by James Lowder
“To Yamun Khahan,” the king said, “Illustrious Emperor of the Tuigan.” Though the milky white liquid in the skull-cup smelled disgustingly like curdled milk, Azoun gagged down two swallows and handed the skull to Koja.
A sour look on his face, the historian leaned close to Azoun. “The drink is called kumiss. It’s made from fermented mare’s milk.” He shuddered and licked his lips. “Some men love it. I have yet to acquire even a tolerance for the nasty stuff.”
Only after both Azoun and Koja had drunk did Chanar lift his goblet to salute Yamun. Through all of this, the khahan watched Azoun closely. Finally Yamun himself gulped down what was left of the kumiss in the skull-cup, then returned it to the servant. The two young men put Abatai’s skull back in its wrappings of silk, returned it and the golden goblet to the chest, and hurried away.
Yamun asked Koja what the king had used as a toast. When the bald man told him, the khahan frowned. “I am emperor of all peoples, Azoun of Cor-meer,” he rumbled. “I will prove that to you tomorrow when I empty out your skull and make it like Abatai’s.”
Hesitantly Koja relayed the statement. Azoun paused for a moment, then stood. “Tell your master that my troops will not surrender. Let your army meet us tomorrow, then. We will be waiting.”
“Perhaps I should kill you now,” Yamun replied. As Koja voiced the threat, Chanar reached for his curved sword.
Azoun wished in that instant for Vangerdahast to be well and at his side. He had only accepted the khahan’s invitation because he believed the royal wizard could extricate him from a situation such as this one. He let that hope pass quickly, however, and steeled himself for his fate. “If you kill me here it is proof that you fear my armies.”
Chanar and Batu both stood and drew their swords as soon as the historian had finished the reply. Scuttling backward like a crab, Koja hurried away from the circle of men. Yamun shouted, and ten of his black-armored guards entered the tent. The khahan remained seated; his face did not reveal any anger. He issued another order, and both of his generals spun around to look at him, surprise on their faces.
Immediately Batu Min Ho sheathed his sword and bowed to Yamun. The Shou glanced at Azoun as he made his way from the yurt, but said nothing more. Chanar Khan, however, rattled off a string of questions. The Tuigan general’s face was red, and he gestured menacingly with his sword at Azoun.
With a grunt, Yamun finally raised himself from his throne and shouted at Chanar. The general bowed deeply, then backed out of the yurt. His face held an odd mixture of anger and contrition.
Koja stood, walked to the khahan’s side, and asked him a question, too softly for Azoun to hear. Yamun leaned close to the Khazari and replied. The historian nodded, then faced Azoun. “The audience is over, Your Highness,” he announced formally. “You may gather your men and leave. I will escort you away from our camp.”
Azoun bowed stiffly to the khahan. Yamun nodded in reply, then said something to Koja. The bald historian smiled and whispered his answer to the warlord. Azoun waited politely, then followed the Khazari from the yurt. In turn, the king was followed by the ten black-garbed Tuigan soldiers. Within a few minutes, Thom, Vangerdahast, and the Cormyrian guards joined him, and they were quickly on their way out of the Tuigan camp.
The royal wizard was still unconscious, slung unceremoniously over his horse. Thom talked at length about the Tuigan shamans and the unusual rites they’d performed over Vangerdahast.
“The Tuigan stumbled across this magic-dead area a day or two ago,” the bard said from horseback. “The wizards from Thay all left as soon as they’d learned the khahan intended to stay here until he met with you.”
Koja, who rode on the opposite side of Azoun from Thom, nodded his agreement to the bard’s statement, then noted, “Yamun does not trust sorcery, so he wasn’t sorry that the Red Wizards went home.” When he saw he had both Thom’s and Azoun’s attention, he added, “Magic has little place in Tuigan culture.”
Azoun found it surprising that Koja would reveal that information to him, since he could certainly turn it to his army’s advantage. Still, the Tuigan’s confidence in the power of mundane swords and arrows was grounded in months of victory. The king knew that his wizards alone couldn’t win the war for him.
By the time Azoun and his escort reached the spot where they’d first met Koja, the sun was low in the cloud-filled sky to the west.
“I am happy to have met you, Your Highness,” Koja said, bowing in his saddle. “It is sad that we will not meet again in this world.”
Azoun heard the sincerity in the Khazari’s words and wondered how the obviously peaceful man found life with the Tuigan bearable. A bit sadly, the king returned the compliment, then turned to go. Before he got his horse pointed toward his camp, however, Azoun remembered a question that had been plaguing him since he’d left the khahan’s yurt.
Wheeling his horse to face the historian, the king called out, “A moment, Koja. I have one last question for you. What did the khahan tell you after he’d dismissed the generals?”
The bald man maneuvered his horse and trotted it up to the king. “As I warned you, offering any insult to the khahan is death,” the historian said simply. “I asked Yamun why he did not kill you for your insult.”
“And his answer?”
“The khahan told me that what you said could not be an insult unless it proved to be true,” Koja replied. He shrugged. “I don’t understand the difference, but tomorrow the khahan intends to show he is no coward, that he does not fear your army.”
With Koja’s words echoing in his mind, Azoun reined in his horse and faced it back toward the west. Again, the king set a brisk pace along the Golden Way. All the way back to camp he wondered if the patchwork army that awaited his return could ever be a match for the horsewarriors.
Like most of the Army of the Alliance, Razor John waited anxiously for King Azoun to return from the Tuigan camp. With overworked, cramped fingers, he crafted arrows for the upcoming battle. That work couldn’t keep his mind occupied, so he listened to the other weaponsmiths exchange rumors about the Tuigan camp.
“Well, I heard they sacrifice someone to their dark god every day at highsun,” an arrowsmith said authoritatively. He looked up from the arrowhead he was fashioning and turned to the decrepit bowyer sitting next to him. “I heard that from the mouth of the Cormyrian captain who was in the Tuigan camp.”
“Could be why they killed the three other envoys Azoun sent,” the bowyer ventured casually without taking his eyes off the yew longbow he was finishing. The craftsman’s hands shook, but from what John could see, the bow was expertly fashioned.
“I thought only two envoys went,” John corrected. He took a finished arrowhead from a pile to his right and fastened it to a shaft.
The arrowsmith snorted. “Shows how much you know, fletcher. I bet you haven’t even heard about the babies the barbarians had spitted on pikes.”
Though he thought that particular rumor to be false, since from all reports the Tuigan didn’t fight with pikes, Razor John decided to keep silent. He’d learned soon after joining the army that it was practically impossible to argue with a gossipmonger. Fact was something such men falsely cited so often that they couldn’t recognize its true form even in the most simplistic of debates.
Shaking his head, the aged bowyer took out a long, heavy string of hemp and fitted it to the nocks at either end of the yew stave. “Them damned horsemen done far worse than killing infants when they overran Tammar.” He tested the bow’s pull and pretended to sight along an imaginary arrow. “I can’t wait to get at those monsters.”
The arrowsmith grunted his agreement, then continued to list the atrocities of which he’d heard the Tuigan accused. Many of the various grisly crimes were based upon the reports of “reliable men who’d been there when it happened.” The most outrageous claims were mitigated by the fact that they came only second- or third-hand to the arrowsmith.
Tiring of his co-workers babble, John le
t his mind wander. Unsurprisingly, the first thing that pushed into his thoughts was Kiri. The fletcher had grown increasingly fond of the daughter of Borlander the Trollslayer as the days passed. Had the timing been better, he would even have considered asking her to marry him, but the chances of one of them dying on the crusade were too great to set any such plans before the end of the fighting.
Snatches of other conversations, the ones taking place between the various clutches of workmen preparing for the battle, intruded on John’s contemplation of his future with Kiri. Fletchers, bowyers, and arrowsmiths surrounded Razor John almost completely, but the armorers and swordsmiths weren’t so far away that he couldn’t hear the ring of their hammers or smell the sharp smoke from their fires. He listened to the steady, clanging beat of hammers on hot metal and tried to let the familiar sound drown out all others. It was a warm late afternoon, even for the high summer month of Flamerule, and John was soon nodding off.
A rap on the shoulder brought the fletcher’s mind back to his immediate surroundings. The arrowsmith and the bowyer were coughing hoarse, braying laughs, and a few of the other workmen had glanced at John.
“Did I wake you?” someone asked sweetly. John turned to find Kiri Trollslayer standing over him. Her hands planted firmly on her hips, the pretty soldier from Cormyr cocked her head and set her brown eyes on the fletcher’s face.
Fumbling with a half-fletched arrow, John got to his feet. “N-No, Kiri. Just daydreaming.” He glanced up at the darkening evening sky and amended that. “Well, twilight-dreaming, anyway. Aren’t you supposed to be on sentry duty?”
With a laugh, Kiri hooked her arm in John’s and took the arrow from his hand. “I have some interesting news,” she said as she dropped the unfinished arrow to the ground. “The king is on his way back. He should be in camp by the time the stars are out.”
She told John the news in a voice loud enough for the workmen around them to hear, but many had turned to watch Kiri anyway—there simply weren’t as many female soldiers in camp as men. The area was soon abuzz with excited chatter.
“He had to fight his way out of the Tuigan camp, too,” Kiri concluded, addressing the comment to anyone who was listening. She paused and crossed her arms over her sleeveless tunic, as if daring someone to contradict her.
“Aye?” the aged bowyer said. “Good thing the king has Master Vangerdahast along. The wizard probably cast a few fireballs, or maybe even a lightning bolt or two, to help them along.” A chorus of agreement met that comment, and others suggested spells the royal magician had probably thrown during the fight.
“Where did you hear this, Kiri?” John asked sharply, turning her toward him with both hands.
Frowning, she pulled out of the fletcher’s grasp. “A rider from the king’s escort just returned,” she snapped, annoyance clear in her voice. “He told one of the other soldiers on sentry duty.”
With a groan, John put a hand to his forehead. “Just like the sentry I talked to after Mal’s execution, right?”
Kiri scowled, and a look of genuine hurt filled her eyes. She knew the incident to which John referred quite well. He had talked to her about it a dozen times since it had occurred.
Azoun had ordered the entire army to witness Mal’s execution on the day they left Telflamm. As John had stood with his fellow soldiers, watching the murderer dangle from a scaffold, a dalesman assigned to control the crowd had struck up a conversation. The dalesman had then proceeded to tell a wildly exaggerated version of the fight in the Broken Lance. The tale ended with something John still found absolutely astounding.
“And I heard from a friend,” the dalesman had concluded, “that the Cormyrian had an accomplice, some cutthroat named Razor John. They say his sword’s so sharp—like a razor, you know—that he cuts off heads with a single stroke.”
Dumbfounded, the fletcher had simply nodded, then bid the dalesman good-day. On many occasions John had told Kiri the tale and never failed to mention how little he thought of gossips. Those frequent comments all came flooding back to Kiri as she stood before her friend.
“I’m only telling you what I heard,” she said, a slight quaver in her voice.
With a frown at his own callousness, John rested his hands gently on Kiri’s shoulders and apologized. The news of Azoun’s battle with the Tuigan was spreading like wildfire, from bowyer to armorer, blacksmith to fletcher, but John and Kiri let their conversation drift on to other topics. Still, it wasn’t long before a soldier in chain mail, the star and shattered crown insignia of Archendale emblazoned on his white surcoat, dashed into the work area.
“The king is coming!” he shouted. “Down the Golden Way.” He turned and dashed off to another section of the camp, sweat beading on his forehead in the warm air.
Workmen dropped their tools and immediately made their way to the broad road that intersected the camp. Thousands of soldiers and refugees already lined the trade road for well over a mile to the east. John and Kiri were content to stay far back from the press, even though they knew they had no chance of spotting the king from where they stood.
As he waited, John caught snatches of stories about the king’s escape from the Tuigan camp as they circulated through the crowd. The speculation he’d heard from his co-workers about the spells Vangerdahast had cast in defense of the king was now stated as fact. More than once the fletcher felt tempted to offer a correction to an obvious falsehood, but restrained himself.
Soon cheering was heard from the east, and a new wave of rumors spread through the crowd. Vangerdahast, it seemed, was wounded. Some even claimed he was dead. In any case, the wizard wasn’t moving. Enthusiastic plaudits for Azoun’s heroic escape from the Tuigan camp were met and redoubled by condemnations of the khahan’s savagery. By the time the king’s banner reached the spot where John and Kiri stood, the Army of the Alliance was a cheering mob, swearing oaths to Tempus, the God of Battle, and pledging to fight by Azoun’s side to the last soldier.
From his horse, the Cormyrian king looked out on the Army of the Alliance in amazement. Troops from Suzail stood side by side with Sembian mercenaries. Dalesmen thrust their swords into the air and swore oaths with Red Plumes from Hillsfar and militia from Ravens Bluff. Azoun even spotted some of Vrakk’s orcs scattered in the mob, shouting and cheering along with the humans.
The king’s guard spread out as the procession entered the camp, and Azoun made his way through the crowd to the royal compound. Thom followed as close behind as possible, leading Vangerdahast, still unconscious on his horse. The other three generals met them outside Azoun’s tent.
Brunthar Elventree of the archers was already smiling when Azoun clapped him on the shoulder. “This is unbelievable,” the king exclaimed to the dalesman, then glanced at the cheering crowd. “What forged the group of soldiers I left into an army in only one day?”
The king faced his cavalry commander, Lord Harcourt. Even though it was warm, the old Cormyrian nobleman still wore his heavy chain hauberk. Harcourt simply shrugged as a reply and continued stroking his sizable white mustache.
Carrying Vangerdahast between them, Farl Bloodaxe and Thom Reaverson broke into the scene. The wizard was mumbling in fits, but he was still obviously unconscious. The king’s smile fled and was replaced by a concerned grimace. “He’s better,” Thom offered as they brought Vangerdahast into Azoun’s tent, “but we should call for a healer.”
After kneeling for a moment at his old friend’s side, Azoun turned to Thom. “That’s already been done. Will you watch him until the priest arrives?” When the bard nodded, the king motioned for General Bloodaxe to follow him from the tent.
Once outside, Azoun invited his generals to sit around a campfire, then he quickly explained what had transpired in the Tuigan camp. The cheers from the army had died down somewhat, but the men could still be heard alternatively praising Azoun and cursing the horsewarriors. Finally, the king looked to Farl. “Can you tell me what brought the men together like this?”
The ebon
y-skinned infantry commander drew his mouth into a hard line. “Rumor,” he said, plucking nervously at the sleeve of his white shirt. “There are incredible stories circulating through camp, stories of how you were ambushed by the khahan and had to fight your way back.”
Clearing his throat noisily, as he often did before speaking, Lord Harcourt added, “They’ve been telling wild tales about the Tuigan, too, don’t you know.” He twirled his mustache and frowned. “Some say they sacrifice babies and do horrible things to the women they capture. Nasty business. Even the nobles have been busy with the gossip.”
Seeing the concern on Azoun’s face, Brunthar Elventree leaned toward the king. “But the source doesn’t matter so long as the effect is right,” he noted brightly, the heat from the fire turning his face as red as his hair.
“Of course the source matters,” Azoun snapped. “It’s all a lie! The Tuigan aren’t monsters, and I did not have to fight my way back to camp.”
A few guards at the compound’s edge looked toward the king, and Lord Harcourt cleared his throat again. “Your Highness,” he began haltingly. “You may want to lower your voice a bit.”
“Why?” both Azoun and Farl asked simultaneously.
Brunthar Elventree poked the fire, sending an angry shower of sparks into the night sky. “Because a word or two like that will shatter whatever spirit this army has mustered,” he growled. “You might as well kill the men yourself if you demoralize them now.”
Farl fell silent, but Lord Harcourt nodded his agreement. Turning from the fire, Azoun paused a moment to gather his shattered thoughts, then commenced pacing. After a few turns, the king faced the generals again.
“I did not fight a single Tuigan today, so the tales of heroism the troops are telling are lies,” he said flatly. “Can you let that be the thing that unites them?” He allowed his gaze to drift slowly from Farl to Lord Harcourt to Brunthar.
