Crusade e-3

by James Lowder

  Torg leaned forward. "Uniform?"

  "Yes, Ironlord," Pryderi said emphatically. "The orcs both wore black leather armor and had armbands that depicted skulls surrounded by a black sun."

  "Cyric worshipers," Vangerdahast said to Torg. "That skull symbol belongs to the God of Death."

  The dwarven king nodded impatiently. "Yes, mage. I know the symbol well. Many of the orcs in this area worship Lord Cyric, almost as many as worship the old orc gods."

  Folding his arms over his chest, Vangerdahast slumped in his seat. Azoun wondered what had put his advisor in such a foul mood. Obviously, he thought, it's got something to do with the outcome of this patrol.

  Pryderi shot an annoyed look at Vangerdahast, then continued. "We had to hide in some thickets near the stream to avoid them." The dwarf motioned to his muddied armor. "It was uncomfortable, but the orcs did not spot us. I was ready to follow them back to their camp when the mage cast a spell that froze the creatures in place."

  Torg glanced uncomfortably at the wizard, then motioned for Pryderi to finish.

  "We killed one of them right away with a crossbow," the soldier reported proudly. "The other we left to the mage." He made the latter sound far worse than death by a crossbow bolt through the skull.

  "Well, mage?" Torg asked in Common, resting his chin on a fist. "What did you learn?"

  Vangerdahast stood and took a step toward the dwarven king. "I hypnotized the other orc, Ironlord." Torg responded to this statement by furrowing his thick brows together in confusion. Vangerdahast rubbed his chin. "Ah-subjected his will to my own," the mage finally said. "I made him answer the questions I asked."

  Torg and Pryderi exchanged knowing glances. Everything Vangerdahast had done was confirming their mistrust of mages' abilities. "Go on," the ironlord said after a moment. "What did you learn?"

  "There are at least one thousand ores out there," Vangerdahast replied. "Probably more. By the looks of the two scouts, they're very well armed for orcs, too."

  Azoun put his hands to his temples to rub away a headache that was welling behind his eyes. "The troops from Zhentil Keep," he sighed. "They must have run into the orcs. That's why no one has heard from them."

  Vangerdahast nodded. "That would explain much. When I asked the orcish scout, he said they'd come from the west." The mage pointed at Pryderi. "I might have been able to find out more, but this armored imbecile killed the prisoner."

  Torg's face reddened, and he shot to his feet. With a growl, he snapped a question at Pryderi in Dwarvish. The soldier bowed his head and replied softly.

  The ironlord planted his hands on his hips. "He said the orc was trying to escape. Is that true, mage?"

  Scowling, Vangerdahast said, "A soldier struck the orc when he was slow in answering a question. That broke my spell, and the orcish scout went for his sword." The wizard practically shook with anger when he added, "That buffoon shot the orc before I could do anything."

  "Pryderi did the right thing, Ironlord" Alusair said, "The orc might have escaped." Torg nodded and sat down again.

  Vangerdahast was struck dumb by the princess's statement. He stood, staring at Alusair. The king quickly turned to his daughter and said, "That's absurd."

  The rebuke didn't faze Alusair in the least. "You haven't fought as many orcs as the dwarves have, Father. You can't treat them like humans or dwarves or elves. Even if it would have meant certain death, that scout would have attacked Vangerdahast-just to take someone else with him when he died. The soldiers in Earthfast have been fighting against orcs for hundreds of years. Most of their wives and children have been murdered by the beasts. They know orcish treachery well."

  "Besides," Torg noted as he sprawled in his throne, "we have all the information we need right now. If the troops we're expecting from Zhentil Keep ran into the orcs, they've probably been wiped out. And," he concluded, lifting his sword from the ground next to his throne, "they will attack us very soon. All we need to do is wait."

  Both Pryderi and Alusair nodded. Vangerdahast returned to his seat next to Azoun. After a short discussion, it was decided that the Cormyrian king and his wizard should stay in camp, at least until the sun rose. Next, the ironlord sent Pryderi to join the army guarding the perimeter and called in his scribe to take down some messages for the home city, Earthfast.

  For the rest of the night, a white-bearded scribe sat hunched over a piece of parchment, making notes in the thick, angular symbols of the dwarven alphabet. Elaborate iron lanterns hung from metal supports throughout the tent, illuminating much of the area, but casting deep shadows into the corners. Vangerdahast slept, stretched out on one of the stone benches, snoring fitfully. Azoun and Alusair sat close together, and the princess told the king about the terrible, bloody battles she'd fought in defense of the dwarven city.

  At the end of the last tale, she pointed to the armor she wore. "The dwarves made this for me after that fight with the goblins. It's made of the finest mithril steel." She laughed softly and added, "Torg now calls me the 'Mithril Princess' when I wear it."

  Across the tent, the ironlord stretched and yawned. He walked slowly to the door and glanced outside. The first rays of the morning sun were creeping over the hills to the east, filling the dwarven camp with cold, pale light. Torg moved his head sharply to work an ache out of his neck. "I was sure the damnable orcs would have attacked by now," he said morosely. "Perhaps now that it's light they'll find a little courage."

  As if in response to the dwarven king's wishes, a messenger burst into the tent. "Ironlord!" he gasped, dropping to one knee. "The orcs have shown themselves. They're on the eastern side of the camp."

  Torg reached for his sword. "Ha! Now they'll pay for that escort party they murdered," he cried, startling Vangerdahast awake. The birds at the dwarven king's side were also shocked out of their slumber. They flitted around their cage noisily.

  Alusair, already wearing her cuirass, stood and strapped her brassards onto her arms. "Have they attacked yet?" she asked the dwarven messenger.

  "Not yet," he replied, wiping the sweat from his brow. "They are arrayed in battle formation in the field to the east."

  Azoun turned to Torg. "Ironlord, it might be best for us to avoid this conflict. Perhaps the orcs will listen to reason and march on."

  "Reason?" Torg snorted. "Orcs listen to reason, you say? No insult intended, Azoun, but you don't know orcs. They're here to fight."

  "What about the crusade?" Vangerdahast asked, his voice still raspy with sleep. "The troops that die in this possibly preventable battle are lost to the Alliance of the West. Besides," the wizard added, appealing to the dwarven king's honor, "you gave your word that two thousand dwarves from Earthfast would assist us against the Tuigan."

  Torg muttered something vile about wizards into his dark beard, then sighed. "All right. We'll see what your diplomacy can do. It's your funeral, mage. And remember, the first orc to raise a bow or a sword gets a crossbow bolt between its beady little eyes."

  Vangerdahast straightened his beard and followed the two kings and the princess from the tent. Torg's entourage was quickly joined by a squadron of elite guards. Like the other dwarven soldiers, the bodyguard said nothing as it marched to the eastern edge of the camp. Vangerdahast kept to himself, too, and reviewed the spells he knew that might be useful in an attack. Azoun spoke softly to Alusair, but that conversation died abruptly when the Cormyrian king saw the line of dwarves standing before him.

  The army of Earthfast was arranged in neat, perfectly straight rows at the eastern edge of the camp. For hundreds of yards to either side of Azoun, the battle line stretched, three dwarves deep. Silver armor reflected the growing morning sun, and two thousand mailed hands gripped crossbow stocks or swords. Trumpeters and drummers mixed with the troops, ready to sound the attack. Standards marking clans stood above the helmeted heads. These symbols-stylized hammers, anvils, and various weapons-served as rallying points for the soldiers.

  The impressive dwarven line silentl
y faced to the east, where the sun rose slowly over the hills. There, silhouetted in sunlight, stood the orcish army.

  The two armies were a study in contrasts. Unlike the mailed dwarves, the orcs generally wore only black leather armor. A few had on chain mail or pieces of plate, but most of the slouching creatures garbed themselves in the uniformly bleak, weatherbeaten skins. The orcs all personalized their clothing with swatches of bright cloth taken from a murdered foe or bits of bone or fur from a vanquished beast. Whereas Torg's troops stood at attention in rigidly organized lines, the orcs huddled in groups or even squatted on the ground, waiting for orders. Some held unpolished, chipped swords, and others carried almost every kind of weapon imaginable-flails, maces, axes, spears, even polearms. Their standards were real skulls or crude pictures of bleeding eyes or broken fingers, held aloft on posts.

  Alusair spotted drummers lounging amidst the orcish troops and pointed them out to Torg. The dwarven king nodded and relayed an order to his archers that, if possible, the drummers were to be shot first. They were undoubtedly the means of relaying orders in the orcish ranks.

  Torg took his helmet from his squire and cradled it under an arm. He pointed to the center of the enemy's line, where a huge skull, probably belonging to a giant, sat atop a pole. "Their leader, if you can call these savages organized, is probably right there."

  At Azoun's signal, Vangerdahast murmured a spell. When the incantation was complete, the mage put his hands to his mouth and said, "Leader of the orcs, we wish to parley." The words, magically boosted in volume by the spell, easily carried over the silent dwarven troops and even the noisy, grumbling orcs. "I hope they understand Common," Vangerdahast said after he'd delivered his message.

  There was a commotion around the giant skull standard. Across the fifty or so yards that separated the armies, Azoun could see a few orcish soldiers brandishing swords, gesturing wildly at a particularly large soldier. This orc in turn grabbed another soldier by the throat and pushed him toward the dwarven line.

  The abused orc staggered to his feet, shouted a curse or two over his shoulder in Orcish, and took a step toward the dwarves. "No kill," he shouted in broken Common. "Me speaker for Vrakk."

  Azoun quietly conferred with Torg and Vangerdahast for a moment. All three men stepped to the fore. The wizard readied a protective spell as Azoun moved past the lines and held out his empty hands. "I am King Azoun of Cormyr," he yelled in Common, enunciating each word slowly for the creatures arrayed before him. "We don't want to fight, but we will if necessary."

  Something Azoun said had an electrifying effect on the orcish troops. The soldier that had been pushed forward rushed back to the large orc, presumably Vrakk. The leather-armored troops broke into loud debate. A few waved their weapons menacingly at the king and some continued to sprawl on the ground, but most argued heatedly with their comrades.

  Finally the large orc stepped forward, punching a trooper who stood in his way. He took a dozen steps into the space between the armies and slapped his hands to his hips. "You Ak-soon," he growled in horribly belabored Common. After pounding his chest with one long-nailed hand, he added, "I Vrakk from Zhentil Keep. I here to fight horsemen with you."

  9

  The Patchwork Army

  Dwarves crowded one side of the pavilion; orcs milled together on the other. At the long, low table, King Azoun, Princess Alusair, and Vangerdahast sat together. Torg and Vrakk glared at one another spitefully over mugs of ale. Though there was a murmur of Orcish rumbling through the room, none of the dwarves and no one at the main table spoke.

  Vrakk, leader of the orcs, hefted his silver mug and gulped a mouthful of ale. The brown liquid rolled down the side of his gray-green face and dribbled off of his lower canine teeth, which protruded from his large mouth. "We fight for Ak-soon," he said at last. "Masters at Keep no tell us to fight for dglinkarz." The orcish leader lifted his piggish snout a bit and sneered at Torg.

  The orcs in the tent grunted and snarled their agreement. Many of the sweaty, drooling soldiers repeated the word dglinkarz and nodded. The dwarves already had a hand on their sword hilts, so the orcs didn't notice them almost universally tighten their grips.

  Azoun looked to Vangerdahast, who shrugged. The wizard had cast spells enabling himself to understand what the dwarves and orcs said, but the term the orcish leader had used seemed untranslatable. "Fight for whom?" Vangerdahast said to Vrakk in Common.

  The orc narrowed his beady red eyes. "Dglinkarz," he snapped, pointing at the dwarven king. With a sweeping gesture, he indicated all the dwarven troops. "They all dglinkarz." It was obvious from the tone the orc used that it was a venomous insult.

  Torg curled his hand into a fist and held it in front of his mouth. "I will not stand for this, Azoun," he growled. "I will not sit idly by while this beast insults me."

  The Cormyrian king turned sharply to the orcish leader. "And if I order you to fight alongside the dwarves?"

  "If Ak-soon orders," Vrakk said, "we follow." He dropped one elbow to the table, slouched slightly, and scratched the coarse hair on his arm. "That be law from Zhentil Keep."

  Azoun leaned forward. "Even if I tell you to fight on the side of-" he paused and glanced at Torg "-dglinkarz?"

  Scowling so much that his yellowed lower canines almost jutted to his snout, Vrakk nodded. "We follow Ak-soon."

  "He may follow you," Torg snapped as he stood. "I will not. All the denizens from the Realm of the Dead could attack Faerun before I'd fight beside this rabble." The ironlord angrily motioned his guards to leave, then stomped from the pavilion himself. The orcs' jeers followed the armored dwarves out of the tent.

  Azoun could hear Torg issue a loud string of orders outside. Alusair leaned close to her father and said, "He's commanded the guards to kill any orcs that haven't left the camp in an hour."

  "Dwarves not so good warriors, eh, Ak-soon?" the orcish leader bellowed. He slapped the table so hard it rattled, then broke into a loud, snorting fit of laughter. The rest of his party followed suit.

  Her hand on the hilt of her sword, Alusair stood. "I'll see if I can talk to the ironlord, Father." She paused, scanned the room of orcish troops, and added coldly, "Unless you want to see a battle start in camp, tell these … troops to muster where we met them, in the field to the east. Torg isn't bluffing about killing any orcs found in camp."

  Vrakk stopped laughing abruptly. "What you say, girlie? You think dglinkarz frighten us?" He smashed his silver mug on the table's edge, denting it. "We no leave until ready."

  Alusair drew her sword, an action that was answered in kind by the dozen orcs in the tent. Azoun and Vangerdahast stood up slowly, and the wizard prepared a spell that would extricate the humans from the situation if need be. For a long moment, there was no sound save for the orcs' heavy, grunting breaths.

  Surprisingly Vrakk didn't move. He sat at the table, gripping the dented mug, staring at the princess. "You not like Ak-soon, girlie. You like dglinkarz, bad soldier."

  "Look at that mug you're holding, pig," Alusair hissed. "You see those skulls the dwarves are piling up? Those are orc skulls." She pointed the tip of her sword at Vrakk. "Torg will add your skull to that pile, and I'll be happy to help him."

  Azoun slapped the princess's blade down. "Enough!" he shouted. "Get out of here, Allie. I'll see you at Torg's tent in a minute."

  "Not until you're safely away from these animals," Alusair replied, still glaring at Vrakk.

  "I said go Alusair," Azoun repeated sharply. He grabbed his wayward daughter by the shoulders and spun her to face him. "Right now."

  The princess knew from the look in the king's eyes that there was no point in arguing further. She assuaged her fear for her father by deciding that Vangerdahast would certainly guarantee Azoun's safety. With only a single, threatening look at Vrakk, she stormed from the tent.

  His daughter gone, Azoun noticed that the tension in the pavilion eased noticeably. Vangerdahast was still rigid with concentration, preparing himself to
use a spell if necessary, despite the fact that many of the orcs had sheathed their weapons. Vrakk lounged at the table, studying the dwarven mug closely.

  "We follow Ak-soon," the orcish commander rumbled, "but we not let Torg take skulls." Vrakk raised his eyes from the dented silver mug and studied Azoun's face. "What you want orc soldiers do?"

  The king rubbed a hand across his forehead. "I think it would be best if you gathered your troops in the field to the east, as the dwarves ask."

  Without a pause or another word, Vrakk stood and grunted a command in Orcish. The Zhentish soldiers muttered to themselves, but they filed out of the pavilion and headed east. Most of the orcish army was still gathered in the field, but a few had wandered into the dwarven camp. Whenever he saw one of his men, Vrakk would yell out orders. Any orcs slow in responding got a solid blow to the head to remind him of his duty.

  As soon as Vrakk and his leather-armored orcs were gone from camp, Azoun and Vangerdahast hurried to Torg's tent. As they crossed the compound, the king and the mage noted that the dwarves were breaking down tents. Like everything else they did, the troops from Earthfast dismantled their bivouac with steadfast deliberation.

  "I think I prefer the orcs," Vangerdahast said as he watched a pair of gray-bearded dwarves take down a tent in silence.

  Azoun shook his head. "We need Torg and his troops, Vangy. I don't know if we can beat the Tuigan without them."

  The guards opened the door to the ironlord's tent as soon as Azoun and Vangerdahast got close. The Cormyrian king noticed that twice as many armed and armored sentries, all wearing the black surcoat of the ironlord's elite guard, stood watch around Torg's tent. The dwarves' spotless armor and perfect military formation as they paced a perimeter around their leader's tent gave Azoun an idea.

  Upon entering the dark tent, the king said, "I'm disappointed in you, Ironlord. I'd heard your word was worth more than this." Vangerdahast cast a surprised look at his friend; he hadn't expected Azoun to take the offensive in this matter so quickly.