Crusade

by James Lowder

  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 silently 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 sh
outed. “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.

  Torg, who was supervising the packing of his few belongings, frowned. The ironlord’s black beard hid the expression, but Azoun and Vangerdahast saw the dwarf’s anger in his eyes. “It’s no use, Azoun. We’re going back to Earthfast. My men won’t fight alongside orcs.”

  The Cormyrian monarch glanced at his daughter. She sat silently at the edge of the tent, her drawn sword resting on her lap. “Your soldiers would fight at my side if you ordered them to, if you allowed them to,” the king said harshly, returning his eyes to Torg.

  Azoun’s tone made the statement sound like an accusation. To Torg, it seemed as if the king was saying that it was only his reluctance—or cowardice—that prevented the dwarves from joining the crusade.

  Which was precisely the impression that Azoun wanted to give.

  Looking at the sentries outside, the king had realized that there were only two things that seemed important to the dwarves of Earthfast: order and honor. With a little work, he knew that he might be able to show Torg how leaving the crusade was contrary to both of these—despite the troops they had to fight beside.

  Bristling at the slightly veiled insult to his bravery, Torg whirled on the king. “We fight only for good causes,” the ironlord hissed. “I doubt any cause that draws scum like that to rally to it.”

  “Indeed,” Alusair said from the shadows. “More than that, Father, it makes me wonder what you gave the Keep to secure their cooperation. I hope it was worth it.”

  “We’re not talking about Zhentil Keep or my policies,” Azoun snapped. He took a step toward Torg. “I have your word of honor that two thousand dwarves from Earthfast will stand against the Tuigan. Are you going to break that promise?”

  The dwarves’ actions indicated that they intended to do exactly that, but Torg hedged when confronted with the question. He mumbled something into his beard, then said, “You’ve broken your part of the bargain, Azoun.”

  Without hesitation, Vangerdahast pointed a finger at the ironlord. “Far from it,” he said coldly. “King Azoun has not broken any such bargain; he offered you nothing in return for your troops but the honor of defending Faerun.”

  Alusair had moved to Torg’s side during the exchange. She sheathed her sword and glared at her father. “This is all political rhetoric. It isn’t dishonorable to refuse to fight on the side of … of murdering animals.”

  Clenching his teeth, Azoun forced back the growing rage he felt within him. “By that logic, Allie,” he said flatly, “you’d fight for the horsewarriors just because they oppose the orcs. That’s foolish.”

  Alusair put her hands on her hips. “But it isn’t—”

  “No, Princess,” Torg grumbled, putting a hand on Alusair’s arm. “Your father is right.” The ironlord narrowed his eyes and studied the Cormyrian king for a moment. “I want retribution for the soldiers who were slain.”

  “That’s reasonable,” Azoun conceded. He looked at Alusair, but she would not meet his gaze.

  “And I will not allow the orcs to travel with my troops,” Torg added. “You will take them down the coast in your ships. We will march the rest of the way and meet you in Thesk.”

  Azoun had known from the start that the troops from Earthfast would not travel by boat. Some clans of dwarves preferred to keep in contact with the earth, the source of their prosperity, the sustainer of their mining cities. The king suddenly realized that Torg’s demand that the orcs be taken to Telflamm by ship was, in fact, something the dwarf could tell his generals he received as a concession from the humans. Though he hadn’t yet discussed it with the ironlord, Azoun had intended taking the Zhentish troops aboard his ships from the start.

  The king nodded. “Your demands are fair, Ironlord. I will transport the orcs.”

  “This is all rather absurd,” Vangerdahast said. “Why is the dwarven army walking all that way when we could easily provide transport for them, too?”

  “You may understand magic, wizard,” Torg replied, turning his back on Vangerdahast, “but you don’t understand dwarves. I gave my word to fight, so I will honor that.” He paused and rattled his birdcage. “To ask my troops to travel by sea is to ask them not to be dwarves.”

  A dwarven officer entered the tent and kneeled. “We’ll be ready to leave by highsun,” he reported.

  Pausing for only an instant, Torg said, “Tell the troops to prepare for the march south.”

  The officer started to speak, then thought better of it and stood. “By your command, Ironlord,” he said and spun sharply on his heels.

  When the officer was gone, Torg sighed. “We can set up the logistics of the march later. Now, I want Vrakk to give me the orcs responsible for the deaths of my soldiers.”

  Within minutes, Azoun, Vangerdahast, Torg, and Alusair found themselves once again in the field to the east of camp. The sun was high over the hills, close to its zenith. A group of five hundred or so dwarves stood at attention in the hot sun, adorned in full armor. The orcs sprawled on the ground, shielding their faces from the bright sunshine with rat-eaten cloaks, packs, or whatever else they could find. At the center of this ragtag group, Vrakk and his lieutenants huddled around the giant’s skull standard, arguing noisily. If
they noticed Azoun’s approach, the orcs didn’t show it.

  “Commander Vrakk,” the king said sharply when he reached the standard, “we must discuss an incident that possibly involved your men.”

  Alusair and Torg nervously eyed the soldiers, and both of them kept their hands close to their weapons. Vangerdahast stood behind Azoun, a spell ready in his mind. He tapped his foot in irritation, as well. The orcs were not nearly so concerned with their camp as the dwarves were, and even that temporary resting spot was cluttered with garbage and puddles of waste; the smell alone was making the mage queasy.

  A short orc with an especially piggish snout started to speak, but Vrakk kicked him in the back. “What problem now, Ak-soon?” the orcish commander asked, a bit of a whine in his voice. “We want to fight, not sit in sun all day.”

  “There was a dwarven patrol of three murdered yesterday on its way to the shore,” Azoun said, the accusation clear in his voice.

  Vrakk nodded. “They attack orc scouts,” he responded casually. Grabbing a piece of meat from one of the other orcish soldiers, he stuffed the raw flesh into his mouth.

  Torg stepped forward. “I want blood-payment,” he rumbled. An orcish lieutenant moved between the ironlord and Vrakk, but Alusair drew her sword. Before the orc could respond, the princess’s blade rested at his throat. Two dozen other Zhentish soldiers leaped to their feet and drew their weapons. As Vangerdahast prepared to cast his spell, the dwarven troops began a quick march across the field to their ironlord.

  Before anyone drew blood, however, Vrakk yelled a single command in Orcish. Thanks to the spell he had cast previously, Vangerdahast could understand what the orcish leader was yelling. Still, he wasn’t all that sure the troops would “stand down” as Vrakk demanded.