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  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 won’t 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 Alliance’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 Vange
rdahast 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.

  Actually, what to do with Vangerdahast during the battle was the least of Azoun’s problems. A more pressing dilemma was the command of the War Wizards, which would now have to be given to another mage. The king knew the choice would not be difficult to make, for the War Wizards had a strict hierarchy. The next ranking mage would simply take over as commander. However, Azoun had no idea if this other wizard knew of Vangerdahast’s plan for the battle.

  It was likely that the plans had not been shared. Vangerdahast was secretive, and he tended to reveal only a little about his projects, even to Azoun. That tendency was the source of the king’s other big dilemma, as well. With Vangerdahast unable to cast any spells, Azoun had no way to contact Queen Filfaeril or Princess Alusair. The royal mage had made it very clear that only he knew how to home in on the Obarskyr family’s signet rings. Vangerdahast always claimed that this insured no one could abuse the tracking devices, but Azoun now cursed himself for not demanding some other way to contact his family quickly.

  With these problems weighing heavily on his mind, the king returned to his pavilion and met with the generals. Farl, Brunthar, and Lord Harcourt were sitting around the large table in Azoun’s tent, a map of the immediate area spread between them. The king briefly explained that Vangerdahast was still unconscious and outlined the ramifications of that problem.

  “The Tuigan should be here in an hour or two,” Farl offered, drawing a large red arrow on the map to indicate the enemy’s movement. “We’ve just been discussing alternative troop placements.”

  Walking to the head of the table, Azoun glanced down at the map and shook his head. “It’s far too late to consider changing our plans. Our soldiers will expect us to array as we’ve practiced.” He turned a meaningful eye to the commanders of the archers and cavalry. “As has been proven to my satisfaction, we can’t undermine the men’s expectations at this late date.”

  “But Torg isn’t here,” Brunthar Elventree noted. “Without his infantry support, my archers will be vulnerable.”

  Farl took a drink from a mug that was holding one corner of the map flat. As the paper curled slightly, he glanced at the dalesman. “The infantry we have now will be enough. Two thousand dwarves wouldn’t make that much difference anyway.” He smoothed the map and replaced the mug. “I agree with Azoun. We should stay the course we’ve plotted already.”

  Clearing his throat, Lord Harcourt added, “The plans we’ve set are sound. They follow all the dictums and suggestions of the great battles of King Rhigaerd II.”

  Following his father’s rules of war was not what Azoun had had in mind when he suggested an organization for the battle lines. Common sense dictated most of the placement, and the little the generals knew of Tuigan tactics suggested the rest. The king scanned the map and picked up a pen.

  “This really isn’t a matter for debate. We’ll array as we planned,” he said, inking the pen. “At least for this engagement … though with a bit of luck, we’ll hurt the khahan enough that he’ll turn now.”

  The generals all smiled and murmured their approval, but none of them truly believed such an easy victory was possible. Azoun didn’t either, but he knew that he had to present his facade of confidence to his commanders as well as his troops. “Of course we can’t rely on chance too much,” the king added with a sincere smile. “Lady Tymora always favors those who make their own luck.”

  Azoun bent his attention to the map and sketched out the position he would take in the Alliance’s battle lines. After marking a small blue crown, the king handed the pen to Farl, who positioned the infantry.

  In a steady, smooth hand, the black general marked two lines to represent the footsoldiers under his command. The first line was centered slightly in front of Azoun’s crown and ran wide to either side of the king’s mark. “This will be the main body of infantry,” he noted with his deep voice, glancing up at the king. “It holds most of our pikemen, spears, and so on.”

  Farl then added a second, thinner line behind the first. “And this is the second rank, made up of swordsmen rather than men with polearms.” As the generals all knew, the second line was not there to stop a Tuigan charge, but to fight at close quarters once the battle got under way. Shorter weapons, like swords and axes, would be of far more use in a press than spears or pikes.

  After taking the pen from Farl, Brunthar Elventree inked it again. “The archers go here, here, here, and here.” Each location to which the dalesman pointed received a blotchy triangle of ink. When the archers’ commander was done, four large groups of bowmen were interspersed along the second line of infantry.

  Next, Lord Harcourt took the pen. With sweeping, ornate strokes, he added wings to the lines of infantry. “And the nobles will guard the flanks,” he said, then bent down and added a few more marks to the map. “My cavalry will sweep in as soon as the infantry and archers have stopped the barbarians.”

  The last comment was stated as fact, and Azoun was pleased by the confidence Lord Harcourt seemed to be putting in the less experienced generals. Neither Farl nor Brunthar had been involved in a campaign on this scale before.

  Finally the pen passed back to the king. He inked it again and added the remaining details to the Alliance’s battle lines. A large W denoted the wizards’ position, behind the line of mixed infantry and archers. To the mages’ rear would lie the camp itself, which Azoun depicted as a number of blocks.

  “I want the refugees gathered behind this pavilion,” the king noted after he’d finished drawing. “That will put our army and most of the camp between them and the fighting.”

  The three generals nodded in agreement, and Farl volunteered to see that the king’s wishes were fulfilled. That settled, Azoun reviewed the signals the standard-bearers would use to relay his orders, then asked for questions. There were none.

  “May the Goddess of Luck and the God of Battle look favorably upon us,” the king concluded. As General Elventree and Lord Harcourt turned to go, Azoun clapped them both on the shoulder. “I don’t suppose I’ll see you before the Tuigan arrive, so fare well. I know you’ll both fight bravely.”

  Lord Harcourt dismissed the parting with a wave. “The barbarians will be routed by sunset,” he said firmly as he left. />
  Brunthar Elventree and Farl Bloodaxe exchanged worried glances. “Let’s hope,” the dalesman said and followed the cavalry commander to the lines.

  “What was that all about?” Azoun asked Farl when the others had gone.

  The infantry commander paused, then pursed his lips. “We—Brunthar and I—feel that, well, Lord Harcourt may be underestimating the Tuigan’s strength. Given the chance, he’d probably try to rout them with the nobles alone.”

  Guiding Farl to the exit, Azoun said, “I agree with your assessment, my friend, but Lord Harcourt is a good soldier. He’ll follow my commands when it comes down to a fight, so his mistaken disregard for the enemy’s strength doesn’t matter.” When the infantry commander paused at the door, the king added, “Besides, there are plenty of things I’m counting on you for already. Leave the command of the generals to me; it gives me something to occupy my time.”

  A sly smile on his face, Farl bowed and headed into the heart of the camp to oversee the movement of the refugees. Azoun watched the commander go, then called for a squire to help him don the rest of his armor.

  Less than an hour later, after a quick visit to the temporary head of the War Wizards, the king was touring the battle lines. He walked a little stiffly in his full suit of plate mail, but with the practiced gait of one accustomed to the heavy burden of armor. Azoun personally favored training in battle conditions, and he’d often spent an hour or two in the height of summer practicing his swordsmanship dressed in his full armor. Seeing the distress in some of his soldiers’ faces as the early morning sun beat down upon their heavy mail made the king thankful it was a habit he had maintained. Even though it was relatively cool for a day in mid-Flamerule, any sun hammering on an armored body could be brutal.

  Soldiers scurried along the front, fortifying their positions or simply taking their place in line. As the generals had agreed, the bulk of the army was split into two lines, but the map had not shown that they were spread across the slope of a wide, low hill. This positioning afforded the bowmen in the second rank a good view of the field. Azoun glanced behind him at the four groups of archers and prayed their longbows would prove a match for the short, curved bows the barbarians fired from horseback.