Crusade

by James Lowder

  The bald emissary reined in his horse and waited for the king to reach his side before allowing the mount to move. “This is our camp, Azoun of Cormyr. Yamun Khahan waits for us here.”

  This was the first time the emissary had been close to Azoun, and the king could now see that he was not a Tuigan. Not only were his features less severe, but they seemed to mark the gaunt, bald man as a resident of the oriental lands. “How did you come to be the voice of the khahan?” Azoun asked after a moment. “You are not Tuigan.”

  “I was once a citizen of Khazari, a land now under the khahan’s rule,” the man said a little wistfully. “My name is Koja, and I am presently grand historian for Yamun Khahan.” He bowed again in greeting. “The khahan sent me to meet you because I have seen you before, at the Council of Semphar. I was still an envoy from Prince Ogandi of Khazari then.”

  Azoun cast his mind back to the meeting that seemed to signal the beginning of the problems with the Tuigan. Over a year ago, the countries of Faerun and of Kara-Tur had met in Semphar to discuss the Tuigan and their attacks on trade caravans crossing the steppes between the two great powers. There had been many nations represented at the council, and the eastern land of Khazari had claimed only a small voice in the proceedings.

  Koja smiled warmly. “It is not surprising that you cannot remember me, Your Highness. I had very little to add to the discussions.” He paused and motioned for the lead riders to move ahead to the camp. They set off at a gallop. “But I remembered you quite well. I even mentioned your speech at the council to the khahan when I first met him.”

  Azoun looked puzzled. “My speech?”

  “Yes,” Koja said. “You spoke after Chanar Khan interrupted the meeting. Chanar informed us all that the khahan demanded a tax on all caravans, that he wished to be recognized as sovereign over us all, but you told him—”

  “—that Yamun Khahan could expect no gold from Cormyr,” the king said, finishing Koja’s recollection. “I bade the general inform the khahan that he did not rule the entire world.”

  “Yamun Khahan has not forgotten that,” Koja said, a hint of a warning buried deep in his voice.

  Azoun brought his horse to a stop. “Is that why my emissary was slain?” he snapped, his eyes growing hard. “Because of something I said a year past?”

  “Of course not,” Koja said quickly. He turned from the king and watched a group of forty or so soldiers race from the camp toward them. With a smile, he glanced at Azoun again and concluded, “Your emissary refused to honor our customs and insulted Yamun Khahan in his own tent. He was punished according to Tuigan law.”

  Vangerdahast, who had been napping in the saddle, snorted awake when the procession stopped. Thom held out a hand to steady the old man. “Vangy,” he whispered. “Are you feeling all right?”

  The old wizard motioned to the bard as if he were ready to reply. Suddenly his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped from his horse to the ground, unconscious.

  Azoun spun around in his saddle, and the Cormyrian guards all drew their swords. The western soldiers closed a tight circle around the king, but Koja, who had been trapped in the press with Azoun, shouted, “It’s no use to fight. Hundreds of soldiers block the way back to your camp.”

  Thom looked up from the ground, where he cradled the fallen wizard in his arms, assuring the soldiers’ horses did not trample the old man. “Vangy’s alive,” he called.

  Azoun drew his own sword and pushed it close to Koja. “If you think this will stop the army, you’re a fool.”

  The emissary reached out with an empty hand. “Please, Your Highness. You have the word of the khahan to insure your safety. Had I known the old one was a wizard, I could have warned you about this place.”

  The Cormyrian soldiers looked to Azoun, waiting for orders. The five black-garbed Tuigan still guarding the westerners had drawn their weapons, too. They sat atop their prancing horses, wide grins on their scarred faces. “What do you mean, this place?” the king asked sharply.

  “We chose to camp here because it is like the Tuigan capital in the steppes, Quaraband. This place is magic-dead,” Koja replied, gesturing with his empty hands. “The whole camp is located in an area where magic will not work. That is why the wizard is sick.”

  Glancing at the soldiers racing from the camp, Azoun realized that a fight would be out of the question. With Vangerdahast unable to cast spells of any kind, he and his men would be slaughtered. The king gritted his teeth and ordered his guards to lower their weapons.

  Koja breathed an audible sigh of relief, then slid to the ground and helped Thom sling Vangerdahast onto a horse. “You are in no danger, Your Highness,” he said, smiling sincerely. “The khahan is, if nothing else, a man of his word.”

  As they set out again toward the khahan’s tent, this time surrounded by fifty guards, Azoun and Thom exchanged concerned glances. And though they couldn’t know it, the same thought was running through each of their minds. Both the bard and the king prayed silently that Lord Rayburton, who’d written that the Tuigan were uncompromising savages, had taken at least some literary license in his depiction of the horsewarriors.

  12

  Propaganda

  More tea, Your Highness?”

  Azoun nodded politely, and Koja refilled the king’s cup with warm, salty tea. “I much prefer this brewed in the Shou style,” the historian said casually. “They put dollops of butter in their brew.”

  “Actually,” Azoun replied, “this is quite good.” He brought the cup to his lips and took a small sip. Not as appetizing as tea with milk and sugar, he added silently, but certainly not bad.

  The king and the Tuigan envoy sat on piles of brightly colored cushions in a large yurt—at least that was what Koja called the round Tuigan huts. Made mostly of felt, the tent was musty after the recent rains. The place was dark, too, as the only illumination came from a single lantern hanging from the center pole. Little decoration lightened the oppressive mood of the yurt, save for a few small felt idols that hung over the door.

  “Are you sure Vangerdahast will be all right?” Azoun asked Koja. The king placed his cup on the dirty floor in front of him and leaned forward. It seemed that he was emphasizing his question with body language, but he was actually stretching out his sore back. The king wasn’t used to sitting cross-legged on the ground for hours at a time, and his muscles were complaining.

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Koja replied calmly, though he’d answered this question for the king once before. “The sickness will pass, and when the wizard leaves the area, he’ll be able to cast spells again.”

  Azoun sighed and leaned back with a short, almost silent groan. If Koja had heard him, the Khazari gave no indication of it. And, as it had many times in the last two hours, the yurt fell silent.

  However, the king did not relax. The noise from the bustling camp outside the quiet, dark tent kept him on guard. The Tuigan soldiers’ shouts and the clanging of weapons being forged and repaired reminded the Cormyrian king that he was still amongst the enemy.

  Not that Azoun had been threatened since entering the Tuigan camp. On the contrary, Koja and the various Tuigan khans Azoun had met since arriving had treated him with respect, even deference. And while the king was led to the central yurt to await the khahan, tribal healers who wore masks of birds and beasts had taken Vangerdahast into their care. Because he’d been denied access to the khahan’s yurt, Thom had gone with the wizard to keep an eye on things. Still, the king realized that much of the civility he saw from Koja was a show for his sake alone.

  The bulk of the Tuigan army had greeted the king’s procession with little regard and, in a few cases, open scorn. Most simply went about their business, cleaning weapons and tack, eating, or simply exchanging stories around the many smoky cookfires scattered through the camp. At least on the surface, the Tuigan camp was not all that different from the western one Azoun had recently left, and nothing like the horrifying place Lord Rayburton had described in his journals. Y
et, the king was not foolish enough to assume that the many apparent similarities between his camp and the khahan’s were anything other than superficial. Hundreds of details set the two camps apart, ranging in significance from the Tuigan’s use of dung to stoke their acrid-smelling fires to the violent punishment the khans frequently and openly meted out to their soldiers.

  The most important difference Azoun noted between his troops and the Tuigan army was a little harder to define, but it made the two camps seem very different indeed. From Rayburton’s book, the king recognized a few of the hundreds of standards dotting the camp, rallying points for the various barbarian clans. Despite this obvious fragmentation, the Tuigan camp seemed unified, whereas the Alliance’s camp was home to a loose confederation of troops. In Azoun’s army, the orcs were not welcome in many places, the Sembians and mercenaries not welcome in others. Cormyrians fraternized with Cormyrians, dalesmen with dalesmen.

  Unity of purpose and casual self-confidence permeated the Tuigan gathering. Why shouldn’t it? Azoun mused as he finished his tea. Yamun Khahan has led this army to victory after victory.

  The first substantial clouds of doubt rolled over the king’s vision of the crusade as he pondered that thought. He was rubbing his chin, buried in contemplation of this, when the yurt’s flap flew open, flooding the dim tent with light. Azoun found himself looking up at a broad-shouldered, heavily armored man.

  Koja offered a brief greeting in Tuigan to the newcomer, then turned to Azoun. “Your Highness,” he said with a slight smile, “this is Yamun Khahan, Illustrious Emperor of All Peoples.”

  Quickly Azoun got to his feet. The khahan studied the king for a moment, openly sizing up his opponent. He said something to Koja in Tuigan without taking his eyes from the Cormyrian king.

  “The khahan wishes you to be seated,” Koja said, motioning toward the cushions Azoun had just vacated. “This meeting will not take up much more of your time.”

  Azoun did as he was asked, but he wondered for a moment why the khahan had kept him waiting for nearly two hours. As the Tuigan leader made his way across the tent to a wooden seat, never taking his eyes off the king, Azoun decided that the wait, like this meeting, was some kind of test. He was certainly annoyed by the delay, but he refused to show the barbarian that he was at all put out.

  Yamun silently took his seat. Azoun met the khahan’s steady gaze now, and took the opportunity to size up his own opponent.

  In the feeble light of the single lantern, Yamun Khahan looked ominous. His prominent, heavy cheekbones and broad, flat nose cast heavy shadows over the rest of his face. Despite these shadows, Azoun saw that a long, ragged scar ran across the bridge of the khahan’s nose and over his cheek. Another scar, faded with age, bit into the corner of his mouth, twisting his upper lip into an almost perpetual sneer. The king met the warlord’s eyes and found them dark and clear.

  Long braids of red-tinted hair framed Yamun’s shadowy visage and rested on his flaring silver shoulder guards. The silver ailettes topped a breastplate of gold, sculpted with muscles. At the khahan’s waist, a skirt of silver chain mail hung, vaguely reflecting the lantern’s glow. In opposition to this finery, the khahan’s boots were heavy and worn. Mud clung to them in thick, wet globs, which occasionally slid onto the yurt’s dirty, carpeted floor.

  The khahan met Azoun’s eyes again and smiled, though his twisted lip made the expression more threatening than inviting. He shouted something in Tuigan, and Azoun wished that he’d learned more of the guttural tongue or had his bard at his side.

  Two other Tuigan entered the tent and took seats on the floor at either side of the khahan. From their armor and their bearing, Azoun assumed them to be generals. “This is Chanar Ong Kho, illustrious commander of the left flank,” Koja announced formally. He gestured with an open hand to the man on Yamun’s left.

  Chanar Khan scowled at Azoun, then unslung a heavy skin from his shoulder and placed it at the khahan’s feet. The king recognized the brash general as the same man who had interrupted the Council of Semphar and presented the khahan’s demands to the delegates there. At that time, he had led ten thousand men. Azoun wondered how many more he had under his control now.

  Koja motioned to the man on Yamun’s right and added, “This is Batu Min Ho, illustrious commander of the right flank.” This general immediately bowed to Azoun, dropping his head almost to the floor. When Batu Min Ho raised his face again, the king noticed that the general was, as his name suggested, a Shou. Like a Tuigan’s, Batu’s dark eyes were set wide over broad cheeks, and his nose was broad and flat. Still, there was a delicacy to his features lacking in both Chanar and Yamun.

  “Tell the khahan and his generals that I am honored to meet them,” Azoun said, returning Batu Min Ho’s bow. “I have heard many great things about their military skill.”

  Koja repeated the king’s words. Coarse, loud laughter burst from Chanar, and Batu simply nodded at the compliment. Yamun remained silent, but leaned forward, resting an elbow on his knee. The straps of his armor creaked with the effort. Slowly he pointed at Azoun and asked something in Tuigan.

  The king understood a little of what the khahan said, but waited for Koja to repeat the question before answering. “Why do you think I invited you here?” the bald Khazari asked in Yamun’s stead.

  “So you could meet your adversary,” Azoun replied. “To decide how much of a threat I am.”

  Yamun nodded when Koja relayed the answer. The warlord regarded the king for a moment, his eyes narrowed. “You know I outnumber you by three-, maybe four-to-one,” he said through Koja.

  Azoun simply nodded for an answer, and Yamun paused again. “The prisoners I have taken in Thesk warned me of your coming,” the khahan growled. “They said you gathered a great army to crush me. What my scouts have seen of your troops makes me think that they are not great enough to even slow me down.”

  “We shall be able to tell that only if we fight,” Azoun said, then turned to Koja. “Emphasize ‘if’ in that reply.”

  After taking a sip of his tea, the bald man nodded politely, then relayed the king’s message. Chanar laughed again, but Yamun glowered at the khan, which silenced him almost instantly. “Then surrender to me now, Azoun of Cor-meer,” Yamun answered, lounging back in his seat and tugging at the end of his stringy mustache. “That is the only thing that will stop me from destroying you in battle.”

  Koja had just begun to relay the khahan’s words when Batu Min Ho leaned forward and spoke. The babble of voices confused Azoun a little. He caught only part of what the bald Khazari was reporting. Still, the king understood the Shou general’s question without translation.

  Stretching two empty hands before him, Azoun faced Batu Min Ho. “Yes, Batu Khan,” he said in rough, halting Tuigan. “I seek peace.”

  Azoun’s reply had a striking and immediate effect on the others in the khahan’s yurt. Chanar leaped to his feet, his mouth hanging open in shock. Surprise registered on Batu’s face, too, but the emotion did not show as readily on the Shou general. Glancing from the king to Yamun Khahan, then back to Azoun again, the Khazari historian seemed to be waiting for their reactions to determine his own.

  For his part, Yamun slouched forward again. A slight smile battled with his scar for control of his lip. “You speak the language of my people,” he said slowly.

  “I speak only a little Tuigan,” Azoun corrected, using the one Tuigan phrase he was certain he knew correctly, then switched back to Common. “Koja, I do need your help. I understand only some of what they’re saying.”

  The Khazari sipped his tea and nodded. “What do you want to tell the khahan?”

  “Repeat what I told you, then tell them that I hope we can avoid bloodshed.”

  As Koja relayed the message, Chanar sat down and said something to the khahan. Yamun’s slight smile broadened into a leer as he picked up the leather bag Chanar had placed at his mud-caked feet. Unstoppering the bag, Yamun shouted out a command.

  Two servants immed
iately entered the yurt, bowing to the khahan as they did so. Yamun mumbled another order, and the two young men scurried to the back of the felt tent and clattered through a chest. They returned with a bejeweled, golden goblet and a round ball of red silk.

  Koja blanched noticeably, and Chanar pointed at the Khazari and laughed. The khahan handed the goblet to Batu, who upended the golden vessel, emptying some sludgy globs from its bottom. He then wiped it out with a bit of the heavy carpet that lay on the floor. Taking the leather bag from Yamun, a servant filled the goblet with a milky liquid.

  The other servant unwrapped the stained silk and held the object the red cloth had covered out to Yamun. It was a human skull, the top of which had been cut away. A silver cup now filled the empty bones. The khahan held the grisly drinking vessel so that its empty eye sockets faced Azoun, and a servant filled it, too, with liquid from the leather bag.

  Chanar Khan said something to Koja, and the bald man nodded. “Chanar Ong Kho wishes me to inform Your Highness that the skull once belonged to Abatai, an enemy of the khahan.” The Khazari frowned and added, “Do not forget what I told you about your envoy, Your Highness. Failure to drink means certain death.”

  With mild surprise, the Cormyrian king noticed that Yamun and his generals were watching him closely. They are expecting to frighten me with the skull, Azoun realized, then noted that Koja was obviously unnerved by the grim trophy. Thanking the gods that the area was magic-dead, for it negated the possibility of the skull-cup being ensorceled, the king reached for it.

  Before he leaned back and gnawed pensively on his lower lip, Yamun gave the skull-cup to the king. Batu called out a toast in Tuigan, or at least that was what Azoun assumed he cried, then gulped down the thick, sour-tasting drink. A servant refilled the bejeweled goblet Batu held, and it was passed to Chanar Khan. The smiling Tuigan general paused before lifting the golden goblet and motioned for Azoun to drink from the skull.