Crusade (42 page)

“Good,” Azoun replied, placing his hand on Farl’s shoulder. “See that the men draw fresh water from the wells tonight and double the foraging parties. I’m sure the troops will want to get back to the coast as quickly as possible, so the fewer times we need to slow to hunt for food the better.”

Thom and Vangerdahast caught up to Azoun, and Koja bowed and went off with them. When the others had gone, Farl stepped close to the king. “There seems to be a problem with the orcs, Your Highness. When I told Vrakk the news, he informed me that the Zhentish troops weren’t leaving.”

After giving Farl a few more suggestions about stocking the supply wagons, Azoun went directly to the orcs’ camp. The men had grown used to the Zhentish soldiers, but Vrakk and his troops still maintained their own compound, away from the humans. They had proven their worth in battle, and the other soldiers would have likely let the orcs integrate their tents with the rest of the Alliance. For some mysterious reason, Vrakk always refused.

As the king entered the Zhentish camp, he decided that that was probably a good thing. The orcs had chosen the most run-down section of Tammar for their home. Their torn and dirty tents were pitched only a few yards from where the town’s garbage had been dumped and the funeral pyres had been built for the townsfolk. The place smelled rancid, but the orcs didn’t seem to notice. They lounged in their tents, hidden from the bright sunlight.

Only a few Zhentish troopers seemed to be awake, and most of these were sprawled around smoking campfires, swilling wine and eating their midday meal.

Vrakk was seated near one such collection of orcs. He still wore his black leather armor, and Azoun noticed for the first time that, while the orcs’ surroundings were like a sty, their piecemeal armor and scavenged weapons were relatively clean.

“General Bloodaxe tells me you are reluctant to leave,” Azoun said casually. He held his hand up when another orc offered him a wineskin. “Thank you, but, no.”

Vrakk snarled at the orc with the wineskin, and the smaller, brown-furred trooper slouched down and concentrated on the hunk of meat he had burning in the fire. “Orcs not go home,” Vrakk replied. “That our orders.”

“Orders?” Azoun asked. “From whom?”

“Zhentil Keep,” the orc replied. Vrakk’s tone revealed that he was surprised at Azoun’s ignorance. “We new outpost. They order us stay in Thesk.”

A frown crept across Azoun’s face as he regarded the orcish commander. “And you’ve had these orders from the time you left the Keep, haven’t you?”

Vrakk smiled, or what passed for that expression with the orc. His large teeth showed yellow and filmy in the sunshine. “Keep say we stay with Alliance till Tuigan gone. They say orcs trust Ak-soon to let leave in Thesk.”

I gave my word to those villains, the king concluded silently, and they’ve used me to place a damned Zhentish outpost of almost nine hundred orcs in the middle of an ally’s territory. Azoun sighed. “I don’t suppose you’ll be setting up your camp here in Tammar, so take your share of the supplies and leave right after sunset. I know your troops can travel by night, so that shouldn’t be a problem.”

The Zhentish commander found this agreeable, and wasn’t offended at all when the king refused his invitation to share the noon meal with him. Though Vrakk appeared rather ignorant, he knew exactly why Azoun was distressed by the revelation of their plans.

“I will tell the Theskan authorities that your troops stayed in their territory,” Azoun warned solemnly as he prepared to leave. “They’ll consider you trespassers, Vrakk.”

The orc’s toothy grin widened. “We good soldiers, Ak-soon, but we better raiders, better thieves. Thesk big place with plenty spots to hide.” He grabbed the wineskin from his brown-haired comrade and took a long swallow.” ‘Sides, we learn plenty about war from you. We be safe.”

That thought didn’t comfort Azoun at all. As he walked back to the royal compound, the king wondered if Koja was right. For all the good that he had intended to do on the crusade, Azoun now saw very little evidence that he’d succeeded. The town of Tammar, like so many other villages and hamlets in Thesk, Ashanath, and Rashemen, lay in ruins, the buildings toppled and the fields uncultivated. The Tuigan army was broken, but not gone from the West. The small groups of bandits that remained would likely plague traders and farmers for years to come. And now the orcs. The Theskan government would not be happy to learn that a band of professional Zhentish soldiers was loose in their land.

I’ve freed Thesk from Yamun Khahan and made it safe for bandits and spies, Azoun concluded darkly.

The king scowled at himself for being so morose. “I’ve won far more than that,” he said as he looked around at the Army of the Alliance.

The troopers were celebrating the news that the war was officially over. Men went happily about the task of breaking down the camp, and the soldiers Azoun passed greeted him loudly. Some even cheered him. However, it was more than the mood of the camp that made the king realize that he’d won more than was lost. As he looked out on the faces of the archers and infantrymen, he no longer saw the motley collection of dalesmen and Sembians, Cormyrians and mercenaries, that had left Suzail those many months ago. Azoun saw a unified force, a group of men and women brought together to fight for Faerun.

And if these disparate soldiers could be forged together for such a cause, why not their countries?

With that ambitious thought in mind, the king crossed royal compound. His pavilion still stood, its brightly colored sides flapping gaily in the light breeze. For a moment, he considered giving the order to have it dismantled; the rest of the army would likely sleep on the ground tonight so that they would not be delayed with packing their tents come morning. Perhaps when I’m done talking to Alusair, he decided, and turned toward her tent.

Azoun found the princess stuffing her few belongings into a rough canvas sack. The falcon that Jad Eyesbright had loaned to her sat on a makeshift perch, its head covered with a leather hood, next to Alusair’s armor. Whenever the princess would bump into the dwarven plate mail, the bird would give a little screech in complaint of the disturbing noise.

“Hello, Father,” she said as the king entered. Alusair tied the canvas sack and tossed it near the door. “I’ve heard the news. You’re leaving tomorrow morning?”

“What do you mean, ‘you’re leaving?’ ” Azoun asked. He sat down on the tent’s sole cot and shook his head in disbelief. “Aren’t you coming home?”

Alusair sat down next to Azoun. “Yes,” she said. “But not just yet.”

The king choked on his words, then sputtered, “Not now? When, Allie? Your mother and sister expect you—”

“Please,” the princess broke in. She bowed her head. “I don’t want to argue. Not now.”

Gripping Alusair’s hands tightly, the king fought back the confusion that was growing inside of him. In the course of the crusade, his relationship with his daughter had grown beyond the conflict that had stood between them. Azoun was proud of Alusair, and he thought she realized that. “It’s all right, Allie. Just tell me why.”

“I have things I have to do before I can come home. I’ve made some promises over the last few years, and I have some debts to settle.” She laughed. “I have responsibilities to fulfill.”

The king didn’t miss the irony in his daughter’s words. “When will you come home, then?”

Alusair sighed, a bit raggedly. “I think I’ll be home in a few months. Probably before winter sets in.” After a short pause, she added, “Thank you for understanding, Father. This is just something I have to do.”

“My reaction shouldn’t be a surprise, Allie. You have your own life. I just want you to make your family part of that life again.” The king glanced at the canvas sack beside the door. “You’re leaving this afternoon, aren’t you?”

With a nod, the princess stood. She gathered up the pieces of her armor and started to bundle it for travel. “I want to get to the Forest of Lethyr as soon as possible,” she said as she spread the armor but. “The centaur chieftain asked me to return the falcon and the bracelet when the fighting was over.”

“A falcon’s quite a burden on campaign,” Azoun noted idly, trying to appear at ease. “They take a lot of care and attention. You don’t give it to them, they go wild again. Not much good for hunting or scouting after that.”

The princess made a few comments about the falcon and how wonderful it was seeing through the bird’s eyes. Then, as she was stacking the cuisses and brassards of her armor in the breastplate, the king reached over and rearranged them.

“If you stack the armor this way,” Azoun said as he cupped the pieces together, “it’ll make a tighter bundle.” He smiled at his daughter. “I have had some experience with this sort of thing … though that was a long time ago.”

“Not so long that you’ve forgotten it,” Alusair replied. After an awkward pause, she leaned close to her father and embraced him.

For an hour or so, the king and his daughter talked. Azoun told her about his times with the King’s Men, and the princess responded with fragments about her adventures. They laughed, and for a short time it seemed as if they were back in Suzail, before the war, before the princess had run away. Too soon, it was time for Alusair to go.

They said good-bye without tears, and Alusair promised to keep the king’s signet ring so the family could find her if the need arose. It was almost a happy parting, for both Azoun and Alusair knew that when next they met, they would be father and daughter again, and more. They would also be friends.

As he watched his daughter ride away on one of the few horses the army could spare, Azoun decided that his greatest victories of the crusade would never be recorded in Thom’s chronicles. His ancestors might know that Azoun IV once brought peace to Thesk with his victory over the Tuigan, but they would probably never realize he also made peace with his daughter and with himself. After all, such sentimental matters were not the stuff of histories.

Long after Alusair disappeared into the tall grass of the plain, the king could see the falcon spiraling in the sky as it followed her. The bird, which in time appeared as no more than a dark speck, held Azoun’s attention until it, too, faded into the horizon. With a contented sigh, the king returned to camp, where the Army of the Alliance awaited his command.

“Sure flights! Razor points!”

John the Fletcher paused and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Though autumn was swiftly fading into winter, pushing a heavy cart along the Promenade was hot and tiring work. Not as bad as fighting Tuigan, he decided with a smile. He hefted his cart and called out his wares again.

“Sure flights! Razor points! Buy your arrows from John the Fletcher! Only the best from Razor John!”

Like most of the Army of the Alliance, Razor John had returned to Suzail a few months ago. He had been a bit surprised to find his business doing well, but his apprentice had taken readily to the heavy workload. More importantly, new customers were frequenting the shop. Razor John was, after all, a war hero.

Not that he had done anything superlative during the crusade. None of his customers ever actually asked John about the battles themselves, and they really didn’t care to hear the truth. John was a war hero because the people of Suzail, in fact the citizens of most of the crusading countries, had decided that Azoun’s venture against the barbarians had resulted in a heroic conflict. Bards readily took up their lutes and wove stories about the crusaders, always vastly outnumbered and fighting for their lives. John, like the rest of the Alliance, was part of a popular legend—based partially in truth, of course, but growing more fantastic every day.

A horse-drawn wagon forced its way up the Promenade, and John heaved his cart to the side of the road. “Damned teamsters think they can drive their rigs anywhere,” he grumbled as the wagon passed. He shoved his cart forward again, right into a woman carrying a basket of apples.

The elderly lady, a heavy shawl pulled over her stooped shoulders, turned, ready to scold the owner of the cart. She stopped short when she saw the medal Razor John wore over his heart. “Pardon me,” she murmured and went on her way.

John shook his head and looked down at the silver disk. The medal had a longbow engraved in it, with the words “Order of the Golden Way” etched around the image. It had been given to each of the archers who’d fought on the crusade, and ones like it—engraved with either pikes or horses—had been cast for each infantryman or cavalryman. The latter was a posthumous honor.

The medals garnered the wearer a great many courtesies in the city. The deference shown John by the elderly woman was only a small sample. The fletcher had found that the silver disk increased his business on the street, got him better service in taverns, even attracted the attention of single ladies. Not that John was all that concerned with such matters; Kiri had survived the crusade, too, and they were planning a wedding for the spring.

Razor John wore the medal because he was proud of the service he’d done Faerun. He’d gone on the crusade believing in Azoun’s cause, and the attention the expedition now received only made John feel that much more pride in the Alliance and all it stood for. There was even talk in the inns that King Azoun wanted the bonds between Cormyr, Sembia, and the Dales to become more permanent. Such a union would make any invasion of the Heartlands almost impossible.

John looked to his right. The sprawl of government buildings known as “the Royal Court” lined the Promenade for a long way. Tax collectors and other city officials scurried about in the court’s twisted hallways, and the policies enacted there had a great effect on John’s life. However, those structures seemed insignificant when compared to the impressive castle that rose behind them. The fletcher stared up at the palace and wondered if the king would be able to unite Faerun.

At that moment, Azoun himself was wondering the same thing. He paced back in forth in the castle’s highest tower, his hands clenched behind his back. Every few steps his left leg twinged slightly, but that wasn’t a surprise. The arrow wound tended to give him trouble right before it rained.