by James Lowder
With their varied political outlooks, it wasn’t surprising that the three core countries in the Heartlands often suffered long disputes. The multitude of independent city-states—places like Tantras and Hillsfar—that were located close to the larger nations often found themselves caught between bickering giants. Still, Cormyr, Sembia, and the Dales were lands where peace flourished; their disputes were never serious enough to create permanent rifts.
And they always agreed when it came to matters involving Zhentil Keep. Though only a walled city just to the north of the Dales, Zhentil Keep was the focus for much of the evil in the Heartlands. Only out of necessity did Azoun and the other lawful rulers deal with the dark priests who controlled the Keep.
But it was not to Cormyr or the Dales or even Zhentil Keep that Vangerdahast pointed when the magical map came into focus. The wizard’s finger drifted east of the Heartlands, across the land of Impiltur, to the eastern end of the Inner Sea.
“For the horsewarriors to get from where they are now,” the wizard began, directing their attention to a spot hundreds of miles beyond even the end of the Inner Sea, “to our forests, they’d have to go through Thesk, Damara, Impiltur …”
With each new nation or free city he mentioned, Vangerdahast unfurled another of his pudgy, large-knuckled fingers. Azoun and Dimswart merely waited for the royal wizard to finish his tirade.
“And depending upon the route they take,” Vangerdahast concluded, turning sharply to face his king, “it’s conceivable that Yamun Khahan, ‘emperor of all the world,’ could lead his barbarians through Zhentil Keep before he came south to the Dales.” The map disappeared, and the wizard stood in front of a plain tapestry once again.
“That’s a fine hope,” Dimswart noted after a few moments. “It would be nice to see the Tuigan try to storm the black walls of that wretched, evil place. However, it’s more likely the Zhents would join the Tuigan—or at least guide them toward the Dales and us. For all we know, the Keep might have struck a deal with this khahan already, like the Red Wizards of Thay did last fall.”
Azoun considered that possibility for a moment, then shuddered and dismissed it. He could only hope that the leaders in Zhentil Keep had more sense than to believe the Tuigan would leave them alone if they appeared to offer no resistance. The messages he’d received lately from Lord Chess, the nominal ruler of the Keep, all indicated that the Zhentish would support any sane plan against the raiders. Azoun knew that Chess could be lying just to keep the Dales and Cormyr off balance, but he had to hope otherwise. Even a rumor that Zhentil Keep planned to cooperate with the Tuigan, like Thay had done a few months earlier, would give the guild masters who opposed the crusade a stronger argument.
“We’ll never have the opportunity to see what Zhentil Keep would do in that situation for we cannot—no, will not—wait for the Tuigan to arrive on our doorstep,” King Azoun stated firmly. “If I have the support of the rest of Faerun’s leaders, I’m going to stop Yamun Khahan long before he reaches us.”
“And the guilds?” Dimswart asked.
Without pause, Vangerdahast replied, “We could toss the leaders of the Trappers’ Guild into the tower until the crusade is over.”
Azoun shook his head. “And make martyrs of them? Hardly.” He glanced out of the open window again and added, “The guilds will simply have to follow my commands in this. There really is nothing they can do to stop me.”
Dimswart and Vangerdahast knew from Azoun’s voice that the discussion was over as far as the king was concerned. The tower room fell silent. Abruptly a sharp breeze from the open window carried the noise from the street to the tower and made the tapestries flutter on the wall. The air in the room, a little thick with the smell of the musty old books piled neatly near the window and the oiled wooden chess set over which Dimswart still fussed, lightened for an instant with a breath of sea air. If only for that moment, the tension in the room seemed to dissipate—until a loud rapping sounded at the lone entrance to the tower, a heavy, iron-braced trapdoor.
“Ah, that will be Winefiddle,” Dimswart noted as he stood and moved quickly to unlock the entrance. The sage slid the bolt back noisily, then said, “Speak the password and enter,” his foot planted firmly on the door.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” came the muffled response, followed by another loud thump on the oaken door. After a barely suppressed chuckle, the unseen man added, “I have a message for the king, Dimswart, so stop this nonsense and let me up. You’d think you were Vangerdahast, asking for a password.”
The wizard cocked an eyebrow as Dimswart pulled open the door. Winefiddle, a rotund man with thinning brown hair and puffy red cheeks, shuffled up the stairs into the room. “You’d think I was—,” he huffed as he climbed into the room. Then the fat man saw the royal wizard standing before him, his arms crossed, tapping his foot.
“Both you and Dimswart have succeeded in annoying Vangy this morning, Curate Winefiddle,” Azoun noted as the priest faced the fuming mage. The quiet, happy cleric usually had a soothing effect upon the king, and that day was no exception. He forgot about the Tuigan and the crusade for a moment and smiled. “This is just like old times.”
Vangerdahast snorted. “Yes, Your Highness, this rather is like the times you ‘went adventuring’ with these oafs. It’s a wonder you all weren’t killed any number of times.”
“That we survived some of those adventures is due partly to you, Vangerdahast,” Winefiddle said sincerely. He shifted the sack he carried to his left hand and wiped the sweat from his brow. “If you hadn’t been so conscientious about following Azoun around, the King’s Men would have perished any number of times.” Noting the astounded look on the wizard’s face, the cleric straightened his light blue tunic and headed for a comfortable chair on the other side of the room.
“You see, Vangy, someone appreciates you,” Dimswart said, sitting back at the chessboard. “Even I admit that you saved our lives once or twice when we were tearing up the countryside as the King’s Men.”
The room was silent again for a moment as all four of them dusted off memories of the King’s Men. Dimswart, then a mage of little renown, and Winefiddle, a novice in the temple of Tymora, the Goddess of Good Fortune, had formed the group, eager as they were to seek fame and fortune in the wilder parts of Cormyr. They were soon joined by other Cormyrian adventurers, including a highly skilled swordsman who called himself Balin. In reality, this noble cavalier was young Prince Azoun.
The prince had no trouble keeping Balin’s true identity a secret from the world at large. Few people knew what Azoun looked like, and even fewer expected him to be roaming the countryside with a troupe of minor adventurers. After two or three months, though, the young cavalier revealed his identity to the group. Dimswart had uncovered the prince’s secret after their first adventure together, proving himself to be a noteworthy sleuth even then. Winefiddle and the others were astounded at the revelation. This information changed little, however, as the King’s Men were more interested in saving damsels from ogres than getting mixed up in Cormyrian politics.
And that went double for Azoun himself. Riding with Dimswart, Winefiddle, and the three other members of the group gave the prince a chance to escape the pressures of life in the castle. Vangerdahast covered for Azoun whenever possible, telling King Rhigaerd that his son was on an expedition to a distant shrine or library. Frequently the royal tutor would furnish an excuse to the king, then go hunting for the boy himself. He often found the would-be heroes in dire straits.
“Remember the time we stumbled upon that goblin camp in the mountains near High Horn,” Azoun said with a chuckle. “They were sure we were spies—”
“And then they decided that Winefiddle was a cleric of some terrible, evil elemental god,” Dimswart added, smirking at the rotund curate. “Just because a rock tumbled off a cliff and hit one of them as it tried to grab him.”
Winefiddle frowned weakly. “You’re both lucky they thought that, too. The beasts made short work of
both of you before they tried to grab me. Those horrible little things were ready to kill us all.” He rubbed his stomach. “I still have a scar where one of them prodded me with a spear.”
The cleric paused, toying with the plain silver disk that hung around his neck. Talking about danger or even discomfort made Winefiddle nervous. He, for one, did not miss his life as an adventurer. “And if Vangerdahast hadn’t come along when he did,” the curate added, “they might have killed us anyway. I was getting tired of acting like an elemental lord.”
The royal wizard nodded slowly as a reply, then sat down at the chessboard, across from the gray-haired sage. “The curate’s right, you know. You’re all very lucky not to have been eaten by any one of those monsters you pestered.”
The comment stung Azoun like the flick of a whip. “We did far more then ‘pester’ creatures, Vangy,” he said hotly. “The King’s Men did some good in the short time they were around.”
The king paused, as if daring someone to disagree. He knew that none of his friends would think of it, however. “What about that caravan we saved from the hill giants in the mountains west of here? Or the children we rescued from the zombies that raided that farm outside of Tyrluk?”
“They were fine adventures, Azoun, weren’t they?” the royal magician stated more than asked.
King Azoun recognized the wizard’s bait and responded to Vangerdahast’s real question. “They were, Vangy … but I don’t think the crusade will be an adventure at all, and that’s certainly not why I’m organizing it.”
“Are you so sure of that?” the wizard asked softly.
Azoun did not answer, and resumed pacing instead. Vangerdahast sat, drumming his fingers on the chessboard, while Dimswart and Winefiddle exchanged concerned glances.
Then the curate’s eyes grew wide, and he leaped out of his seat. “The message!” he cried. “I almost forgot about it!”
Winefiddle noisily dug through his sack. “One of the pages gave it to me when he saw that I was coming to see you up in the tower.” Wine bottles clinked together, papers and scrolls rustled, and loose coins clattered against everything else in the rough brown bag. “Here it is!” he exclaimed at last.
The parchment Winefiddle held aloft was crumpled slightly, but Azoun could see that it was an important message even from across the room. Bold black and red ribbons, secured by a thick wax seal, dangled from the paper. Vangerdahast abruptly snatched the letter from the curate’s hands and gave it to Azoun.
The king looked at the wax. A phoenix clutching a hammer in its claws was imbedded there. That imprint told him that the message was from Torg mac Cei, a dwarven king from the Earthfast Mountains. After closing his eyes and whispering a short prayer to Torm, the God of Duty, Azoun snapped the seal and read the missive.
As his eyes raced down the page, Azoun sighed. A slight smile bloomed on his face, then disappeared. The king handed the parchment to Vangerdahast and headed toward the trapdoor. “Excuse me, my friends, I have some important people to contact right away.”
As he started down the stairs, the king turned and added, “We’ll talk again soon, Dimswart, Winefiddle.” He smiled again briefly and looked at his stunned royal wizard. “We should confer, Vangy. I need your advice on obtaining the use of a large number of ships.”
The wizard, sage, and cleric stood dumbfounded as Azoun rushed down the tower stairs. After the footfalls on the stone steps grew distant, Vangerdahast pulled open the letter. “It’s from King Torg of Earthfast,” he told the others as they moved to his side.
“A message about the crusade, I assume,” Dimswart noted. “I can probably guess what it says.”
“Well, I can’t,” Winefiddle said, turning his holy symbol over and over in his hands. “Please read it aloud, Vangerdahast.”
“No,” the wizard muttered, handing the letter to the priest. “It’s short. You might as well read it yourself.”
Winefiddle glanced at the dwarven runes at the top of the page, then read over the lengthy listing of Torg’s titles and genealogy. Vangerdahast was correct about the body of the missive: it was brief. The text was also written in perfect rows of neat letters.
I have consulted our war council about the barbarian horsewarriors, the letter began. You are absolutely correct in your assessment of the situation. Therefore, I pledge, as ironlord of Earthfast, to lead two thousand dwarven troops under your banner against the Tuigan. I also have a brilliant human general in my city at this time who will join the conflict. We await your arrival to begin this crusade.
Winefiddle stopped reading, then a shudder wracked his heavy frame as he saw the final lines of the message: My troops and I will gladly lay down our lives to the last warrior to stop the invasion. I know that you and your troops will certainly pledge the same.
The cleric held the parchment out to Dimswart, who had returned to his seat at the chessboard. The sage waved the letter away. “Torg has offered troops to support the crusade. You could see it in Azoun’s face as he read the note.” Dimswart picked up the white king from the chessboard and looked at it intently. “Those of us who think the crusade is a good idea can only hope now that the other kings and lords will follow Torg’s lead.”
Vangerdahast sighed. “Azoun is a very, very persuasive man. The leaders of Faerun will do as he suggests.”
As one, Dimswart and Winefiddle looked to the royal magician. Vangerdahast stood at the window Azoun had occupied earlier, looking out over Suzail. “The question is no longer ‘will Azoun lead the crusade against the Tuigan?’ ” The mage turned to face the king’s two friends, who both saw the sadness in his eyes.
“Suzail will pay dearly for this. Azoun simply doesn’t know what a real war takes out of a people.” The mage breathed another ragged sigh and turned back to the window. “And he’s underestimating the opposition of the trappers.
“No,” he stated after a moment, “the crusade will go on. The question to be asked now is, can Azoun pay the price for fighting this war?”
2
The Council of Suzail
Initially at least, King Azoun had far more trouble recruiting support for the crusade than Vangerdahast had predicted in the tower on that day. It wasn’t that the monarch’s persuasive powers were less than the royal wizard claimed. In fact, Azoun and his wife, Queen Filfaeril, had spent much of the winter speaking to their nobles and their neighbors; most of the rulers considered a preemptive attack on the Tuigan vital to preserving their countries, their cultures, and, most importantly, their treasuries.
In politics, however, rhetorical support and actual support sometimes have little in common. As the time for action grew near, few of the statesmen who seemed eager to lend troops to Azoun followed through on their promises. The source of this change of heart could be traced to a simple fear of popular unrest.
As in Cormyr, certain guilds throughout the Heartlands opposed any proposed crusade. Guilds were an important part of commerce and even everyday life in Faerun. Each trade, whether it be thieving, forestry, or smithing, had its own guild, and to become a lawful, certified member in any profession meant joining the appropriate organization. In this way, guilds insured that standards be met in the production of crafts and prices remained reasonable. The guilds also represented their members before governments, provided retirement funds, and even took care of members’ widows and orphans.
Not all guilds stood against the proposed crusade. The armorers, fletchers, bowyers, and swordsmiths all stood to gain from the war. Even the teamsters and shipwrights knew that they would see an immediate profit from the expedition against the Tuigan. The merchants who stood to garner little from the conflict—the trappers who worked the Heartlands’ wildernesses; the tanners who made leather from animal hides; even the butchers, who would lose business since the army would kill and dress its own meat knew only that higher taxes would come their way.
To counter the fear of guild opposition to the crusade, Azoun held conferences with those lords he could visit
personally and dealt through messengers and magical communications with those located farther away. He encouraged the leaders to put the Tuigan matter before their people, allowing them to comment on the proposed crusade outside the restrictions of guild politics. Surprisingly, it was only a vocal minority that opposed the venture; most of the people supported a peremptory strike against the barbarians.
By weakening the nobles’ fear of popular unrest, Azoun won back most of the troops committed to him during the winter. With the promise of strong dwarven support, the king won a few more tentative troop commitments. His charisma won still others. Finally, after a seemingly endless parade of small conferences, King Azoun called together all the leaders who he felt might support his cause.
“If I can persuade the Dales and Sembia to give me troops,” the king said as he straightened his ornate ceremonial tunic, “I will stop the khahan before he breaks out of Thesk.” He paused. “I do wish the queen could attend the meeting today. But … other matters of state demand at least one of us be present in the royal court.”
Vangerdahast, sitting at a table covered with various parchment notes, nodded absently. “Don’t forget to remind them of the dwarven support Ironlord Torg promised.” The wizard rubbed his eyes slowly and put down the letter he was reading. “The Lords of Waterdeep send their regards.”
Azoun froze. “They’re not dispatching a representative to the meeting?” His sharp tone was muffled by the carpets and tapestries that covered the cold stone walls of the study.
“Far too busy running the ‘City of Splendors.’ ” Vangerdahast shook his head. “No. That’s not quite fair. They note here—” He picked up the parchment again. “ ‘Though we recognize the importance of quelling the Tuigan incursion, we do not feel that it would be prudent for us to commit any of our forces at this time.’ ”
“I don’t really blame them,” the king sighed. “They lost a sizable part of their city guard during the Godswar.”