Crusade (11 page)

Lythrana’s horse pranced nervously, and she pulled her spear up from the ground, too. “I leave again for home late tonight, Your Highness. I’ll need your answer right away.”

Anger swelled inside Azoun, a black, choking gall that almost made him tremble. All he wanted was to fight the Tuigan, to help Faerun—all of Faerun, including Zhentil Keep. Yet, it seemed that no one truly saw the importance, the urgency, of his task.

Azoun frowned. He simply couldn’t accept that kind of deal with the murderers and highwaymen who inhabited the citadel of Darkhold.

Before the king could give Lythrana his answer, though, the master of the hunt broke from the trees and rode toward him. The huntsman’s large black horse swept through the tall grass like a ship on choppy seas. As soon as he was near, the hunter dismounted and bowed his head. “The dogs have found nothing,” he reported. “Would Your Highness like to move to another spot?”

Azoun was relieved by the news, but he was not going to let Lythrana know that. He knit his eyebrows in feigned consternation and frowned. “This land should be better stocked. Our foresters are not keeping the poachers away, it seems.” Turning to the Zhentish envoy, the king added, “We have royal lands only a few miles from here that are sure to provide you some sport.”

Lythrana shook her head, tossing her black hair as she did so. “If Your Highness doesn’t mind, might we go back to the city?” she asked. “I believe I underestimated how tired my long journey has made me.”

It took only a signal from Azoun to throw the assembled nobles, huntsmen, and guards into motion. Within minutes, the dogs were gathered and the king’s party was riding at a leisurely pace toward Suzail.

“I’ve never hunted boar before,” Lythrana noted idly as she rode beside the king. “Though I’ve heard the beasts are much like the Tuigan.”

“What do you mean?” the king asked.

Lythrana rested her cold green eyes on Azoun. “We’ve had scouts—spies, if you will—come back from Rashemen and Thay with reports about the Tuigan.” She kicked her horse into motion when it stopped to graze. “They’re beasts: ruthless, cunning, and amoral. Like boars, the horselords won’t tire and won’t stop trying to kill you until either you or they are dead.”

“Then why won’t you help me against them?” Azoun snapped.

Lythrana saw that his brown eyes were flashing with anger. The nobles and huntsmen moved away in respectful silence. “We will,” she said quietly. “After we have your word about Darkhold.”

Azoun pulled his reins and stopped his horse. The party halted around him. “We will discuss this further over dinner,” he growled. With a quick strike of his heels, the king pushed his brightly caparisoned horse into a trot, then a gallop. As he rode, Azoun let the cool air wash the fury from his heart. He allowed the birdsong he heard and the bright sunshine dappling the road ahead of him to soothe and relax him.

All the way back to the city, he turned the problem over and over again in his mind. At first, he saw no other alternative but to refuse the Keep’s proposal—and lose the support of the dalesmen and any troops he might gain from Zhentil Keep itself. Many of Azoun’s own subjects had been victimized by the roving bands of thieves and slavers who used Darkhold as a base. Time and again, Cormyrian merchants had complained to the king about the powerful citadel. Azoun had done his best to curb the raiding parties coming from the stronghold, but Darkhold itself was located outside of Cormyr’s borders and protected by powerful magic. Destroying the citadel utterly was out of the question. Still, Azoun knew that it his duty to combat the evil based there.

As the miles wore on and his initial anger and revulsion at the idea wore off, the king began to wonder if a flat refusal was all that wise.

I am serving my gods by fighting the men of Darkhold, he decided without much thought. But do I further my cause more when I combat lesser evil like that or when I battle a massive evil like the Tuigan?

An answer did not come to Azoun easily, and when he had tentatively decided on a course of action, he wasn’t sure that it was the right one. In fact, he changed his mind on the way to Suzail, then once more as he prepared for dinner.

That evening, Lythrana and Azoun were joined by Filfaeril and Vangerdahast in the castle’s vast formal dining room. A long, highly polished table of pale wood stood in the room’s center. Curtains of deep red velvet covered the windows and reflected dully in the polished oak floor. Together, the floor and the wall hangings first echoed, then damped the high, sweet notes from Thom Reaverson’s harp as he played a light tune.

The meal passed swiftly. Vangerdahast spent some time in idle, pleasant chatting with Queen Filfaeril. Azoun and Lythrana kept to themselves, but for very different reasons: the Cormyrian king pondered the growing price of the crusade; the Zhentish envoy silently wondered at the meeting’s outcome.

“That will be all, Thom,” Azoun said as soon as the meal was over. He pushed his untouched plate of imported strawberries away and signaled for a servant to clear the table.

Turning to the king, Vangerdahast rose to his feet. “I think I will retire, Your Highness. The matters left for you to discuss do not require my presence.” With a stiff bow, the wizard shuffled from the dining room.

Within minutes the table was clear and only Azoun, Filfaeril, and Lythrana were left in the cavernous hall.

“I find it hard to believe Vangerdahast has lived over eighty winters,” Lythrana began casually. She stretched luxuriously, once again comfortable in her tight black dress. “He seems no older than fifty. In fact, someone at the Keep mentioned he looked about that age ten years ago, too.”

Azoun cast a disinterested glance at the envoy. “He’s a wizard, Lady Lythrana. It should be no surprise to you that he ages little; such practices are common among the mages at the Keep, too.” He looked to his wife, who was oddly subdued in the presence of the exotic envoy. “But my advisor’s age isn’t what we’re here to discuss.”

“The demands haven’t changed, Your Highness. Let Darkhold go about its business unmolested for one year.”

“And?” the king prompted.

Lythrana paused. “We sign a pact with the Dales. You get the dalesmen to provide you with archers for the crusade.”

“That’s not enough,” Azoun said sharply. His voice echoed from the floor. “There are at least one hundred thousand Tuigan in Thesk right now. I want Zhentish troops to stand with the rest of Faerun.”

Lythrana leaned back from the table. She started to speak, then swallowed her words and sighed.

“You’re afraid of them too, Lythrana,” Azoun rumbled. “I can see it in your eyes when I talk about them.” He stood up and turned his back to the table.

The emissary bowed her head. “Of course I am. I was one of the people the Keep sent to spy on the Tuigan.” She pulled down the high collar of her black dress. A long red scar marred her otherwise perfectly white shoulder. “I was the only one of my party to escape alive.”

The king whirled around. “Then help me. Give me troops.”

Lythrana met Azoun’s gaze again. “I want to,” she hissed after a moment, “but the Keep won’t. Not without something in return.”

The king paused. He knew that this was all the envoy had to offer, that Lythrana would not, could not concede him anything else. The king’s course was set; Azoun had decided after the hunt that reasons of state demanded only one decision from him. “We’ll leave Darkhold alone for two seasons,” he said at last.

“No. A year.”

Azoun sighed, then nodded. “A year.”

The words burned like acid in Azoun’s soul. He knew that he was allowing the network of evil that connected Zhentil Keep and Darkhold—the Zhentarim—free reign to attack travelers and raid caravans, but he saw no other solution. If the Tuigan came to Cormyr, they’d cause a thousand times more suffering than the troops in Darkhold could ever create. He needed the archers from the Dales to stop that from happening.

Azoun pointed a slightly quivering finger at Lythrana. “Darkhold will be left unhindered for a year,” he said, “but I want troops. And if I don’t get them, or if Zhentil Keep stands in the way of this crusade again, I promise you that Darkhold will be crushed to rubble.”

Lythrana was shocked into silence for an instant. “Of course,” she agreed after a time. “Zhentil Keep wants the Tuigan stopped as much as you.”

The Zhentish envoy looked over at the queen, who sat quietly at the end of the table. “Are you taking notes?” she asked, her words mixed with puzzlement and sarcasm.

Locking her ice-blue eyes on Lythrana’s cold stare, Filfaeril smiled pleasantly. “No,” she said. “The crusade is Azoun’s matter.”

Lythrana arched a thin black eyebrow under her raven-dark bangs. Noting the look on the envoy’s face, the queen added, “However, if Zhentil Keep breaks its word and attacks the Dales or Cormyr while the king is in Thesk, I will be here to mount an army against you.”

Narrowing her eyes to green slits, Lythrana studied the queen more closely. Filfaeril looked delicate, with her pale skin and long golden hair. Even the filmy rose-pink dress the queen wore made her seem fragile. But as the envoy looked into Filfaeril’s eyes, she caught a glimpse of something—a hardness, perhaps—that worried her. “Zhentil Keep does not take threats lightly,” Lythrana said at last.

The king leaned on the table with both hands. “Be assured, Lady Dargor, neither Queen Filfaeril nor I ever make idle threats. We do not like to deal with the worshippers of evil gods, but you are the lesser of two bad options.”

Lythrana stood slowly. “Zhentil Keep never assumed you would regard us as anything but a ‘necessary evil.’” A false, cold smile crossed her face, then she bowed. “We should end this meeting before either of us says something … regrettable. The papers detailing the treaty will be ready in an hour?”

When King Azoun nodded, Lythrana bowed again and moved toward the door. “I will send word as to how many troops you can expect and where they will meet you.”

As the echoes of the envoy’s retreating footsteps died in the large room, the king put his hands on Filfaeril’s shoulders. The queen pursed her lips. “I don’t trust her for a moment,” she noted. “Still, I suspect the Keep isn’t foolish enough to break a truce.”

Azoun smiled weakly. “They certainly must see that if I can raise an army of thirty thousand to fight a foreign war, the force that would rise against them if they foolishly attacked the Dales would be ten times that size.”

The door slid open, and Vangerdahast briskly crossed the room. He looked expectantly at Azoun, who only nodded.

“The Keep will send troops?” the wizard asked expectantly as he got nearer.

“They haven’t said how many yet,” replied Azoun, “but I’m sure I can get at least fifteen hundred men-at-arms from them.” He squeezed Filfaeril’s shoulder and added, “We should be ready to send the first troops to the east within twenty days.”

Arrow loops were the only source of natural light in the tower’s lower floors. As a result, rooms located there were usually dark, dreary places, even during the daytime. King Azoun didn’t mind the deep shadows. In fact, he welcomed the darkness as he stood quietly on the bottom floor of his fortress’s northeastern watchtower, for the shadows hid the monarch’s growing anger at the soldier who stood before him, his tunic rumpled, his boots unpolished. The guard also had his sword drawn, and a broad smirk lined his thick-boned face.

“So tell me again, old man,” the guard grunted at the king. “Just what are you doing down here? Don’t you belong back in the main hall with the rest of the relics?”

Azoun narrowed his eyes and cursed silently. The piggish man who stood before him, dappled in the late afternoon sunlight from a nearby arrow loop, was being far too obnoxious to be tolerated. “I told you, my good man,” the king said softly, “I’m looking for the captain of the guard. I have a message from His Majesty. Now, are you going to let me deliver it or not?”

The soldier rubbed his poorly shaven chin. “I don’t know. I mean, I can’t be too careful about who I let roam around the keep.” He paused for a second and scratched a particularly hairy spot at the corner of his jaw.

It was obvious to Azoun that the guard was simply being difficult to someone he saw as a harmless old civil servant. “Kind sir,” he pleaded, “I must be on my way. The king will be very cross if I don’t deliver this message soon.”

“All right, but just you remember that Sergeant Connor was nice enough to let you pass,” the guard warned, finally stepping out of Azoun’s way.

Smiling, the king stared at the soldier’s round face. “Oh, yes,” he said. “I’ll remember.” To have you demoted and fined for harassing one of my servants, Azoun added to himself. The ruler of Cormyr bowed fatuously and limped out of the tower into a corridor inside the castle’s outer wall.

The king wore the guise of a royal messenger that afternoon: a fine black tunic with a purple dragon sewn across the chest, rough woolen pants, a dark cloak, and low-cut leather shoes. He carried a heavy cloth satchel and a rolled, sealed piece of parchment, official-looking enough to fool almost anyone he met.

Azoun had done a little to change his features, too. With the help of some dye, the king’s graying brown hair and beard were now completely white, and some cleverly applied greasepaint had enhanced his wrinkles and paled his skin so that the monarch looked like a veteran of seventy winters instead of fifty. A little well-placed grime covered his normally spotless hands and hid the marks left by the rings he wore as ruler of Cormyr.

It wasn’t surprising that the guard didn’t recognize King Azoun. Few of his servants and even fewer of his subjects ever got close enough to the monarch to get a good look at his face. Nor was his visage on any of Cormyr’s coins. Even without the simple makeup he now wore, Azoun could stroll into most taverns in Suzail without being recognized.

Still, the king didn’t take any chances. Whenever he wished to move about the city unencumbered by his personal guard, he donned a disguise and slipped out of the palace by way of the secret door near the tower he’d just left. His great-great-grandfather, Palaghard II, had ordered the secret door be built so he could rendezvous with his various mistresses. Azoun had never used the exit for that specific purpose, but he had thanked Palaghard’s lust more than once when the door allowed him to escape unnoticed into the Royal Gardens, then into the city itself.