Crusade Read online

  It’s no wonder Azoun is exhausted, Thom decided silently. In just the last few months he’s brought everything together. And not even that damned attack in the Royal Gardens has been enough to shake his dedication to this venture.

  Thom couldn’t know that a secret trip to the Black Rat had countered any doubts that Azoun had had about the crusade—even the ones planted by the assassination attempt. In the tenday that followed the surreptitious visit to the tavern and the meeting with the Zhentish envoy, the king had indeed attacked the Tuigan matter with renewed vigor and enthusiasm. Supply lines had been quickly established, ships and troops gathered together, and final messages dispatched to King Torg and the witches in Rashemen. He’d even appointed an impartial seneschal to oversee the trial of the imprisoned trapper.

  That dedication had paid off for Azoun, and Thom could see the success manifested in the high-spirited crew around him and the fast-moving troop and supply ships crossing the Lake of Dragons. After watching a dark-hulled cog, the Sarnath, come even with the Welleran, then pass it, the bard let his thoughts wander to the battles that loomed in the future. For the next hour, he wondered what his part would be in the conflict.

  Thom’s reverie was broken by a large, callused hand on his shoulder. “Time for the meeting, Master Bard,” a deep, soothing voice said.

  Thom turned to see General Farl Bloodaxe, commander of the army’s infantry. The bard knew the soldier well, for he was a frequent guest at Azoun’s palace. Farl looked particularly dashing that night as he stood, one hand planted on his hip, the other grasping a line overhead. The final light of the setting sun cast deep shadows on his ebony skin and glinted in his green eyes. The wind tugged at the loose-fitting white shirt the general wore. That, coupled with his silver-buckled boots and tan breeches, made him look more a pirate than an infantry commander. It wasn’t an image Farl fostered, Thom knew, for the general was a well-known supporter of law and order.

  Thom smiled warmly. “Thank you for reminding me, General. It’s not hard to lose track of time completely when watching the sea pass by, especially after it gets dark.”

  “I traveled by ship quite a lot when I was a younger, you know,” the general noted, leaning on the railing. He looked up at the stars, just becoming visible in the night sky, and added, “It’s the one thing I miss most about my days as a world traveler.”

  “Too bad Vangerdahast doesn’t share your enthusiasm for ships,” the bard said. “He looked quite ill when I saw him earlier.”

  The general took a long last look at the dark water rushing by the ship. “We’d best be going, Thom. The meeting will be underway by now.”

  Farl Bloodaxe was right. When he and Thom reached the king’s cabin in the aft castle, Azoun was unrolling a map, talking about the reorganization of the troops that would take place once they were gathered in Telflamm. Vangerdahast, still slightly pale, sat by an open window, taking in deep breaths of the cool air. Finally, at either side of the table, the crusade’s two other generals stood, listening intently to the Cormyrian monarch.

  “After seeing the ships to Telflamm, I’ll be going north up the coast to deliver supplies to King Torg and rendezvous with the troops from Zhentil Keep,” Azoun said. “The dwarves, being creatures of the earth, won’t travel by boat, so—” He stopped speaking when Thom and Farl entered the cabin.

  “My apologies, Azoun,” Farl said sincerely.

  “Yes, milord,” Thom added. “It’s my fault we’re late. I was mulling over a song at the railing when the general reminded me about the meeting.”

  “Leave it to a bard to forget an important meeting because of a song,” one of the generals said gruffly. “Never did see much use in having them along on campaign. They can even be a downright nuisance. Why, once—”

  “Please, Lord Harcourt,” Azoun said quickly, preventing the cavalry general from launching into one of his endless war stories. “I chose Muse Reaverson to come along as court historian, not as an entertainer. I’d rather you didn’t insult him.”

  Looking a bit shocked at the reproach, Lord Harcourt rubbed his long white mustache and mumbled an apology. He shifted uncomfortably in his hauberk under the king’s gaze. Silently Azoun wondered if the cavalry commander ever took the chain mail shirt off, for he was the only armored man in the cabin.

  Farl laughed and added, “Or you’ll end up looking like a fool in the chronicles. Eternal infamy is a high price to pay for a minor insult.”

  Though both Thom and Azoun knew the infantry commander meant that last comment as a joke, they both frowned—each for a different reason. The barb brought the family history’s disturbing depiction of Salember to Azoun’s mind, while Thom simply felt a little insulted that someone could even suggest he would use the position of court historian to settle personal grudges.

  The third general cleared his throat noisily. “You were saying, Your Highness, you’ll meet with the dwarven lord and the Zhentish … troops in the Great Dale.” The impatience in the red-haired man’s voice was barely hidden, but his hatred for the soldiers from Zhentil Keep was not.

  “Yes, General Elventree,” Azoun replied coldly. “Thank you for reminding us of our business.”

  Lord Harcourt and Vangerdahast both scowled at Brunthar Elventree. Neither man liked the general who was to lead the archers on the crusade. The red-haired warrior was a dalesman—a military leader from Battledale, more specifically—and he had been given the position in Azoun’s army only as a concession to Lord Mourngrym and the other dalelords. The king had thought the appointment of a dalesman to lead the archers in combat a wise move, despite his earlier reservations. Elventree’s election pleased the dalelords, and Azoun had hoped it might give the army a new unity.

  The appointment seemed to be accomplishing just the opposite. General Elventree could barely conceal his dislike of the other generals, especially Lord Harcourt, whom he felt was elitist. He had also rubbed Vangerdahast the wrong way almost immediately by claiming that no battle was ever won through magic. Elventree didn’t conceal his hatred of the Zhentish either, and he proved time and again that his temper could flare as brightly as his striking red hair.

  Azoun did what he could to keep the dalesman in line, but he secretly worried that Brunthar Elventree’s myopic bigotry was only a prelude to the problems he would face later in uniting the soldiers as an efficient fighting force.

  The king broke the tension that had settled over the room by introducing a topic he’d discussed only that morning with Thom. “Before we begin in earnest, gentlemen,” he said calmly, “I propose we adopt a single name for the crusading army.”

  “Yes,” Vangerdahast said from his seat near the window. “A single name will help bring us together.”

  For the first time since they’d met, all three generals agreed. Farl Bloodaxe and Brunthar Elventree nodded, while Lord Harcourt added a hearty, “Here, here!”

  “Any suggestions?” the king asked.

  After a moment’s silence, Lord Harcourt tugged at his long white mustache and said. “I place the title ‘Knights of Faerun’ under consideration.”

  “All right, Lord Harcourt,” Thom said as he noted the name on a clay tablet. “What about the name you mentioned to me earlier, Your Highness?”

  “The Alliance of the West,” Azoun offered. “Or just the Alliance.”

  “I don’t have a suggestion myself,” Brunthar said. “But I like ‘the Alliance’ much better than ‘the Knights of Faerun.’ After all,” he added sarcastically, “we aren’t all going to ride horses into battle.”

  Vangerdahast cut in with another possible name before Lord Harcourt could respond to the dalesman’s snide comment. “How about ‘the Confederacy of Western Powers?”

  “Too long,” Farl said. He glanced at the map, then concluded, “The Alliance is the best, I think.”

  Thom Reaverson noted his approval, as did Vangerdahast. Only Lord Harcourt paused before throwing his support to the title. The king thought that he saw the old
cavalryman pout slightly before he mumbled, “You have my support, Your Highness.”

  “Fine, then,” Azoun said brightly. “Now we can get to more important business.” The king pushed a book onto one corner of the map to stop it from rolling and pointed to Lake Ashane, otherwise known as the Lake of Tears. “This is where the Tuigan started their invasion of Ashanath.”

  “And by now,” Vangerdahast offered, “they are certainly through Ashanath and into Thesk.” He walked slowly to the map and traced west from the lake. “The Tuigan probably haven’t reached the town of Tammar, which is halfway between the Lake of Tears and the place where we’ll land. However, the city will likely fall before we enter the conflict.”

  Farl rubbed his chin. “What about local resistance?”

  “Either wiped out by the Tuigan or caught up in skirmishes with the Red Wizards of Thay,” Azoun replied. He shook his head. “We can expect only a small addition to the army once we muster outside Telflamm.”

  Each man was silent for a moment, caught up in considering the hard times that obviously lay ahead of the Alliance. The wind whistled through the open window in high, haunting fits. The breeze had grown so steady, in fact, that Vangerdahast reluctantly closed the heavy leaded glass. The groans and creaks of the wooden ship and the shouts of the men on deck filled the momentary silence in the cabin.

  “Then we’ll have to arrange the army as best we can,” Brunthar Elventree offered at last. “Take advantage of what we have.”

  As the generals set about organizing, then reorganizing the army into fighting units, Thom Reaverson scratched notes into soft clay tablets. Parchment and ink were too expensive to waste on note-taking, so the bard always took down ideas and important information on a clay tablet. He would later meticulously transfer those same notes to paper and wipe the tablet clean to be used again.

  The discussion lasted for hours. As the subject turned from troop organization to supply lines to potential battlefields, the lantern that hung from a beam at the center of the cabin swayed more and more. The wind soon howled outside the ship, though that sound couldn’t drown out the deep, tortured creaking of plank on plank. At first the signs of the incipient storm didn’t alarm King Azoun or the others in the great cabin. However, when waves started breaking against the heavy windows at the end of the room, Azoun and Vangerdahast decided to go on deck to see what was happening.

  Sailors were rushing everywhere, and as the king reached the deck, he was stung by a hard, cold rain. He motioned for Vangerdahast to stay below, for it was clear that aboveboard on the ship was a dangerous place to be. The royal wizard still felt weak from his earlier sickness, so he didn’t even consider arguing. As Vangerdahast shuffled back to the great cabin, Azoun pushed himself toward the railing.

  The king soon found that it was difficult to see. Storm clouds had blotted out the moon, and the fierce wind made any other light source almost impossible to maintain. The rain slashed across the sky, almost parallel with the sea, and waves reared up over the railing and crashed down with frightening speed and power. The king shielded his face as best he could and struggled toward the wheel, where the Welleran’s captain stationed himself during a storm.

  Before Azoun could take three steps away from the railing, a sailor ran into him, knocking him to the deck. The youth didn’t stop to apologize or even help the king to his feet. Instead, he dashed to the railing and emptied a large coffer he held in both hands into the water. Azoun gasped; he saw glints of gold and silver as the metal in the box spilled into the sea.

  “All the treasure in my cabin,” Azoun heard a shrill voice cry. “Into the water with it!” The sailor spun around and dashed toward the voice.

  A wave crashed onto the deck and slammed the king into the nearest section of gunwale. Azoun stood as quickly as he could and grabbed a line. As he wiped his wet hair from his eyes, a strong, dark hand clasped onto his shoulder.

  “I thought you might want some company up here,” Farl Bloodaxe yelled, trying to be heard over the wind, “when Vangerdahast came back without you.”

  Azoun nodded and looked toward the wheel. “Have you seen Captain Merimna, Farl? I heard his voice a moment ago.”

  As if in reply, the shrill voice relayed another order from the rain-darkened ship, then Captain Merimna himself stumbled toward Azoun. “Into the rigging and clew up the topsails! In the studding sails!” he cried, his right hand cupped next to his mouth.

  “Captain Merimna,” Azoun called.

  The Welleran’s gaunt commander turned his face toward the forecastle and yelled, “Bring out all the gold. Dump it over the edge and give Umberlee her due!”

  Farl grabbed the sea captain and spun the man around. A sudden fork of lightning split the sky and illuminated him. The captain was soaked, like everyone else on deck, and his sodden royal blue uniform clung to him heavily. He didn’t seem to notice the rain; his eyes, huge with terror, were focused on some vague, distant threat. “Umberlee’s due,” he mumbled.

  “May all the gods of Good protect us,” Farl muttered. “They didn’t give the Goddess of Oceans enough tribute before we left!” The soldier gripped the captain with both hands now. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

  Merimna nodded, then pulled away from Farl and rushed toward the bow. Another wave washed over the gunwale, and both Azoun and Farl lost sight of the gaunt captain.

  “What is it, Farl?”

  “The captain didn’t offer a sacrifice to Umberlee before we left port. If we don’t appease her, we’re all dead men.” In the darkness, Azoun could barely see his face, but he could tell from Farl’s voice that he was frightened.

  “From that look in his eyes, I’d guess Merimna’s useless to us now,” Azoun said. “I know you’ve had a little experience with ships like this, so take command and keep us afloat.” After a second, he added, “I’ll find suitable tribute.”

  Without waiting for a reply from Farl, the king struggled toward the hatch. The ebony-skinned general was already barking orders. Shouts from panicked sailors and the noise of masts bending in the gale obscured what the man said, but Azoun was certain that Farl Bloodaxe could get them through the storm.

  The king burst into the great cabin, cold and shivering. “We’ve offended Umberlee,” he shouted. “No one offered her tribute before we left Suzail.”

  Vangerdahast cursed loudly. Thom Reaverson said a quick, silent prayer to Lord Oghma, the patron god of bards, asking for his protection from the storm. Barring that, Thom prayed that a suitably glorious tale would be written about them. Brunthar Elventree, on the other hand, whispered something to Mielikki, the Lady of the Forest, asking that he be allowed to see the trees in Battledale again.

  Lord Harcourt leaned forward in his chair and steepled his fingers. “We need something of great value right away,” he noted stoically. A wave crashed against the stern, shattering a pane of leaded glass. “We lost a flagship this way, back in the Year of the Dragon. Nasty business.” He tugged at the corner of his mustache and frowned. “It’s our responsibility as flagship to make the proper sacrifice. If she’s not happy with the offering, Umberlee will take the flagship instead. Oh, anyone in her way will be sunk, but she’ll head straight for us.…”

  Azoun pulled open a chest and uncovered a few brilliant, multifaceted gems. Brunthar emptied a dozen gold pieces from a leather bag at his belt and dumped them on the table. Vangerdahast and Thom did the same. Lord Harcourt stood and walked to the center of the room.

  He glanced at the gathered wealth and shook his head. “Umberlee wants something we value. Something important to us. We must—”

  The sound of splintering wood and tearing canvas stopped the cavalry commander from continuing. Farl Bloodaxe’s voice carried over the chaos on deck, and the men in the great cabin could hear his commands over the storm. From what Farl was telling the crew to do, Azoun concluded that one of the masts was breaking.

  After running a hand through his wet, tangled hair, Azoun reached up and steadied t
he swaying lantern. He paused in that position to think. Across the table from the king, the royal magician and the dalesman pelted Lord Harcourt with questions. Some of their queries were drowned out by the wind and water whistling in through the broken window.

  Like Azoun, Thom Reaverson stood silently in thought. He braced himself against the cabin wall and listened to the thud of waves crashing against the hull and washing over the deck. A hundred stories of misadventures at sea filled the bard’s head, and he briefly reviewed each one for something that might help. Then an idea came to him, not part of a particular story, but related to all of them. He walked to the cabinet, opened it, and took out the finely carved wooden box containing his pen set and the completed pages of the crusade’s annals.

  As the bard left the cabin, Azoun turned to follow; Lord Harcourt, Vangerdahast, and Brunthar Elventree were too caught up in their argument to notice. The king found Thom Reaverson tossing page after finely lettered page into the sea. Rain slashed the sheets and the wind whipped the water-laden parchment, then dashed each page into the waves.

  “Thom, wait!” Azoun cried as the bard tossed the last page over the side and lifted the finely carved box above his head. Another flash of lightning zigzagged a wild path across the sky, and the king saw sailors lining the rails to either side of the bard, tossing coins into the water.

  In the instant of absolute blackness that followed the lightning strike, Thom hurled the case. The king reached the bard’s side in time to see another fork of lightning split the night and strike a nearby cog. The bolt splintered one of the smaller ship’s two square-rigged masts and set its canvas ablaze. It was the first time Azoun had realized that the storm had tossed them so close to other ships in the armada. Flames eagerly licked the cog’s second mast, and soon it was burning brightly.

  The eerie red glow from the burning cog cut through the night and the storm, illuminating the churning sea. The king glanced out at a few of the parchment pages bobbing on the waves.