Crusade (27 page)

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.