Crusade Read online

  “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.

  “My father had them leave Salember, ‘the Rebel Prince,’ off the tapestry, even though he ruled the country for almost eleven years,” Azoun said absently.

  Vangerdahast took a seat behind the king. “If Salember had been the victor of the civil war, your father wouldn’t be on the tapestry and I daresay you probably wouldn’t be alive.”

  Azoun frowned, thinking about all he knew of Salember’s reign. “He wasn’t a bad ruler, Vangy—Salember, I mean—and some say he had a right to the throne.”

  “Why bring this up now?”

  Shifting to face his advisor, Azoun mulled over a thought for a moment, then said, “I wonder how my ancestors will portray me, Vangy. I’ve been a good king, but I could do something so wrong that all my good deeds would be forgotten. Salember forces me to remember that.”

  “ ‘You will make history,’ ” the wizard quoted from his old lessons to, then, Prince Azoun, “ ‘but history can unmake you.’ ”

  Azoun laughed and nodded. “What will history say about the council today?”

  Raggedly Vangerdahast sighed and drummed his fingers on his not inconsiderable paunch. “You controlled it as best you could, I suppose.”

  “If that’s the best you can say, we’re in sorry shape.”

  The wizard rubbed his eyes and started to add something, then stopped. In actuality, Vangerdahast wasn’t quite sure what to think of the meeting. He settled for a noncommittal reply. “At least your nobles followed your lead.”

  Azoun was quick to pick up the hesitancy in his advisor’s responses. “As we expected,” he noted as he studied Vangerdahast’s face for some clue as to his true opinion. “But what about Sembia, or, more to the point, the Dales?”

  The wizard shrugged. “We got what we could from Yarmmaster and Sembia. Their army is so small it has trouble keeping the peace at home, so we shouldn’t expect anything other than financial support.”

  “I’m still not all that comfortable with hiring mercenaries, Vangy.”

  “You have no choice,” the wizard replied. “At least Sembia will pay for some of them.”

  “And the Dales?”

  “Not even a witch from Rashemen could predict what they will do,” Vangerdahast said flatly. “It mostly depends on your meeting with the Zhentish delegate two days from now.” The wizard paused and stood up. “Even if you do get Zhentish support, you’re going to have trouble placing the dalesmen in the army.”

  “Ah, Mourngrym’s ridiculous demand for dalesmen leading themselves.”

  “Ridiculous?” Vangerdahast repeated, his eyes wide with surprise.

  Azoun nodded, wondering why his friend was taken aback by his comment. “I’ll not have anyone undermining my command of these forces, Vangy. For us to succeed, there must be one clear leader on the expedition.”

  “You’re being inflexible.”

  “Not inflexible, Vangy. I’m right. Military history shows that—”

  Vangerdahast threw his arms into the air and looked up at the ceiling. “One minute you’re damning fickle historians and the next you’re basing your army’s organization upon their advice.”

  Azoun scowled and crossed his arms over his chest. “I find good advice where I can.”

  “No, Azoun,” Vangerdahast began, then shook his head. “It’s just like Alusair used to—”

  All the color drained from the king’s face at the mention of his youngest daughter. Vangerdahast saw the pained expression that took hold of his friend and instantly regretted the slip. The princess’s opinion of her father’s stubbornness was, however, a very valid point to bring up.

  It was Azoun’s inflexibility that caused his conflict with Alusair. No one really believed that it was entirely the king’s fault his daughter had run away four years past, for Alusair was as headstrong and willful as her father was sure that she had a duty to the state. Still, if Azoun hadn’t pressed her to abandon her desire to see the rest of the world before settling down to a life of royal responsibility, she wouldn’t have fled. And though Azoun had offered a generous reward for her return, Alusair remained hidden from even Vangerdahast’s considerable magic
al talent.

  All these facts, and more personal things, raced through Azoun’s mind. Vangerdahast bowed his head and mumbled, “I’m sorry, Azoun.”

  The king closed his eyes for a moment and banished the memories as best he could. “As I was saying,” he began dully, trying to avoid the topic altogether, “it is important that one person be recognized as the crusade’s leader. For this venture to be successful, we need to dissuade our soldiers of their national loyalties. We should fight as one, and this means Mourngrym’s demand for dalesmen leading dalesmen is utterly impossible.”

  “Have you even considered letting another man lead the crusade?” Vangerdahast asked quietly.

  “Cormyr is committing the most troops,” replied Azoun sharply. “Are you willing to give them over to another leader?”

  “That depends upon who stepped forward,” Vangerdahast said, though there was little conviction in his voice. His spirit still muffled by his painful error, the wizard meekly returned to his seat.

  “Who, Vangy? Mourngrym, perhaps? How about the Sembians’ mercenaries? Would they have my training in strategy? How about that hotheaded general from Battledale—Elventree?” The king hammered the table with a fist, anger roiling inside of him. “I am the only one to lead this crusade. I am the best trained. I—”

  Azoun ran a hand through his beard and straightened the scabbard at his side. When he spoke again, Vangerdahast heard the cold resolve in his voice. “I know that I’m fighting for what’s right. I fight for Cormyr and for Faerun, not for myself.”

  A deeper sadness took hold of the royal magician as he realized that Azoun was correct. There was no other ruler in Faerun better suited for the crusade, no one who could muster as many troops or lead them against the Tuigan with as much zeal. The wizard pushed himself up from the table and headed toward the door.

  Azoun moved to Vangerdahast’s side, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I want you to see that I’m right,” the king said softly.

  “Your Highness knows this matter best. As your servant, I will support you in any way I can.”

  Vangerdahast heard Azoun’s sigh. “And as my friend?”

  The wizard gazed deep into the king’s oak-brown eyes. “As your friend I am sorry that you are the best man to lead the army against the horsewarriors.”

  “Then that will have to do,” Azoun said. He took his hand off Vangerdahast’s shoulder. The wizard turned and exited the room, leaving the king alone to study the faces on the tapestry once more.

  3

  Razor John

  Sure flights! Razor points!”

  The fletcher’s cry rang out over the marketplace. Other wandering sellers called, “Nice red apples!” or “Boots mended! Leather repaired!” The fletcher’s call, borne by his deep, resonant voice, carried over these and other noises.

  “Sure flights! Razor points! Buy your arrows from John the Fletcher! Only the best from Razor John!” Pausing a moment to settle the heavy cart in his hands, John the Fletcher took in the sights and sounds of Suzail’s market.

  It was a beautiful morning. Winter was finally loosing its grip on Cormyr, and the sun shone brightly in the cloudless azure sky. The nights were still chilly, of course, but the days were getting more and more pleasant all the time. The nice weather brought people out to the market, so merchants and shoppers now crowded the open area reserved for tradesmen like John. A few permanent tents and stalls dotted the dusty expanse, but the place was mostly packed with small-time sellers and farmers. Shoppers bustled from one stall to the next. Cooks frowned at unripe imported fruits and vegetables, and merchants smiled endearingly, trying to lure people toward their goods. Ham and beef and other, more exotic meats roasted over small fires, sending tempting smells and black, greasy smoke twisting into the air. Pack animals brayed, gulls screamed overhead, and people jabbered and bartered, creating a steady, roaring hum that would hang over the square until the sun set.

  “Morning, milady,” John said to a passing flower peddler. He lifted his black felt hat with one gloved hand and grinned at the pretty young woman. John had seen her around the market before, and by the purple sash she wore around her waist, he could tell that she was a maiden looking for a mate.

  She passed the fletcher by without so much as a second glance. John shrugged, hefted his cart again, and set off toward the docks.

  “Sure flights! Only the best from Razor John!”

  The fletcher had walked but twenty yards or so, calling out his wares, when a stout man signaled him to stop. The man’s sunburned face was almost hidden by the fur cloak he wore over his earth-brown tunic. The fletcher immediately assumed him to be an itinerant mercenary from the grimy, unkempt state of his dress.

  “What’ll it be today, good sir?” John asked as he unrolled the cloth on the top of his cart. A dozen different types of arrows and crossbow bolts lay on display.

  The man glanced at the weapons, then looked to the fletcher. “I heard you call ‘Razor John.’ Is there anyone else in the market who uses that name?”

  John rubbed the dark stubble on his chin. “Not that I know of, though I’d wager there are other fletchers in Suzail who go by the name of John.”

  The fur-clad man nodded. “No, my good man. If you are the Razor John, then you’re the only fletcher I seek.” He picked up a silver-tipped longbow arrow and turned it over in his hands. Sunlight glinted off the finely honed arrowhead.

  “You’ve got a good eye,” John noted casually, studying the customer. “That type of arrow is one of my specialties.”

  “You make the arrowheads, too?”

  “Aye. I’ve been trained as an arrowsmith as well as a fletcher.”

  The man looked at John suspiciously. “Do you pay dues in the Fletchers’ Guild and the Arrowsmiths’ Guild?”

  John shrugged his left arm toward the customer. “Of course,” he said, slapping his hand over two patches tied around his arm. The small leather circles had the symbols of the Fletchers’ and Arrowsmiths’ Guilds stamped into them. “Licenses are up to date, as well.”

  An odd smile crossed the man’s face. “A guildsman. Good. I’ll take two hundred of your silver-tipped arrows, then.”

  John raised one eyebrow in surprise. He was accustomed to selling such quantities of arrows, but only to ships’ stewards, the royal guard, or the city watch. “My apologies, good sir, but I don’t have that many on hand.” John rolled the cloth display aside and opened his cart. He removed four batches of ten arrows each.

  “I don’t need them right now,” the customer said. “I’ll be in the market to pick up the rest in—” John held up one finger. “A tenday, it is.”

  They discussed how and where John was to deliver the arrows. The terms were simple enough, and the fur-clad man paid the fletcher thirty pieces of silver as a down payment. John was pleased with the sale, for it seemed to indicate that his reputation as a craftsman was spreading. Still, he wondered why the man wanted so many arrows.

  “Outfitting a mercenary company?” John asked as he pocketed the silver coins. “The king is going to be hiring well-outfitted sell-swords for the crusade against the barbarian invaders in Thesk.”

  The man’s sunburned face paled noticeably. “You’d sell arrows to someone supporting Azoun’s foolish plan?” he asked, his lips curling into an almost feral snarl. “I’m tempted to cancel my order, even if you are a guildsman!” Not taking his eyes off John, he slipped his hand into his purse and removed a small leather badge similar to the ones the fletcher wore—this one, though, bore an open, jagged-toothed bear trap stamped into it.

  John stared at the badge. The man wasn’t a mercenary; he was a trapper. The opposition the Trappers’ Guild was fomenting against the king was rumor throughout Suzail, but the trappers had yet to brave any truly public statement of their opinion about the proposed crusade. Suddenly, the fletcher realized that the grimy trapper might be needing the arrows for just such a statement.

  “I may be a guildsman, but I’m also a good
subject of the king,” John said gruffly. He dug the silver coins out of his pocket and dropped them into the dirt. “I’ll not be selling weapons to malcontents for them to use in a revolt.”

  “Better a malcontent than a fool” the trapper snapped. He quickly snatched up the coins and turned to go. “You’ll remember this when the king’s tax collector takes your shop away.” Without another word, the fur-clad man disappeared into the crowded marketplace.

  John simply shook his head in dismay and packed up his cart. He’d heard a great deal about Azoun’s crusade—and the trappers’ opposition to it—in the last few tendays. It was common knowledge that the king was meeting with important nobles and even the leaders of Sembia and the Dales, trying to get their cooperation. The fletcher wondered for a moment if he should report the trapper to the city guard, then decided he would that evening.

  Not that he thought the trappers posed any real threat to the king. Azoun’s army, known as Purple Dragons, could certainly thwart any minor uprising. More importantly, Azoun was going to make a public speech that very afternoon—a speech, rumor had it, in which the king would formally announce the crusade. After the official declaration of war, the government would swiftly equip the crusading army and move it to the east. If the trappers hadn’t yet done anything to unify the scattered groups that were against the venture, it might soon be too late.

  Shielding his eyes, John looked into the sky and estimated from the sun’s position that he had enough time to make one delivery before the king’s speech. He quickly lifted the wooden cart and set off for the Black Rat, a tavern near the docks, east of the marketplace. On his way through the crowded streets, the fletcher thought not of battles in faraway lands, but of the apprentice in his shop. He’d have to visit him before his delivery at the tavern.

  A few blocks from the Black Rat, John left his cart at home. The fletcher lived above his forge and workshop. He sometimes sold his wares from the shop, but it was located far from the market. John found that by traveling part of the day, showing examples of his work, he could drum up much more business than came looking for him.