Crusade Page 30

  “I don’t understand it,” Brunthar Elventree said. “Why didn’t they run us down after the battle? They let us escape!”

  Azoun drummed his fingers on his right leg. “Perhaps we surprised them,” he offered. “The general we captured told Alusair that we’d given Yamun Khahan the strongest resistance of anyone in the west.”

  “But you lost almost half your troops,” Torg reminded the king. He picked up a wineskin that lay at his feet and took a swig.

  Vrakk growled deep in his throat and leaned forward. The firelight revealed the true ugliness of his face—the short snout, beady black eyes, and bristling, course hair. His black leather armor, now slashed open in three places, did much to heighten that sinister appearance. “We send many Tuigan to Lord Cyric,” the orcish commander rumbled, invoking the name of the Lord of the Dead.

  “Vrakk’s right,” Alusair noted, a slight hint of scorn for the orc hidden in her voice. “By Farl’s count we killed thirty thousand barbarians. That’s three for every man we lost.”

  “Leaving Yamun Khahan with seventy thousand horsemen to our army of fifteen thousand,” Azoun concluded. He rubbed his wounded leg reflexively and paused. “We cannot survive another battle like that.”

  “And the khahan won’t be foolish enough to go around us and avoid a fight. That would leave an army to his rear,” Farl added.

  Vangerdahast, who had been watching the fire, mulling over some point, finally looked up. “Yamun Khahan will certainly attack us tomorrow,” he said without preamble. “Perhaps we surprised him, perhaps not. In the end, it really doesn’t matter why he’s let us live this long. He’ll make sure we have no way to retreat back to Cormyr.”

  After a moment Azoun concluded, “Then we can assume the Tuigan will come soon. Perhaps even tomorrow. That means this night holds the only hours we have left to prepare.”

  A little stiffly, the king stood and pointed to the western lines. “I want each of you to tell me what you’d do if you were Yamun Khahan, approaching our position.”

  All eyes were turned to the Alliance’s lines. Though the sun was almost set behind the western army, the generals all knew the position by heart. They had stumbled upon the spot in their retreat up the Golden Way. Tall, sturdy trees spread in a long line from either side of the road. Without fast cavalry to cover the army’s flanks, the trees insured that the Tuigan could not surround the western troops as they had in the last battle. Better still, the timber would force the Tuigan to attack across a narrow front, limiting the usefulness of their vastly superior numbers.

  Torg only regarded the scene for an instant before he spoke. “They’ll charge,” he said, as if the matter required no more thought. “They have us outnumbered, so why waste time?”

  Brunthar shook his bandaged head. “What about their archers?” he asked. “In all the other engagements, they’ve tried to break the lines using bowmen.”

  “True,” Alusair said, “but in the last battle, General Elventree, your men proved that our longbows have better range than their shorter bows.”

  Clearing his throat, Vangerdahast added, “And the mages showed how useful a few fireballs could be in dealing with barbarians.” He waved his hand to dismiss the notion. “I agree with Torg. They’ll simply charge us and get it over with.”

  Azoun nodded. “Farl?”

  “Yes. They’ll charge,” the infantry commander said. The wind tugged fitfully at Farl’s white shirt as he paused. “They’ve no magic to rout us from the trees, and it’ll take them forever to ride around the woods and attack us from behind.”

  “Vrakk?”

  “Don’t know,” the orc grumbled. “Generals missing something. Ak-soon missing something … but Vrakk not know what.”

  Torg looked away, disgusted, a gesture that drew angry glares from Farl and Azoun. The orc rubbed his green-gray snout for a moment, then finally shrugged and said, “They charge.”

  “Fine,” Azoun concluded. “Yamun Khahan will come here, perhaps tomorrow, and toss seventy thousand barbarians at us.” He glanced back at the western lines. “How do we stop him?”

  Again the generals fell silent. The crackle of the fire and the cawing of the seemingly ever-present carrion crows did only a little to mask the sounds of the palisades being erected. The sharp reverberations of hundreds of axes hitting wood, of mallets pounding the spikes into the ground, sounded through the woods and across the field.

  “Before the cavalry broke rank, the combination of longbow fire and magic seemed to slow the Tuigan down quite a bit,” Alusair said at last. “But that was when they were stopping to lob arrows.”

  Azoun nodded enthusiastically. “Both those things will be important in the battle,” he said. “Arrows and spells can whittle down the number of Tuigan lances and Tuigan swords the infantry will have to turn aside.”

  “But not stop seventy thousand of them,” Brunthar said gloomily. “What about building more blockades to slow the charge down? We won’t have the advantage of the hill here. The Tuigan can race pretty much unimpeded to our front rank.”

  “Good,” Azoun said. He motioned to the left and right. “Perhaps we should concentrate on barricades at the edges of the field. That’ll narrow down their attack even further.”

  Vrakk, who had not missed any of the dwarven king’s angry looks in his direction, chimed in with a half-sarcastic remark. “Why don’t Torg and his dglinkarz dig big hole for Tuigan to fall in?”

  The ironlord immediately dropped his hand to his sword. Farl and Brunthar stepped between the dwarf and the orc, and looked to Azoun for guidance. The king was grinning broadly. “That’s it!” he said, though only softly at first. “Of course!”

  The leaders of the Alliance stopped, and even Torg wondered what the king had stumbled upon. Azoun pounded his fist into his other hand and looked around at the dark field. “But not one big hole, Vrakk. Thousands of little ones.”

  The orcish leader grinned evilly. “Ah! Is good idea!”

  Azoun noted the confused look on the faces of his other generals. With the broad smile still on his face, he said, “The arrows and spells were most effective when the Tuigan stopped to fire at us, right?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued. “So we’ll make them stop—or at least slow them down enough to be good targets for the archers and mages.”

  “Holes,” Alusair repeated, comprehension slowly dawning upon her. “We won’t put up barricades, we’ll dig holes across the field.”

  The other generals had caught the gist of the plan by now, and they enthusiastically embraced it. By digging a wide band of holes at a distance of fifty yards from the Alliance’s lines, the generals could be sure that many of the horses in the Tuigan front ranks would stumble, tossing their riders and slowing down the rest of the charge. In the midst of the animated discussion, Farl slowly shook his head.

  “My troops and the dwarves could easily dig the traps overnight,” the general said loudly. Everyone stopped and faced the infantry commander. “But what makes you think the Tuigan are foolish enough to charge such an obvious trap?”

  The king turned to the royal wizard. “Well, Vangy?”

  For the first time that evening, a smile crept onto the wizard’s age-withered face. He patted his beard, now more white than gray, and said, “Even Elminster could disguise a field full of holes. It’ll be easy—though the casting will take some of our wizards away from the battle.”

  “That’s no problem,” Azoun concluded, clapping his hands together. “The illusion need only be maintained long enough for the first wave of riders to hit it.”

  The matter settled, the king and his advisors talked long into the evening, reviewing troop strengths and establishing battle plans to cover every contingency they could dream up. The moon, partly covered by clouds, was shining as brightly as it could when the meeting finally ended.

  Farl went off to double the watch on the perimeter, so that Tuigan spies would not see the dwarves hard at work in the field. Despite his annoyance
at the orc for suggesting a plan that utilized his troops, Torg was enthusiastic about the task that lay ahead. He knew his troops would perform exactly as required. The other generals said good evening, too. Azoun and Alusair knew that Vrakk, Brunthar, and Vangerdahast would sleep little that night, but bade them good night in return.

  The king and his daughter talked for a short time on various minor topics, then the princess went off in search of Thom Reaverson. She had promised the bard earlier in the day to relate some of her adventures. Azoun in turn walked back to camp, favoring his leg slightly. The damp night air seemed to make the pain worse, and the king wondered if he was going to put up with the discomfort for the rest of his life. The clerics had done the best they could, so it seemed likely.

  It will hurt at least until tomorrow, he concluded grimly.

  The dwarves had already begun their long, grueling task by the time Azoun reached the Alliance’s front line. And though he couldn’t see the troops from Earthfast, the king could hear their tools biting into the road and the field. The sounds weren’t all that different from the hammering and digging going on around him, as Farl’s troops completed their barricades and the archers finished the palisades. Hopefully the Tuigan wouldn’t be able to uncover the trap through the sound alone.

  For a moment, the king wondered what he should do. The pain from his leg was getting more intense, though not unbearable, and he was very tired. Sleep certainly seemed in order. However, another trip through the ranks might provide a little comfort for the troops, provide a bit more reassurance that their leader was working late into the night, too. Perhaps, then, sleep might come more easily to the soldiers.

  Remembering his daughter’s advice, Azoun sighed. His heart was very clear on how the night should be spent. Limping slightly, the king set off for the nearest campfire and the group of weary soldiers clustered around it.

  16

  Gamesmanship

  The Golden Way stretched east before the Army of the Alliance, weaving a broad path through the fields of swaying grass. Clouds filled the sky, and the dawn sun, just rising in the east, shed only a pale light over the battlefield. It was a relief to Azoun’s generals that the Tuigan wouldn’t be able to use a bright sun at their backs to blind the Alliance’s archers.

  A quiet tension reigned over the western camp. Actually, no one would call the collection of scattered fires surrounded by bedrolls a formal camp. The soldiers had done little more than set up their defensive lines, with the wagons of supplies behind them. Most now were sprawled in an exhausted sleep near where they would fight later in the day. If the gods were kind and the Alliance won—and many believed that it would take the gods’ power to equalize the odds in the battle—they might set up a real camp. If they lost, it wouldn’t matter.

  Not that the western troops had given up hope. Azoun had discovered, much to his surprise, that there were few soldiers in the ranks sodden with despair. The king’s trek around the camp the previous night had revealed that most of the army still believed in the crusade, that they weren’t afraid to die as long as the cause was good. The soldiers felt, as Azoun still did, that they were all that stood between their homes and the Tuigan horde.

  At first he had thought the men were only telling him what they believed he wanted to hear. After all, few of the soldiers had spoken to a king before, and most of the Cormyrians spent their time bowing instead of discussing their plight with Azoun. To test this, the monarch had passed the word through Farl that anyone wishing to leave camp could do so before dawn without fear of recrimination. It was a risky ploy, and one opposed by all the Alliance’s generals; Azoun had hoped it would reveal the army’s true disposition and forge a sense of unity in the troops that remained.

  It worked far better than he had imagined.

  “You must have counted wrong,” Vangerdahast gasped, shaking his head. “I don’t believe it.”

  Alusair smiled and handed the parchment to her father. “Farl said that, too, Vangy. We had the captains count twice.”

  Relief showing clearly on his weary face, Azoun threw his head back and sighed. “Only one hundred gone,” he murmured. “One hundred out of over fifteen thousand.”

  “And most of those were mercenaries,” Alusair reminded the king. She took the parchment from his hands and reviewed the figures noted there. “I don’t think we lost a single Cormyrian regular, dwarf, orc, or even a dalesman. Only hired swords.”

  Still numb from the surprise, Azoun looked out over the lines. Some of the men were sleeping, their heads covered to block out the weak sunlight. Morningfeast occupied most of the troops, but a few nervous men and women checked and rechecked the palisades and ditches. “They’re all good soldiers,” he said.

  “Idiots, you mean,” Vangerdahast corrected sharply. He looked away, still shaking his head. “I’m going to review the War Wizards.”

  Alusair looked up from the parchment. “None of the wizards left either,” she reminded the mage. “Does that make them idiots, too?”

  Vangerdahast stopped short and wheeled around. “Having your father needle me is enough,” he snapped. He shook a finger at the princess, then his features softened. “Gods, your whole family exists only to shorten my life. Anyway, I never even bothered to count the War Wizards,” he noted as he turned away again.

  “Wait, Vangy,” Azoun said, taking a few steps forward. “Why not?”

  Without turning around again, Vangy held up his palsied left hand. “They know that I’d come back from the grave to haunt them all if they left me here to fight the Tuigan alone.” He shuffled past the barricades and disappeared into the western army.

  “I believe he might,” Alusair said to herself. She rolled the parchment up and stuffed it into her belt. “I’ll give the numbers to Thom for the chronicles, Father.”

  The king was still looking in the direction where Vangerdahast had disappeared. “I couldn’t make him stay in Cormyr, you know,” he said absently.

  “Who?” Alusair asked, moving to her father’s side. “Vangy?”

  Azoun nodded. “I wanted him to stay in Suzail in case there was trouble. Someone else could have commanded the War Wizards.” The king shook his head as he remembered the mage’s vehement defense of his position as general. “Sometimes I don’t understand why.”

  “Because he’s your friend,” Alusair offered.

  “He’s been like a father to me, too,” noted Azoun. He looked out across the Golden Way. “Gods, how he didn’t want me to lead this crusade. He was so unreasonable.”

  Alusair laughed. “Fathers are like that,” she said and headed off to find Thom Reaverson.

  The king, who was already wearing the padded doublet and chain mail coif that went under his plate armor, decided it was time to fully arm himself. As he donned the rest of his shining silver armor, Azoun took reports from returning scouts. At first they had little to tell, but soon it became clear that the Tuigan were on the move again.

  “Send for Vrakk and Torg,” Azoun told one messenger. He slipped his surcoat over his breastplate so that the purple dragon reared squarely on his chest. Finally, he looked to the standard-bearer. “Signal the troops into position.”

  The king’s standard rose high into the air. The effect the purple dragon symbol had on the army was astonishing. A murmur ran over the mass of troops, and those still sleeping were quickly roused. Armor was donned and weapons gathered. Archers planted their bunches of arrows point first in the ground at their feet, making them easy to pick up in battle. Wizards reviewed spells in their minds, and soldiers softly recited prayers to their gods. The men who hadn’t eaten morningfeast grabbed their meals of hard biscuits and dried meat and rushed to their place in line. Captains and sergeants began to prowl the ranks, shouting orders and arranging the troops in the strongest formations possible.

  The dwarven king appeared at Azoun’s side. Like Azoun, Torg was dressed in his full plate armor. Whereas the Cormyrian monarch’s short beard was tucked into the chin of his m
ail coif, the ironlord’s hung down across his chest, bound as always in gold chain. The finely polished metal of the dwarf’s armor and the gold entwined in his beard gave off a dull reflection of the morning sunlight.

  “By your request, Azoun,” Torg rumbled happily. “I’m ready for battle.” As if to prove it, the ironlord drew his beautifully crafted sword and waved it in front of him. “Let the Tuigan come.”

  A few moments later, Vrakk, commander of the Zhentish orcs, arrived. “Good-morning, Ak-soon,” he said sleepily in his usual belabored Common. “My soldiers protecting archers, like you say.” He unslung his black leather armor from his shoulder and dropped it onto the ground. In a rather haphazard manner, the orc fitted himself for battle.

  Regret instantly colored Azoun’s thoughts. The night before, Vrakk had requested that he leave command of his army to another so he could serve in the king’s guard. The orc had been an able soldier and had kept his troops in line, so Azoun was happy to agree. How Torg had heard of the matter so quickly the king couldn’t guess, but within an hour, the ironlord had demanded similar honors. Wanting to avoid an incident so close to the time of battle, Azoun had also appointed Torg to serve in his bodyguard.

  Now the tension between the two commanders only added to the anticipation of conflict.

  Alusair and Vangerdahast had also joined the king at his standard by the time the scouts reported the Tuigan to be less than three miles away. A cloud of dust hovering on the eastern horizon told the king that the seventy thousand enemy riders were fast approaching.

  While Vangerdahast still wore a brown robe, much like the ones he wore every day at the castle in Suzail, the princess was girded in her ornately engraved plate mail. The bright metal was dented in a few more places than when Azoun had first seen it, but it looked as if it had passed through the first battle without much damage. Silently, Alusair’s father hoped the dwarven plate would protect his daughter as well in the battle to come.

  “Cast the illusion whenever you’re ready, Vangy,” the king said as a squire rechecked the last straps on his armor. Azoun flexed his left leg and grimaced slightly. The left cuisse had been repaired since the first battle, the arrow hole filled and hammered smooth, so that wasn’t the problem. From the pain he felt, the king knew that his wound was going to trouble him, despite the attentions it had received from the clerics earlier in the day.