by James Lowder
“You’re being a fool,” the centaur said sharply. Jad pranced back and forth, towering over the dwarven king and his two guards. “I can help you.”
Torg pushed the gold-bound black forks of his beard aside and folded his arms across his chest. “I’ve tried to be polite about this, centaur. Obviously that doesn’t work.” Spreading his feet apart a little, he said, “Let’s try this, then: the dwarves of Earthfast don’t need help from creatures like you.”
Jad exhaled sharply, making a sound that reminded Alusair of nothing so much as a horse snorting angrily. She was angry herself as she moved to the centaur’s side. “Why, Torg?” she asked. “The centaurs can make this journey easier for us, but you—”
“I won’t have my troops allying with forest-bound riffraff like him,” the ironlord growled, his face growing red beneath his beard.
Jad looked down at Alusair, then at Torg. “Race is no guide to character,” he said, trying to subdue his anger. “I’ve known dwarves who were intelligent and wise. Nothing like you at all.” Without another word, he reared on his hind legs and headed away from Torg at a canter.
“Wait!” Alusair called. She glanced over her shoulder at Torg. The ironlord was scowling into his beard, muttering something in Dwarvish. Alusair raced after the centaur chieftain.
As she made her way to the edge of the camp, the princess saw the centaur in the bright moonlight. Jad kneeled where he’d set up the falcon’s perch. He was struggling with the heavy leather glove when Alusair reached his side.
The centaur turned at her approach. “That—that—” Bowing his head, he breathed deeply. When Jad looked up again, Alusair saw that some calm was reflected in his eyes. “He’s made me so angry I can’t even talk!”
“I’m sorry,” Alusair offered.
“It’s not your place to apologize for Torg, Princess.” The centaur glanced back toward the camp, then pulled on the leather hawking glove. “To be honest, I don’t know why your father called on him for assistance.”
“Father has stranger allies than the dwarves of Earthfast,” Alusair mumbled, a little bitterness creeping into her voice.
“The orcs you told me about?” Jad asked as he attempted to nudge the drowsy falcon onto his gloved hand. The hawk cried out irritably, and the centaur paused. “Perhaps,” he ventured. “Though I’d be willing to guess the King Azoun I’ve heard so much about had good reason for accepting their aid.”
Alusair let the subject drop, more for the feeling of guilt that was beginning to plague her than for any disagreement with Jad’s observations. This latest, most puzzling display of Torg’s narrow-mindedness was weighing upon her heavily. “I’m just sorry Torg wouldn’t allow you to help us,” she said after a moment.
Jad snorted. “When I offered the guide to him, the buffoon asked why we weren’t coming along to fight. I told him that we’re obligated to protect the forest, that we couldn’t just leave. Anyway, we’ll be here to help if the battle ranges this far west. And I offered supplies, too.”
“And he wouldn’t hear of it,” Alusair concluded.
“Worse still,” Jad said, the anger rising in his voice again. “he insulted me, said that I was just laying a trap for them, that I was probably allied with elves or orcs or worse.” He clenched his fists and tried to relax.
Alusair rested a hand on the centaur’s arm. “I’ll tell Azoun of your generosity, Jad,” she said. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate the offer.”
The chieftain looked down at the falcon, which was fidgeting nervously on its perch. “Perhaps there is something I can do to help,” he said. He smiled and added, “but I’m sure Torg will think I’m doing it to spy on you.”
“You can’t give me the hawk.” Alusair motioned toward the bird. “You need it to patrol your borders.”
“Not really,” Jad said, handing the hawking glove to the princess. “We know the woods better than anyone, so it’s easy for us to creep close to camps and spy.”
When Alusair hesitated, Jad pushed the glove toward her. Eventually he took her hand in his own and placed the leather glove in her fingers. Finally, he unclasped the thin silver bracelet and put it around Alusair’s wrist. It was much looser on her arm than it had been on Jad’s thick wrist; Alusair held her arm high, and the silver ring slid halfway to her elbow.
Jad briefly explained how the bracelet worked. All Alusair had to do was concentrate on a particular bird, and the bracelet would allow her to see through its eyes for as long as she wanted. The chieftain then added a few cautions about delving too deeply into any bird’s mind, and the lesson was over. The princess listened, but her eyes wandered often to the peregrine, now sitting comfortably on the perch, its head tucked down for sleep.
“And I’ll expect the bracelet and the falcon returned after you take care of the barbarians,” Jad noted, only half in jest. Alusair agreed, and with little further ado, the centaur stood. “My regards to your father,” he said as he turned to go. “I hope to meet him someday.”
Alusair watched sadly as the centaur chieftain galloped toward the forest. Though the moonlight was bright, she lost sight of Jad Eyesbright in the tall grass long before he reached the tree line. However, even after she could no longer see the centaur, Alusair stood in the field, studying the dark, uneven edge of Lethyr Forest. After a while, she looked around at the silent rows of tents in the dark dwarven camp.
Quickly she coaxed the falcon onto her gloved hand and pulled up his perch. The bird cried noisily, but the unnerving sound was music to Alusair. By the time she headed for her tent, the princess was already anxious for tomorrow to dawn so she could let the falcon soar. The bird shrieked again, and a dwarven sentry frowned at the peregrine as Alusair carried it past. It was clear that the dour soldiers from Earthfast would not appreciate the centaur chieftain’s gift.
The princess smiled when she realized they wouldn’t.
11
Speaking in Tongues
The gentle rhythm of the rain on the tent’s roof and sides was interrupted by a sharp wind, then the steady, soothing noise continued. Stroking his beard, which he believed was grayer now than when he’d received the letter from Torg four months past, King Azoun sighed. He stared at the jumble of words on the yellowed parchment before him for a moment, then sighed again. When he looked up, the king saw that both Thom Reaverson and Vangerdahast were deeply absorbed in their own work. The wizard was seated in a corner, under the glow of a lantern, while the bard sat directly across the table from Azoun. The lanterns did little to augment the weak daylight bleeding through the tent from the cloudy day outside.
“Are you sure there’s no spell you can cast that will allow me to learn to speak Tuigan?” the king asked.
Vangerdahast looked up. “Eh?” he said wearily. A long scroll slid from his hands onto the tent’s canvas floor. “No, Azoun, there’s not. There’s a spell that will allow me to speak with them, but that’s all I can do. Actually, that should be enough. I can be a capable negotiator if the need arises.”
A rather malicious smile crossed Azoun’s lips, and he replied, “That’s exactly why I’m trying to learn Tuigan—so the need won’t arise.”
Thom Reaverson stifled a chuckle. He glanced at Azoun, who was smiling, too, then returned his attention to the paper in front of him. Like Azoun, the bard-historian was reviewing a list of common Tuigan phrases, greetings and the like. The foreign words were rendered in Common, spelled phonetically so any westerner could learn them. Both he and Azoun were studying the language in the unlikely event that a diplomatic meeting could be arranged with Yamun Khahan and Vangerdahast’s spells didn’t work.
Noting the scowl that was slowly spreading over the wizard’s wrinkled face, Azoun apologized. “Sorry to interrupt your work, Vangy. I didn’t realize you were so wrapped up in those spells lists. I hope you’re having more success than I am.”
The royal magician rubbed his red eyes. “I should certainly hope so,” he mumbled. He pushed the papers spread at his f
eet into a neat pile, then bent over and reached for the scroll on the floor. The wizard put his hand on his paunch and groaned slightly as he did so.
“This is not easy work,” Vangerdahast noted when he’d recovered the scroll. “Each of the spellcasters in the army commands different spells. For the magic units to be of any use, I have to know their potential, know what incantation I can expect from each man and woman.” He glanced at Thom, who was still slouched over the Tuigan vocabulary list. “And you, Master Bard. Are you finding the Tuigan tongue easier to glean than your king is?”
Tossing his black braid over his shoulder, the bard met Vangerdahast’s gaze. “It’s not that difficult,” he said affably. He looked across the table at Azoun, who was watching him carefully. “Of course, I’ve had a little exposure to it before.”
Azoun motioned to a thin, battered book that lay to his right on the table. “This was Thom’s, remember? He’d read it—how many times?”
“Four,” the bard answered.
“Four times,” Azoun noted to Vangerdahast, holding up the appropriate number of fingers. “It’s no wonder he’s picking this up faster than I am.” The king reached for the book and opened it to a random page. “Does Lord Rayburton have much to say about the Tuigan themselves, or did he just take notes on their language?”
Straightening in his seat, Thom said, “His comments on their dress and the language notes he made are the only things of value. That’s why I didn’t bring the book to your attention earlier, milord. It’s mostly filled with value judgments about the Tuigan’s ‘barbarism.’ ”
Azoun raised an eyebrow. “Does Rayburton depict the Tuigan as greater savages than the representative from Rashemen did during the council?”
“Yes, but what makes me doubt his word is the way he describes Shou Lung,” the bard replied. “He calls the Shou savages, too, and we know that’s not true.”
Thom reached for the battered tome and searched for a specific illustration. “Still, Lord Rayburton was an adventurer—one of the first men to cross from the West to Shou Lung without magical aid,” he explained as he leafed through the book. He paused and added, “There are some wonderful songs about him, I’ll sing you one some time.”
“The Tuigan,” Vangerdahast prompted.
Thom found the page he was searching for and returned the book to Azoun. “Before Yamun Khahan, the steppe riders were only nomadic clans, far less organized than they are now. Still, from all I’ve heard, their basic culture has advanced little since Rayburton’s time.”
The illustration made Azoun gasp. There, in crude line drawings, was a depiction of a horsewarrior flaying a man alive. To the warrior’s right, another soldier was slitting his horse’s leg and drinking its blood. A line of sticks with heads impaled upon them served as a backdrop for the grisly scene. The king passed the book to the royal wizard, who only shrugged.
“Let’s hope, for our emissaries’ sake, that Rayburton and Fonjara Galth were exaggerating the Tuigan’s cruelty,” Vangerdahast noted as he stood and stretched.
The rain continued to beat a lulling rhythm on the canvas, a sound that was punctuated only by strong gusts of wind and the noise from the Alliance’s camp. Azoun silently wondered if he had sent the envoys to their deaths. The thought pained him greatly, even though he knew that he and the whole crusading force were in great danger now.
The king and the Army of the Alliance had reached a suitable site for a camp along the Golden Way—as the frequently traveled trade route was called—three days earlier. The men had been exhausted after the slow, grueling march from Telflamm, so Azoun had let them rest for one day before he started drilling them. Trained soldiers and experienced mercenaries made up a portion of the army, so the generals didn’t need to teach them how to march or handle a weapon. They did, however, need to break the soldiers into units of manageable size and make them familiar with the signals that would be used during the battle.
Any relief the men might have taken from a break in their march was mitigated by the news from the east. A steady stream of ragged refugees from Thesk had poured past the army all along their trek down the Golden Way. The hungry, exhausted farmers and wareless merchants told wildly varying stories. Some claimed that the Tuigan were bogged down in a battle far to the east, others cast nervous glances over their shoulders and said the horselords were only a day or so behind them. Soldiers from the broken armies of Thesk passed by, too. Some of them joined Azoun’s forces. Most fled the plains for the relative safety of walled cities like Telflamm.
By the second day, Azoun had learned the true position of the Tuigan horde. A pair of scouts, Red Plumes from the city of Hillsfar, had dashed into the royal compound at the center of camp and blurted out a report. Tuigan scouts had been spotted to the east, not thirty miles from the Alliance’s present position. Azoun had immediately contacted Alusair, but learned the dwarves were still at least two days away. The king then sent a pair of emissaries—a Cormyrian captain to assess the Tuigan’s battle strength and a soldier from Thesk who could speak the horsewarriors’ hard, guttural language—to meet with the barbarians.
Now, one day later, Azoun awaited word from these messengers and hoped the Tuigan would slow their advance long enough for Torg’s troops to join the rest of the army.
A trumpet blast signaling the return of some scouts broke the reverie in the tent. Vangerdahast stuffed his lists of spells into a polished leather pouch and slung it over his shoulder. “It must be getting close to eveningfeast,” he said wearily. “I’m going back to my tent to make a few notes before we eat.” The wizard nodded at Thom and added, “Keep him at the Tuigan lessons. I know from experience that he’s a slacker when it comes to studying.”
Thom laughed at the barb, for it was easy to see that the wizard’s comment was only a jest. Azoun was renowned as a great scholar, and the bard’s own presence at court, along with a number of sculptors, musicians, and other artists, testified to the king’s love of the arts.
Squinting against the rain, the wizard ducked out of the Royal Pavilion and made his way across the muddy ground to his own dwelling. Brunthar Elventree, the dalesman who commanded the archers, was hurrying through the compound, too, his head bowed against the rain. “Any problem with the orcs?” the wizard asked loudly.
The rain-soaked dalesman stopped, wiped the wet red hair out of his eyes, then nodded to the royal magician. “Well met, Vangerdahast,” he said apologetically. “I didn’t—”
The wizard scowled and hugged his pouch tighter to his side. “Forget the greeting,” he said coldly. “Just answer my question before I drown.” The dalesman had grown a little more respectful of Azoun’s position during the march through Thesk, but Vangerdahast still saw him as a brash upstart.
Brunthar shook his head, sending beads of water sailing from his hair. “No. No trouble with the orcs since last night. We’ve put—”
Nodding and motioning for the man to go on his way, Vangerdahast muttered, “Fine, thank you,” and continued toward his tent. He breathed a sigh of relief through his sodden beard, thanking the gods for small favors.
As Azoun and Vangerdahast had expected, the human troops did not accept the Zhentish orcs any more readily than the dwarves had. The Cormyrian soldier who’d been hanged outside of Telflamm for killing a fellow crusader had served as adequate warning against violence for most of the troops. And though insults and cruel, even dangerous practical jokes were often hurled at the orcs, no one had seemed intent on starting a fight with them—until last night.
The fistfight had been only one of a half-dozen in camp that evening. Word of the Tuigan’s proximity and the delay of the dwarven troops had put everyone on edge. But while most of the scuffles were easily settled, swords had been drawn at the edge of the orcs’ ring of tents, and it took Azoun himself to avert bloodshed.
“We should probably just let them kill each other and go home before the barbarians get here,” Vangerdahast muttered to himself as reached his tent. The gu
ard stationed outside, his surcoat soaked onto his armor, gave the wizard a short bow. Vangerdahast returned it perfunctorily and ducked inside.
The tent was dark and musty. Vangerdahast recalled a spell that would kindle a warm light, but quickly dismissed it. The Tuigan might attack at any time, so every spell, no matter how simple, might prove useful. With a string of grumbled expletives, the wizard dumped his pouch onto his cot and fumbled with a tinderbox. After lighting the lantern that hung from the tent’s center support, he shucked off his wet robe.
The lantern spread a weak light through the tent, revealing a huge assortment of books, scrolls, and other, more curious items. A live hedgehog lay sleeping in a large glass jar, which itself was bumped up against a box of dragon scales of various colors. Oils and liquids stood in neat rows, their tightly stoppered containers clearly labeled. Mortars and pestals were stored neatly in one corner, next to a large shelf filled with spellbooks. In short, the tent was incredibly organized for the amount of material it held.
But then, that was Vangerdahast’s way. He hated clutter and confusion. “An untidy room is the sign of a sloppy mind,” he always said. “And people with sloppy minds can’t be trusted in a pinch.” That saying applied to the fabled mage, Elminster of Shadowdale, too. Vangerdahast had visited the ancient sorcerer’s home many times. He was always astounded to find the place in utter disarray—though Elminster claimed to know where every item was.
Vangerdahast doubted that the Sage of Shadowdale even knew what every item in the cluttered tower was, let alone its location.
As he glanced around the tent, the royal mage thought of Elminster, then cursed again. “I wish ye were in this gods-forsaken place instead of me,” he muttered, using the dialect Elminster favored. Vangerdahast talked to himself aloud quite often when he was alone. It was a habit he’d picked up in his sixty-odd years of magical research, conducted largely in isolation.
That habit did not reflect a deteriorating mind, however. For a man of almost eighty years, Vangerdahast was in good shape, both mentally and physically. An occasional spell had bolstered his health and perhaps added a few years to his life, but all in all the royal wizard was as fit as most men half his age. His weight was a bit of a problem, to be sure, but his paunch had been the result of too little physical activity, not too much wild living.