by James Lowder
“Lower your weapon, Allie,” Azoun said, taking a slow, careful step toward his daughter. “We’re all dead if you don’t.”
The princess pushed the blade against the orc’s throat just hard enough to draw a trickle of blood, then lowered it. The orcs around Azoun’s party relaxed slightly. However, they, too, kept their weapons at the ready.
Vrakk pushed the orc on whom Alusair had drawn her sword. Looking down on Torg with dark, beady eyes, he asked, “What about orcs you kill last night?”
“They were spies,” Alusair said. “You killed soldiers assigned to escort King Azoun from his ship.”
After gnashing his teeth together for a moment, seemingly lost in thought, Vrakk replied, “OK. I give blood-payment. Then Ak-soon take us to fight.”
Torg was surprised that the orc agreed so readily. “The blood of one for each dwarf killed.” The ironlord held up three stubby fingers.
The dwarven troops had reached the orcish line by now. Torg’s soldiers stood silently as the orcs jeered at them. All along both lines, swords stood at the ready.
“Be prepared to grab Alusair’s arm and reach for my hand if anything goes wrong,” Vangerdahast whispered in Azoun’s ear. “This is far too dangerous for us to chance any longer.”
Vrakk shouted out three names. A trio of orcish soldiers lazily appeared next to the standard. Waving his arms wide to spread his troops out in a semicircle, Vrakk grunted a command. One of his lieutenants took the three orcs’ swords, then shoved the soldiers one by one onto the ground. The prisoners squealed curses, but didn’t fight their captors. They knew resistance was futile.
Grandly the orcish commander gestured to Torg, then to the prostrate soldiers. “These three guilty,” he said loudly. “I take blood-payment.” Without another word, he drew his weapon—a huge, darkly stained bastard sword—and nodded to the lieutenant.
Vrakk’s assistant dropped to his knees on one of the murderers’ backs. Another orc rushed forward and grabbed the prisoner’s left arm at the wrist and pulled it straight. With a shout, Vrakk raised the blade over his head and brought it down, two hands on the hilt. He hit the prisoner’s arm between the shoulder and the elbow, right where the red armband with their god’s symbol lay.
As one of the lieutenants raised the severed arm up high, another two rushed forward and the punishment was meted out on another murderer. The orcish soldiers cheered and made bets on who would cry out or who might struggle. Azoun stood grimly by, but he noticed that Torg seemed to be pleased by the grisly scene. Alusair and Vangerdahast simply turned away.
The last murderer did try to stand when his turn came, but Vrakk kicked him in the face, knocking him senseless. A few hunks of meat and copper coins changed hands in the orcish crowd, the wagers won and lost by the prisoner’s actions. With a third and louder shout, Vrakk raised his sword and finished the task.
With a sharp nod of approval, Torg signaled his troops to return to their camp. He glanced at the sun, then at Azoun and said, “We march in less than one hour. Stop by my tent so we can discuss how best to unload the supplies from your ships.” That said, he spun around and marched through the tall grass after his soldiers.
As soon as the ironlord was out of earshot, Vrakk began to growl a series of orders in Orcish. Five Zhentish soldiers, wearing tattered, long robes instead of leather armor, rushed forward. The orcish commander pointed at the three dying murderers and grunted.
As the five robed orcs started to chant and wave small skull-headed wands over the wounded prisoners, Vangerdahast said “Shamans.” Alusair wrinkled her nose in disgust as the priests bloodied the skulls on the severed arms.
Vrakk strode proudly to Azoun’s side. “They probably live,” he noted in broken Common. “Cut arms only way to shut up dglinkarz. ’Sides, our god heal so orcs fight and make better deaths.”
“But they can’t fight after this,” Azoun gasped. He motioned to the three severed arms that still littered the ground. “Their wounds—”
Vrakk grunted a laugh. “That why we cut left arm. They still fight.” He glanced warily at Alusair, then added, “She no tell dwarf. They demand them dead again.”
“Don’t worry,” Alusair said coldly, directing her answer to her father. “If you’re going to allow the orcs to break a blood-payment, I won’t stand in your way.” With that, she stormed off after Torg.
The robed orcs had finished their wild incantation to Lord Cyric. The three wounded soldiers on the ground didn’t look much better, but the stumps where their arms had been weren’t bleeding as freely. Azoun swallowed hard to push back the disgust he felt. “March your troops to the shore, Vrakk. Find the ships there and wait. You will help us unload some supplies, then board.”
The Cormyrian king nodded to Vangerdahast, and the two set out for Torg’s tent. The wizard walked with his hands clenched behind his back. Every few steps he glanced at Azoun, who was as silent as the dwarves breaking camp. “I think you did the right thing,” Vangerdahast ventured after a while.
Azoun stopped walking. “The right thing?” he exclaimed, shaking his head. “I’m afraid Allie is right. I’ve offended good allies for the sake of monsters.”
“Perhaps,” Vangerdahast said sagely. Patting the king on the shoulder, he started toward the tent again. “But you know as well as I that Zhentil Keep will use any slight against these troops as provocation to break the treaty.”
Azoun could only agree. The happiness of the dwarves was not worth a war with Zhentil Keep.
Torg was in a fury when the king and the wizard arrived. He shouted at his squire three times as Azoun tried to set up a rendezvous point in Thesk. After one half-hour, however, the spot was decided. The dwarves were to meet the Army of the Alliance between the cities of Telflamm and Tammar, along the trade route known as the Golden Way.
“While you wait, you can drill your troops,” Torg told Azoun as the meeting was concluding. “You won’t have long. I’ll press my men to get them there as quickly as possible.”
Torg’s mood shifted suddenly, and he smiled for the first time in hours. “Ha!” the ironlord cried and slapped Azoun’s arm. “We’ll work this out after all!” He stood and gestured broadly. “My troops will be ready for bear when we reach Thesk. Just bring on those horsemen!”
Azoun returned the smile weakly. His hours without sleep were beginning to take their toll. He felt washed out and slightly dizzy. “Come, Vangy,” the king said as he stood. “Back to the Welleran. You too, Allie.”
“No.”
The king stared at the princess. “I’m going with the dwarves,” she said defiantly. “I won’t travel with the orcs.”
“Who said anything about you accompanying us to Thesk?” Vangerdahast snapped. “I think you should go straight back to the palace in Suzail.” He dug a handful of spell components out of his robe and turned to Azoun. “I can send her right now, Your Highness. Just say the word.”
Before Azoun could answer, Torg slapped Vangerdahast’s hand with the flat of his sword. “You’ll not be casting spells in my tent,” he growled. “Besides, Alusair has every right to decide her own fate.”
“I’ve had enough of this,” the mage said sharply, rubbing his hand. He looked at the spot where Torg had struck him; a painful red welt had blossomed there. “And you should be ashamed of yourself, Princess, disobeying your father like this.”
“I’m her father, not her master,” Azoun noted quietly from the doorway of the tent. “She—” He studied Alusair’s face for a moment, noting the hard determination that had settled in her eyes. “She can make up her own mind.”
Torg shot a spiteful look at Vangerdahast, as if he were saying, “I was right all along and now your king realizes it, too.” The wizard ignored the ironlord, concentrating instead on Azoun and his daughter. They stood a few feet apart, but the distance might as well have been miles. Alusair seemed genuinely surprised by her father’s words. The king, on the other hand, looked pained, as if it had hurt him physically to
admit his child’s freedom of choice.
“Come, Vangy,” Azoun said after a moment. “We’ve got troops to get to Telflamm.” He stopped and faced Alusair again. “We’ll need to communicate with you,” he noted, pulling the signet ring from his finger and holding it out to his daughter. “Take it.”
The princess stepped forward tentatively. A sly smile suddenly crossed her lips. “The ring has a spell on it, doesn’t it?”
“What else would you expect?” the king replied, his daughter’s smile lightening his dark mood somewhat. “And like your last ring, burying this one in a few hundred fathoms of water will negate the spell quite effectively—so be careful, won’t you?”
Alusair took off the plain gold band that prevented her from being magically tracked and slipped the signet ring on in its place. “I’ll see you in Thesk.”
For an awkward moment, the two stood face-to-face. Finally Azoun said, “Be careful, Allie,” and turned to go.
The princess almost stepped forward then, almost embraced her father as he left Torg’s tent. But she didn’t. As she made her way to her tent through the silent, orderly dwarven camp, Alusair wondered why she couldn’t make that sign of affection.
The dwarves had been on the march for almost eighteen hours when Azoun finally returned to Telflamm’s harbor. The sun was coming up over the city, its first rays casting a pale halo around the high, onion-shaped spires that so characterized Telflamm’s skyline. The docks were still aglow with torches, and the myriad of vessels crowding the harbor were spotted with faint flickering lights cast by watchmen’s lanterns.
The Cormyrian ships were once again empty, having left their cargo of orcish troops to the south of the city. Azoun and Vangerdahast knew that they had no other choice; the Zhentish soldiers were likely to cause more trouble in the city than they had in Torg’s camp. Now, all the king had to do was gather his own forces and begin the march to the east.
That proved far more difficult than Azoun had expected.
Telflamm provided too many distractions for the Alliance’s soldiers and sailors, most of whom had never traveled more than a few miles from their own homes. Refugees from the onslaught of the Tuigan—now less than five hundred miles to the east—crowded the streets. Along with the refugees came vice and corruption. Thieves flourished, as did a black market in food, clothes, even human life. Brothels sprang up overnight throughout the city, often right next door to makeshift arenas where the foolish and the brave could battle to the death for a handful of gold. The city watch, sorely undermanned for the task of policing a transient army and a horde of refugees, found it easier to take bribes and look the other way.
“I don’t care if the local watch isn’t any help,” Azoun said loudly. He glared at Lord Harcourt, the commander of the Alliance’s cavalry. “Why aren’t the nobles doing something about this? We should have some type of military watch.” He paced nervously around the temporary command center, located in Telflamm’s government offices.
The general shrugged. “Well, Your Highness,” he began tentatively. “It’s, uh, a, uh—”
Brunthar Elventree leaned back in his chair. “What Lord Harcourt is trying to say is that his men are right alongside mine—passed out in an alley somewhere or spending their day in a whorehouse.” The red-haired dalesman smiled. “However, I don’t see what the problem is,” he added snidely. “If you’ll let us fight beside orcs, a little debauchery won’t—”
“That’s enough, General Elventree,” Azoun snapped. “One more insubordinate comment like that and you’ll be relieved of your command.” He stormed across the room and stood in front of the dalesman. “I need your cooperation, now more than ever. I have accepted the orcs to fight the Tuigan. You will enforce that. Do you understand?”
Brunthar slowly sat up straight. The poor lighting in the room cast deep shadows over his face, masking his expression, but making him look demonic. “Yes, Your Highness.”
“Then that’s settled,” Azoun said firmly. “This crusade is floundering. If we are going to be able to face the Tuigan, we need to get the men out of here right away.” The king paused for a moment, then turned to the dalesman. “General Elventree, since your men are lying facedown next to Lord Harcourt’s, you two will gather the troops together. Any questions?”
The dalesman smiled at the king’s slight jab at the nobleman. “No, Your Highness.”
Lord Harcourt had been a soldier long enough to realize what Azoun was doing. Even though he disliked the commoners from the Dales, he knew the king had to find some way to draw the army together. “Anything you command, Your Highness,” he replied as cheerfully as he could. Straightening his ever present mail shirt, the nobleman stood and bowed.
“Good,” the king said. “I’ll find Vangerdahast and Farl, and we’ll do what we can from here.” As the generals prepared to leave, Azoun added, “I want the army on the march by highsun tomorrow at the latest.”
Neither Brunthar Elventree nor Lord Harcourt thought that possible, but they didn’t say so. Instead they made their way into the streets and started a search for soldiers sober enough to serve as military police. Luckily they were more successful than they’d hoped possible. The city did offer a myriad of distractions, but the mercenary troops hired by the Sembians were generally far too experienced as campaigners to fall prey to the vices of a port of call. Within twenty-four hours, much of the Army of the Alliance had gathered to the south, outside the walls of the city.
Razor John was very pleased to learn of the mustering. Though he, like many of his companions, had never been outside Cormyr before, he rarely drank to excess and never dabbled in other vices, even when he was at home. Why start now? he reasoned. After all, Telflamm offered little that couldn’t be purchased in Suzail. The price would be higher in Cormyr, of course, and each particular vice wouldn’t be advertised so openly, but that made little difference to the fletcher.
Many of John’s compatriots found the invitation to debauchery irresistible. Mal, in particular, had spent his time in Telflamm drinking and fighting. The ham-fisted man had even registered himself for a death duel in an arena. John and Kiri had managed to talk Mal out of fighting, but the temptation was great to let him go through with the duel. The last the fletcher had seen of the soldier, he was holed up in a stinking little waterfront tavern called the Broken Lance.
It was this establishment that John sought as he wound his way through the narrow, dirty alleys of Telflamm’s harbor. Homeless refugees and resident beggars lined the streets. Some offered black market goods or services in exchange for money, others merely pleaded for a few copper pieces to get them through the day. The pitiable pleas tugged at the fletcher’s heart, but he didn’t dip his hand into his purse for the ragged children or diseased old men. John had no money left. He’d given much of his wealth to the poor his first day ashore; the rest had been stolen by cutpurses soon after that.
Razor John thought longingly about the crowded marketplace in Cormyr. How different it was from the squalor in Telflamm. He looked up at the sky, but could see little of it. The dilapidated buildings to either side of the narrow alley leaned together so that they almost blocked out the sunlight completely. It’s probably for the best, the fletcher decided bitterly. Too much direct sun and the garbage that filled the side streets would stink worse than it already did.
As quickly as he could, John walked the rest of the way to the Broken Lance. A thief was searching the pockets of an unconscious soldier resting facedown at the front door. As the fletcher got closer, the pickpocket looked up at him and ran off. John was glad the thief had fled, since he wasn’t quite sure what he would have done otherwise. After checking to see that the soldier was alive, he entered the bar.
The Broken Lance was a small, dark place. Weak light filtered through sooty windows on one side of the room, and sour-smelling tallow candles burned at some of the tables. A large fire sputtered across from the door, sending oily peat smoke up toward the ceiling, where it swirled around
before leaking out through various gaps in the poorly constructed roof. The sound of raucous laughter mixed with bawdy sea chants and bursts of swearing. Rats scurried freely across the floor, ignored by most of the patrons.
Razor John spotted Mal immediately. The big soldier was locked in an arm wrestling contest. A few men stood around Mal’s table, cheering and cursing. Most of the inn’s patrons sat huddled over their tarnished tankards, swilling watery ale. Mal won the contest just as the fletcher reached his side. The soldier slammed the other man’s hand to the table, sloshing wine from the large wineskin that rested there. Coins exchanged hands, and most of the men drifted back to their own tables. Mal rubbed his arm and only nodded to John as a greeting.
“We’re supposed to be ready to march by highsun,” the fletcher said softly. He took off his black felt hat and held it before him, twisting it nervously.
“Is that what you’re here for?” Mal asked incredulously. He leered and added, “Shouldn’t you and your lady love be off somewhere? I hear Kiri’s—”
“That’s enough!” John said forcefully. His feelings for Kiri Trollslayer had grown steadily over the trip to Telflamm, and he wasn’t about to let a drunken soldier—especially one who was supposed to be her friend—start ugly rumors about her.
Mal looked in turn at each of the other two men who sat at the table. One of them, a dalesman by the roughspun tan tunic and breeches he wore, grinned broadly. The other was a dark-eyed, well-armed mercenary, with a sizable and rather ugly scar running along his cheek. He simply snorted and took a long draw from the large tankard set before him. It amazed John to see Mal, who claimed to hate Sembians and dalesmen, drinking with these two soldiers. But then, the fletcher knew that Mal would drink with almost anyone.
John frowned. “The king’s back from the north with the Zhentish troops. It’s time to go.”
“Zhentish troops!” The dalesman spat. “I hear they’re orcs, the whole bunch of them. Fine lot of good they’ll do us in a battle.” He swilled some wine into his tankard. “More’n likely they’ll slit our throats when we’re sleeping.”
