by James Lowder
The dwarven captains who were scattered throughout the field signaled to soldiers carrying large drums. The drummers beat a fast, chaotic riff, and the army rushed into a long line, three dwarves deep. As the soldiers in the front rank knelt and planted their pikes in a defensive wall, the back two ranks quickly drew and cocked heavy crossbows. The dwarves made it look easy, but the strength required to ready a crossbow would have made it practically impossible for human armies to accomplish that maneuver in so short a time.
Torg beamed with pride. He raised a hand, signaling the captains again, and a new cadence was sounded. The dwarven troops disarmed their crossbows, slung the heavy weapons on their belts, and regained their pikes. The drumbeat changed yet again, and the troops broke into four large squares, twenty dwarves wide by twenty dwarves deep. The edges of each square bristled with pikes.
Azoun, almost caught up in the display of amazing military training, saw that Torg was looking at him, obviously waiting for a compliment. “Impressive,” the Cormyrian king said at last. “Perhaps you can give our troops a few pointers.”
The ironlord laughed, a deep bellowing sound that seemed to echo in his chest before breaking into the world. “Indeed,” he said, giving Azoun a solid slap on the back. Vangerdahast concluded then and there that he didn’t like the ruler of Earthfast very much at all.
Torg ordered the troops to resume the regular drills. With a rumble of drums and the clatter of armor, the squares broke into marching columns. Satisfied with the display, the ironlord led his guests toward a pavilion at the heart of the dwarven camp. As they walked through the tent city, both Azoun and Vangerdahast were amazed at the absolute order of the place. Not only were the tents arrayed in straight lines, but gear was stored in neat piles and even the inevitable garbage dump was kept contained in a tidy, square enclosure.
The dwarven camp was like none Azoun had ever seen or even heard about. He suddenly wished Thom Reaverson had come along. The bard would have found the place fascinating.
“I have yet to hear from the troops your allies in Zhentil Keep are sending,” Torg said as he entered the pavilion. The king winced slightly at being called an “ally” of the Keep, but, in this instance the term was accurate.
“They should have been here by now,” Vangerdahast noted as he sat at a low, long table. “In fact, they should have reached here more than a day or two ago … if Zhentil Keep is honoring the agreement.”
Vangerdahast’s concern was not lost on Azoun. The king ran a hand through his gray-shot beard and sighed. If Zhentil Keep broke the treaty, it might mean they intended to invade the Dales. In truth, the king realized, they could be attacking even as he sat there, pondering the point. “I should contact the queen,” he told the wizard. “She might have heard something recently.”
“You’ll have time for that in a bit,” Torg said, scowling at the reference to the wizard’s magic. “I’ll send some scouts to the north and west. That’ll do for now.” He took three brightly polished silver mugs from a metal case and set them on the table. He turned his dark eyes to the pavilion’s door and yelled something in Dwarvish.
A smartly liveried squire rushed into the tent, carrying a large wooden keg. The dwarf’s beard was short and, unlike Torg, his face was almost free of deep-set wrinkles. Azoun assumed the servant was very young, but he always found it extremely difficult to estimate a dwarf’s age.
“Drink,” Torg said, opening a silver spout in the keg and filling the mugs. He handed one to Azoun and the other to Vangerdahast, then hefted the third and raised it in a toast. “To the complete destruction of the Tuigan. May the corpses of the horsewarriors reach to the sky!”
“Indeed,” Vangerdahast said weakly, rather appalled at the crass toast. Azoun repeated Torg’s toast more enthusiastically. The dwarf’s bellicose oath brought back memories of Azoun’s time with the King’s Men, promising over mugs of ale to vanquish all the evil in Faerun.
The dwarven brew was very bitter. Vangerdahast drank little, but Azoun and Torg shared a few mugs as they discussed the arrangement of troops. Messengers came and went, and scouts were sent to search for the Zhentish force. The afternoon passed, and still there was no sign of the Zhentish troops.
Torg left Azoun and Vangerdahast alone in the pavilion shortly after sunset, promising to return as soon as he’d located the missing patrol. Using a spell, Vangerdahast contacted Filfaeril, but she had heard little from the Zhentish of late.
“The only news is that Lythrana Dargor, that beautiful envoy who visited with us right before you left, might be assigned to Cormyr as a permanent ambassador,” said the conjured, misty image of the queen. “She has nothing but praise for you, Your Highness. Don’t you think she was quite attractive, Vangy?” she asked, though the question was more of a barb aimed at her husband.
“Ah, you’ve found me out, my love,” sighed Azoun mockingly. “Who could have guessed that I’d throw you over for a Zhentish envoy.”
With a slight grunt, Vangerdahast pushed himself to his feet. “This spell takes too much energy from me for you two to be spending it this way,” he grumbled. “My apologies, Your Highnesses, but—unless there’s some other matters of state to discuss—we must end this.”
The laughter faded from Filfaeril’s ice-blue eyes. “Things here are quiet. Not a grumble from the trappers.” After a pause, she added, “Take care, my husband, and do not worry about our kingdom.”
“We’ll speak again soon,” the king replied. The misty image of the queen dissipated, and the pavilion grew quiet.
For more than an hour, the Cormyrian king sat at the long table, toying with an empty mug. Upon closer study, he noticed that the fine silver drinking cups were engraved with grisly scenes of war. Dwarves battled pig-snouted orcs and shorter creatures Azoun recognized as goblins. On another mug, dwarven warriors carried skulls into a vast cavern and stacked them in neat pyramids.
Without looking at his advisor, the king asked, “Is there some way for you to find the Zhentish troops with your magic?”
The wizard sat at the other end of the table, facing the king. His head lolled to one side in a fitful doze. He snorted awake at the king’s question. “Eh?” he mumbled. “The troops from the Keep have arrived?”
Azoun smiled and, after a final glance at the strange engravings, set his mug down. “It’s getting rather late,” he said. “We should either help look for the missing dwarves or try to contact the Zhentish army.”
Rubbing his eyes, Vangerdahast said, “You know that dwarves hate magic almost as much as they hate water. Allowing you to contact the queen was risky enough, thank you. Perhaps we should just return to the Welleran.” The wizard stretched and motioned toward the pavilion’s open door. “At least I could get a good night’s—”
A strangled gasp escaped Vangerdahast’s lips. The three lanterns that hung from the pavilion’s supports cast enough light on his face to reveal that it had gone stark white. His mouth hung open a little in obvious astonishment, and his eyes were wide with surprise.
Azoun turned to see what had shocked the royal magician so. His hand slipped automatically to his sword, but when the king saw the armor-clad figure in the doorway, he felt his arm fall limp at his side. Unlike Vangerdahast, Azoun managed to whisper a single name: “Alusair.”
A slight, devilish smile crept across the face of the woman in the doorway. She nodded slightly and said, “Hello, Father. It’s been quite a long time.”
8
The Mithril Princess
Princess Alusair of House Obarskyr smiled and held out her hands to her father. Still numb from the surprise meeting, King Azoun hurried to his daughter and embraced her tightly. After a moment, he pulled back and studied her face.
In the four years since she’d left Suzail, Alusair had changed quite a bit. Now twenty-five, the princess was possessed of a mature beauty. A few wrinkles gathered at the corners of her oak-brown eyes, and her golden hair haloed her face like morning sunlight. Smiling, the princess
stepped back from Azoun and said, “Well, where’s the anger I expected?”
The king continued to stare. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered if she was an illusion or if this was merely a dream. “I—I haven’t had time to be angry, Allie.” He choked back a tear and dropped his eyes. “Your mother and I … we hoped you weren’t …”
“Dead?” The princess laughed and moved to the table. “Hardly. I’ve been in some tight spots in the last four years, but never that close to the realm of Lord Cyric. The God of Death will have to wait awhile for me.”
By now, sufficient time had passed for Vangerdahast to recover from the shock of seeing Alusair, too. “You ungrateful little snipe! I ought to blast you into pieces for the worry you’ve caused your family!” The wizard curled his hands into tight fists and practically shook with rage.
Alusair moved farther into the tent and sighed. “I’ve missed you, too, Vangy.” The wizard scowled and looked away. A shadow of anger crossed the princess’s features, but she quickly brought up another subject.
“How is Mother? And Tanalasta?” Alusair filled a mug with strong dwarven ale and set it down.
Azoun returned to his place at the long, low table. “Your mother and sister are both fine. Worried about you, of course.” He rubbed his eyes and gestured to the camp outside. “What are you doing here?”
With a slight groan, Alusair opened the clasps on her brassards, the armor on her arms. “I’ve been helping King Torg defend his land against some ambitious orcs and goblins from the north.” She slipped the heavy plate off her arms and let it fall to the pavilion’s grass floor.
Shaking his head in disbelief, Azoun looked to Vangerdahast for direction. The wizard had turned to face the conversation again, but his features were clouded with anger. “So how did you elude my wizards for all this time?” the king asked at last.
Alusair undid the straps of the cuirass that protected her chest. “It really wasn’t that difficult,” she said, glancing at Vangerdahast. “No offense to Vangy, but this was all I needed.”
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 reall
y 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.”