by James Lowder
Alusair appreciated Farl's compliment, but the notion that she was one of the only things holding the Alliance together frightened her. She realized then that it was this responsibility that weighed so heavily upon her. Running a hand through her knotted blond hair, Alusair wondered if this pressure was what her father felt every day.
To take her mind off that and other thoughts, she established a makeshift command headquarters in the midst of the western lines. Despite this effort, the princess found that, once she'd set the army to its various tasks, there was little for her to do but wait and think and watch the bright bonfires that had sprung up around the battlefield. Those fires, which might have been the center for a rustic celebration in Cormyr, were the resting place for the western dead. One by one, corpses were hefted onto the blazing pyres, their souls sent to the afterlife unceremoniously on clouds of foul-smelling smoke.
The funeral pyres brought more unwelcome contemplation, and she was attempting to force her mind away from various morbid topics when she heard a spent arrow snap beneath someone's foot. Glancing behind her, the princess saw Thom Reaverson, a smile on his young face. At the bard's side was another man, dressed in a heavy black robe, its hood concealing his face.
"Hello, Allie," the hooded man said.
Alusair sprang to her feet and threw her arms around her father. When the king groaned, the princess backed up a step. From where she stood, Alusair could see Azoun's pale face and haggard expression. She also noted for the first time that he leaned heavily to his left upon a walking stick.
Before his daughter could say a word, the king held up his right hand. "Thom told me you were here, so I came to see you." He shifted his weight on his leg, trying to get comfortable. "I just wanted to tell you I'm all right, and I wanted to see how you fared in the battle. I was. . worried."
The king didn't need to explain the disguise. After seeing how ill her father looked, Alusair could guess the reason for it. "You don't want the men to see you when you're so weak," she said quietly.
Azoun nodded. "In the morning, after I've rested, I'll return from the dead, their triumphant hero." Alusair could not miss the note of self-scorn in those words. She wanted to comfort her father, but he'd already placed his hand on Thom's shoulder and turned to go.
"Wait!" the princess gasped, running a few steps to get beside Azoun. "What are we supposed to do until morning?"
The king cocked his head, and Alusair thought she saw a little color flush back into his face. "Thom told me that you've taken command until I get better," he said, pride bolstering his weak voice. "And from what I hear you're doing everything I would." He hobbled a step, then stopped and added, "I'd move the troops tonight, though. We'll have a better chance of putting some distance between us and the Tuigan under cover of darkness." Thom cast a sympathetic glance at the princess, then the king and the bard moved on.
For a moment Alusair considered telling her father she didn't want the responsibility for the army, that he or anyone else should take it. But as her father limped back toward the western camp, his face hidden in the hood, the princess realized that he already knew that. Alusair realized, too, that she would take command of the Army of the Alliance, not because she had some vague duty to honor or pride, but because Azoun needed her help.
The weight she felt upon her shoulders that night wasn't lessened by her acceptance. In fact, she felt the responsibility all the more because she knew what it was and knew that the burden could not be lightened. But Alusair was reconciled with that, and she went about organizing the retreat of the army, knowing that her father depended upon her. She was certain she would not fail him.
15
Heart's Counsel
"I left Cormyr, left a soft job guarding caravans, for this," the mercenary cursed. He wiped the sweat from his brow with one blistered hand and held the small ax in the other. When no one responded, he swore under his breath and went back to work.
With a grunt, the tired, hungry man resumed chopping a point onto the end of a long wooden pole. Hundreds of other soldiers crowded around him, sharpening other poles to be used in the defensive palisades. Exhaustion showed plainly on all their faces, and few men spoke. The occasional conversations that sputtered to life in the ranks died quickly, as if fatigue had swallowed the soldiers' words as well as their strength.
Like the blistered mercenary and the others in the work detail, Razor John had slept little in the last day and a half. He, along with what remained of the Army of the Alliance, had left the site of the last battle shortly after midnight. They'd struggled west down the Golden Way all night, stopping only briefly for morningfeast. A constant fear that the Tuigan would suddenly sweep down on the retreating army from the east had hung over the troops all night and all day. Now, an hour or two before sunset, the western soldiers still wondered where Yamun Khahan and his army of barbarians were.
"They're just toying with us now," the mercenary muttered.
"Perhaps they'll stay away for a while. Perhaps we hurt the Tuigan worse then we think, Yugar," Razor John offered hopefully. He paused to take off his shapeless black felt hat and scratch his sweaty scalp. The fletcher's sandy hair, once almost long enough to cover his ears, was now cropped short for easy care. This, coupled with the bags beneath John's eyes and the tired stoop in his gait, made him seem haggard and more than a little mournful.
The mercenary snorted a laugh. "They grow 'em stupid in your family, don't they, fletcher? We're outnumbered six- or seven-to-one. The damned barbarians are probably sitting a few miles east of here, laughing at us."
Turning his red-rimmed eyes on the mercenary, Razor John bit back a retort. He'd made the comment about the Tuigan more as a way to lighten the youth's foul mood; he was certainly wise enough to know that their situation was indeed desperate. But Yugar, a young, inexperienced Cormyrian mercenary, seemed intent on finding fault with everything.
With an exaggerated swing of his lanky arm, Yugar tossed down his ax. "And I was fooled into thinking there was money in this idiotic crusade." He slapped his forehead with a grimy palm. "Worse, I believed Azoun's babble about our responsibility to the rest of Faerun."
There had been times in the last two days when Razor John had questioned his own wisdom for venturing so far from home to fight an unknown enemy. And nothing had challenged his resolve more than the death of some of his friends in the first battle. He could still see their mangled corpses staring up at him as if shocked by their own deaths. Luckily, Kiri Trollslayer had escaped harm, but several soldiers John had befriended had perished the day before. But even those deaths had not convinced him that Azoun's crusade had been foolish.
"Why don't you just slink away?" the fletcher hissed as he slammed his ax into the wooden pole. "The army will be better off without you, coward."
Yugar laughed again, this time loud enough to turn a few heads. The Cormyrian mercenary ignored the blank stares
of his comrades and picked up the claymore at his feet. "They call me Yugar the Brave back in the Stonelands," the boy boasted. He spun his sword a little awkwardly and lowered the point at Razor John. "And you'd best apologize or you won't live to see the Tuigan again."
Something inside the fletcher snapped. Without thinking, John slapped the mercenary's blade away and landed a fist against the boy's jaw. Yugar tumbled backward over the pole he'd been working on; As the mercenary's claymore spun through the air, the fletcher rushed forward and planted a heavy-booted foot on his thin chest.
"Braggarts like you make a mockery of everything we've given up-no, everything I've given up for this crusade," John said, pressing his steel-shod boot down over Yugar's heart.
"Let me up!" the mercenary bellowed in impotent rage. He cursed and clumsily swung his arms, trying to get a grip on John's leg.
With lightning quickness, the fletcher pulled the dagger from his belt and brandished it over the prone soldier. "I'm here because I believe in Azoun's cause, sell-sword, not for the silver I'll earn for killing Tuigan.
" He lowered the blade menacingly. "Don't mock the crusade or the king again. I won't stand for it."
As soon as the fletcher raised his foot, Yugar rolled toward his sword. He glanced back at Razor John, then slowly stood and picked up his weapon. For an instant, the fletcher wondered if the boy was going to attack. An angry shout settled the question.
"I'll have you both standing unarmed and naked before the next Tuigan charge if you don't get back to work!" Brunthar Elventree shouted.
Razor John sheathed his dagger and pulled his ax from the pole. The fiery dalesman who commanded the Alliance's archers moved to the fletcher's side.
"Is there a problem here, soldier?" Brunthar growled, gesturing at Yugar. "Have you mistaken him for a barbarian?"
Razor John looked up at the general. A broad, bloodstained bandage covered much of the dalesman's bright red hair, and a large lump of cotton wadding lay over his right ear. John knew that General Elventree had lost part of that ear to a Tuigan sword in the first battle. "No, sir," the fletcher replied.
Narrowing his eyes, Brunthar studied John for a moment, just long enough to make the fletcher uncomfortable. "I won't have any more fights between you, then," he said at last. He flicked his eyes to Yugar, and when he saw the mercenary was still scowling, Brunthar pointed to another cluster of workmen. "Get moving. I want you preparing spikes with those men."
Yugar muttered a curse, but turned away quickly and headed toward the other workmen. Brunthar had heard the remark, though. He was considering how to make the young mercenary regret the stupid comment when a commotion broke out behind him. When he spun around, he expected to see another brawl; the presence of both King Azoun and his daughter certainly surprised the commander of the Alliance's archers.
The king was dressed in a tunic of royal purple, with hose to match. He limped heavily upon his wounded left leg and used a walking stick of plain, dark wood for support. Except for the walking stick-and the Cormyrian battle crown that rested upon his wrinkled brow-Azoun looked like many of the soldiers who prepared for the battle. In her chain mail hauberk and silken surcoat of purple, Alusair was clothed the same as any member of the king's guard.
"Your Highness," Brunthar said, bowing formally. "I hope you are feeling well this afternoon."
Azoun nodded and lifted his walking stick in a casual salute. The dalesman's formal greeting was a great sign of deference, the king realized, so he did not let the opportunity to return the favor pass. "Our healers seem to be able to call upon their gods for miracles," he replied. After a cursory glance at the fortifications the archers were preparing under Brunthar's guidance, the king added, "Very impressive work, General Elventree."
"Thank you, Your Highness," the dalesman replied. "Everything is as you and the princess requested."
"But better than we had hoped to build in so short a time," Alusair offered, following her father's lead. "Let's hope the rest of the Alliance will be as prepared for the battle as your men."
After bowing again, Brunthar looked toward the sun. "The meeting is at sunset?" he asked.
"Indeed." The king motioned with his walking stick toward the stretch of the Golden Way that snaked out from the western lines. "Out in front of the first rank. We'll see you there."
Azoun and Alusair set off on their tour of the lines again, leaving Brunthar and the archers to their work. For the last hour, the king had been walking through the camp, his daughter at his side. The review was mostly for show, to let the troops know that he was healthy and in command of the Alliance again. It was a painful exercise in rumor-quashing, however, and the king often found his leg wound throbbing angrily at the exertion.
"General Elventree has certainly changed in the last month," Azoun noted. He grimaced slightly as he made his way over a small ditch. "When he first took command of the archers he had no regard for my position at all."
"Is that why you were so careful to compliment him?" the princess asked.
Azoun nodded, then gave a short bow in response to the greetings of a group of archers. "Partially. Brunthar has proven himself a good commander. The dalelords were correct in sending him." He paused and marveled at how much he had opposed the idea of a dalesmen commanding the archers.
"What are the other reasons?"
"Just a moment, Allie," the king said when he spotted a messenger running toward them. After receiving word about the most recent scouting forays, Azoun said, "If we seem to be calm, seem to handle the preparations for battle with some confidence, the troops will take strength from our example. If I praise Brunthar, his men will know they are doing what we expect-"
"So they'll hope they are prepared for the next assault," the princess concluded. She frowned slightly and swatted a mosquito. "I thought so. I mean, that's why I said what I did to General Elventree."
Noting the look of concern on his daughter's face, the king asked, "Does that bother you?"
Alusair considered how to form her concern, how to put it into words. Finally, she adopted the most direct approach; though rather blunt, it seemed the most accurate. "It seems like we're lying."
The reply didn't surprise Azoun. In fact, ever since he had allowed the rumors about the Tuigan and his "escape" from their camp to circulate, he'd been troubled by that same thought. After all, those rumors had been partly to blame for the disastrous cavalry charge in the last Tuigan encounter. Azoun had come to no conclusions, however, so he simply didn't know how to respond to Alusair's comment.
Father and daughter remained silent for a time. Alusair knew the king well enough to realize that he was wrestling with the problem, not ignoring it. They'd spent many hours in Azoun's study in Cormyr embroiled in similar debates, and the pattern was always the same: in the course of a discussion, Alusair would pose a particularly challenging question. Rather than toss off a quick reply or dismiss the problem, the king would consider the issue, pacing back and forth, occasionally glancing at a book or two.
The scenery around Alusair and Azoun now had little in common with that study. As they walked, they passed the groups of archers preparing palisades. Many of the soldiers were finished chopping points onto the poles, and some were even setting the eight- to ten-foot-long spikes into the ground. Alusair had never been in a cavalry charge that had been forced to face that kind of defense, but she was certain that it must be terrifying to break against a line, only to find huge sharpened stakes braced in the ground, leveled at you or your mount. She shivered and dismissed the grisly thought.
After a time, in which Azoun distractedly returned the bows and greetings of his troops, the king and his daughter looked away from the line of palisades and moved back toward the Golden Way. The sun was beginning to sink in the west, and a few of the Alliance's commanders had already gathered in the road for their meeting.
"I don't lie when I encourage the troops, for I believe that they-that we can actually win," the king replied at last. He stopped and looked back at the soldiers toiling away, some setting spikes, others placing small barricades before the first rank. "I have my doubts, but it isn't my place to share those with the soldiers. They need a leader, not a doomsayer."
Alusair paused for a moment. "Farl told me about Lord Harcourt," she began. The pain that registered on the king's face at the mention of the cavalry charge made the princess regret bringing up the subject. "This isn't the time-" she added quickly.
"If not now, when?" the king replied, a bit too sharply. He spun around as swiftly as his wounded leg would allow and headed toward the meeting. "I don't know what to say about Harcourt and the nobles," he admitted as he trudged along.
"Perhaps you shouldn't have let the rumors about the Tuigan circulate," Alusair offered bluntly.
Alusair wasn't saying anything that Azoun's conscience hadn't suggested to him over and over already. When he told his daughter this, she nodded. Then it was her turn to be silent. For a moment, it seemed that the conversation would end there.
When he stepped onto the road, however, Azoun put his han
d on his daughter's arm. "When you were in command of the army last night, how did you make your decisions?" he asked.
"I did what I thought was right."
Azoun nodded. The reply was exactly what he'd expected. "That was how I decided to let the rumors about my deeds in the Tuigan camp circulate. From the counsel I received, I concluded that the army would be far better off if I didn't dash their enthusiasm."
"Then you didn't take the most important counselor into consideration," the princess said. She pointed at the king's chest. "You didn't listen to your heart. You didn't do what your conscience told you was the right thing to do."
Azoun could feel the tension growing between him and Alusair. He took a deep breath and tried to respond as calmly as possible. "There are thousands of lives depending upon my decisions, Allie. You can't know-"
"Oh, but I can," she replied. "Before I knew you were well enough to take command again, I believed I would have to lead the army in the next battle. I felt the pressure."
Farl Bloodaxe bowed as he came close. Unlike many of the soldiers, the ebony-skinned commander had taken off his armor. He again wore the dark breeches and billowing white shirt that made him look more like a pirate than a general. "Excuse me, Your Highness, Princess, but the others have gathered as you requested. We await only your presence."
Azoun was almost relieved at the interruption. He and Alusair had closed the gap that had separated them for so long, but it was clear that many things still held them apart. "Thank you, Farl," the king said. "We'll be along in a moment."
As the general turned to go, the king remembered Farl's words the night before the first battle: The soldiers are here because of your beliefs, and the true crusaders will gladly die for the causes you champion… but never for a lie. Turning to his daughter, Azoun took her hand in his own. "Perhaps you're right, Allie," he sighed, squeezing her hand. "At the very least, you've given me something to think about."