry. He then picked up his satchel and removed the lists of spells the army's mages knew. After placing the papers in a small steel box, protected by wards in case a spy should attempt to open it or even move it, the wizard pulled a dry robe from a chest and shrugged it on. For a moment, he considered contacting Fonjara Galth, the representative from Rashemen, but decided against it. Her country was almost three hundred miles to the east, now well behind the Tuigan's front rank. The special powder the witch had left for contacting her would be wasted if used to gather information that might prove inconsequential to the Alliance's current predicament.

"There are other letters to be sent!" Vangerdahast said a little too loudly.

His voice filled the tent and surprised him a bit. He smiled sheepishly, straightened his robe, and went to the small table set up next to his bed. After opening a pen case and a jar of ink, the wizard located a piece of fresh parchment and set to work.

To Queen Filfaeril of Cormyr, the note began. We are now camped in Thesk, part way between the free city of Telflamm and the Theskan city of Tammar. We have encountered the enemy through scouts. Emissaries have been dispatched to the Tuigan camp, and we now await their return.

Again a trumpet sounded over the camp, and Vangerdahast looked up reflexively. Just another scout returning, he decided. Frowning, the wizard turned back to the letter.

The army is tense, but in relatively good spirits. The orcs I mentioned in my last missive have caused little trouble with the troops, but they are scarcely welcome. They keep to themselves at the edge of the main encampment, and most of the men have yet to see them but from afar. King Torg still has not arrived with his dwarves.

The wizard paused and considered his next comment carefully. After tapping the pen against his lips, he nodded and added, The princess was possessed of better spirits when we spoke to her last. I am unsure of the reason, but I think something occurred on the march that has changed her perception of the ironlord. For this, both Azoun and I are glad.

After rereading what he had written, Vangerdahast gently scattered pinches of fine sand on the paper to dry the ink. After a moment, he composed two more short paragraphs.

Not surprisingly, the king looks forward to the conflict with the khahan. The refugees sadden and anger him, and seeing them drives him on. He has infected some of the men with his cause, too. An army might yet be forged out of these varied mercenaries and farmhands.

Azoun has surprised me more than once on this crusade—as he did the princess in the dwarves' camp, I'm certain. I pray to Tempus, God of War, that he has a few surprises left.

After signing the letter "Your Obedient Servant," the royal wizard again sanded the letter to dry the flowing, ornate script. He deftly rolled the parchment thin and enclosed it in a bone-white metal tube. "Guard!" he called sharply.

There was no answer. No doubt, the wizard concluded with a chuckle, the boy thinks I'm just talking to myself. He had to yell twice more to get the rain-soaked sentry's attention.

"Take this to the king, and ask him if he has any messages going back to Suzail. If not, bring the tube back to me so I can seal it." Vangerdahast handed the sniffling guard the container and dismissed him.

This was the fourth note Vangerdahast had sent to Queen Filfaeril since the army left Telflamm, almost a month past. Like all other "wasteful magic,"

spells of communication were forbidden unless used in emergencies. Still, the wizard had promised to stay in contact with the queen and keep her updated on the crusade. Vangerdahast abhorred calling them reports, and he used any other word but that to describe them—missives, notes, letters, even dispatches. In fact, the communiques were reports, and Azoun kidded his friend about them constantly.

For the king knew that his wife had requested Vangerdahast to send updates to her regularly; Filfaeril herself had told him. It wasn't that she didn't trust Azoun to contact her himself—which he did at least once a tenday—nor did she think he might not tell her everything. Indeed, the queen knew Azoun would never lie to her. It was just that she realized that the king's letters would be far from objective, simply because Azoun himself found it difficult to be objective. Vangerdahast, she knew, would be painfully honest in assessing the crusaders' situation.

The latest dispatch sent, Vangerdahast lay down to relax for a few minutes before the evening meal was announced. His eyes were just fluttering closed when a commotion outside his tent startled him awake.

"Gather the generals!" someone yelled.

"Is the king in his tent?"

The sound of men splashing across the muddy compound was punctuated by other shouts. Vangerdahast had just sat up, his mind still half-clouded with sleep, when Thom Reaverson burst into the tent. The bard's homespun tunic was only spattered with rain, an indication of the speed with which he'd crossed from Azoun's tent to the wizard's.

"One of the emissaries is back," Thom gasped.

"One?" Vangerdahast asked as he stood up, rubbing his eyes. "Where's the other?"

The bard frowned. "Dead. The khahan killed him this morning, right after our men reached the Tuigan camp."

Vangerdahast paused for an instant, then put his hand to his forehead.

Waking so suddenly and to such tumult had brought on a throbbing headache. Ignoring the pain as best he could, the wizard followed Thom back to the king's pavilion, where the generals had already gathered to hear the report.

The surviving scout—a Cormyrian captain—sat at the center of the tent, surrounded by Azoun, Farl Bloodaxe, Brunthar Elventree, and Lord Harcourt.

A cleric was examining some lacerations on the soldier's forehead, but the captain continued to speak as salves were dabbed into his wounds and bandages wrapped around his head.

"They're monsters, Your Highness," he said just as Thom entered the tent with Vangerdahast. The captain glanced around nervously. "When we met their scouts, Kyrok— that's the Theskan you sent with me—he told them we were delivering a message to their leader. They laughed, but took us into their camp."

The cleric handed the soldier a vial of pale amber liquid to drink, which he did quickly. Without another pause, he continued his report in an excited tone.

He told a grim tale of how Yamun Khahan, whom he depicted as little more than a raving madman, treated the emissaries with scorn. And when the Theskan soldier had refused to drink a sour-smelling, milky white liquid, fearing poison, the khahan and his generals had grown furious. The Theskan was beheaded on the spot.

"One of the Red Wizards from Thay was at the meeting. The khahan's historian and his generals, too," the soldier noted hurriedly. "They were all savages." He bowed his head. "I'm sorry to have failed you, Your Highness. I think the only reason they let me live was to deliver that message."

"And their troop strength?" Azoun asked softly.

The soldier shrugged. "At least one hundred thousand. Probably more.

Their scouts took us straight to the khahan, and we didn't really see all that much of the camp."

After a brief silence, Azoun dismissed the wounded soldier and the cleric.

The generals scattered to various seats throughout the pavilion, while Thom took up his customary observer position near the door.

"Sorry I was late, Your Highness. Did the khahan send any message back with the captain?" Vangerdahast asked after everyone had settled down.

The wizard noted the frowns that quickly took root on the faces of the other military leaders. Azoun caught Vangerdahast's eyes with his own and held the wizard's gaze for an instant. That was long enough for Vangerdahast to guess what the khahan wanted—and what the king's reply would be.

"The captain gave me the message before you arrived, Vangy. Yamun Khahan wants me to come to his camp." Azoun laced his fingers together before him and paced around the tent. "He promises my safety and says that the only way to avoid 'the utter slaughter of my armies and the destruction of my lands' is to meet with him in person."

Vangerdahast frowned now, too, though his expression was deeper and more pained than the other generals'. For an instant, he considered taking back the kind things he'd said about Azoun in his letter to Filfaeril, then dismissed the idea as petty. "And you're going."

This last wasn't so much a question as a statement. Everyone in the pavilion had served with King Azoun long enough to know that he would accept Yamun Khahan's invitation.

The rain stopped some time during the night, and early the next morning, over the objections of all his advisors, King Azoun set out for the enemy's camp. He knew he'd be in danger, but that was of little concern. He'd never have proposed the crusade if he feared death. No, Azoun realized that this was the last peaceful alternative to open conflict in his dealings with the khahan.

The king was realist enough to know that a friendly outcome to the meeting was unlikely. All he really hoped was that Vangerdahast could keep him safe with magic so he could stall the Tuigan horde for one more day. With any delay, Torg's dwarves might have a chance to finally join up with the rest of the Alliance. The king realized, in the battle that was almost sure to begin before the tenday was out, he'd need all the support he could muster.

Vangerdahast, Thom Reaverson, and an elite guard of fifty men rode with the king, most on horses borrowed from Lord Harcourt's cavalry. The handpicked soldiers all wore plate armor and silk surcoats bearing the purple dragon. They passed quietly through the jumble of tents, cookfires, and corrals of horses that made up the Alliance's camp. Cormyrian soldiers rushed to see their king, bowing low as he passed. The dalesmen and mercenaries saluted their commander, but thought it silly to bow.

As Azoun reached the outskirts of the main camp, Vrakk rushed in front of the procession. The leader of the orcs was followed by a dozen or so pig-snouted Zhentish troopers. "We go with you, Ak-soon," Vrakk called, pounding a hand on his muscular, black-armored chest.

Vangerdahast opened his mouth to speak, but Azoun cut him off.

"Thank you for your offer, Commander Vrakk," the king said, loud enough for the humans who were gathering nearby to hear. He paused for an uncomfortable instant, looking for a reason to politely reject the orc's offer.

"But I need you to stand guard here, in case the horsewarriors plan a sneak attack while I'm away."

Vrakk closed one eye and squinted up at the king. "OK, Ak-soon. We wait here." He stepped aside for the procession, which quickly went on its way.

The king nodded to the orcish leader as he passed.

Azoun admired the orcs' bravery, for few men had seemed happy to accompany him on this most dangerous journey. However, the king was adept enough as a statesman to realize the unpolished orcs might open a conflict in the Tuigan camp merely by being there. If Yamun and his men were anything like Torg—or even Azoun's own troops—Vrakk would start a battle simply by being orcish.

Once the procession left the main area of the camp, which ended with the orcs' circle of tents, they passed into the squalid grounds held by the refugees and lowlifes who had attached themselves to the army. Any large collection of soldiers attracted a certain number of prostitutes, black marketeers, and con men. Armies also drew a small contingent of camp followers—unemployed men looking to earn a few coppers in the service of a knight or young boys hoping to sneak into the ranks and find adventure. While the collection of people swarming around the army contained many of these types, it was largely made up of frightened, displaced farmers and merchants.

The sight of the men, women, and children huddled inside makeshift tents or sprawled in the open, exposed to the elements, brought a pall over Azoun's soul. He had ordered his officers to begin a charity for the poor, homeless wretches, but it was clear from the multitude the procession passed that any meager collection from the soldiers could do little to help. Even the defeat of the Tuigan horde would do nothing to bring back these people's homes and loved ones.

"It's a sad sight," someone said to Azoun.

The king turned sharply and saw Thom Reaverson at his side. The sadness on the bard's face mirrored the sick feeling in Azoun's heart. "I came out here two nights ago to tell the refugees a few stories. Just to take their minds off everything. They are glad you're here, milord. You're a hero to them."

That comment gave the king no comfort. He saw the pain and suffering around him now, and it hurt him to know that he could do little for the refugees. "The war won't help these people," he said softly, glancing from dirty face to dirty face in the crowd.

Thom nodded in agreement. "No, probably not. But if you didn't lead us here, there'd be a lot more like them come fall, after the Tuigan had stormed over the rest of Thesk."

When Azoun didn't answer, Thom reined his horse and let the king pace ahead. It was obvious that he wanted to be alone with his thoughts. Azoun did mull over the sights in the refugee camp, thinking about how little it mattered to him that these people were not his subjects. Then he pictured similar scenes in Cormyr, in Suzail itself, with the last of his army holed up in the castle while the city's inhabitants cowered in the courtyard, begging for protection.

The king's heart flared with anger, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to be face-to-face, sword-to-sword with the khahan. No, I can't really help the people already victimized by the horsewarriors, Azoun decided. But Thom's right: I can stop the Tuigan from harming anyone else.

That thought fueled the fire in Azoun's heart as he spurred his horse and set a grueling pace for the other riders. The procession was soon beyond the boundaries of even the refugee camp and traveling swiftly down the Golden Way. The trade road over which much of Thesk's wealth moved was a broad path of dirt, worn smooth by frequent use. Though they passed many others on their way to the Tuigan camp, Azoun and his entourage were the only people heading east. Still more refugees trudged down the road or through the huge, rolling fields of recently sown wheat.

From the estimates given him by the emissary who'd survived his trip to the camp, Azoun figured he and his companions would be riding much of the day at a hard pace to reach the Tuigan. However, after only an hour on the road, the king noted that the flood of refugees had thinned to a trickle. By highsun, a party of eleven Tuigan appeared on the road ahead.

Without delay, Vangerdahast, who was saddle-sore and grouchy, cast the spell that would allow him to understand and converse in the Tuigan tongue.

Both Thom and Azoun brought the words for a standard Tuigan greeting to mind in case the wizard had trouble. The soldiers all drew their swords.

As he got closer, Azoun saw that the group of horsewarriors blocking the road was made up of ten soldiers, all wearing black quilted armor, muddy boots, and pointed, fur-trimmed caps topped with long, stringy red tassels.

They seemed not to notice the hot, Flamerule sun beating down on them through the clouds. The eleventh man was gaunt and bald, with facial features far less severe than the butter-skinned nomads who gathered around him.

The bald man smiled amiably and slipped from his saddle when the king got within a dozen yards.

"Greetings, Azoun, king of Cormyr," he said in heavily accented Common.

"I am here as the mouth of Yamun Khahan, Illustrious Emperor of All Peoples.

Hear my words as his." He then bowed to Azoun, which drew scowls from his companions.

Thanking the gods that he didn't have to test his feeble grasp of Tuigan just yet, the Cormyrian king nodded in reply to the emissary's bow. He glanced at the dark-eyed Tuigan soldiers, feeling the anger that had flared to life in the refugee camp burn within him. "Where is your master?" he asked coldly.

The bald man started back for his horse. "Yamun Khahan waits for us. He invites you to the camp under his protection."

"And my guards?"

"Are welcome, too," the emissary replied, making a broad, sweeping gesture with his hand. "The khahan assumed you would bring an escort. You are, after all, a great leader of soldiers." He wheeled his horse about and pointed to the east. "Our camp is not far away. Please follow me, Your Highness."

Azoun hesitated for an instant, then urged his horse on. Vangerdahast and Thom fell in behind the king, and the Cormyrian guards spread out to encircle all three men. The ten black-garbed Tuigan soldiers split into two groups after the westerners had arrayed themselves. One group of five fell back and followed the entourage, the other rode just ahead of the bald emissary.

After half an hour of riding along the road, which became rutted and hilly as time went on, Azoun began to spot other groups of riders. These bands of men roamed far to the north and south of the road, through the fields and the occasional groups of trees that cut across the land. The king could see only their dark shapes, but he assumed they were Tuigan since the flow of refugees had stopped some time ago.

Azoun glanced back at Vangerdahast to ask the wizard a question. The paunchy old man was lolling slightly in his saddle, his eyelids fluttering. When Thom nudged the wizard, he cast watery, dull eyes on the king. "I'm not feeling very well at the moment," Vangerdahast noted softly. He shook his head as if to clear it, then added, "But I'm sure I'll be fine in a little bit. Just tired, I suppose."

A pall of smoke to the east became visible at about the same time Azoun spotted the other riders. From the blue-gray haze hanging low in the cloudy sky, the king realized that they were getting close to the Tuigan camp. After Azoun and his escort topped two more rises in the road, the huge collection of tents revealed itself to them.

The round, domelike tents lay scattered to either side of the road.

Thousands of fires trailed thin wisps of smoke, which then joined together in the blue haze Azoun had spotted earlier. Wicker corrals of horses and sheep dotted the camp, spaced seemingly at random amidst the soldiers' quarters.

Men lounged in groups or raced about on horses, the most activity seeming to center around a large white tent in the middle of the camp, right next to the road.

The bald emissary reined in his horse and waited for the king to reach his side before allowing the mount to move. "This is our camp, Azoun of Cormyr.

Yamun Khahan waits for us here."

This was the first time the emissary had been close to Azoun, and the king could now see that he was not a Tuigan. Not only were his features less severe, but they seemed to mark the gaunt, bald man as a resident of the oriental lands. "How did you come to be the voice of the khahan?" Azoun asked after a moment. "You are not Tuigan."

"I was once a citizen of Khazari, a land now under the khahan's rule," the man said a little wistfully. "My name is Koja, and I am presently grand historian for Yamun Khahan." He bowed again in greeting. "The khahan sent me to meet you because I have seen you before, at the Council of Semphar. I was still an envoy from Prince Ogandi of Khazari then."

Azoun cast his mind back to the meeting that seemed to signal the beginning of the problems with the Tuigan. Over a year ago, the countries of Faerun and of Kara-Tur had met in Semphar to discuss the Tuigan and their attacks on trade caravans crossing the steppes between the two great powers. There had been many nations represented at the council, and the eastern land of Khazari had claimed only a small voice in the proceedings.

Koja smiled warmly. "It is not surprising that you cannot remember me, Your Highness. I had very little to add to the discussions." He paused and motioned for the lead riders to move ahead to the camp. They set off at a gallop. "But I remembered you quite well. I even mentioned your speech at the council to the khahan when I first met him."

Azoun looked puzzled. "My speech?"

"Yes," Koja said. "You spoke after Chanar Khan interrupted the meeting.

Chanar informed us all that the khahan demanded a tax on all caravans, that he wished to be recognized as sovereign over us all, but you told him—"

"—that Yamun Khahan could expect no gold from Cormyr," the king said, finishing Koja's recollection. "I bade the general inform the khahan that he did not rule the entire world."

"Yamun Khahan has not forgotten that," Koja said, a hint of a warning buried deep in his voice.

Azoun brought his horse to a stop. "Is that why my emissary was slain?" he snapped, his eyes growing hard. "Because of something I said a year past?"

"Of course not," Koja said quickly. He turned from the king and watched a group of forty or so soldiers race from the camp toward them. With a smile, he glanced at Azoun again and concluded, "Your emissary refused to honor our customs and insulted Yamun Khahan in his own tent. He was punished according to Tuigan law."

Vangerdahast, who had been napping in the saddle, snorted awake when the procession stopped. Thom held out a hand to steady the old man.

"Vangy," he whispered. "Are you feeling all right?"

The old wizard motioned to the bard as if he were ready to reply. Suddenly his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped from his horse to the ground, unconscious.

Azoun spun around in his saddle, and the Cormyrian guards all drew their swords. The western soldiers closed a tight circle around the king, but Koja, who had been trapped in the press with Azoun, shouted, "It's no use to fight.

Hundreds of soldiers block the way back to your camp."

Thom looked up from the ground, where he cradled the fallen wizard in his arms, assuring the soldiers' horses did not trample the old man. "Vangy's alive," he called.

Azoun drew his own sword and pushed it close to Koja. "If you think this will stop the army, you're a fool."

The emissary reached out with an empty hand. "Please, Your Highness.

You have the word of the khahan to insure your safety. Had I known the old one was a wizard, I could have warned you about this place."

The Cormyrian soldiers looked to Azoun, waiting for orders. The five black-garbed Tuigan still guarding the westerners had drawn their weapons, too.

They sat atop their prancing horses, wide grins on their scarred faces. "What do you mean, this place?" the king asked sharply.

"We chose to camp here because it is like the Tuigan capital in the steppes, Quaraband. This place is magic-dead," Koja replied, gesturing with his empty hands. "The whole camp is located in an area where magic will not work. That is why the wizard is sick."

Glancing at the soldiers racing from the camp, Azoun realized that a fight would be out of the question. With Vangerdahast unable to cast spells of any kind, he and his men would be slaughtered. The king gritted his teeth and ordered his guards to lower their weapons.

Koja breathed an audible sigh of relief, then slid to the ground and helped Thom sling Vangerdahast onto a horse. "You are in no danger, Your Highness," he said, smiling sincerely. "The khahan is, if nothing else, a man of his word."

As they set out again toward the khahan's tent, this time surrounded by fifty guards, Azoun and Thom exchanged concerned glances. And though they couldn't know it, the same thought was running through each of their minds.

Both the bard and the king prayed silently that Lord Rayburton, who'd written that the Tuigan were uncompromising savages, had taken at least some literary license in his depiction of the horsewarriors.

12

Propaganda

"More tea, Your Highness?"

Azoun nodded politely, and Koja refilled the king's cup with warm, salty tea.

"I much prefer this brewed in the Shou style," the historian said casually.

"They put dollops of butter in their brew."

"Actually," Azoun replied, "this is quite good." He brought the cup to his lips and took a small sip. Not as appetizing as tea with milk and sugar, he added silently, but certainly not bad.

The king and the Tuigan envoy sat on piles of brightly colored cushions in a large yurt—at least that was what Koja called the round Tuigan huts. Made mostly of felt, the tent was musty after the recent rains. The place was dark, too, as the only illumination came from a single lantern hanging from the center pole. Little decoration lightened the oppressive mood of the yurt, save for a few small felt idols that hung over the door.

"Are you sure Vangerdahast will be all right?" Azoun asked Koja. The king placed his cup on the dirty floor in front of him and leaned forward. It seemed that he was emphasizing his question with body language, but he was actually stretching out his sore back. The king wasn't used to sitting cross-legged on the ground for hours at a time, and his muscles were complaining.

"Yes, Your Highness," Koja replied calmly, though he'd answered this question for the king once before. "The sickness will pass, and when the wizard leaves the area, he'll be able to cast spells again."

Azoun sighed and leaned back with a short, almost silent groan. If Koja had heard him, the Khazari gave no indication of it. And, as it had many times in the last two hours, the yurt fell silent.

However, the king did not relax. The noise from the bustling camp outside the quiet, dark tent kept him on guard. The Tuigan soldiers' shouts and the clanging of weapons being forged and repaired reminded the Cormyrian king that he was still amongst the enemy.

Not that Azoun had been threatened since entering the Tuigan camp. On the contrary, Koja and the various Tuigan khans Azoun had met since arriving had treated him with respect, even deference. And while the king was led to the central yurt to await the khahan, tribal healers who wore masks of birds and beasts had taken Vangerdahast into their care. Because he'd been denied access to the khahan's yurt, Thom had gone with the wizard to keep an eye on things. Still, the king realized that much of the civility he saw from Koja was a show for his sake alone.

The bulk of the Tuigan army had greeted the king's procession with little regard and, in a few cases, open scorn. Most simply went about their business, cleaning weapons and tack, eating, or simply exchanging stories around the many smoky cookfires scattered through the camp. At least on the surface, the Tuigan camp was not all that different from the western one Azoun had recently left, and nothing like the horrifying place Lord Rayburton had described in his journals. Yet, the king was not foolish enough to assume that the many apparent similarities between his camp and the khahan's were anything other than superficial. Hundreds of details set the two camps apart, ranging in significance from the Tuigan's use of dung to stoke their acrid-smelling fires to the violent punishment the khans frequently and openly meted out to their soldiers.

The most important difference Azoun noted between his troops and the Tuigan army was a little harder to define, but it made the two camps seem very different indeed. From Rayburton's book, the king recognized a few of the hundreds of standards dotting the camp, rallying points for the various barbarian clans. Despite this obvious fragmentation, the Tuigan camp seemed unified, whereas the Alliance's camp was home to a loose confederation of troops. In Azoun's army, the orcs were not welcome in many places, the Sembians and mercenaries not welcome in others. Cormyrians fraternized with Cormyrians, dalesmen with dalesmen.

Unity of purpose and casual self-confidence permeated the Tuigan gathering. Why shouldn't it? Azoun mused as he finished his tea. Yamun Khahan has led this army to victory after victory.

The first substantial clouds of doubt rolled over the king's vision of the crusade as he pondered that thought. He was rubbing his chin, buried in contemplation of this, when the yurt's flap flew open, flooding the dim tent with light. Azoun found himself looking up at a broad-shouldered, heavily armored man.

Koja offered a brief greeting in Tuigan to the newcomer, then turned to Azoun. "Your Highness," he said with a slight smile, "this is Yamun Khahan, Illustrious Emperor of All Peoples."

Quickly Azoun got to his feet. The khahan studied the king for a moment, openly sizing up his opponent. He said something to Koja in Tuigan without taking his eyes from the Cormyrian king.

"The khahan wishes you to be seated," Koja said, motioning toward the cushions Azoun had just vacated. "This meeting will not take up much more of your time."

Azoun did as he was asked, but he wondered for a moment why the khahan had kept him waiting for nearly two hours. As the Tuigan leader made his way across the tent to a wooden seat, never taking his eyes off the king, Azoun decided that the wait, like this meeting, was some kind of test. He was certainly annoyed by the delay, but he refused to show the barbarian that he was at all put out.

Yamun silently took his seat. Azoun met the khahan's steady gaze now, and took the opportunity to size up his own opponent.

In the feeble light of the single lantern, Yamun Khahan looked ominous. His prominent, heavy cheekbones and broad, flat nose cast heavy shadows over the rest of his face. Despite these shadows, Azoun saw that a long, ragged scar ran across the bridge of the khahan's nose and over his cheek. Another scar, faded with age, bit into the corner of his mouth, twisting his upper lip into an almost perpetual sneer. The king met the warlord's eyes and found them dark and clear.

Long braids of red-tinted hair framed Yamun's shadowy visage and rested on his flaring silver shoulder guards. The silver ailettes topped a breastplate of gold, sculpted with muscles. At the khahan's waist, a skirt of silver chain mail hung, vaguely reflecting the lantern's glow. In opposition to this finery, the khahan's boots were heavy and worn. Mud clung to them in thick, wet globs, which occasionally slid onto the yurt's dirty, carpeted floor.

The khahan met Azoun's eyes again and smiled, though his twisted lip made the expression more threatening than inviting. He shouted something in Tuigan, and Azoun wished that he'd learned more of the guttural tongue or had his bard at his side.

Two other Tuigan entered the tent and took seats on the floor at either side of the khahan. From their armor and their bearing, Azoun assumed them to be generals. "This is Chanar Ong Kho, illustrious commander of the left flank,"

Koja announced formally. He gestured with an open hand to the man on Yamun's left.

Chanar Khan scowled at Azoun, then unslung a heavy skin from his shoulder and placed it at the khahan's feet. The king recognized the brash general as the same man who had interrupted the Council of Semphar and presented the khahan's demands to the delegates there. At that time, he had led ten thousand men. Azoun wondered how many more he had under his control now.

Koja motioned to the man on Yamun's right and added, "This is Batu Min Ho, illustrious commander of the right flank." This general immediately bowed to Azoun, dropping his head almost to the floor. When Batu Min Ho raised his face again, the king noticed that the general was, as his name suggested, a Shou. Like a Tuigan's, Batu's dark eyes were set wide over broad cheeks, and his nose was broad and flat. Still, there was a delicacy to his features lacking in both Chanar and Yamun.

"Tell the khahan and his generals that I am honored to meet them," Azoun said, returning Batu Min Ho's bow. "I have heard many great things about their military skill."

Koja repeated the king's words. Coarse, loud laughter burst from Chanar, and Batu simply nodded at the compliment. Yamun remained silent, but leaned forward, resting an elbow on his knee. The straps of his armor creaked with the effort. Slowly he pointed at Azoun and asked something in Tuigan.

The king understood a little of what the khahan said, but waited for Koja to repeat the question before answering. "Why do you think I invited you here?"

the bald Khazari asked in Yamun's stead.

"So you could meet your adversary," Azoun replied. "To decide how much of a threat I am."

Yamun nodded when Koja relayed the answer. The warlord regarded the king for a moment, his eyes narrowed. "You know I outnumber you by three-, maybe four-to-one," he said through Koja.

Azoun simply nodded for an answer, and Yamun paused again. "The prisoners I have taken in Thesk warned me of your coming," the khahan growled. "They said you gathered a great army to crush me. What my scouts have seen of your troops makes me think that they are not great enough to even slow me down."

"We shall be able to tell that only if we fight," Azoun said, then turned to Koja. "Emphasize 'if' in that reply."

After taking a sip of his tea, the bald man nodded politely, then relayed the king's message. Chanar laughed again, but Yamun glowered at the khan, which silenced him almost instantly. "Then surrender to me now, Azoun of Cor-meer," Yamun answered, lounging back in his seat and tugging at the end of his stringy mustache. "That is the only thing that will stop me from destroying you in battle."

Koja had just begun to relay the khahan's words when Batu Min Ho leaned forward and spoke. The babble of voices confused Azoun a little. He caught only part of what the bald Khazari was reporting. Still, the king understood the Shou general's question without translation.

Stretching two empty hands before him, Azoun faced Batu Min Ho. "Yes, Batu Khan," he said in rough, halting Tuigan. "I seek peace."

Azoun's reply had a striking and immediate effect on the others in the khahan's yurt. Chanar leaped to his feet, his mouth hanging open in shock.

Surprise registered on Batu's face, too, but the emotion did not show as readily on the Shou general. Glancing from the king to Yamun Khahan, then back to Azoun again, the Khazari historian seemed to be waiting for their reactions to determine his own.

For his part, Yamun slouched forward again. A slight smile battled with his scar for control of his lip. "You speak the language of my people," he said slowly.

"I speak only a little Tuigan," Azoun corrected, using the one Tuigan phrase he was certain he knew correctly, then switched back to Common. "Koja, I do need your help. I understand only some of what they're saying."

The Khazari sipped his tea and nodded. "What do you want to tell the khahan?"

"Repeat what I told you, then tell them that I hope we can avoid bloodshed."

As Koja relayed the message, Chanar sat down and said something to the khahan. Yamun's slight smile broadened into a leer as he picked up the leather bag Chanar had placed at his mud-caked feet. Unstoppering the bag, Yamun shouted out a command.

Two servants immediately entered the yurt, bowing to the khahan as they did so. Yamun mumbled another order, and the two young men scurried to the back of the felt tent and clattered through a chest. They returned with a bejeweled, golden goblet and a round ball of red silk.

Koja blanched noticeably, and Chanar pointed at the Khazari and laughed.

The khahan handed the goblet to Batu, who upended the golden vessel, emptying some sludgy globs from its bottom. He then wiped it out with a bit of the heavy carpet that lay on the floor. Taking the leather bag from Yamun, a servant filled the goblet with a milky liquid.

The other servant unwrapped the stained silk and held the object the red cloth had covered out to Yamun. It was a human skull, the top of which had been cut away. A silver cup now filled the empty bones. The khahan held the grisly drinking vessel so that its empty eye sockets faced Azoun, and a servant filled it, too, with liquid from the leather bag.

Chanar Khan said something to Koja, and the bald man nodded. "Chanar Ong Kho wishes me to inform Your Highness that the skull once belonged to Abatai, an enemy of the khahan." The Khazari frowned and added, "Do not forget what I told you about your envoy, Your Highness. Failure to drink means certain death."

With mild surprise, the Cormyrian king noticed that Yamun and his generals were watching him closely. They are expecting to frighten me with the skull, Azoun realized, then noted that Koja was obviously unnerved by the grim trophy. Thanking the gods that the area was magic-dead, for it negated the possibility of the skull-cup being ensorceled, the king reached for it.

Before he leaned back and gnawed pensively on his lower lip, Yamun gave the skull-cup to the king. Batu called out a toast in Tuigan, or at least that was what Azoun assumed he cried, then gulped down the thick, sour-tasting drink.

A servant refilled the bejeweled goblet Batu held, and it was passed to Chanar Khan. The smiling Tuigan general paused before lifting the golden goblet and motioned for Azoun to drink from the skull.

"To Yamun Khahan," the king said, "Illustrious Emperor of the Tuigan."

Though the milky white liquid in the skull-cup smelled disgustingly like curdled milk, Azoun gagged down two swallows and handed the skull to Koja.

A sour look on his face, the historian leaned close to Azoun. "The drink is called kumiss. It's made from fermented mare's milk." He shuddered and licked his lips. "Some men love it. I have yet to acquire even a tolerance for the nasty stuff."

Only after both Azoun and Koja had drunk did Chanar lift his goblet to salute Yamun. Through all of this, the khahan watched Azoun closely. Finally Yamun himself gulped down what was left of the kumiss in the skull-cup, then returned it to the servant. The two young men put Abatai's skull back in its wrappings of silk, returned it and the golden goblet to the chest, and hurried away.

Yamun asked Koja what the king had used as a toast. When the bald man told him, the khahan frowned. "I am emperor of all peoples, Azoun of Cor-meer," he rumbled. "I will prove that to you tomorrow when I empty out your skull and make it like Abatai's."

Hesitantly Koja relayed the statement. Azoun paused for a moment, then stood. "Tell your master that my troops will not surrender. Let your army meet us tomorrow, then. We will be waiting."

"Perhaps I should kill you now," Yamun replied. As Koja voiced the threat, Chanar reached for his curved sword.

Azoun wished in that instant for Vangerdahast to be well and at his side.

He had only accepted the khahan's invitation because he believed the royal wizard could extricate him from a situation such as this one. He let that hope pass quickly, however, and steeled himself for his fate. "If you kill me here it is proof that you fear my armies."

Chanar and Batu both stood and drew their swords as soon as the historian had finished the reply. Scuttling backward like a crab, Koja hurried away from the circle of men. Yamun shouted, and ten of his black-armored guards entered the tent. The khahan remained seated; his face did not reveal any anger. He issued another order, and both of his generals spun around to look at him, surprise on their faces.

Immediately Batu Min Ho sheathed his sword and bowed to Yamun. The Shou glanced at Azoun as he made his way from the yurt, but said nothing more. Chanar Khan, however, rattled off a string of questions. The Tuigan general's face was red, and he gestured menacingly with his sword at Azoun.

With a grunt, Yamun finally raised himself from his throne and shouted at Chanar. The general bowed deeply, then backed out of the yurt. His face held an odd mixture of anger and contrition.

Koja stood, walked to the khahan's side, and asked him a question, too softly for Azoun to hear. Yamun leaned close to the Khazari and replied. The historian nodded, then faced Azoun. "The audience is over, Your Highness,"

he announced formally. "You may gather your men and leave. I will escort you away from our camp."

Azoun bowed stiffly to the khahan. Yamun nodded in reply, then said something to Koja. The bald historian smiled and whispered his answer to the warlord. Azoun waited politely, then followed the Khazari from the yurt. In turn, the king was followed by the ten black-garbed Tuigan soldiers. Within a few minutes, Thom, Vangerdahast, and the Cormyrian guards joined him, and they were quickly on their way out of the Tuigan camp.

The royal wizard was still unconscious, slung unceremoniously over his horse. Thom talked at length about the Tuigan shamans and the unusual rites they'd performed over Vangerdahast.

"The Tuigan stumbled across this magic-dead area a day or two ago," the bard said from horseback. "The wizards from Thay all left as soon as they'd learned the khahan intended to stay here until he met with you."

Koja, who rode on the opposite side of Azoun from Thom, nodded his agreement to the bard's statement, then noted, "Yamun does not trust sorcery, so he wasn't sorry that the Red Wizards went home." When he saw he had both Thom's and Azoun's attention, he added, "Magic has little place in Tuigan culture."

Azoun found it surprising that Koja would reveal that information to him, since he could certainly turn it to his army's advantage. Still, the Tuigan's confidence in the power of mundane swords and arrows was grounded in months of victory. The king knew that his wizards alone couldn't win the war for him.

By the time Azoun and his escort reached the spot where they'd first met Koja, the sun was low in the cloud-filled sky to the west.

"I am happy to have met you, Your Highness," Koja said, bowing in his saddle. "It is sad that we will not meet again in this world."

Azoun heard the sincerity in the Khazari's words and wondered how the obviously peaceful man found life with the Tuigan bearable. A bit sadly, the king returned the compliment, then turned to go. Before he got his horse pointed toward his camp, however, Azoun remembered a question that had been plaguing him since he'd left the khahan's yurt.

Wheeling his horse to face the historian, the king called out, "A moment, Koja. I have one last question for you. What did the khahan tell you after he'd dismissed the generals?"

The bald man maneuvered his horse and trotted it up to the king. "As I warned you, offering any insult to the khahan is death," the historian said simply. "I asked Yamun why he did not kill you for your insult."

"And his answer?"

"The khahan told me that what you said could not be an insult unless it proved to be true," Koja replied. He shrugged. "I don't understand the difference, but tomorrow the khahan intends to show he is no coward, that he does not fear your army."

With Koja's words echoing in his mind, Azoun reined in his horse and faced it back toward the west. Again, the king set a brisk pace along the Golden Way. All the way back to camp he wondered if the patchwork army that awaited his return could ever be a match for the horsewarriors.

* * * * *

Like most of the Army of the Alliance, Razor John waited anxiously for King Azoun to return from the Tuigan camp. With overworked, cramped fingers, he crafted arrows for the upcoming battle. That work couldn't keep his mind occupied, so he listened to the other weaponsmiths exchange rumors about the Tuigan camp.

"Well, I heard they sacrifice someone to their dark god every day at highsun," an arrowsmith said authoritatively. He looked up from the arrowhead he was fashioning and turned to the decrepit bowyer sitting next to him. "I heard that from the mouth of the Cormyrian captain who was in the Tuigan camp."

"Could be why they killed the three other envoys Azoun sent," the bowyer ventured casually without taking his eyes off the yew longbow he was finishing. The craftsman's hands shook, but from what John could see, the bow was expertly fashioned.

"I thought only two envoys went," John corrected. He took a finished arrowhead from a pile to his right and fastened it to a shaft.

The arrowsmith snorted. "Shows how much you know, fletcher. I bet you haven't even heard about the babies the barbarians had spitted on pikes."

Though he thought that particular rumor to be false, since from all reports the Tuigan didn't fight with pikes, Razor John decided to keep silent. He'd learned soon after joining the army that it was practically impossible to argue with a gossipmonger. Fact was something such men falsely cited so often that they couldn't recognize its true form even in the most simplistic of debates.

Shaking his head, the aged bowyer took out a long, heavy string of hemp and fitted it to the nocks at either end of the yew stave. "Them damned horsemen done far worse than killing infants when they overran Tammar." He tested the bow's pull and pretended to sight along an imaginary arrow. "I can't wait to get at those monsters."

The arrowsmith grunted his agreement, then continued to list the atrocities of which he'd heard the Tuigan accused. Many of the various grisly crimes were based upon the reports of "reliable men who'd been there when it happened." The most outrageous claims were mitigated by the fact that they came only second- or third-hand to the arrowsmith.

Tiring of his co-workers babble, John let his mind wander. Unsurprisingly, the first thing that pushed into his thoughts was Kiri. The fletcher had grown increasingly fond of the daughter of Borlander the Trollslayer as the days passed. Had the timing been better, he would even have considered asking her to marry him, but the chances of one of them dying on the crusade were too great to set any such plans before the end of the fighting.

Snatches of other conversations, the ones taking place between the various clutches of workmen preparing for the battle, intruded on John's contemplation of his future with Kiri. Fletchers, bowyers, and arrowsmiths surrounded Razor John almost completely, but the armorers and swordsmiths weren't so far away that he couldn't hear the ring of their hammers or smell the sharp smoke from their fires. He listened to the steady, clanging beat of hammers on hot metal and tried to let the familiar sound drown out all others. It was a warm late afternoon, even for the high summer month of Flamerule, and John was soon nodding off.

A rap on the shoulder brought the fletcher's mind back to his immediate surroundings. The arrowsmith and the bowyer were coughing hoarse, braying laughs, and a few of the other workmen had glanced at John.

"Did I wake you?" someone asked sweetly. John turned to find Kiri Trollslayer standing over him. Her hands planted firmly on her hips, the pretty soldier from Cormyr cocked her head and set her brown eyes on the fletcher's face.

Fumbling with a half-fletched arrow, John got to his feet. "N-No, Kiri. Just daydreaming." He glanced up at the darkening evening sky and amended that. "Well, twilight-dreaming, anyway. Aren't you supposed to be on sentry duty?"

With a laugh, Kiri hooked her arm in John's and took the arrow from his hand. "I have some interesting news," she said as she dropped the unfinished arrow to the ground. "The king is on his way back. He should be in camp by the time the stars are out."

She told John the news in a voice loud enough for the workmen around them to hear, but many had turned to watch Kiri anyway—there simply weren't as many female soldiers in camp as men. The area was soon abuzz with excited chatter.

"He had to fight his way out of the Tuigan camp, too," Kiri concluded, addressing the comment to anyone who was listening. She paused and crossed her arms over her sleeveless tunic, as if daring someone to contradict her.

"Aye?" the aged bowyer said. "Good thing the king has Master Vangerdahast along. The wizard probably cast a few fireballs, or maybe even a lightning bolt or two, to help them along." A chorus of agreement met that comment, and others suggested spells the royal magician had probably thrown during the fight.

"Where did you hear this, Kiri?" John asked sharply, turning her toward him with both hands.

Frowning, she pulled out of the fletcher's grasp. "A rider from the king's escort just returned," she snapped, annoyance clear in her voice. "He told one of the other soldiers on sentry duty."

With a groan, John put a hand to his forehead. "Just like the sentry I talked to after Mal's execution, right?"

Kiri scowled, and a look of genuine hurt filled her eyes. She knew the incident to which John referred quite well. He had talked to her about it a dozen times since it had occurred.

Azoun had ordered the entire army to witness Mal's execution on the day they left Telflamm. As John had stood with his fellow soldiers, watching the murderer dangle from a scaffold, a dalesman assigned to control the crowd had struck up a conversation. The dalesman had then proceeded to tell a wildly exaggerated version of the fight in the Broken Lance. The tale ended with something John still found absolutely astounding.

"And I heard from a friend," the dalesman had concluded, "that the Cormyrian had an accomplice, some cutthroat named Razor John. They say his sword's so sharp—like a razor, you know—that he cuts off heads with a single stroke."

Dumbfounded, the fletcher had simply nodded, then bid the dalesman good-day. On many occasions John had told Kiri the tale and never failed to mention how little he thought of gossips. Those frequent comments all came flooding back to Kiri as she stood before her friend.

"I'm only telling you what I heard," she said, a slight quaver in her voice.

With a frown at his own callousness, John rested his hands gently on Kiri's shoulders and apologized. The news of Azoun's battle with the Tuigan was spreading like wildfire, from bowyer to armorer, blacksmith to fletcher, but John and Kiri let their conversation drift on to other topics. Still, it wasn't long before a soldier in chain mail, the star and shattered crown insignia of Archendale emblazoned on his white surcoat, dashed into the work area.

"The king is coming!" he shouted. "Down the Golden Way." He turned and dashed off to another section of the camp, sweat beading on his forehead in the warm air.

Workmen dropped their tools and immediately made their way to the broad road that intersected the camp. Thousands of soldiers and refugees already lined the trade road for well over a mile to the east. John and Kiri were content to stay far back from the press, even though they knew they had no chance of spotting the king from where they stood.

As he waited, John caught snatches of stories about the king's escape from the Tuigan camp as they circulated through the crowd. The speculation he'd heard from his co-workers about the spells Vangerdahast had cast in defense of the king was now stated as fact. More than once the fletcher felt tempted to offer a correction to an obvious falsehood, but restrained himself.

Soon cheering was heard from the east, and a new wave of rumors spread through the crowd. Vangerdahast, it seemed, was wounded. Some even claimed he was dead. In any case, the wizard wasn't moving. Enthusiastic plaudits for Azoun's heroic escape from the Tuigan camp were met and redoubled by condemnations of the khahan's savagery. By the time the king's banner reached the spot where John and Kiri stood, the Army of the Alliance was a cheering mob, swearing oaths to Tempus, the God of Battle, and pledging to fight by Azoun's side to the last soldier.

From his horse, the Cormyrian king looked out on the Army of the Alliance in amazement. Troops from Suzail stood side by side with Sembian mercenaries. Dalesmen thrust their swords into the air and swore oaths with Red Plumes from Hillsfar and militia from Ravens Bluff. Azoun even spotted some of Vrakk's orcs scattered in the mob, shouting and cheering along with the humans.

The king's guard spread out as the procession entered the camp, and Azoun made his way through the crowd to the royal compound. Thom followed as close behind as possible, leading Vangerdahast, still unconscious on his horse. The other three generals met them outside Azoun's tent.

Brunthar Elventree of the archers was already smiling when Azoun clapped him on the shoulder. "This is unbelievable," the king exclaimed to the dalesman, then glanced at the cheering crowd. "What forged the group of soldiers I left into an army in only one day?"

The king faced his cavalry commander, Lord Harcourt. Even though it was warm, the old Cormyrian nobleman still wore his heavy chain hauberk.

Harcourt simply shrugged as a reply and continued stroking his sizable white mustache.

Carrying Vangerdahast between them, Farl Bloodaxe and Thom Reaverson broke into the scene. The wizard was mumbling in fits, but he was still obviously unconscious. The king's smile fled and was replaced by a concerned grimace. "He's better," Thom offered as they brought Vangerdahast into Azoun's tent, "but we should call for a healer."

After kneeling for a moment at his old friend's side, Azoun turned to Thom.

"That's already been done. Will you watch him until the priest arrives?" When the bard nodded, the king motioned for General Bloodaxe to follow him from the tent.

Once outside, Azoun invited his generals to sit around a campfire, then he quickly explained what had transpired in the Tuigan camp. The cheers from the army had died down somewhat, but the men could still be heard alternatively praising Azoun and cursing the horsewarriors. Finally, the king looked to Farl. "Can you tell me what brought the men together like this?"

The ebony-skinned infantry commander drew his mouth into a hard line.

"Rumor," he said, plucking nervously at the sleeve of his white shirt. "There are incredible stories circulating through camp, stories of how you were ambushed by the khahan and had to fight your way back."

Clearing his throat noisily, as he often did before speaking, Lord Harcourt added, "They've been telling wild tales about the Tuigan, too, don't you know."

He twirled his mustache and frowned. "Some say they sacrifice babies and do horrible things to the women they capture. Nasty business. Even the nobles have been busy with the gossip."

Seeing the concern on Azoun's face, Brunthar Elventree leaned toward the king. "But the source doesn't matter so long as the effect is right," he noted brightly, the heat from the fire turning his face as red as his hair.

"Of course the source matters," Azoun snapped. "It's all a lie! The Tuigan aren't monsters, and I did not have to fight my way back to camp."

A few guards at the compound's edge looked toward the king, and Lord Harcourt cleared his throat again. "Your Highness," he began haltingly. "You may want to lower your voice a bit."

"Why?" both Azoun and Farl asked simultaneously.

Brunthar Elventree poked the fire, sending an angry shower of sparks into the night sky. "Because a word or two like that will shatter whatever spirit this army has mustered," he growled. "You might as well kill the men yourself if you demoralize them now."

Farl fell silent, but Lord Harcourt nodded his agreement. Turning from the fire, Azoun paused a moment to gather his shattered thoughts, then commenced pacing. After a few turns, the king faced the generals again.

"I did not fight a single Tuigan today, so the tales of heroism the troops are telling are lies," he said flatly. "Can you let that be the thing that unites them?"

He allowed his gaze to drift slowly from Farl to Lord Harcourt to Brunthar.

It was the dalesman who spoke first. "They'll fight together now, Your Highness," he answered confidently, meeting the king's eyes. "And if they fight as a unified force, perhaps they won't have to die at all."

"Harcourt?" Azoun asked after a moment.

With a nod, the old noble said, "I agree with General Elventree. It's regrettable to let untruths fester like this, but with the Tuigan ready to attack tomorrow, it's for the best. If the men are galvanized by the tales, I say let them believe whatever they want."

Before his king could ask him, Farl Bloodaxe stood and faced away from the fire. "I'll do as Your Highness asks," he said. "We've known each other a long time, so I'll be bold enough to be honest. I believe this is a serious mistake." Turning toward Azoun again, he added, "By not correcting the rumors, we're fostering them."

"If my archers survive the battle," Brunthar interjected, "they wont care what we did to motivate them, so long as we win. If we lose—" he shrugged and poked the fire again "—then no one will be around to argue the point."

Azoun's first impulse was to strike the cocky dalesman, but he knew that the urge was more a reaction to his own indecision than anything General Elventree had said or done. He saw his choice clearly laid before him: either let the rumors circulate freely and unite the army, or tell the troops the truth and possibly demoralize them on the eve of the first battle. And though his heart told him otherwise, the king looked Farl in the eye and said, "Let the men think what they will." After a pause he added, "But I want all three of you to get your troops under control and ready them for the morning."

Lord Harcourt and Brunthar Elventree bowed and left immediately. Only Farl paused before carrying out his liege's commands, and he stood for a moment, studying the king from across the fire.

"You know this is wrong, Azoun," the general said at last. He cast his eyes to the ground and toed a stone.

"There's no other choice, Farl. If you were in my position, you'd see that."

The infantry commander shook his head. "No, Your Highness. Wrong is wrong, and—"

"Go on," the king prompted. "As you said, we've known each other a long time. You can be honest with me."

"I'm afraid you'll be made to pay for this somehow, that letting these rumors go unchecked will come back to haunt you."

A weak smile crossed Azoun's lips, and he nodded. "Perhaps," he said wearily. "Perhaps." With a sigh the king sat on a large stone near the fire. "But this is war, and my responsibility is to the troops. I cannot be guided solely by my beliefs."

Farl bowed and turned to go. Before he got more than a few feet away, he stopped. "The soldiers are here because of your beliefs, Your Highness, and the true crusaders will gladly die for the causes you champion . .. but never for a lie."

Then the general was gone, leaving Azoun alone with his thoughts. He stared at the fire for an hour, wondering if this was what Vangerdahast had warned him against in Suzail. If so, the king decided as he rose to check on the royal wizard, then my old tutor was right. I'm not prepared for war at all.

13

Crows' Feast

That night most of the clouds fled the sky, as if they were reluctant to be witness to the upcoming battle. The morning after Azoun's visit to the Tuigan camp began bright but much cooler than the day before. The king, as restless as the clouds, rose early, just as the sky to the east was growing pink. His first office that morning was to offer a short prayer to Lathander, Lord of the Morning, God of Renewal.

"If Lord Tempus does not see fit to strengthen our arm in the battle today,"

Azoun's prayer concluded, "then let our sacrifice fall to you, Lathander, and lead to the beginning of a united Faerun, one that will rear up to crush the Tuigan."

The prayer done, the king donned the foundations of his armor—a new quilted doublet and hose—and went to check on Vangerdahast. The handful of guards outside the Royal Pavilion snapped to attention as Azoun passed.

The guards looked as if they'd stood at attention for hours, but the king didn't miss the empty wineskin or the marks in the ground around the fire where they'd likely passed the night.

"Three more scouts have reported back, Your Highness," one of the guards said, bowing as he addressed the king. "They note that the Tuigan are on the move toward us, but still many miles away."

The king nodded. "As we expected. Send runners to Lord Harcourt, General Elventree, and General Bloodaxe. Have them report to me in a few minutes." He started toward Vangerdahast's tent, then added, "Apprise them of the reports when they arrive."

Without waiting for an acknowledgement, Azoun continued to the tent of his friend and advisor. Cormyrian soldiers bowed to the king as he trod across the royal compound, while others merely saluted. Though his mind was otherwise occupied, Azoun put on a cheerful face and returned the greetings enthusiastically. He knew that now more than ever, he had to present a confident facade.

Even with the frenzied momentum built by the stories surrounding the king's return, fear still hovered over the Al iance's camp. A glazed, faraway look clung in most soldiers' eyes, and the men and women seemed distracted as they hurriedly prepared to meet the enemy. The sounds of their work—

wood being chopped for last-minute barricades, swords sliding harshly over sharpening stones, nervous horses crying out as they were armored for the charge-drifted over the camp and heightened the sense of fearful anticipation.

Most soldiers responded to the tension by throwing themselves into their duties. Archers checked and rechecked their bows, counted arrows, and sharpened arrowheads. The nobles under Lord Harcourt's charge polished their armor, as if a good sheen on their plate mail would stop a Tuigan arrow.

Other noblemen tended to their horses, securing the mounts' barding or making sure they were fed in accordance with military tradition. Swordsmen readied their weapons and armor, if they had any armor at all. Some men broke down parts of the camp, dousing fires and loading baggage onto carts.

No one would admit that the camp was being packed to aid a hasty retreat, but everyone knew why the tents slowly disappeared from the landscape that morning.

Other soldiers spent their hours before the battle talking with friends or drinking around the cookfire. Azoun passed one such group on the way to Vangerdahast's tent. Being Cormyrian soldiers, they moved to stand as the king passed, but he motioned them to stay seated. The soldiers smiled broadly at this, and they cheered when Azoun took a drink from their wineskin before moving on. The king was still in earshot when the soldiers again related descriptions of the wives or lovers they'd left in Cormyr. From what little Azoun heard, he guessed these stories had as much truth in them as the ones about his battle in the Tuigan camp.

Religion weighed heavily on many minds and became important even to those not usually inclined to give the gods their due. Clerics, whose job it would be in the battle to aid the injured and pray for the dead, bustled from tent to tent, campfire to campfire. Many of the priests encouraged the men to turn their thoughts away from the conflict. Others, like the worshipers of Torm, God of Duty, or Tempus, God of Battle, exhorted the troops to fight as their deities demanded. Clerics of Lady Tymora were the most common in the camp, as their goddess was known as the patron of adventurers.

One such cleric of Tymora was leaving Vangerdahast's tent as the king approached it. The dark-haired priest exuded exhaustion as he shuffled, shoulders stooped, away from Azoun.

"Just a minute," the king said, running a few steps to catch the Tymorite.

"How is the royal magician?"

The cleric, when he saw Azoun, bowed deeply. He straightened his clean brown robe and turned his blue eyes on the king. "He is no longer delirious, Your Highness, but I fear he will not be ready to fight today."

Something about the cleric tugged at Azoun's memory, but the troubling news about Vangerdahast quickly displaced the thought. The king sighed.

"Have you been caring for Vangerdahast since we arrived last night?" he asked, noting the redness rimming the cleric's blue eyes.

"I have had some experience with mages made sick by magic-dead areas,"

the cleric responded. "As Your Highness certainly knows, Cormyr holds an area or two like the one the Tuigan camped in, caused by the Time of Troubles. That is why I was assigned—"

"Yes, of course," the king said distractedly. "I would like you to come back and see to the royal magician during the battle."

The king left the cleric bowing and entered Vangerdahast's tent. His thoughts lightened a little when he saw how much the orderly tent resembled the wizard's workshop back in Suzail—even to the live hedgehog Vangerdahast kept in a glass. The king had always assumed the bristly little creature was part of a spell, but he wasn't sure. Perhaps it's Vangerdahast's idea of a pet, he mused.

The wizard himself was stretched out on a cot, snoring lightly. A votive candle, rimmed with silver, burned fitfully on a table near the wizard's head.

The cleric had no doubt left it there, Azoun decided, for silver was a metal favored by Tymora's priests.

The candle's flickering flame did little to brighten the tent, but it did reveal another man sleeping in the shadows. Thom Reaverson, the king's bard, lay curled on the ground next to one of Vangerdahast's bookshelves. The bard hugged himself tightly and shivered a little in the cool morning air. Smiling, the king lifted a robe from the wizard's trunk and spread it over Thom. Then, as quietly as he could, he left the tent.

Once outside, Azoun ordered a guard to wake Thom in an hour, at which time the bard was to begin packing Vangerdahast's belongings. Since the wizard's tent would be behind the Alliance's lines, the king decided not to have the unconscious royal mage moved. For now, at least.