Crusade Read online

  As the king considered this, Vangerdahast had the standard-bearer signal the War Wizards. Then the royal mage faced the battlefield and started a low, musical chant. He swayed slightly and moved his hands in a complicated arcane pattern. Trembling, Vangerdahast cast the components of the spell—a stone, a twig, and a bit of grass from the battlefield—into the air.

  No one saw the spell components disappear, for all eyes had turned to the field itself. There, the handiwork of the dwarves lay exposed in the weak sunlight. Thousands of holes littered the field, stretching in a semicircle from the woods on the army’s flanks. But as Vangerdahast and the wizards he had signaled completed their incantations, the holes disappeared. More precisely, the illusion of a rolling, grass-covered field split by a trade road hid the ravaged ground.

  “Excellent,” Azoun said and clapped his friend and tutor on the shoulder.

  Vangerdahast wobbled slightly. The spell weakened him far more than it would have before the magic-dead area sapped his strength. Still, the wizard puffed out his chest a bit. “Precise down to the type of grass,” he said proudly. “The Tuigan will never know what they hit.”

  Turning to Alusair, the king said, “Your turn.”

  Beneath the dwarven plate armor, the princess still wore the bracelet the centaur chieftain had given her. She used the magical device now and summoned the hawk from the trees nearby. The bird quickly took flight and soared out over the western lines. Concentrating, Alusair could see the Tuigan horde through the falcon’s eyes, spread out in a wide line, closing in on the Alliance. The bird swooped nearer, and the princess caught sight of the object of her search. There, in the center of the massive Tuigan army, was a yak-tail banner, the war standard of Yamun Khahan.

  The falcon caught an updraft and soared higher, out of the range of the Tuigan bows. Circling behind the enemy line, the bird followed it for another mile or so. After Alusair was sure that the khahan’s banner wasn’t going to shift places in line, she pulled her mind back from the falcon.

  “The banner you described is in the center of the Tuigan line, Father.” Alusair shook her head to clear it. Using the centaur’s magical bracelet always left her feeling a little drained.

  Torg and Vrakk both looked at Azoun, an unspoken question evident on their faces. “I saw the khahan’s banner when I was in their camp,” the king said. “He had it planted outside his tent.”

  Grinning, the ironlord grabbed his helmet and dropped it into place. He lifted the visor and said, “Now we know who to aim for.”

  The dust cloud grew larger and larger, until it seemed to cover the entire horizon. Azoun signaled the army to ready its weapons, and the anxiety that gripped the troops pulled their muscles a little tighter, forced their hearts to beat a little quicker. In the center of the first rank, the king and his guard put on their helmets and drew their weapons. Unlike the last battle, the entire army was going to fight on foot this time. If the Tuigan were routed again, Azoun didn’t want anyone pursuing them the way the cavalry had. Knowing that no soldier was foolish enough to chase fleeing cavalry on foot, Azoun had ordered that no one, from himself to the lowest paid mercenary, be given a horse.

  The Tuigan appeared on the horizon, at first only a black line against the dust cloud they were churning up. The thunder of their horses’ hooves drowned out the murmured prayers and muttered curses in the western lines, and the hundreds upon hundreds of carrion crows that had roosted in the nearby trees took to the air again. In only a few moments, the horsewarriors rode far enough that Azoun could discern a few individual riders. Over the sound of the hooves and the crows, the Tuigan war cry rose.

  “Ready the archers and mages!” the king yelled to the standard-bearer. After closing his visor, Azoun said a brief prayer to Tymora, the patron of adventurers, and lifted his shield.

  Razor John was afraid.

  From where he stood, at the center of the army’s second rank, he couldn’t see the field very clearly. The section of road the king had chosen to defend was level. Trees protected their flanks, but the troops to the rear of the array found their vision hampered by the geography. Still, the fletcher could make out the massive dust cloud rolling toward him from the east. It was clear that the barbarians were going to attack, and a horrible, numb feeling had taken hold of John’s heart. He was certain he would not live to see the sunset.

  Even though he feared for his own life, the fletcher was more concerned about Kiri Trollslayer. She was stationed with the infantry in the army’s first rank. Perhaps, John concluded darkly, we’ll both be killed. At least we’ll go to the Realm of the Dead together.

  The king’s standard, rising up above the crowded first line of infantry, waved a command. John didn’t know what the signal meant, but the commander of the archers, Brunthar Elventree, soon made the order clear.

  “Ready to fire!” Brunthar shouted from nearby.

  John watched as the dalesman lowered a helmet gingerly over his bandaged head. Brunthar hadn’t worn any armor in the first battle, an act that was partly to blame for his wounded ear, but now he wore a visorless steel helmet and heavy chain hauberk.

  As he gripped his bow, Razor John wished that he had armor, too. Like most of the archers, he dressed in the roughspun tunic and trousers he wore on any normal day. The reasons for this were simple: plate or chain armor would hamper his ability to move and fire quickly, and leather armor provided little protection against arrows. And since the archers were all in the army’s second rank, arrows would be all they had to face from the Tuigan.

  “You!” Brunthar bellowed, cuffing John hard on the ear. “Stop daydreaming and prepare to fire!” The general stood a foot from the fletcher, scowling and staring with hard, anger-filled eyes.

  “Yes, sir,” John murmured and quickly pulled an arrow from the ground.

  The fletcher sighed as Brunthar moved off, barking orders and pulling other soldiers to attention. When the general was a few yards away, John bent over and picked up his battered black felt hat, which the dalesman’s blow had knocked off his head.

  “If he not hit you, I would,” someone grunted to John’s right. The fletcher turned to the speaker, an orcish soldier with one broken tooth jutting up from his yellow-green lips. “Sleep here and you not wake up, arrow-man.” The orcish infantryman leaned against the wooden spike planted in the ground next to him and casually poked the earth with his sword.

  Before John could reply, Brunthar’s voice called out another command. “Nock arrows!” After walking past John, repeating the command, the general stopped and stood on a wooden block, which would afford him a better view of the battlefield.

  Like the king and his other advisors, Brunthar Elventree was certain that Yamun Khahan would not waste time trying to draw the Alliance out of its secure position between the trees. He expected the barbarians to charge with their full army without prelude. But when he stood upon that wooden block and looked out over the field, he was surprised to see a group of only one thousand riders racing ahead of the Tuigan horde, brandishing their bows.

  “Gods,” Brunthar cried. “They’re fools!”

  Stunned, the commander of the archers watched the charging riders. When the Tuigan were within seventy-five yards, the king’s standard waved the command to fire, which Brunthar relayed immediately.

  “Fire,” he cried. “Range for seventy-five yards!”

  The order was carried down the line, as sergeants called out the range. The archers leaned back slightly and, despite the fact they were unable to see their targets clearly, fired. The swarm of arrows that arced out onto the field was amazingly accurate. The shafts cut down quite a few Tuigan, but the surviving riders raced on toward the western lines.

  For an instant, Brunthar thought the riders were going to charge into the illusion that hid the holes the dwarves had dug the night before. Luckily, as the Tuigan got fifty yards from the Alliance’s front rank, only forty feet from the nearest hole, they reined in their horses. With a swift, fluid movement,
each barbarian drew a single arrow and dipped its tip into a small leather bag dangling at his side. The arrowheads smoldered, then burst into flame.

  Again the signal for the western archers to fire was sent, but it was too late. The Tuigan line sent the burning arrows into the sky. They trailed streams of flame as they passed over the western troops, then disappeared into the trees to either side of the road. The western archers cut down most of the remaining horsewarriors, but that was little consolation. Thin trails of smoke were already working their way out of the forest.

  The orc standing next to Razor John struck himself on the forehead with the palm of his hand. “That old trick,” he growled. “Orcs use fire to drive elves from trees in plenty battles.”

  The fletcher barely heard a word the Zhentish soldier said. His mind was occupied with the growing coils of smoke that were wafting over the western armies. For an instant John imagined himself driven from the security of the western position by the fire, at the mercy of the Tuigan. As in the nightmares the fletcher had suffered for the past few nights, the barbarians appeared in his mind’s eye as grotesque ogres, drooling blood and wearing little other than uncured animal hides and human bones.

  Panicked murmuring broke out in the western ranks as the fire spread. To quell the growing fear, Brunthar jumped down from the wooden box and paced before the line. “Stay in formation!” he shouted. “The king will take care of us. You know that.”

  Silently the dalesman hoped Azoun would think of something fast.

  Brunthar didn’t have to wait long to find out if the problem was under control. The thick clouds overhead grew dark, and soon they were roiling angrily in the sky. The rumble of thunder echoed over the plain, and a few large drops of rain splattered on the dalesman’s armor. He looked up at the clouds just as the downpour started.

  Standing next to Razor John, the orc snorted as the pelting rain fell. “Wizards make storm,” he muttered. “Now armor wet and stinky.”

  A cheer went up in the Alliance’s lines as they realized the War Wizards had foiled the barbarians’ plan. A low, insistent rumble answered the cry, but some of the men dismissed it as a peal of thunder. Anyone who could see the Tuigan line knew otherwise.

  The khahan had ordered his entire army forward. The terrible rumble crossing the field was the sound of their horses pounding the sodden ground.

  “Here they come!” Azoun shouted, and the signal went up to prepare for an assault. The king glanced at Vangerdahast. “Are you ready?”

  The wizard smiled wickedly, but Azoun could see a quiver shake his cheek. The strain of casting the spell to make it rain had obviously worn down the aged Vangerdahast. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” he said.

  All eyes turned to the Tuigan charge. The rain was slowing their mounts somewhat, especially those racing through the fields rather than up the Golden Way itself. The downpour had already loosened the topsoil enough that the horses kicked up clods of muddy earth with each step.

  At fifty yards, Azoun spotted the khahan’s banner. The nine yak-tails that hung from the pole were dripping with water, and the mud churned up by the charge had hidden their color. It was clear nevertheless that Yamun Khahan rode near the standard; it was the tallest and most prominent in the Tuigan line. As ordered, the western archers began to rain arrows down upon the Tuigan. On the right flank, the dwarves let fly a thousand crossbow bolts and quickly reloaded. Sheet after sheet of deadly missiles dropped upon the seventy thousand barbarians as they rushed forward. “Now, Vangy,” Azoun said and pointed to the center of the enemy line.

  Without hesitation, the wizard drew a pinch of diamond dust from a pouch at his belt. Spreading it in an arc over the ground, Vangerdahast uttered a brief incantation. “There,” he said weakly. “The khahan is all yours.” He staggered a few steps and added, “I’d best get back with the other War Wizards. I can do no more here.”

  Azoun couldn’t take his eyes off the center of the Tuigan line. The horselords raised their curved swords high and shrieked a frightening war cry. Even though he knew that at least some of the barbarians would be stopped by the holes dug across the battlefield, the king felt a shiver run up his spine. If the Tuigan got through, it was clear they intended to take no prisoners.

  The war cry trilled over the battlefield for a few seconds more, until with startling suddenness, the Tuigan line hit the traps. At first only a few horses stumbled, but that was all it took to cause havoc in many parts of the charge. Because of the small front the western army presented, the horsewarriors were forced to ride much closer together than they normally did. Now, when one rider fell or one horse staggered, others quickly followed.

  As the full bulk of the Tuigan charge hit the semicircle of holes, it became clear how effective the trap was going to be. Rider after rider urged his mount into the illusory terrain, only to have it drop one leg into a deep hole. The sickening sound of bones breaking filled the air before the horses started to shriek in pain and confusion. Soldiers tumbled out of saddles. A few were lucky enough to be tossed clear of the press, but most were not. The former were quickly cut down by the western archers, the latter crushed by falling horses or the troops charging behind them.

  To Azoun, it looked as if an invisible wall had been thrown up to stop the enemy charge—a wall with one noticeable gap.

  The riders at the center of the Tuigan line, those closest to Yamun Khahan and his standard, found the path to the western army strangely free of barricades. Their horses pounded over the muddy ground while others on either side of them were stopped by unseen forces. The khahan could not know it, but he and his bodyguard had crossed over a plane of force, a magical bridge called into existence by Vangerdahast for the sole purpose of trapping the Tuigan leader. As soon as the yak-tail banner and the fifty or so men around it crossed that magical bridge, the royal magician let it disappear. When the plane of force was gone, the holes beneath it gaped hungrily for Tuigan horseflesh.

  As the riders behind Yamun Khahan fell victim to the dwarves’ trap, King Azoun looked to his right. His daughter stood, fully armored, waiting for the command to attack. The king had been wounded and unconscious when Alusair had joined the first battle. When he’d awoke, Azoun had learned she was safe before he’d found out she’d ever been in danger. Now he realized that his order might send Alusair to her death, that Filfaeril might not get to see her daughter alive again.

  For an instant, he considered ordering her to the rear, out of danger. Azoun quickly shook aside that thought. The princess belonged on the battlefield as much as he did. That realization did not erase the fear the king felt for his daughter’s life, but it allowed him to raise his own sword and give the signal he’d been waiting all day to give. “At them!” King Azoun cried and raced forward.

  The two hundred soldiers who charged with the king had been handpicked. Along with Torg, Vrakk, and Alusair, there were dalesmen and Sembians, Red Plumes from Hillsfar and Purple Dragons from Cormyr, all the best soldiers in the Alliance. The two hundred shouted angry defiance at the khahan and braced themselves for the fight. “Now,” the king whispered into his closed visor. “Do it now, Vangy.”

  As if in response to the king’s plea, fifty lightning bolts joined the rain and the longbow arrows in the sky. They shrieked over the western lines and tore into the helpless, tangled Tuigan. The bolts momentarily blinded those who had looked upon them, and deafened the soldiers to the cries of the barbarians who were scattered by the lightning like sparks from an exploding firecracker. For the first time in many months, a Tuigan charge wavered, then failed.

  Inside the semicircle marked by the wall of crippled horses and crushed bodies, King Azoun was ordering his two hundred to encircle the khahan’s bodyguard. The trapped Tuigan were obviously looking for a way to escape, but the king was certain he would provide them none.

  Azoun tapped his sword upon his shield twice, and the standard-bearer dipped the purple dragon to the ground. The archers, who had until now been aiming at the mass of
Tuigan held up by their fallen comrades, pointed their missiles at the group of riders huddled around the khahan. Longbow arrows whistled over the king’s head, and half the khahan’s bodyguard dropped from their saddles. The surviving Tuigan caught inside the king’s trap scattered, and the handpicked western force rushed to dispatch them.

  Gripped with foreboding, Azoun watched Alusair rush from his side toward a barbarian rider. The princess, not carrying a shield, gripped her longsword with both hands and slashed at the Tuigan as he rode past. The blow connected, dropping the warrior to the muddy ground.

  As the king took a step toward his daughter, the unhorsed Tuigan stood up. A large, hulking man, the barbarian wore a suit of typical Tuigan armor: large metal plates sewn onto leather. His conical, pointed helmet had fallen off when he’d hit the ground, so his braided, mud-spattered hair was all that protected his head. The princess took immediate advantage of that fact. Before her father could take two steps, Alusair feinted a blow to the barbarian’s midsection. When the hulking man moved to block it with his curved sword, she struck at her real target. Her blade hit the Tuigan’s unprotected head and split his skull.

  With a glance back at her father, Alusair moved into the press of warriors in front of the king.

  From the edge of the main battle, Azoun saw a Tuigan whirl his horse around, as if he were ready to charge the western lines alone. Unlike the warrior Alusair had faced, this barbarian wore a breastplate of gold, sculpted with muscles. A skirt of chain girded his waist, and from the top of his conical, fur-trimmed helmet, a horsetail dangled. The sky lit up again as another group of lightning bolts passed overhead. For an instant, Azoun thought that the Tuigan’s dark eyes reflected the light with malevolent intensity.