Crusade (20 page)

“We’ve got trouble, Princess,” Torg bellowed in Common as soon as he saw Alusair. “Pryderi mac Dylan found the escort we sent out earlier. Dead, of course.” The dwarven king pounded his fist on the edge of his throne. “Orcs, they say. Signs of them all around the camp.”

“The Bloody Skull?” the princess asked.

Torg pushed the squire away and finished the straps himself. “No. From what Pryderi found, this is a new band.”

Azoun stepped forward. “How many?”

“Hard to tell, Your Highness. Has your daughter told you about our orc problems?”

“Daughter?” the king gasped, looking from Torg to Alusair, then back again. “You know?”

“Who do you think told me about your treatise on polearms?” The dwarven king grinned and turned to the princess. “A happy family again, eh?”

“I told him who I was only a few days past, when it was too late for him to contact you, Father.” Frowning slightly, Alusair decided to change the subject right away. “Where’s the magician who was with my father when he arrived?”

Turning to the birdcage, Torg leaned forward, placing his face against the bars. The birds danced around the cage, twittering loudly. “Do you keep birds in your palace, Azoun? They are fantastic creatures. Almost the greatest thing the gods set on Toril, don’t you think?” He cast a glance at Azoun, then gazed into the cage again. “We use them in the mines. If the air goes bad, the birds die first.”

Alusair sighed. “The wizard, Ironlord. Where is he?”

“I caught him wandering about the camp, so I sent him with one of the patrols. Perhaps he can determine how many orcs are lurking out there.” The dwarven king threw a cloth cover over the birdcage, then reached for his surcoat. “I didn’t want a spellcaster in camp, if I could help it anyway. No insult intended, Azoun, but I just don’t trust magic.”

Azoun heard a trace of fear in Torg’s voice, but he wasn’t surprised. Dwarven communities tended to foster natural strength and endurance in their people. Little sorcery was permitted. Dwarves often created weapons and armor that, because of their exquisite making, had magical powers, and dwarven clerics—who called upon their gods for the ability to cast spells—were common, too. However, mages were people to be feared, for their arts were not rooted in the power of the earth, religious beliefs, or simple craftsmanship.

“No insult taken,” Azoun said. “Vangerdahast can defend himself if the need arises, and he certainly knew of the dwarven aversion to magic before he came here.”

The stoic guard who had announced Azoun’s presence earlier entered the tent once again. “Pryderi mac Dylan’s patrol has returned,” he said in Dwarvish, his helmet muting his voice to a low rumble.

Torg pulled his surcoat on over his armor. After adjusting the black tunic so the blood-red phoenix lay squarely positioned on his chest, he said, “Show Pryderi in.” As the guard moved to usher in the new guests, Torg told Azoun and Alusair to take a seat on the stone benches that were on either side of the tent.

The red-bearded dwarf who had threatened Azoun atop the hill strode into the tent. His beard was tangled slightly, and his surcoat was torn and mud-splattered. “Ironlord,” he said as he entered, “I have much to report.” He dropped stiffly to one knee and bowed his head. “The mage cast a spell and discovered a little about the orcs.”

Azoun could understand only fragments of what was being said, but Alusair spoke and understood Dwarvish well.

At the mention of the mage, she said, “Ironlord, Vangerdahast should be allowed into your presence.”

“Of course” Torg said casually. “Squire, tell the guards to let him in.”

Vangerdahast entered a moment later. The bottom of his long robe was covered with mud, and brambles still clung to his sleeves. Like Pryderi’s, the mage’s beard was tangled and dirty. He was picking sharp yellow thorns out of his clothes, muttering curses in Common, when he stepped through the door. He bowed perfunctorily to Torg, then joined Azoun and Alusair.

The disheveled Pryderi cleared his throat and continued his report. “The human wizard joined our scouting party after we’d found the escort. We spotted a pair of orcs creeping about—”

Torg held up a hand, and the soldier stopped speaking in mid-sentence. “Can you translate this for your father and the mage, Princess? They should know what’s being said, and Pryderi is no master of Common.” Alusair nodded and leaned toward Azoun, ready to translate the soldier’s report.

“Don’t worry about me,” Vangerdahast muttered when Azoun asked him to move closer. “I cast a spell a little while back that lets me understand Dwarvish.” He removed a large, squirming caterpillar from the hem of his robe and tossed it into the corner.

Pryderi, still resting on one knee before Torg’s throne, waited for the ironlord’s signal before he continued. “We spotted the orcs creeping about north of the camp. They were obviously spies for a larger group, as they were wearing a uniform of sorts.”

Torg leaned forward. “Uniform?”

“Yes, Ironlord,” Pryderi said emphatically. “The orcs both wore black leather armor and had armbands that depicted skulls surrounded by a black sun.”

“Cyric worshipers,” Vangerdahast said to Torg. “That skull symbol belongs to the God of Death.”

The dwarven king nodded impatiently. “Yes, mage. I know the symbol well. Many of the orcs in this area worship Lord Cyric, almost as many as worship the old orc gods.”

Folding his arms over his chest, Vangerdahast slumped in his seat. Azoun wondered what had put his advisor in such a foul mood. Obviously, he thought, it’s got something to do with the outcome of this patrol.

Pryderi shot an annoyed look at Vangerdahast, then continued. “We had to hide in some thickets near the stream to avoid them.” The dwarf motioned to his muddied armor. “It was uncomfortable, but the orcs did not spot us. I was ready to follow them back to their camp when the mage cast a spell that froze the creatures in place.”

Torg glanced uncomfortably at the wizard, then motioned for Pryderi to finish.

“We killed one of them right away with a crossbow,” the soldier reported proudly. “The other we left to the mage.” He made the latter sound far worse than death by a crossbow bolt through the skull.

“Well, mage?” Torg asked in Common, resting his chin on a fist. “What did you learn?”

Vangerdahast stood and took a step toward the dwarven king. “I hypnotized the other orc, Ironlord.” Torg responded to this statement by furrowing his thick brows together in confusion. Vangerdahast rubbed his chin. “Ah—subjected his will to my own,” the mage finally said. “I made him answer the questions I asked.”

Torg and Pryderi exchanged knowing glances. Everything Vangerdahast had done was confirming their mistrust of mages’ abilities. “Go on,” the ironlord said after a moment. “What did you learn?”

“There are at least one thousand ores out there,” Vangerdahast replied. “Probably more. By the looks of the two scouts, they’re very well armed for orcs, too.”

Azoun put his hands to his temples to rub away a headache that was welling behind his eyes. “The troops from Zhentil Keep,” he sighed. “They must have run into the orcs. That’s why no one has heard from them.”

Vangerdahast nodded. “That would explain much. When I asked the orcish scout, he said they’d come from the west.” The mage pointed at Pryderi. “I might have been able to find out more, but this armored imbecile killed the prisoner.”

Torg’s face reddened, and he shot to his feet. With a growl, he snapped a question at Pryderi in Dwarvish. The soldier bowed his head and replied softly.

The ironlord planted his hands on his hips. “He said the orc was trying to escape. Is that true, mage?”

Scowling, Vangerdahast said, “A soldier struck the orc when he was slow in answering a question. That broke my spell, and the orcish scout went for his sword.” The wizard practically shook with anger when he added, “That buffoon shot the orc before I could do anything.”

“Pryderi did the right thing, Ironlord” Alusair said, “The orc might have escaped.” Torg nodded and sat down again.

Vangerdahast was struck dumb by the princess’s statement. He stood, staring at Alusair. The king quickly turned to his daughter and said, “That’s absurd.”

The rebuke didn’t faze Alusair in the least. “You haven’t fought as many orcs as the dwarves have, Father. You can’t treat them like humans or dwarves or elves. Even if it would have meant certain death, that scout would have attacked Vangerdahast—just to take someone else with him when he died. The soldiers in Earthfast have been fighting against orcs for hundreds of years. Most of their wives and children have been murdered by the beasts. They know orcish treachery well.”

“Besides,” Torg noted as he sprawled in his throne, “we have all the information we need right now. If the troops we’re expecting from Zhentil Keep ran into the orcs, they’ve probably been wiped out. And,” he concluded, lifting his sword from the ground next to his throne, “they will attack us very soon. All we need to do is wait.”

Both Pryderi and Alusair nodded. Vangerdahast returned to his seat next to Azoun. After a short discussion, it was decided that the Cormyrian king and his wizard should stay in camp, at least until the sun rose. Next, the ironlord sent Pryderi to join the army guarding the perimeter and called in his scribe to take down some messages for the home city, Earthfast.

For the rest of the night, a white-bearded scribe sat hunched over a piece of parchment, making notes in the thick, angular symbols of the dwarven alphabet. Elaborate iron lanterns hung from metal supports throughout the tent, illuminating much of the area, but casting deep shadows into the corners. Vangerdahast slept, stretched out on one of the stone benches, snoring fitfully. Azoun and Alusair sat close together, and the princess told the king about the terrible, bloody battles she’d fought in defense of the dwarven city.

At the end of the last tale, she pointed to the armor she wore. “The dwarves made this for me after that fight with the goblins. It’s made of the finest mithril steel.” She laughed softly and added, “Torg now calls me the ‘Mithril Princess’ when I wear it.”

Across the tent, the ironlord stretched and yawned. He walked slowly to the door and glanced outside. The first rays of the morning sun were creeping over the hills to the east, filling the dwarven camp with cold, pale light. Torg moved his head sharply to work an ache out of his neck. “I was sure the damnable orcs would have attacked by now,” he said morosely. “Perhaps now that it’s light they’ll find a little courage.”

As if in response to the dwarven king’s wishes, a messenger burst into the tent. “Ironlord!” he gasped, dropping to one knee. “The orcs have shown themselves. They’re on the eastern side of the camp.”

Torg reached for his sword. “Ha! Now they’ll pay for that escort party they murdered,” he cried, startling Vangerdahast awake. The birds at the dwarven king’s side were also shocked out of their slumber. They flitted around their cage noisily.

Alusair, already wearing her cuirass, stood and strapped her brassards onto her arms. “Have they attacked yet?” she asked the dwarven messenger.

“Not yet,” he replied, wiping the sweat from his brow. “They are arrayed in battle formation in the field to the east.”

Azoun turned to Torg. “Ironlord, it might be best for us to avoid this conflict. Perhaps the orcs will listen to reason and march on.”

“Reason?” Torg snorted. “Orcs listen to reason, you say? No insult intended, Azoun, but you don’t know orcs. They’re here to fight.”

“What about the crusade?” Vangerdahast asked, his voice still raspy with sleep. “The troops that die in this possibly preventable battle are lost to the Alliance of the West. Besides,” the wizard added, appealing to the dwarven king’s honor, “you gave your word that two thousand dwarves from Earthfast would assist us against the Tuigan.”

Torg muttered something vile about wizards into his dark beard, then sighed. “All right. We’ll see what your diplomacy can do. It’s your funeral, mage. And remember, the first orc to raise a bow or a sword gets a crossbow bolt between its beady little eyes.”

Vangerdahast straightened his beard and followed the two kings and the princess from the tent. Torg’s entourage was quickly joined by a squadron of elite guards. Like the other dwarven soldiers, the bodyguard said nothing as it marched to the eastern edge of the camp. Vangerdahast kept to himself, too, and reviewed the spells he knew that might be useful in an attack. Azoun spoke softly to Alusair, but that conversation died abruptly when the Cormyrian king saw the line of dwarves standing before him.

The army of Earthfast was arranged in neat, perfectly straight rows at the eastern edge of the camp. For hundreds of yards to either side of Azoun, the battle line stretched, three dwarves deep. Silver armor reflected the growing morning sun, and two thousand mailed hands gripped crossbow stocks or swords. Trumpeters and drummers mixed with the troops, ready to sound the attack. Standards marking clans stood above the helmeted heads. These symbols—stylized hammers, anvils, and various weapons-served as rallying points for the soldiers.

The impressive dwarven line silently faced to the east, where the sun rose slowly over the hills. There, silhouetted in sunlight, stood the orcish army.

The two armies were a study in contrasts. Unlike the mailed dwarves, the orcs generally wore only black leather armor. A few had on chain mail or pieces of plate, but most of the slouching creatures garbed themselves in the uniformly bleak, weatherbeaten skins. The orcs all personalized their clothing with swatches of bright cloth taken from a murdered foe or bits of bone or fur from a vanquished beast. Whereas Torg’s troops stood at attention in rigidly organized lines, the orcs huddled in groups or even squatted on the ground, waiting for orders. Some held unpolished, chipped swords, and others carried almost every kind of weapon imaginable—flails, maces, axes, spears, even polearms. Their standards were real skulls or crude pictures of bleeding eyes or broken fingers, held aloft on posts.

Alusair spotted drummers lounging amidst the orcish troops and pointed them out to Torg. The dwarven king nodded and relayed an order to his archers that, if possible, the drummers were to be shot first. They were undoubtedly the means of relaying orders in the orcish ranks.