Crusade e-3

by James Lowder

  "Mind your own damned business," Kiri snapped. She leaned toward the sailor as if daring him to reply. He snorted a laugh, then turned and at least pretended not to be listening.

  Razor John moved closer to Kiri. "Go on," he urged. More than anyone the fletcher had met-including the flower girl in Suzail's marketplace-she ignited his interest. The more he knew about her, the better.

  Kiri locked her sparkling eyes on John's face and smiled. "People expect me to be some kind of professional troll killer. I've never even seen a troll in my life. One might come up and bite me, and I wouldn't be able to tell it apart from a tax collector."

  The Sembian sailor rolled over again. "Have you heard the joke about the tax collector?" he asked, ignoring Kiri's angry stare. "No? All right, what's the boldest thing in Faerun?" When no one replied, the sailor said, "A tax collector's shirt. It hangs around the neck of a thief every day."

  "That isn't the way I heard it," Mal said, standing above the sailor. A look of confusion crossed his thick-boned, fleshy face. "I thought the joke was about Sembian millers."

  For an instant Kiri considered telling Mal that the sailor had just finished a joke about King Azoun, for that would certainly provoke the warrior into hitting the nosy sailor. She relented, deciding that a fight would mean another run-in between Mal and the first mate. No one needed that. "He just got it wrong, Mal. Hear any news in the galley?"

  The blond soldier shoved a whole biscuit in his mouth, chewed twice, then swallowed. "Yeah, actually I did. One of the cooks heard that the captain of Azoun's carrack, the, uh-" He scratched his head in confusion.

  "Welleran," John said between bites of fruit. He glanced at Mal and realized that the thickness of his facial bones accentuated the bewildered look that often clung to the warrior.

  "Yeah," Mal said, "the Welleran. Anyway, the captain supposedly took some of the gold that was meant to be sacrificed to Umberlee before the fleet left Suzail. They say that he was the cause of that storm."

  "They going to give him a trial?" Kiri asked, leaning back against the railing.

  Mal wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his coarse woolen shirt. "Nah. He's dead. Got washed overboard during the storm."

  "The gods take their due," Razor John noted. Kiri nodded, and Mal just scratched his chest through his damp clothing.

  A voice from the rigging broke the silence that followed the fletcher's comment. "Ship off the starboard!"

  The companions squinted until they saw a small speck near the horizon. In minutes, the Sarnath's bow had been realigned toward the dot. John, Kiri, and Mal sat near the bowsprit for a time, watching the other ship grow larger and larger. The first mate, a cross, foul-mouthed woman, came by soon and sent them to their morning tasks.

  Mal muttered defamations against Sembians, dalesmen, and anyone else he could think of as he made his way to the ship's hold. John didn't envy the soldier his duty, which was to feed, clean, and exercise the horses stored in the deepest part of the ship. The animals were kept in slings much of the time to prevent injury. That captivity made them high-strung and skittish, though. Many was the day that Mal came back from his duty with a bloody bite mark or large purple bruise from one of his charges.

  Kiri cheerfully went to her station in the rigging. The daughter of Borlander the Trollslayer had keen eyes, so she was often assigned lookout duty. Despite the fact that her job was more dangerous than Mal's, she relished the time it gave her away from the crowded deck. She'd even invited John up into the masts on occasion, but the fletcher found the heights too unsettling to stay there long.

  Razor John spent his days working on arrows and fletching. Azoun's generals had made it clear to all the ship's captains that weaponsmiths, including fletchers and bowyers, were to be given the time to work on tools for the crusaders. Without the freedom to stroll, selling his wares, John found the work a little tedious. Still, if he closed his eyes and tried to ignore the slight swaying of the deck, he could picture himself back in the marketplace. The noisy bustle of sailors and soldiers, the salty tang in the air, and the cry of seabirds lofting over the ship certainly made it easy to imagine the Sarnath as an extension of Suzail's market.

  The fletcher was letting his mind wander over his days in the marketplace when he heard Kiri's voice from high on a mast. "Ship close to the starboard."

  "Signal her," came another voice from the deck. John listened for a reply, but if there was one, it was lost in the murmur of the people nearby.

  Quickly John stacked the shaft he was working on to the pile he'd finished in the hour since the ship had first been sighted. He stood, stretched, and glanced at the ruined carrack that foundered a few hundred yards from the Sarnath.

  The derelict ship's rigging hung loose, and its sails were shredded and limp. Gulls stood unmolested on the rail, a clear indication that something was wrong onboard the tri-masted carrack. For ten minutes, the Sarnath tried to raise a response from the ship, which someone eventually identified by its serpentine masthead as the Turmish vessel, Ouroboros. No one on the transport replied to the shouts or signals from the Sembian cog.

  "The Ouroboros is part of the crusaders' fleet," a sailor told John. The fletcher frowned and wondered if he knew anyone who'd shipped out on the now-abandoned vessel.

  A sharp rap on the shoulder brought John out of his contemplation. "Ho, fletcher," the first mate snapped. "Come with me. I've got some real work for you." She spun around and pushed her way across the crowded deck.

  Razor John sighed, then followed. The first mate had decided shortly after the start of the trip to make his and Kiri's life miserable; the fight Mal had started with her the first night out from Suzail was certainly the reason. Still, the fletcher knew it was futile to argue.

  "Help lower that," the first mate told John. She pointed to a small boat that hung at the rail. Without a word, he went to work with three others, lowering the craft and its two passengers into the water.

  One of the men in the boat was a Sembian sailor. The other was a young, gold-haired cleric. His robes and the holy symbol around his neck indicated his worship of Lathander, the God of Dawn and Renewal. "I'll signal you if I need help," the priest shouted as the sailor took up the oars and started to row toward the Ouroboros.

  The first mate placed a rough hand on the shoulder of the captain, who now stood nearby, and said, "We should be ready to attack if need be." She pointed to the wallowing carrack and added, "This might be some kind of pirate trap."

  The captain, a slothful, careless man with a few days growth of beard darkening his cheeks, simply nodded. He scanned the seemingly abandoned ship with watery gray eyes, then turned his attention to flicking the smaller spots of dirt from his soiled white and gold uniform. This was a scene that Razor John had seen repeated in various forms throughout the voyage. It was clear, to the fletcher at least, that the first mate actually ran the Sarnath.

  "All right, fletcher. Get your bow and get right back here." The first mate cupped her hands over her small, cruel mouth. "All archers to the starboard rail. Bring your weapons."

  The cry was relayed around the cog, and John listened to men and women grumble as they gathered up their weapons from the spots where they slept. The fletcher took his longbow from his bed near the bowsprit and returned to the first mate's side.

  Much of the ship's attention was focused on the little boat as the sailor and the cleric made their way across to the Turmish ship, then boarded her. Only the gold-haired priest climbed up to the carrack's deck. The few mottled seabirds that had gathered along the rails scattered into the air when he got close. Squawking and screeching angrily, the birds circled over the two ships. A few of the men attempted to shoot the scavengers out of the sky, but the first mate swiftly ordered the men who'd fired at the birds be put to hard labor for the afternoon. John simply frowned at the waste of good arrows for impromptu target practice.

  After a few moments the priest appeared at the Ouroboros's rail and waved to the Sarnath. "No one left alive,
" someone muttered behind John. The fletcher was thinking the very same thing.

  The Sembian sailor rowed the small boat back to the Sarnath faster than he had rowed away from her. The priest seemed to be bowed in prayer the entire way back.

  "Well?" the captain asked when the ship's boat got near. "What did you find?"

  The priest tried to stand, but the boat rocked so much that he nearly tumbled into the sea. His companion grabbed him by the hem of his scarlet robe and yanked him back to a sitting position. From their erratic, almost frantic actions, it seemed clear that both men had been frightened by what had been discovered on the abandoned carrack.

  "Plague," the priest replied at last. He took his holy symbol-a wooden disk painted a rosy pink-and rubbed it between his hands. "They're all dead."

  A rumble of concern and fear ran along the rail, as those who heard the priest's report discussed it with their neighbors. The first mate cursed and spat into the water. "Well, Captain," she said at last, "there's not much doubt about what we should do now."

  Again the captain nodded. "Not much doubt at all."

  The two men in the boat couldn't hear the discussions held at normal levels onboard the ship, but they must have sensed something was wrong. They both grabbed for the oars and attempted to push the small boat closer to the black-hulled Sembian cog.

  The first mate turned to Razor John. "Kill both the sailor and the priest, fletcher."

  John gasped. "No!" he said, outrage in his voice.

  The first mate raised her callused hand as if she were going to strike the fletcher, then she stopped. "Those men have been exposed to plague," she hissed. "Kill them before they get aboard, or we'll end up just like the Ouroboros."

  The comment stopped John cold. He stared out at the two men in the small boat, then thought of a plague spreading through the ship, killing everyone on the Sarnath. I'll die, too, he realized. And Kiri. That thought, above all, disturbed him terribly.

  He met the cold, hard gaze of the first mate. "Why me?"

  She smiled a malevolent, evil grin. "Because you're a soldier now, Cormyrian, and I'm an officer. You do what I say. Besides, do you want a ship full of crusaders to die because of two men? You won't beat the Tuigan that way."

  Closing his eyes, John came to a decision. He hesitated for only an instant, pulling his black, fingerless gloves tight on his hands, then snatched a blue-fletched arrow from his quiver and nocked it in his bow. The sailor in the small boat looked up just as John let the arrow fly.

  The Sembian sank down, an arrow through his heart. The cleric wailed once and got to his knees. "I can cast a spell!" he cried. "I won't spread the plague."

  "We just can't take that chance," the captain replied coldly. He turned his gray eyes to John and casually flicked two fingers toward the ship's boat.

  The fletcher sighted the cleric's heart and pulled back on the bowstring. The fine cord bit into his fingers, then he let another arrow fly. The Lathanderite futilely tried to get out of the way. Instead of striking him in the heart, the blue-fletched arrow hit his shoulder, knocking him from the boat. He struggled for a moment, then sank. The cleric's wooden holy symbol was left floating on the surface, but soon it, too, dropped beneath the water.

  "You eight archers to my right," the first mate yelled, "get some pitch and lob flaming arrows onto the Ouroboros. I want her fully engulfed before we leave."

  After glancing at the still form in the boat, she turned to John. "You do your job well. Now all you have to do is get used to following orders." When he replied with only a blank look, the first mate added, "This is a war, fletcher, not a contest of skill at the spring festival."

  Silently John walked back to the bowsprit. Along the way, a few sailors slapped him on the back and congratulated him on his fine marksmanship.

  As he leaned back against the gunwale, the fletcher pondered why no one seemed especially chilled by what had just occurred. After a little while, he decided that the first mate was correct: he'd only done his job. Razor John wasn't proud of the task he'd reluctantly completed, but he went back to working arrows convinced that King Azoun would at least understand he'd killed only to save the ship and further the cause of the crusade.

  The port of Telflamm was crowded with ships of every sort. As King Azoun scanned the harbor from the deck of the Welleran, he estimated that about two hundred vessels from the crusaders' fleet lay moored nearby-almost half the total armada. Boats of many sizes shuttled between the docks and the larger ships, carrying soldiers and sailors to shore. The piers were filled to capacity with cogs and carracks, which were being unladen by longshoremen. Crates of food and weapons, horses and livestock, even parts for mobile forges and supply wagons, covered Telflamm's docks.

  "We're ready to go, Your Highness."

  Azoun nodded. "Then let's be on our way," he said to Farl Bloodaxe. "Will we be to Torg's camp before nightfall?"

  The general shrugged. "I don't know these waters very well. I would say more likely before sunrise tomorrow morning." The dark-skinned man shielded his eyes with his hands and looked toward the sun, which was now high in the east over the onion-shaped domes of Telflamm's temples and civic buildings. "Yes, definitely by dawn tomorrow."

  "King Torg awaits," Azoun noted cheerfully, motioning for Farl to give the orders to proceed. The Welleran was quickly under way north along the coast of the Easting Reach, two other Cormyrian carracks following close behind.

  Azoun glanced back at Telflamm once, then began a leisurely stroll around the ship. For the first time since the carrack had left Suzail-a little over a month before-the Welleran was quiet. Most of the passengers had been dropped in port so that extra supplies could be loaded aboard the Cormyrian tri-masters. This food and other essentials were destined for King Torg and his dwarven troops, and whatever soldiers Zhentil Keep had seen fit to send. Only a skeleton crew remained aboard the flagship, commanded by Farl Bloodaxe, who had won the men's support during the storm.

  With Lord Harcourt and General Elventree secure in Telflamm, keeping the troops in line, Azoun had time to discuss the use of magic in the upcoming conflict with Vangerdahast. The king's trusted advisor was along on the crusade to supervise the use of the War Wizards against the Tuigan. Azoun had no doubts that his old tutor would wreak havoc upon Yamun Khahan's army given the chance.

  "From everything I've heard," Vangerdahast had said during one meeting, "the Tuigan don't like magic very much at all. In fact, their permanent capital-if you can call a tent city a capital-is set up in a magic-dead area. Spells won't work there." The mage had stroked his beard then and looked wistfully at the flickering lantern. "A few well-placed lightning bolts ought to shake them up quite a bit."

  Azoun leaned on the base of a mast. He laughed to himself, thinking of the gleam that shone in Vangerdahast's eyes whenever he spoke of using spells against the horsewarriors. Azoun was sure that his old friend was getting at least a little caught up in the adventure of the crusade.

  In fact, from what the king had seen during the sail from Suzail, the entire army seemed to be growing more excited, more enthusiastic about the campaign. The Welleran had come close to many other transport ships during the trip across the Inner Sea. Every time the flagship got near enough that another vessel could see she flew King Azoun's standard, she was welcomed with cheers of greeting.

  That joyous sound kept Azoun's spirits buoyed through the quiet trip along the coast that day, and the king's growing confidence in his army began to show in his demeanor. He spent little time during the night worrying about the battles to come. Instead, he thought about his wife and wondered how she was faring back in Suzail. Before he went to sleep, he resolved to have Vangerdahast contact Filfaeril as soon as possible, once the supplies were delivered.

  Vangerdahast even noticed that Azoun seemed relaxed and well rested on the morning they reached their rendezvous point, on the northern shore of the Easting Reach, just south of the port town of Uthmerg.

  "Why so animated
this day, Your Highness?" the royal wizard asked as he watched the king briskly pace back and forth at the rail.

  "I am happy because our goal is almost in sight," Azoun told the mage. He stopped pacing, then pointed east to the tall-grassed, rolling hills that stretched away from the shore. "And King Torg is sure to be ready to join our army by now."

  The wizard squinted toward the shore. The choppy, shallow water prevented the Welleran and the two ships accompanying her from getting closer than a few hundred yards from the beach's dark sand. "Then I suggest we get a move on. Do you see any envoys yet?"

  Now the king scanned the dark shoreline, too, but saw nothing save a few white birds running in the surf. "No. You contacted them already, didn't you, Vangy?"

  "Hours ago," the wizard sighed. He rubbed his chin, then nodded. "If you have no objections, Azoun, I'll have us in the dwarves' camp in a few moments."

  With that, the royal magician fell silent and noiselessly mouthed an incantation. His eyes rolled back in his head, revealing milky white orbs. "That will do nicely," Azoun heard the mage mumble. His voice sounded hollow, as if it were coming from a great distance. Before long, Vangerdahast closed his eyes, then shook his head briskly.

  "I've located the camp, and I think I've spotted a fine location for us to teleport to. We'd best move right away, however." The wizard grabbed Azoun's wrists. "Don't want some fool dwarf to park a horse or a cart there."

  "Farl," the king called. When the general appeared from a hatch nearby, Azoun said, "The escort hasn't shown up, so we're going ahead to the camp. We'll send word as soon as the dwarves are ready to receive their supplies."

  The ebony-skinned man nodded, then asked, "Is there anything else I should do while you're gone?"

  "Just keep the ship afloat," Vangerdahast said quickly. "Come, Your Highness, we really can't dawdle."

  Azoun swallowed and clenched his teeth. "Let's get it over with, Vangy." The king had complete faith in his friend. Still, the gruesome stories he'd heard about mages mistakenly teleporting into stones or trees, or ending up hundreds of yards above the ground after the spell, made Azoun nervous.