by James Lowder
The princess dropped the cuirass beside the brassards, then held up her left hand. A bright gold band hugged her ring finger. "I bought it from a mage in Ravens Bluff. A spell on the ring makes it impossible for someone to detect my whereabouts through magical means."
"I knew it had to be something foolish like that," Vangerdahast grumbled.
The king looked closely at Alusair's hands as she adjusted the padded doublet she wore under her armor. They were grimy with sweat and hardened from years of gripping a sword, but that was not what Azoun noticed. "Where is your signet ring?" the king demanded.
Her smile fled completely, and Alusair sat down at the low dwarven table. She moved stiffly, not surprising since she'd not removed the brichette from her hips or the cuisses from her legs. "I threw it away, dropped it into the sea."
"Why?" Azoun snapped as he stood. "That ring could have saved your life. It identified you as a princess of House Obarskyr."
"Which is exactly why I had to get rid of it. I didn't want a bounty hunter to capture me and try to ransom me back to Cormyr." The princess took a long, slow swallow of ale.
"So you tossed your heritage into the sea?" In the quiet minute that followed the rebuke, Azoun slumped into his chair. "Make me understand, Allie. Why?"
"I told you, I didn't want someone to blackmail the family. I don't think you realize how much danger you put me in by offering a reward for my return."
Azoun shook his head and waved his hand angrily. "No, no. Why did you run away in the first place?"
After another sip of the ale, Alusair leaned forward, her head resting on her hand. "The note I left should have explained everything, Father. I just couldn't stand it at court any longer. You and Mother were always tied up with some petty political problem, Tanalasta spent more time worrying about fashion than the state of the country." She took a deep breath and rubbed her eyes with the tips of her fingers. "I don't want to go over all of this again."
"Then why are you here?" Vangerdahast interjected from the other side of the tent. His face was hidden in the shadows, but Alusair could imagine the look of puzzlement it held.
Her eyes still closed, the princess sighed. "I thought it might be time to forget the past." She turned to her father, her mask of cocky self-assurance cracking for the first time. "I thought you would finally accept me for what I am, not what you want me to be."
Vangerdahast walked to Azoun's side. "I'll explore the camp for a while," he said softly in the king's ear.
Once Vangerdahast had gone, Azoun waited for Alusair to say something. After a few moments of continued silence, he gave up. "You threw away your heritage, Allie." The king paused, trying to push the anger from his voice. The more he thought about his daughter, however, the angrier he became. "And for what did you give it up?" the king snapped after a moment. "To become a sell-sword? A freebooter? You could have ruled Cormyr one day!"
Alusair laughed bitterly. "Tanalasta is older, remember? She'll be queen, alongside whomever you and Mother decide will make a suitable king. Even if I could rule," she added, turning away from the king, "I wouldn't want to."
"You've no respect for responsibility," Azoun replied. "That's your biggest problem. You're a princess. But do you use the gifts with which the Goddess of Luck has blessed you? Of course not." He pointed an accusing finger at Alusair. "You waste your life roaming the countryside."
The princess stood, her back still to Azoun. "This was a mistake," she said, a measure of hardness returning to her voice. "You're just not ready."
Hearing the pain in his child's voice did more to wipe away Azoun's fury than anything he could have done himself. "I can't help but be angry, Allie," he said. "I just don't see why you couldn't live at court. Was life so terrible that you had to run?"
When the princess turned around again, bright tears sparkled in her eyes. The light from the lanterns made each drop look like a diamond as it rolled down Alusair's cheek. "I am not a politician, Father. I don't belong in the court." She wiped her eyes with her doublet's sleeve. "You used to tell me stories about the King's Men, how you used to sneak out and go on adventures. What I did isn't all that different."
"Of course it's different," Azoun said almost automatically. "I was never gone for long, and I always returned."
Alusair started to say something, then paused and shook her head.
"What is it, Allie?" the king asked, holding his hand out to his daughter. "You can be honest."
Looking into her father's eyes, Alusair wondered if she really should speak her mind or let the subject drop. No, she decided, things will never be resolved if I avoid this conflict. "You must regret it," she said softly.
A look of confusion crossed the king's face. "Regret what?"
Alusair swallowed the last of her tears and sat down across from Azoun. "Coming back. You must regret ever coming back from your adventures with Dimswart and Winefiddle and the others."
"I had responsibilities, Allie. I couldn't-"
"No, Father. Not couldn't, didn't." She squeezed the king's hand. "Even when I was a little girl, I heard it in your voice when you told me about the King's Men."
"Perhaps I regret it a little," the king conceded. He gently pulled his hand away from Alusair and steepled his fingers before his face. "But I had a responsibility to Cormyr-as you do-and I fulfilled it. Anyway," he added, smiling a little, "I never could have had a family or done what good I've managed for Cormyr gallivanting around the countryside as Balin the Cavalier."
"And you wouldn't have been forced to do so many petty wrongs either," the princess noted firmly. "You can't worry about each individual in Cormyr, only the state as a whole. So when you tax, you can't consider the minority it really hurts. You take away freedom in deference to law. That's wrong."
Azoun frowned as he considered his daughter's words. "What's the alternative? I do good for the most people by creating and upholding the country's laws."
The princess reached behind her, picked up the cuirass she had dropped onto the ground, and placed it on the table between her and her father. "With a good suit of armor," Alusair began, running her finger along the fantastically carved metal, "and a sharp sword, I can right as many wrongs as I can find between sunup and sundown."
"That's all fine, Allie, but you can't make any significant change as an adventurer. I tried, remember? That's what the King's Men was all about."
Alusair stared at the light reflecting on the armor before her. "I guess I just don't want the responsibility for anyone else. I only kill myself if I try to rescue someone from an ogre or if I decide to take a side in a war." She traced a dent in the armor, recently but not completely mended. "And if I die, I know I fought for a good cause."
Reflexively running a hand through his gray-shot beard, Azoun stood up and paced around the pavilion. The wind was picking up outside, and occasional strong breezes made the sides of the tent snap and bow. After a few circuits around the long table, the king faced his daughter. "What have you been fighting for, Allie? What have you done with the last four years?"
The princess looked up from her armor. "I've been to Waterdeep, Ravens Bluff, Damara, even the Moonshae Isles. I lived for a while on the money I took with me when I left the castle. After that, I worked as a caravan guard, helped a fishing village make a bargain with a dragon turtle, even hunted for the Ring of Winter for a season or two."
The mention of the Ring of Winter, a powerful artifact that had been missing for many, many years, made Azoun start. Most of the beings who sought it were power-mad and very often evil. "These are jobs any mercenary would take, Allie. How can you say you've been fighting for good causes?"
"I always knew who I was working for, Father. I always knew what their goals were."
Azoun fell silent again and paced for a few more minutes. After that, he asked the princess more questions, but each yielded a short, dry answer. The king learned where his daughter had been, what she had done there, but very little about her life. "And did you always t
ravel alone?" Azoun asked after she told him of the time she'd been captured by a party of drow north of Waterdeep. "I'd heard that you'd run away with a cleric from Tilverton."
The comment had an immediate effect on Alusair. She paled noticeably, even in the shadowy tent, and her voice trembled slightly when she replied. "Yes, Father. I… traveled with a cleric from Tilverton, Gharri of Gond. He died as we tried to escape some bounty hunters. They were after the reward you'd put on my return."
Azoun moved to his daughter's side. "I don't know what to say … other than I'm sorry for your loss."
"For a long time I blamed his death on you, Father," the princess said, her face betraying the strain the topic was putting on her. "I only recently decided that you couldn't have known what the bounty hunters would do."
The silence that followed the revelation of Gharri's death was longer and more deadening than the last. Alusair sat, her head bowed slightly, remembering her lost love. Azoun stood over his daughter, his hand on her shoulder. The king considered breaking the silence again, but found there was nothing he could say that wouldn't sound maudlin or foolish.
The high, shrill sound of a trumpet crying out over the dwarven camp broke the sad calm in the pavilion. The king heard low, rumbling voices, speaking in Dwarvish. The hushed voices were echoed by faint sounds of metal clanging. With a slight shock, Azoun realized that this was the first noise he'd heard from the dwarven camp all evening. After the drilling had ended at sundown, the camp had become deathly silent, highly unusual for a large gathering of soldiers.
Alusair grabbed her cuirass and stood up. The trumpet called out again, a harsh, trilling note. "Orcs," the princess hissed. "The sentries have spotted orcs."
As Alusair retrieved the brassards that would cover her arms, Azoun moved to the tent's door. Dwarven troops mustered quietly in the darkness outside. The stocky soldiers marched quickly out of their tents, toward the edges of the camp. Their faces were set in grim determination.
"We've got to go, Father," Alusair said. The king turned to see his daughter, her armor slung over her shoulder, waiting to leave. "This isn't a particularly safe spot. I'll escort you across the compound to Torg's tent, then you and Vangy should head back to the ship."
The king frowned. "I'll see Torg, but I'm not all that sure I'm leaving just yet."
With the skittering sound of metal sliding across metal, the princess drew her sword. "You don't have a weapon, do you?"
Smiling, Azoun reached to his high leather boot and withdrew a slender silver dagger. The lanterns cast small glints of light off the stiletto's razor edge. "I've had too many attempts on my life to ever travel unarmed."
The king and the princess crossed the central square of the dwarven camp. Soldiers continued to march through the square, heading toward their assigned mustering stations. The troops were fully armored and carried crossbows and swords. Apart from an occasional trumpet blast or shouted order, the camp remained strangely silent.
"Silence is a virtue for Earthfast's soldiers," Alusair explained as they walked toward Torg's compound. "They're used to fighting underground. Any noise made in the caves and tunnels would echo, and that could hide an enemy's location."
Azoun watched a mail-clad dwarf pull a pointed helmet over his head, then trudge off. "Don't you find it disconcerting?" he asked. "I don't think human troops are ever this quiet."
"I'd know who to place a wager on in a battle, wouldn't you?" Alusair asked in response. She stopped alongside a firepit, its flames low, the fire mostly extinguished. The princess kicked dirt into the stone-encircled pit to douse the feeble blaze. Before her father could ask why, she said, "They're used to fighting in the dark, remember? Any light like this-" She gestured at the smoldering ash with her toe. "It could take away their advantage in a night battle."
The pair soon reached the ironlord's tent, directly across the open square from the pavilion Azoun had occupied. Breathless messengers hurried in and out of the large, black tent. The runners wore leather armor studded with metal. Even with that heavy burden, they dashed as quickly as their short legs could carry them, relaying orders for the dwarven commanders. Two guards holding pikes stood at strict attention in front of the royal tent.
"Tell the ironlord I've brought King Azoun of Cormyr to the safety of his presence," the princess commanded one of the guards in perfect Dwarvish. The sentry nodded his helmeted head once and spun sharply to the door. When he opened the heavy cloth covering the entryway, Azoun heard Torg growling what must have been orders. The ironlord's loud voice contrasted sharply with the quiet of the camp. As soon as the door fell closed again, the voice was muffled to near silence.
"The tent is made of thick felt, laced with metal," Alusair whispered in response to the king's puzzled look. "They designed it especially for Torg to use in this campaign."
The guard exited the tent and held the door open, a sign for the princess and the king to enter. As he went in, Azoun was amazed at the contrast between the dark, silent camp and Torg's bright, noisy headquarters. The dwarven monarch sat on a stone dais across from the door. He already wore much of his armor; a squire was fastening the last straps of the cuisses on the ironlord's legs. To Torg's left, a tall golden birdcage stood. Three small, brilliantly colored birds fluttered about inside the cage, chirping happily.
"We've got trouble, Princess," Torg bellowed in Common as soon as he saw Alusair. "Pryderi mac Dylan found the escort we sent out earlier. Dead, of course." The dwarven king pounded his fist on the edge of his throne. "Orcs, they say. Signs of them all around the camp."
"The Bloody Skull?" the princess asked.
Torg pushed the squire away and finished the straps himself. "No. From what Pryderi found, this is a new band."
Azoun stepped forward. "How many?"
"Hard to tell, Your Highness. Has your daughter told you about our orc problems?"
"Daughter?" the king gasped, looking from Torg to Alusair, then back again. "You know?"
"Who do you think told me about your treatise on polearms?" The dwarven king grinned and turned to the princess. "A happy family again, eh?"
"I told him who I was only a few days past, when it was too late for him to contact you, Father." Frowning slightly, Alusair decided to change the subject right away. "Where's the magician who was with my father when he arrived?"
Turning to the birdcage, Torg leaned forward, placing his face against the bars. The birds danced around the cage, twittering loudly. "Do you keep birds in your palace, Azoun? They are fantastic creatures. Almost the greatest thing the gods set on Toril, don't you think?" He cast a glance at Azoun, then gazed into the cage again. "We use them in the mines. If the air goes bad, the birds die first."
Alusair sighed. "The wizard, Ironlord. Where is he?"
"I caught him wandering about the camp, so I sent him with one of the patrols. Perhaps he can determine how many orcs are lurking out there." The dwarven king threw a cloth cover over the birdcage, then reached for his surcoat. "I didn't want a spellcaster in camp, if I could help it anyway. No insult intended, Azoun, but I just don't trust magic."
Azoun heard a trace of fear in Torg's voice, but he wasn't surprised. Dwarven communities tended to foster natural strength and endurance in their people. Little sorcery was permitted. Dwarves often created weapons and armor that, because of their exquisite making, had magical powers, and dwarven clerics-who called upon their gods for the ability to cast spells-were common, too. However, mages were people to be feared, for their arts were not rooted in the power of the earth, religious beliefs, or simple craftsmanship.
"No insult taken," Azoun said. "Vangerdahast can defend himself if the need arises, and he certainly knew of the dwarven aversion to magic before he came here."
The stoic guard who had announced Azoun's presence earlier entered the tent once again. "Pryderi mac Dylan's patrol has returned," he said in Dwarvish, his helmet muting his voice to a low rumble.
Torg pulled his surcoat on over his armor. Aft
er adjusting the black tunic so the blood-red phoenix lay squarely positioned on his chest, he said, "Show Pryderi in." As the guard moved to usher in the new guests, Torg told Azoun and Alusair to take a seat on the stone benches that were on either side of the tent.
The red-bearded dwarf who had threatened Azoun atop the hill strode into the tent. His beard was tangled slightly, and his surcoat was torn and mud-splattered. "Ironlord," he said as he entered, "I have much to report." He dropped stiffly to one knee and bowed his head. "The mage cast a spell and discovered a little about the orcs."
Azoun could understand only fragments of what was being said, but Alusair spoke and understood Dwarvish well.
At the mention of the mage, she said, "Ironlord, Vangerdahast should be allowed into your presence."
"Of course" Torg said casually. "Squire, tell the guards to let him in."
Vangerdahast entered a moment later. The bottom of his long robe was covered with mud, and brambles still clung to his sleeves. Like Pryderi's, the mage's beard was tangled and dirty. He was picking sharp yellow thorns out of his clothes, muttering curses in Common, when he stepped through the door. He bowed perfunctorily to Torg, then joined Azoun and Alusair.
The disheveled Pryderi cleared his throat and continued his report. "The human wizard joined our scouting party after we'd found the escort. We spotted a pair of orcs creeping about-"
Torg held up a hand, and the soldier stopped speaking in mid-sentence. "Can you translate this for your father and the mage, Princess? They should know what's being said, and Pryderi is no master of Common." Alusair nodded and leaned toward Azoun, ready to translate the soldier's report.
"Don't worry about me," Vangerdahast muttered when Azoun asked him to move closer. "I cast a spell a little while back that lets me understand Dwarvish." He removed a large, squirming caterpillar from the hem of his robe and tossed it into the corner.
Pryderi, still resting on one knee before Torg's throne, waited for the ironlord's signal before he continued. "We spotted the orcs creeping about north of the camp. They were obviously spies for a larger group, as they were wearing a uniform of sorts."