by James Lowder
While the night watch made regular patrols in Suzail, shadowy figures still skulked in and out of alleyways, waiting for unwary travelers or drunken adventurers to stumble into their traps. Creatures that would never roam the streets during the day came out to scavenge through the offal and garbage dumped unceremoniously out of windows into the thoroughfares. And though Azoun had secreted a small dagger in his boot when he’d left the castle, he felt much safer when he finally passed through the door of the Black Rat.
“For the last time, no!” a barmaid screeched. She slammed a mug down on the table nearest the tavern’s front door and slapped the one-eyed man sitting there. A burst of loud, raucous laughter rumbled through the room in response. The frumpy, fat-cheeked barmaid took a curt bow—one much too low for a woman with any modesty, considering the cut of her dress—and sauntered back to the kitchen.
Azoun started at the disturbance, then shivered at the wall of warm air that washed over him as he entered the tavern. He hadn’t noticed how cold it was outside until then. The king glanced around the room for an open table, saw quite a few, then moved toward one close to the small fireplace that dominated the taproom’s northern wall. The dozen or so patrons of the Black Rat watched Azoun cross the room, then went back to their drinks or their games of dice.
“I’d do anything for that girl, and this’s what I get!” the one-eyed man yelled. Azoun noticed that he was slurring his words slightly.
“Bring back the head of one of those barbarians the king’s so hot on killing,” a mournful-looking man called from a table near Azoun. “That’ll win her heart.”
The barmaid walked out of the kitchen and went straight to Azoun’s table, ignoring the rude comments from most of the drunkards in the taproom and the protestations of love from the one-eyed man. The king politely ordered an ale, then leaned back toward the fire.
The woman smiled in gratitude at the respect shown her. “Ale’s free tonight,” she said. “One of our patrons was recently rewarded by the king, and he left gold to pay for drinks.” After another brief smile, she blew a coil of red hair from her eyes and went for the drink.
“Alas,” a lean, dark woman sighed as the barmaid left the room. “She’s given her love to another, Brak. You’ll never have her now. Her smile gives her away.”
A few men chuckled, but Brak, the one-eyed warrior, stood up. “What?” he snarled, pointing at Azoun. “That old coot?” The king’s shoulders sagged. The last thing he wanted was trouble.
The barmaid returned with Azoun’s ale, gave it to him, then got Brak to sit down. “There’s no one but you,” she teased and pinched the man’s ruddy cheek. “But I’ll love you more if you prove how brave you are on that crusade. Perhaps I’ll love you most of all if you don’t come back.”
There was more laughter, but one man, clad in shining chain mail, stood up and lifted his mug. “I say we should raise a toast to King Azoun … the only king in the West worth following into battle. Long live the king!”
After the trials of the last few days, Azoun felt his heart leap as the patrons of the Black Rat, both men and women, lifted their mugs and called out, “Long live the king!”
That phrase always made King Azoun think of his father. Rhigaerd had loved to hear men shout that toast, and few nobles had missed the opportunity to please him with it during his reign. Azoun usually found the phrase troubling, since many of the courtiers assumed it was a sure way to win favor. The phrase had fallen out of use at court, but it obviously hadn’t in the city. The king didn’t find this particular toast lacking in sincerity or enthusiasm, however.
He smiled to himself beneath his powdered white beard. “Yes,” Azoun agreed softly. “Long live the king.”
“And your damned guild brothers will pay for their grumbling,” the mail-clad warrior added, swinging his mug toward the table by the door. Brak grumbled something under his breath, but remained silent.
Azoun didn’t miss the reference to the trappers and quickly moved to the table of the man who’d made the toast. “May I join you?” When the man nodded, the king took a seat on the rickety bench across from him. “What was that about the trappers, young man?” he asked in a soft voice.
After a long swallow of ale, the warrior leveled his gaze on the king. “A guild should be responsible for its members.” He cast a withering glance at Brak, then added, “He’s an influential member of the Trappers’ Guild, so—”
Abruptly Azoun held up his hand. “The attack on the king,” he finished. “So that’s the source of your animosity.” He studied the man across the table for a moment before he asked his next question.
He’s probably a mercenary, the king decided. The warrior was by no means unhandsome, but the look of dogged obstinacy that clung to his square features made him appear contentious. After a moment, Azoun reconsidered his opinion. The man was fastidiously dressed; his mail shone as if recently polished, his leather breeches and silk surcoat were spotless. No, not a mercenary, the king concluded. More likely a paladin of some lawful order.
Azoun leaned close. “The name’s Balin,” he said. “Well met … er …”
“Ambrosius.” The man reached out and clasped Azoun’s forearm in a traditional greeting. “Ambrosius, Knight of Tyr.” A slightly puzzled look crossed his face as he let the king’s arm go.
Without letting it register on his face, Azoun cursed to himself. The man was a paladin, a holy knight of the God of Justice. Such warriors were difficult to fool, and it seemed for an instant, when Ambrosius had grasped his arm.… The king smiled wanly through his powdered beard and started to rise.
“No need to hurry,” Ambrosius said flatly, clasping a strong arm around Azoun’s wrist. “I am always at a loss for personable men to share conversation with me here.” When the king hesitated, the knight whispered, “Do not make a scene, good sir. I simply want to know for whom you spy.”
With a sigh, Azoun took his seat. “I am here on the king’s business,” he replied. “Is my disguise so poor that you can see through it so easily?”
Ambrosius thrust his square chin out and looked at Azoun with that expression of doggedness. “Your arm is far too muscular for a man of the age you pretend to be,” he whispered. “I do not approve of spies or subterfuge. I’ve learned long ago to ferret out such as you.”
The knight paused, then asked, “My toast to the king was sincere. What does His Highness wish to know?”
“The feelings of his subjects on the crusade,” Azoun replied. “As well as the disposition of the Trappers’ Guild toward the king himself.”
Ambrosius laughed, a deep, robust sound that came from his heart. “The first is a simple matter to discern. There are hundreds of the king’s loyal subjects—myself included—who have signed on already for the crusade.” The paladin leaned back in his chair. “The other is more complex.”
After rubbing his chin for a moment, the knight of Tyr smiled broadly. “But, again, there is simple way to the truth.” Without pause, he turned to Brak. “Ho, trapper! This man wants to know your guild’s attitude toward the king,” he said truthfully.
The bar quieted slightly, and Brak stared at the paladin and the king like an enraged cyclops. “I don’t want to answer to the likes of you, Ambrosius,” the trapper slurred.
The reason for that would have been obvious to anyone in the Black Rat who knew Ambrosius to be a paladin. Such holy knights, because of their devotion to their gods, were sometimes gifted with the power to detect evil in other men’s hearts.
“You needn’t fear answering unless the trappers were in league against the king,” Ambrosius announced. Now the bar was silent, and everyone looked toward Brak. The one-eyed trapper shifted nervously in his seat. “Best answer right away,” the paladin added after scanning the room. “It seems there are many here who wonder what your guild has been up to.”
A tense silence followed. Brak took a long sip of ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his callused hand. “The Trappers’ Guild didn’t
have anything to do with the attack on the king,” he grumbled. He met Ambrosius’s steady gaze with his one good eye. “But we don’t make no secret of the fact we oppose the crusade.”
Ambrosius said nothing as he returned to his seat. Most of the patrons at the Black Rat turned back to their drinks and their private conversations, though a few still watched the trapper and the paladin. Azoun shook his head. “You could have asked the same question without revealing me as the king’s man,” he said.
“As I said before, I have no use for spies. You get more by asking questions directly.”
“I take it the trapper was telling the truth?”
“Of course,” Ambrosius replied. “Brak knows me far too well to consider lying.”
After talking with the paladin for a time, sipping on the inn’s dark, bitter ale, the king stood and headed toward the door. Brak scowled slightly as Azoun passed, but the drunken trapper was quickly dragged back into an animated conversation about the Tuigan. Azoun heard someone say, “There’s no way we can lose with the armies of Faerun brought together like that!” He offered a silent prayer that the man was right, then moved once more into the cold night air.
This chill is the last gasp of winter, Azoun decided as he hugged his cloak tighter around his shoulders. That means the Tuigan are probably on the move again in Thay. The armies of Faerun can gather none too soon now.
And from all that Azoun had learned that day, he was sure it was safe to proceed. The people of Suzail supported his crusade, despite the seemingly isolated unrest amongst a few of the guilds. Though the merchants grumbled about the taxes, the king knew that they rarely stopped complaining about such things. More importantly, the king felt secure that the would-be assassin was working alone.
Azoun shivered in the frosty air and pulled the worn cloak tighter still. The tattered disguise tore under the strength of his grasp. He looked at the ripped cloak and smiled.
On days when he had been in a good mood, Azoun’s father had called his son’s interest in the theater and costumes a waste of time. At times when the hawks refused to cooperate or the nobles were particularly fractious, King Rhigaerd II had given Prince Azoun’s hobby a few less diplomatic titles. At that moment, as he made his way through Suzail, the king of Cormyr thanked the gods that he’d chosen the Black Rat to visit. He smiled with the knowledge that his penchant for disguises had indeed served him well.
6
The Goddess’s Hand
Azoun sat back in the cushioned chair and allowed himself to relax. It was the first time in two tendays he’d taken such a luxury.
“One day out, many more to go, eh Thom?” the king asked absently.
The bard sat at a steel-legged wooden table, taking notes for the crusade’s annals. He finished a sentence or two, then looked up and nodded. “By the time we get to our destination, I should have the section on the crusade’s organization completed.”
Azoun closed his eyes and rested his head against the cabin wall. “Let’s hope the battles don’t prove any more difficult than raising the troops has.”
Thom Reaverson didn’t answer; it was obvious Azoun didn’t expect one. Within a few moments, the king had drifted off to sleep, lulled by the gentle rocking of the Cormyrian carrack as it made its way across the Lake of Dragons. The bard listened for a moment to the creaking of the ship and the sounds of the crew going about its business abovedeck. After a while, he turned back to his work.
Thom dipped his quill in a cup of water, then scratched it across a square of dried ink. After reading over the last sentence he’d completed, the bard continued his account of the twenty-one days between the assassination attempt and the departure of the king’s ship for the east.
The scutage—or shield tax—levied by King Azoun against the Cormyrian nobles has provided him with almost ten thousand troops and the money to raise two thousand more. Surprisingly, many of the nobles have decided to accompany the king themselves, so Azoun can count on a large, well armored cavalry to lead his attacks. No doubt these nobles see the importance of the cause.
Thom considered crossing out the last sentence. The bard felt that, as official historian for the crusade, it wasn’t his place to editorialize. Pondering the point for a moment, he decided to let the entry stand. There could be little other reason for the nobles to join the crusaders, Thom reasoned, so that claim actually isn’t simply my opinion.
The bard inked his pen again and continued.
Added to the troops King Azoun has gathered from the Royal Army and the populace of Suzail itself, Cormyr has given a total of twelve thousand brave archers, knights, and men-at-arms ta the cause. These troops have been organized into one army under King Azoun IV of Cormyr, together with the soldiers levied from other parts of Faerun.
Thom stretched and moved his ink-stained hand over his mouth to cover a yawn. After closing his eyes for a moment, the bard shuffled through the other papers spread out on the table. Moving carefully to avoid smudging the still-wet ink on the page in front of him, Thom slid a particular sheet of parchment out from under the rest. He glanced at the list scrawled hastily on the page, then carefully added its contents to the annals.
The twelve thousand Cormyrians will be joined by soldiers from many parts of Faerun in this battle. The following is a rough estimate of the troops committed by those in Faerun allied with King Azoun.
Sembia money for 4,000 men-at-arms
The Dales 4,000 men-at-arms (mostly archers)
Tantras 1,600 men-at-arms
Hillsfar 600 men-at-arms (mostly cavalry)
Ravens Bluff 2,400 men-at-arms
Other Cities 3,400 men-at-arms
The dark-haired bard turned over the sheet that held the original list of troops and added the numbers. He hastily noted that figure in the annals.
These troops will be joined by at least two thousand dwarves under the command of King Torg, from a city in the Earthfast Mountains. Zhentil Keep has also promised one thousand soldiers, who will be meeting the army at the northern end of the Easting Reach. All told, the crusaders should total over thirty thousand when they meet the Tuigan.
The last line of the paragraph barely fit at the bottom of the page, even with Thom’s tight, controlled handwriting. He studied the finished sheet. When he found no major blotches of ink or dirty fingerprints on it, Thom gently blew it dry. After a moment or two, he put his initials in small, barely legible letters at the sheet’s lower right-hand corner. That done, the bard gently laid a thin blotting paper over the new page and put the two under a large, heavy book.
Thom Reaverson packed up his papers and put his ink and quills in a small wooden box that had Cormyr’s emblem carved into its top. The box and fine writing tools it contained had been a gift from King Azoun, one of many rewards given to Thom for accepting the duty to chronicle the crusade. The bard would have gladly faced a dragon for the prestigious title of court historian, and he saw the gold and gifts the king had offered him as a sign of the monarch’s generosity. Still, the pen set was special to Thom Reaverson, for it had come to symbolize for him the trust Azoun had in his skills.
With his tools and the pages of the ever-growing chronicle stowed securely in a cabinet, the bard quietly made his way from the king’s cabin. He nodded to the guards as he left and told them that Azoun was sleeping and was not to be disturbed. On his way up to the deck of the tri-masted carrack, Thom met Vangerdahast, who was working his way stiffly down the steep wooden steps.
When the wizard spotted Thom, he stopped his descent. “Is the king awake and well?” Vangerdahast asked, his voice weak and a little strained.
Thom’s sympathy went out to the old mage immediately. It was clear from the color of Vangerdahast’s face that his constitution was not up to the challenge of the gently swaying ship. “He’s well,” the bard answered, “but not awake.”
“I hope he knows that we have a meeting with the generals in an hour or so,” the pale wizard said testily.
“I’m s
ure he left word with a servant, Master Vangerdahast,” Thom replied, steadying himself on the stairs as the ship heaved deeply to one side. “The rest will certainly do him good.”
Scowling at the motion of the ship, Vangerdahast nodded and said, “He’s certainly been tireless these last few tendays.” The ship dipped again, and the wizard cursed softly. “I’m going to lie down myself, Thom. If I’m not at the meeting, send someone to fetch me.”
The bard backed down two steps to the landing and allowed Vangerdahast to squeeze by him. Though the Welleran was one of the most luxurious ships on the Inner Sea, the cabins and walkways were still very cramped. Only after the wizard closed the door to his cabin did Thom climb up to the deck, into the red glow of a beautiful spring sunset.
Some of the crew were eating their supper in various spots on the deck. They gulped watery stew and washed it down with warm, dark ale. Around them, other sailors went about their duty, securing sails or climbing into the fore rigging toward lookout positions in the masts. Thom got out of the way as best he could, positioning himself near the port railing.
Far to the north lay the coast of Cormyr—or perhaps it was Sembia by then, for all Thom knew. Dozens of other ships dashed through the water nearby. Most of them were spectacularly rigged carracks from the Cormyrian navy. With their large aft and forecastles, and three masts decked with canvas sails and multicolored flags identifying vessel and port of origin, the carracks were the sturdiest ships in the crusaders’ fleet. Others nearby were less impressive merchant ships or mercenaries’ vessels. Of course this was only a small part of the massive caravan to the east. Ships had been leaving from Cormyr for days now, heading toward the free city of Telflamm, the gathering point for the armies.