by James Lowder
“Yamun Khahan,” Azoun said to himself. He took a step forward and tightened his grip on his shield and his sword.
The khahan must have seen Azoun, too, for he kicked his black charger into motion. As his mount bounded over the muddy ground, the ruler of the Tuigan shouted something in his own guttural language. The Cormyrian king didn’t know that the khahan was shouting an oath, calling upon his legendary status as the chosen of the Tuigan sky god, but that didn’t matter. All Azoun saw was the well-muscled horse with its angry, cursing rider heading toward him. He lifted his shield and bent his knees slightly, preparing to dodge the khahan’s attack.
A short soldier in beautifully crafted armor stepped in front of Azoun, holding his sword before him like a lance. The king tried to push past the stocky dwarf, but the ironlord would not be moved. Torg mac Cei wanted the honor of slaying the khahan: the Tuigan leader’s skull would be a fine addition to the mounds in Earthfast. Stepping back, Azoun attempted to lure the khahan away from the dwarf. The ironlord had little chance of striking a blow against the mounted barbarian, and it was only his colossal pride that made him try.
As Azoun expected, Torg’s stand was indeed futile.
Yamun Khahan raced forward, pointing his horse directly at the ironlord. When the armored dwarf moved out of the way, Yamun sliced down with his curved sword. Torg’s armor was perhaps the finest ever crafted in the halls of Earthfast, but it could not protect him from Yamun’s powerful blow. With a screeching sound, the Tuigan blade struck the armor on the ironlord’s neck and bit far into his back. Torg was dead before he hit the ground.
“Azoun of Cor-meer!” the khahan shouted as he wheeled his horse around to face the king. The Tuigan jammed his heels into the mount’s side and drove it forward.
Azoun had not missed the trick Yamun Khahan had used on Torg, and he assumed the barbarian would use his horse to force him into a poor defensive position, too. The king moved long before the khahan’s mount reached him, feinting first to the right, then dodging left. The ploy almost didn’t work, and the khahan’s sword scraped Azoun’s helmet and knocked his shield away. Gritting his teeth against the pain from his wounded leg, the king decided that he’d best not try to feint again.
Yamun Khahan threw his head back and laughed as his horse drove Torg’s corpse deeper into the mud. For an instant, time seemed to slow down for Azoun, and he saw the myriad of individual battles going on around him as if they were occurring in slow motion. A few yards away, Vrakk and Farl were fighting desperately against Tuigan soldiers they had knocked from their horses. Arrows were streaming overhead, interspersed with occasional flashes of fire and beams of magical energy. Alusair, he realized with a sudden start, was nowhere in sight.
The king’s heart caught in his throat, and he wanted to cry out. In that same instant, however, the khahan’s black mount leaped forward, kicking up a shower of muddy water. In four paces it was bearing down on Azoun.
Sidestepping only slightly, the king slapped the horse’s front legs with the flat of his blade. The beast skidded to a stop, then lost its footing in the mud and toppled. As the horse fell, Yamun rolled from the saddle. The khahan wanted to stay clear of his mount, the only thing that would give him a chance to fight on. As he soon learned, the battleground was fast becoming a mire; with a curse, the self-styled Illustrious Emperor of All Peoples slid onto his back in the mud.
Azoun stepped forward and brought his sword up to attack. It seemed for an instant that the khahan was helpless. Weighted down by his heavy breastplate, he writhed in the mud like a turtle flipped onto its back. But when Azoun got close enough to strike, Yamun lashed out with his steel-shod boots and kicked the king in the knee.
Normally the blow would have had little effect. Azoun’s armor protected him from any obvious damage from the attack, and the khahan had even struck against the king’s uninjured right leg. The mud beneath Azoun’s feet was just a slick as that beneath the khahan, though, and once his balance was upset, Azoun found his wounded leg of little use in keeping him on his feet. The Cormyrian king toppled into the mire at the khahan’s side.
With a monstrous cry, the Tuigan leader grabbed his enemy’s arm and brought a mailed fist down on his helmet. The blow knocked the visor from the king’s basinet. Now, with the sight limitations brought by his visor gone, Azoun looked upon the khahan. His vision was slightly blurred from the blow, but the king saw that the barbarian crouched next to him, his lips curled into a savage snarl, his wet, red-tinged braids dangled wildly from under his pointed golden helm. Yamun was reaching for his curved sword, which lay in the mud a few feet away.
Azoun called upon all his years of training, all his years of adventuring, as he tried to heave his armored form out of the mud. The best he could do was roll onto his side, but that was enough. As the khahan retrieved his sword and turned, Azoun grabbed his own blade and struck. The blow severed the hand in which the barbarian held his curved weapon. With a howl of pain, the Tuigan emperor toppled forward.
Most of what followed was a blur to the king. In the days that followed, he would only vaguely remember struggling to his feet and raising his sword high over the injured Tuigan. The one clear memory that clung to Azoun for the rest of his life was of Yamun Khahan meeting his gaze just before the blade struck. The barbarian showed no fear as the steel drove deep into his chest, cleaving his heart in two.
The rest of Yamun’s bodyguards were dispatched quickly, and to the westerners’ astonishment, some of the Tuigan caught in the trap surrendered when they saw that their khahan was dead. Alusair returned to the king’s side, the enemy’s standard in her hand. A mixture of relief and immense pride gripped Azoun as he watched his daughter break the standard over her knee, then toss the shattered staff and the sodden yak tails onto Yamun’s corpse.
By the time the rain stopped, a little less than two hours after it had begun, the barbarians of the Tuigan horde had either retreated or surrendered.
17
Pages in History
In the tense hours that followed the battle, scouts chased after the retreating Tuigan horde and watched for signs that they were regrouping for another attack. For Azoun, the waiting that afternoon was more terrible than the short lull before the two previous battles, when the enemy had been sighted but had yet to reach the western lines. However, as the day wore on, it became clear that the surviving fifty thousand Tuigan were not going to make another charge.
The Army of the Alliance, now only ten thousand strong, had won the day.
“I’ve got the latest reports,” Alusair announced as she entered the makeshift command center to the rear of the fortified western lines. The princess, who had removed most of her armor, wore a sweat-soaked, padded doublet and grimy hose. Her short blond hair was plastered to her forehead, and her shoulders were slumped with exhaustion.
To King Azoun his daughter looked lovely. Though his left leg was still sore—the battle with the khahan had reopened the arrow wound, and the clerics had only recently stanched the bleeding—the king stood when Alusair entered the ring of camp chairs. These were the main component of the command post. The other, a sturdy wooden table covered with maps, was currently surrounded by the surviving western leaders: Farl Bloodaxe, Brunthar Elventree, Vangerdahast, and Vrakk.
“Where do we stand?” Azoun asked as he hobbled to Alusair’s side.
“The scouts report that the Tuigan are scattering,” she said. By now, the generals had turned their attention to the princess. She nodded a greeting. “I used the magical bracelet and the falcon to track the main force of barbarians myself. They’re miles from here, heading east.”
The king sighed with relief. “Is the horde still breaking up?”
“It seems so,” Alusair replied. “Small groups of barbarians sheer off from the main group every so often. A few of these groups are probably scouting parties, but not all of them. Sometimes these small bands are chased off by force.”
Vangerdahast shuffled to the king’s si
de. “Inter-clan warfare is starting already.” He nodded sagely. “Without the khahan to hold them together, the various factions are preying upon each other, vying for control of the army.”
“You’ve become quite an expert on the Tuigan,” Farl Bloodaxe noted.
“I’ve been talking to Thom,” the wizard replied. “He’s done a bit of research on the Tuigan. In fact, he’s down with the prisoners now, gathering notes for his history of the crusade.”
The mentioned of the prisoners visibly darkened the mood of the gathered generals. Brunthar and Vrakk glanced behind the command center, to the area where the seven hundred Tuigan prisoners were being kept. Dwarven troops ringed the area, and clerics moved in and out frequently, tending to the wounded barbarians. The troops from Earthfast had been assigned to guard duty after they’d built a cairn for their fallen leader, partly because the king trusted them to follow his orders and partly because there was some disagreement among the human troops about what should be done with the Tuigan who had surrendered.
“You are going to have to decide what to do with the prisoners soon, Your Highness,” Farl said. “It looks as if the barbarians won’t attack, at least not in the next few days. Still.…”
The black general let his words trail off, but Brunthar Elventree picked up on the thought immediately. “What if the Tuigan do attack again? What if they’re only biding their time?”
Frowning deeply, Alusair shook her head. “That’s not the question, General Elventree. It seems clear that we’ve broken the barbarian army.” She looked out over the collection of prisoners. “But we still need to decide their fate.”
Farl sighed. “Many of the Tuigan caught in the trap gave up, but they weren’t seriously wounded. They know the khahan is dead, so they have no reason to fight.”
“Kill them,” Vrakk growled, drawing his sword. “No prisoners.”
Without pause, Brunthar added his support to that idea. The dalesman leaned toward the king. “I’ll take a group of archers out to dispatch the scum,” he murmured. “They’re just using up our supplies now.”
Azoun hobbled to his chair and sank into it. He steepled his fingers and bowed his head in thought. “What do the rest of you think?” he asked after a moment.
“We cannot kill prisoners who ask for mercy,” Farl replied. “We would hope the Tuigan might offer the same mercy to any westerners they captured.”
“They attacked us,” Brunthar interrupted, as if his point were relevant. “Besides, we are talking about barbarians, not westerners. These are the people who killed an envoy because he wouldn’t drink sour milk. These are the warriors we came to Thesk to stop.”
After shuffling a few paces in the mud and stroking his beard, Vangerdahast turned to the king. “If we keep these men as prisoners, we’ll have to set up a camp for them behind our lines.” The wizard paused and looked at the western fortifications. “Do you think our troops will want to share their supplies with men who, only this morning, were intent on killing us all?”
Azoun looked up sharply. “What about you, Allie? What do you think?”
The princess wanted to give her opinion, but she realized that her father probably already knew what she would say. Instead, she held her gauntleted hands before her and shook her head. “No, Father. My counsel, the opinions of your generals, they don’t matter now. This is a decision for you alone to make.”
The king stifled a bitter laugh, for he recognized how much Alusair wished to make this a test. Once, Azoun would not have even hesitated in his judgment. In the days when he’d ridden with the King’s Men, he had meted out justice according to the sentence of his own pure heart. His position as monarch had changed that, and both the king and the princess recognized that fact. The concessions given to Zhentil Keep so that they would join the crusade were only the latest in a long string of petty wrongs done for “reasons of state.”
“I know that look, Azoun,” Vangerdahast said, shaking a finger at the king. “If you let these barbarians live, they’ll only burden the army. And if the Tuigan do attack again, the prisoners might break free, might cost the lives of your own countrymen … or your daughter’s life, perhaps.”
Of course, Vangy is right, Azoun decided. He always is, in matters of logic and in all things political.
But never in matters of the heart.
The king stood. “Allie, tell the clerics to continue to care for the prisoners and give shelter to them.” Vrakk growled, and both Vangerdahast and Brunthar gaped in surprise.
“This is madness,” Brunthar shouted. “In the Dales we’d never even consider letting our enemies—”
Vrakk thrust a meaty, gray-haired hand over the general’s mouth. “Beware, dale-man.” He released the startled human, then pounded his leather-armored chest. “In Dales we might be enemy. Zhentish kill for less insult than you ready to say.”
The orcish commander narrowed his eyes and studied the king. “I follow, Ak-soon,” he said, showing his yellowed teeth, “ ’cause you may send more men to Lord Cyric this way. He no care if they be Tuigan or not.” That said, he stomped off, presumably to rejoin his countrymen.
The outburst had silenced Brunthar, but not Vangerdahast. The old wizard moved close to the king and pushed his face forward until it rested only inches from Azoun’s. “This is war. You’ve no time to play paladin now.” When the king didn’t respond, the mage looked away. “I knew it would come to this. Don’t even try to make me understand.”
“I won’t,” the king said softly. He shrugged in response to the astonished look that comment drew from his old teacher. “I really don’t think you’d understand the reasons, Vangy. It has to do with the things the good man must uphold, not logic, not political necessity.”
Alusair walked to her father’s side. “Shall I help gather supplies for the prisoners?”
“Please. And take General Bloodaxe with you,” the king replied. He faced the infantry commander. “I’m sure you’ll be able to gather the items needed to care for the prisoners, Farl. Your men should be glad to donate much. After all, they came to fight for a good cause, didn’t they?”
The infantry commander gave the king a wry smile. “I’ve heard that,” the general said. With a brief bow, both Farl and Alusair made their way into the ranks.
“I want the men to know that the Tuigan prisoners are being protected by my orders,” Azoun said to Brunthar. “I think it would be wise if you told your men that.” He paused, then added, “Unless the barbarians pick up weapons or attempt to harm someone, they are safe. Do you understand?”
Without a word or a bow, Brunthar spun on his heels and stomped off.
“This may cost you everything,” Vangerdahast hissed after a moment. “The men won’t like this one bit. They might even revolt.”
“No, Vangy, they won’t,” Azoun said evenly. “Most of the soldiers are here to protect Faerun, to fight for the cause I put before them four months ago in the Royal Gardens.” He gestured at the western troops, still arrayed in battle formation. “They trust me to lead them in a good cause. They may not see the reasons why I tell them to let the prisoners live, but they trust me. They’ll follow my orders.”
Azoun stood and placed a hand on his old friend’s shoulder. “I’ve paid a great deal for this crusade. If I would have stopped those rumors about my ‘glorious escape from the Tuigan,’ the nobles wouldn’t have charged in the first battle. I’ll always have Harcourt’s death on my conscience because of that, and the gods only know what Zhentil Keep will do with the time I’ve granted them for free reign in Darkhold.” He swept his hand through the air, as if dismissing the guilt that plagued him. “Until now, I’ve committed sins only by allowing evil to occur. I will not kill the prisoners, though not because all the codes of war say it’s wrong. No, because my heart says it’s wrong, and my heart holds the most important code of all.”
Vangerdahast studied the king’s face for an instant. The monarch the wizard saw standing defiantly before him looked the sa
me as the one who had started the crusade. And though the gray-shot brown beard and wrinkled brow were familiar, a long-absent spark shone in Azoun’s dark eyes. With a start, Vangerdahast realized that he hadn’t seen that fire in many years, not since the king was a young, idealistic cavalier.
Sunlight slanted in through the single window of the ruined farmhouse and poured through the gaping holes in its thatched roof. The light revealed the dust and ash that danced about the room, but Thom Reaverson didn’t notice it. The bard sat bathed in sunlight, bent over a makeshift desk. He squinted at the parchment and continued to write.
Some of the troops were unhappy with the king’s decision to let the prisoners live, but apart from grumbling around the campfires, there was little negative reaction. A majority of the army simply took Azoun’s word that keeping the defeated Tuigan alive was the course for good men. Luckily the prisoners themselves proved to be no trouble, and Azoun freed most of them in the first tenday after the battle.
Tapping the end of his pen lightly on his chin, the bard considered what else he should record. After a moment, Thom inked his stylus and set to work again.
The dwarves of Earthfast buried Torg, ironlord of their people, in a cairn of stone on the day of the Second Battle of the Golden Way. The dwarven lord’s resting place stands only a few yards from the trees that served the Alliance so well. The pyres where the clerics burned the corpses from the battle will likely leave no permanent mark on the countryside, but they too, were built near the site of the conflict.
The dwarves left a day later. Princess Alusair attempted to convince them to stay, at least until the king was certain the Tuigan were not going to mass another attack. “The battle is over,” they told her. “There is nothing else for us to do here.” Many in the Alliance were not sorry to see the dwarves go. Throughout the campaign, they remained aloof and isolated.
