Crusade (5 page)

Her statement was no revelation to Azoun or the nobles gathered in the court, but coming from the witch’s lips, it sounded ominous, like a promise of events that must inevitably come to pass. Cormyr’s ruler shuddered slightly, but shook off the feeling of dread immediately. He walked close to the Yamun Khahan’s slightly flickering form.

The witch looked at the king, then at the nobles. Slowly, methodically, she began a description of the typical military encounter with the horsewarriors. Fonjara detailed the terrible slaughter and suffering that had been inflicted both on Rashemen’s army and its civilians. Looks of shock and disgust hung on most of the faces in the room. Only then did the witch smile very slightly and note, “And they will continue across all of Faerun like this unless they are stopped. Ashanath is a thousand miles to your east, but the barbarians will not stay there for long.”

Fonjara’s steady, icy gaze fell upon Azoun. “In addition to the five score thousand Tuigan with the khahan, there are, perhaps, twenty thousand or more still in my land. We have eliminated at least five thousand Tuigan soldiers since early last winter, when they first entered our borders.”

Overmaster Elduth Yarmmaster, leader of the Sembians, ruffled his thick purple sleeve, then tugged at one of his flabby chins and stood up. “Excuse me, er, Lady Fonjara, but it seems to me that twenty thousand soldiers should not be a problem to Rashemen’s legendary army.”

“If we had only to face the Tuigan, there would be no problem at all,” the old woman rumbled. “However, Zulkir Szass Tam, the undead ruler of the Red Wizards of Thay, made a pact with Yamun Khahan: if the Tuigan would pass through Rashemen instead of Thay, he and his wizards would part the Lake of Tears, allowing them easy access to the open lands beyond.” She regarded the room coldly. “The countries of Ashanath, Thesk, and eventually your own lands.”

Vangerdahast cleared his throat noisily and added, “The Red Wizards of Thay have used this attack as a convenient diversion. Their armies of gnolls, goblins, and even undead creatures have been expanding their borders. Aglarond, Thesk, Ashanath, and, of course, Rashemen are currently fighting two wars—one with the Tuigan, the other with the agents of Thay.”

“So who are we supposed to battle on this crusade: Thay or the barbarians?” a gruff, unshaven commander from Tantras called out.

Fonjara uncurled, then clenched her gnarled fingers impatiently. Azoun looked away from the conjured khahan and said, “The Tuigan. The local armies can handle the incursions from Thay. For now, at least, the Red Wizards seem to be testing the waters and aren’t launching any large-scale invasions.”

Mourngrym, lord of Shadowdale, sighed and shook his head. “What you’re saying is that we’ll be fighting this khahan and his horde without any help from the people we’re saving.”

King Azoun frowned. “You’re helping yourself, too, Lord Mourngrym. The Tuigan could cross Faerun and be sitting on our doorsteps in a little over one year.”

The dalelord waved his hand in front of him, dismissing the idea completely. “That’s all as may be, Your Highness.”

Vangerdahast, his face flushed with anger, started to speak, but Fonjara held up a bony finger to stop him. The wizard swallowed his retort as the witch moved cautiously across the room. The conjured image of Yamun Khahan blinked, then disappeared as Fonjara reached the spot where Mourngrym sat.

“You would like to dismiss the Tuigan as easily as I have banished the noncorporeal khahan who stood before us,” she began, leaning slowly toward the dalelord.

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Mourngrym said, “You must realize that we have problems of our own.” The unassuming, bespectacled scribe at the dalelord’s side nodded, but remained as silent as he had throughout the meeting.

Fonjara narrowed her eyes and whispered, “How old is your child, dalelord?”

Mourngrym Amcathra snapped to his feet, his handsome features contorted in anger. “What’s my child have to do with this?”

“The twisted tower that you call your home will not save you from Yamun Khahan if he reaches the Dales.” The witch spread her fingers like talons and raked the air in front of Mourngrym. “Not even the great Elminster himself, who I understand resides in Shadowdale at present, could stop a thousand Tuigan arrows from striking you, or your wife, or your young child.”

The dalelord sputtered, then began, “Elminster could—”

“—do nothing,” Fonjara finished for him flatly. Her violet eyes paled, almost to the color of her ash-gray skin. “Magic is always a force to be reckoned with, but the horsewarriors vastly outnumber the wizards you could muster to fight them.”

“By the way,” Vangerdahast chimed in, the sarcasm evident in his voice, “where is Elminster?”

Mourngrym’s scribe stood. The short, inoffensive man had a slightly vague look about him, which was heightened by the casual way he cleared his throat before he spoke. “He was too busy to come, Master Vangerdahast.”

Fonjara cackled low in her throat and turned away from the dalesmen. Azoun arched one eyebrow and asked, “Too busy, Lhaeo?”

The dark-skinned scribe glanced around the room, then resettled his spectacles on his nose. “His exact words were, ‘Let the kings and nobles go off and—’ ” Lhaeo paused and swallowed hard ” ‘—play at war. My time is far too valuable.’ “

“Unsurprisingly,” Fonjara noted as she returned to Azoun’s side, “your wizards will be far more interested in poring over the contents of their libraries than in saving the ground those same buildings stand upon.”

As Mourngrym and Lhaeo sat down, the beautiful, dark-haired woman who had requested the Sune tale from Thom rose to her feet. She’d had enough of the dalelord’s stalling and wanted to get the real agenda for the meeting underway. “For those here who know me not,” she began, “I am Myrmeen Lhal, lord of the Cormyrian city of Arabel. The people of my city are ready to pledge three hundred soldiers and thirty mages to the cause.”

The Cormyrian lords and generals gave a short but enthusiastic cheer. King Azoun bowed his head in acknowledgment. “My thanks, Myrmeen. And what of the rest of my nobles?” He smiled secretly; one could always count on the beautiful lord of Arabel to cut to the heart of such matters.

A gaunt man stood up, ringing his hands nervously. Tiny beads of sweat worked their way down his pale face and into his overly starched white collar. “Ildool, the king’s lord in Marsember, pledges, uh, the same as Myrmeen Lhal.”

“What?” Vangerdahast snapped. “Marsember is at least twice, if not three times the size of Arabel.” The royal magician looked to the wizard who sat at Ildool’s side and asked, “Are you sure you’ve counted correctly?”

The young wizard frowned in response to Vangerdahast’s steady glare, then fluttered through some papers. “Lord Ildool is mistaken,” he said after a moment. “These calculations tell me that King Azoun can expect eight hundred men-at-arms, seventy wizards, and—” the mage paused and looked up at Ildool, who rubbed his hands with a bit more speed and nodded, “—and as many ships as we can spare to transport you to the east.”

Azoun smiled and moved quickly to Ildool’s side. “My thanks. The valor of your subjects reflects well upon you.” The gaunt man stopped twisting his hands and bowed to the king.

“It’s the least I could do,” he concluded and sat down with a flourish.

Vangerdahast rolled his eyes and muttered, “No doubt,” under his breath.

The other Cormyrian lords followed the lead set by Myrmeen Lhal and Ildool of Marsember. Before the representatives from Sembia, the Dales, or any of the free cities around the Inner Sea spoke, Azoun had gathered ten thousand warriors and almost three hundred wizards for his crusade. But this was as the king had expected. Azoun knew that his nobles—even Ildool—were generally loyal and that they would raise as many troops as possible. In fact, the nobles owed him a certain number of troops in lieu of their own military service under Cormyrian law. The real question remained the free cities, the Dales, and Sembia.

Sembia declared its intentions first. After the Cormyrians had all pledged their troops and ships to further their king’s mission, Overmaster Elduth Yarmmaster heaved his bulk to a standing position and addressed the assembly.

“I will not promise Sembian troops to the crusade.”

Chaos erupted in the room. Azoun stood, shocked into silence, at the head of the assembly; this was not what he had expected at all. Sembia was a large country, a very important part of the Heartlands and vital to the effort against the Tuigan. Azoun badly needed the merchant nation’s support.

A few Cormyrian nobles, including Myrmeen Lhal, voiced not-so-veiled threats to the Sembian dignitaries sitting near them. The merchants, for their part, either sat silently, ignoring the jibes, or noisily gathered their papers in preparation to leave. Mourngrym and the other dalelords huddled in smug satisfaction, certain that they were not alone in their belief that fighting other peoples’ battles was a mistake.

The overmaster rapped his flabby fist on the table. “Sembia will, however, give any ships the crusaders need, as well as money for mercenaries and supplies.”

That promise only quieted the room slightly, but it was all that the Sembian leader was willing to offer. His country did not have a large standing army, and if Sembian commoners were going to be recruited, Azoun’s personality would not be enough to lure them into battle with the Tuigan.

Azoun understood the Sembians’ military position. Though he did not relish the idea of fighting alongside mercenaries, the king knew that he had little choice but accept them if he wished to stop Yamun Khahan.

“Your offer is generous,” Azoun said as loudly as he could, short of yelling. “We appreciate it greatly.”

The Cormyrian nobles took this as an order for silence and immediately quieted down. The overmaster’s offer, while doing little to sway the dalesmen, was generous enough that the representatives from the free cities of Tantras, Hillsfar, and Ravens Bluff all agreed to raise contingents for the crusade. Azoun was glad for this, not only because the troops raised from Hillsfar and Tantras promised to be well-trained warriors, but because the free cities could provide more wizards for his ranks.

Finally, after the representative from Ravens Bluff returned to her seat, Lord Mourngrym ordered his scribe to pack up their papers. “You’ve done nothing—other than let an old woman threaten me—that might persuade me to join the fight.”

Vangerdahast, who was resting in a straight-backed chair, pointed at the dalelord. “You’ve chosen to find no reason to join us,” the wizard said bitterly.

“If that’s your opinion,” snapped a red-haired general from Battledale, “then we all might as well leave right now!”

Azoun shot an angry glance at his friend. It was clear that Vangerdahast’s approach would only alienate the dalesmen further. “Please, friends,” the king began, “how can I convince you of our task’s importance?”

“It’s not the importance of the crusade that eludes us,” Mourngrym told Azoun. “However, Your Highness, you seem unable to see that any troops we send to Thesk will be men who can’t stand with us against the Zhentish if they decide to attack.”

“And if the Tuigan didn’t try to magically spy on us at the start of the meeting,” someone noted from the crowd, “then it was certainly the Zhentish.”

Mourngrym nodded his approval of the comment. After glancing around for effect, he added, “I don’t even see a representative from Zhentil Keep here.”

“Of course not,” Azoun said calmly. “I did not invite their ambassador. We will hold separate meetings after I know your dispositions.”

The soldier from Battledale snorted a laugh. “We can hardly give you our ‘disposition’ until we know what the Keep intends to do.” The steady light from the magical globe on the table cast ominous shadows on the man’s face. His flaming red hair only made him look all the more demonic.

A few of the others gathered in the room bristled at the dalesman’s impertinence. Mourngrym was known to be a good ruler, protective of his people, so they could excuse the edge in his voice. But this man, a member of the Battledale militia, was intolerable.

Lord Mourngrym recognized this, too, and quickly moved to head off a nasty confrontation. “Thank you for your input, General Elventree.” He turned to Azoun, and the hard line of his mouth softened slightly. “If Your Highness can secure the cooperation of the Zhentish, we will consider raising troops for the crusade.”

Cormyrian nobles smiled at the concession, but the other dalesmen’s objections to the offer were apparent on their faces. “However,” Mourngrym added, more to his fellow dalelords than to Azoun, “any troops levied from the Dales will be put under commanders from the Dales.”

After a short silence, Azoun nodded slowly. “There is nothing more for me to say, then. Unless someone else has something to add, this meeting is at an end.” The king waited for a moment, then bowed his head again in prayer to the God of Duty.

As soon as the prayer was over, Mourngrym again signaled to his scribe, who quickly gathered up his papers. “We appreciate being included in this conference, Your Highness,” the dalelord told Azoun, a genuine warmth in his voice, “but waiting here any longer might be counterproductive. We wish you luck with the Zhentish. We will await Your Highness’s word on their reply.”

With that, Mourngrym snatched up his fur-trimmed cloak and headed for the door, his scribe in tow. The other dalesmen—including General Elventree from Battledale—quickly followed the lord, leaving a subdued, milling assembly in their wake. The Cormyrian nobles and other representatives soon paid their respects to Azoun and left, too. When Fonjara Galth made her way from the room, Thom Reaverson was at her side. The royal bard, prompted only slightly by the king, was intent on learning more of Rashemen. Within half an hour, Azoun was once again alone with Vangerdahast.

The king sat on a table’s edge, studying the tapestry that hung at the end of the hall. He had stood in front of the hanging for the entire meeting, but only now considered the backdrop from the assembly’s perspective.

Woven from threads of gold, silver, and other precious metals, the tapestry depicted the continent of Faerun, with Cormyr purposefully prominent at its center. Around the hanging’s edge, the artist had placed renderings of Cormyr’s kings from the last thousand years. Azoun saw his forefathers, from Pryntaler to his own father, Rhigaerd II, staring emotionlessly at him from the wall.