Authors: James Lowder
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.
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 scutageor shield taxlevied 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 to 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 sure 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 Cormyror 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.
It’s no wonder Azoun is exhausted, Thom decided silently. In just the last few months he’s brought everything together. And not even that damned attack in the Royal Gardens has been enough to shake his dedication to this venture.
Thom couldn’t know that a secret trip to the Black Rat had countered any doubts that Azoun had had about the crusadeeven the ones planted by the assassination attempt. In the tenday that followed the surreptitious visit to the tavern and the meeting with the Zhentish envoy, the king had indeed attacked the Tuigan matter with renewed vigor and enthusiasm. Supply lines had been quickly established, ships and troops gathered together, and final messages dispatched to King Torg and the witches in Rashemen. He’d even appointed an impartial seneschal to oversee the trial of the imprisoned trapper.
That dedication had paid off for Azoun, and Thom could see the success manifested in the high-spirited crew around him and the fast-moving troop and supply ships crossing the Lake of Dragons. After watching a dark-hulled cog, the Sarnath, come even with the Welleran, then pass it, the bard let his thoughts wander to the battles that loomed in the future. For the next hour, he wondered what his part would be in the conflict.
Thom’s reverie was broken by a large, callused hand on his shoulder. “Time for the meeting, Master Bard,” a deep, soothing voice said.
Thom turned to see General Farl Bloodaxe, commander of the army’s infantry. The bard knew the soldier well, for he was a frequent guest at Azoun’s palace. Farl looked particularly dashing that night as he stood, one hand planted on his hip, the other grasping a line overhead. The final light of the setting sun cast deep shadows on his ebony skin and glinted in his green eyes. The wind tugged at the loose-fitting white shirt the general wore. That, coupled with his silver-buckled boots and tan breeches, made him look more a pirate than an infantry commander. It wasn’t an image Farl fostered, Thom knew, for the general was a well-known supporter of law and order.
Thom smiled warmly. “Thank you for reminding me, General. It’s not hard to lose track of time completely when watching the sea pass by, especially after it gets dark.”
“I traveled by ship quite a lot when I was a younger, you know,” the general noted, leaning on the railing. He looked up at the stars, just becoming visible in the night sky, and added, “It’s the one thing I miss most about my days as a world traveler.”
“Too bad Vangerdahast doesn’t share your enthusiasm for ships,” the bard said. “He looked quite ill when I saw him earlier.”
The general took a long last look at the dark water rushing by the ship. “We’d best be going, Thom. The meeting will be underway by now.”
Farl Bloodaxe was right. When he and Thom reached the king’s cabin in the aft castle, Azoun was unrolling a map, talking about the reorganization of the troops that would take place once they were gathered in Telflamm. Vangerdahast, still slightly pale, sat by an open window, taking in deep breaths of the cool air. Finally, at either side of the table, the crusade’s two other generals stood, listening intently to the Cormyrian monarch.
“After seeing the ships to Telflamm, I’ll be going north up the coast to deliver supplies to King Torg and rendezvous with the troops from Zhentil Keep,” Azoun said. “The dwarves, being creatures of the earth, won’t travel by boat, so” He stopped speaking when Thom and Farl entered the cabin.
“My apologies, Azoun,” Farl said sincerely.
“Yes, milord,” Thom added. “It’s my fault we’re late. I was mulling over a song at the railing when the general reminded me about the meeting.”
“Leave it to a bard to forget an important meeting because of a song,” one of the generals said gruffly. “Never did see much use in having them along on campaign. They can even be a downright nuisance. Why, once”
“Please, Lord Harcourt,” Azoun said quickly, preventing the cavalry general from launching into one of his endless war stories. “I chose Muse Reaverson to come along as court historian, not as an entertainer. I’d rather you didn’t insult him.”
Looking a bit shocked at the reproach, Lord Harcourt rubbed his long white mustache and mumbled an apology. He shifted uncomfortably in his hauberk under the king’s gaze. Silently Azoun wondered if the cavalry commander ever took the chain mail shirt off, for he was the only armored man in the cabin.
Farl laughed and added, “Or you’ll end up looking like a fool in the chronicles. Eternal infamy is a high price to pay for a minor insult.”
Though both Thom and Azoun knew the infantry commander meant that last comment as a joke, they both frownedeach for a different reason. The barb brought the family history’s disturbing depiction of Salember to Azoun’s mind, while Thom simply felt a little insulted that someone could even suggest he would use the position of court historian to settle personal grudges.
The third general cleared his throat noisily. “You were saying, Your Highness, you’ll meet with the dwarven lord and the Zhentish … troops in the Great Dale.” The impatience in the red-haired man’s voice was barely hidden, but his hatred for the soldiers from Zhentil Keep was not.
“Yes, General Elventree,” Azoun replied coldly. “Thank you for reminding us of our business.”
Lord Harcourt and Vangerdahast both scowled at Brunthar Elventree. Neither man liked the general who was to lead the archers on the crusade. The red-haired warrior was a dalesmana military leader from Battledale, more specificallyand he had been given the position in Azoun’s army only as a concession to Lord Mourngrym and the other dalelords. The king had thought the appointment of a dalesman to lead the archers in combat a wise move, despite his earlier reservations. Elventree’s election pleased the dalelords, and Azoun had hoped it might give the army a new unity.
The appointment seemed to be accomplishing just the opposite. General Elventree could barely conceal his dislike of the other generals, especially Lord Harcourt, whom he felt was elitist. He had also rubbed Vangerdahast the wrong way almost immediately by claiming that no battle was ever won through magic. Elventree didn’t conceal his hatred of the Zhentish either, and he proved time and again that his temper could flare as brightly as his striking red hair.