Crusade

13

That night most of the clouds fled the sky, as if they were reluctant to be witness to the upcoming battle. The morning after Azoun's visit to the Tuigan camp began bright but much cooler than the day before. The king, as restless as the clouds, rose early, just as the sky to the east was growing pink. His first office that morning was to offer a short prayer to Lathander, Lord of the Morning, God of Renewal.

"If Lord Tempus does not see fit to strengthen our arm in the battle today," Azoun's prayer concluded, "then let our sacrifice fall to you, Lathander, and lead to the beginning of a united Faerun, one that will rear up to crush the Tuigan."

The prayer done, the king donned the foundations of his armor-a new quilted doublet and hose-and went to check on Vangerdahast. The handful of guards outside the Royal Pavilion snapped to attention as Azoun passed. The guards looked as if they'd stood at attention for hours, but the king didn't miss the empty wineskin or the marks in the ground around the fire where they'd likely passed the night.

"Three more scouts have reported back, Your Highness," one of the guards said, bowing as he addressed the king. "They note that the Tuigan are on the move toward us, but still many miles away."

The king nodded. "As we expected. Send runners to Lord Harcourt, General Elventree, and General Bloodaxe. Have them report to me in a few minutes." He started toward Vangerdahast's tent, then added, "Apprise them of the reports when they arrive."

Without waiting for an acknowledgement, Azoun continued to the tent of his friend and advisor. Cormyrian soldiers bowed to the king as he trod across the royal compound, while others merely saluted. Though his mind was otherwise occupied, Azoun put on a cheerful face and returned the greetings enthusiastically. He knew that now more than ever, he had to present a confident facade.

Even with the frenzied momentum built by the stories surrounding the king's return, fear still hovered over the Alliance's camp. A glazed, faraway look clung in most soldiers' eyes, and the men and women seemed distracted as they hurriedly prepared to meet the enemy. The sounds of their work-wood being chopped for last-minute barricades, swords sliding harshly over sharpening stones, nervous horses crying out as they were armored for the charge-drifted over the camp and heightened the sense of fearful anticipation.

Most soldiers responded to the tension by throwing themselves into their duties. Archers checked and rechecked their bows, counted arrows, and sharpened arrowheads. The nobles under Lord Harcourt's charge polished their armor, as if a good sheen on their plate mail would stop a Tuigan arrow. Other noblemen tended to their horses, securing the mounts' barding or making sure they were fed in accordance with military tradition. Swordsmen readied their weapons and armor, if they had any armor at all. Some men broke down parts of the camp, dousing fires and loading baggage onto carts. No one would admit that the camp was being packed to aid a hasty retreat, but everyone knew why the tents slowly disappeared from the landscape that morning.

Other soldiers spent their hours before the battle talking with friends or drinking around the cookfire. Azoun passed one such group on the way to Vangerdahast's tent. Being Cormyrian soldiers, they moved to stand as the king passed, but he motioned them to stay seated. The soldiers smiled broadly at this, and they cheered when Azoun took a drink from their wineskin before moving on. The king was still in earshot when the soldiers again related descriptions of the wives or lovers they'd left in Cormyr. From what little Azoun heard, he guessed these stories had as much truth in them as the ones about his battle in the Tuigan camp.

Religion weighed heavily on many minds and became important even to those not usually inclined to give the gods their due. Clerics, whose job it would be in the battle to aid the injured and pray for the dead, bustled from tent to tent, campfire to campfire. Many of the priests encouraged the men to turn their thoughts away from the conflict. Others, like the worshipers of Torm, God of Duty, or Tempus, God of Battle, exhorted the troops to fight as their deities demanded. Clerics of Lady Tymora were the most common in the camp, as their goddess was known as the patron of adventurers.

One such cleric of Tymora was leaving Vangerdahast's tent as the king approached it. The dark-haired priest exuded exhaustion as he shuffled, shoulders stooped, away from Azoun.

"Just a minute," the king said, running a few steps to catch the Tymorite. "How is the royal magician?"

The cleric, when he saw Azoun, bowed deeply. He straightened his clean brown robe and turned his blue eyes on the king. "He is no longer delirious, Your Highness, but I fear he will not be ready to fight today."

Something about the cleric tugged at Azoun's memory, but the troubling news about Vangerdahast quickly displaced the thought. The king sighed. "Have you been caring for Vangerdahast since we arrived last night?" he asked, noting the redness rimming the cleric's blue eyes.

"I have had some experience with mages made sick by magic-dead areas," the cleric responded. "As Your Highness certainly knows, Cormyr holds an area or two like the one the Tuigan camped in, caused by the Time of Troubles. That is why I was assigned-"

"Yes, of course," the king said distractedly. "I would like you to come back and see to the royal magician during the battle."

The king left the cleric bowing and entered Vangerdahast's tent. His thoughts lightened a little when he saw how much the orderly tent resembled the wizard's workshop back in Suzail-even to the live hedgehog Vangerdahast kept in a glass. The king had always assumed the bristly little creature was part of a spell, but he wasn't sure. Perhaps it's Vangerdahast's idea of a pet, he mused.

The wizard himself was stretched out on a cot, snoring lightly. A votive candle, rimmed with silver, burned fitfully on a table near the wizard's head. The cleric had no doubt left it there, Azoun decided, for silver was a metal favored by Tymora's priests.

The candle's flickering flame did little to brighten the tent, but it did reveal another man sleeping in the shadows. Thom Reaverson, the king's bard, lay curled on the ground next to one of Vangerdahast's bookshelves. The bard hugged himself tightly and shivered a little in the cool morning air. Smiling, the king lifted a robe from the wizard's trunk and spread it over Thom. Then, as quietly as he could, he left the tent.

Once outside, Azoun ordered a guard to wake Thom in an hour, at which time the bard was to begin packing Vangerdahast's belongings. Since the wizard's tent would be behind the Alliance's lines, the king decided not to have the unconscious royal mage moved. For now, at least.

Actually, what to do with Vangerdahast during the battle was the least of Azoun's problems. A more pressing dilemma was the command of the War Wizards, which would now have to be given to another mage. The king knew the choice would not be difficult to make, for the War Wizards had a strict hierarchy. The next ranking mage would simply take over as commander. However, Azoun had no idea if this other wizard knew of Vangerdahast's plan for the battle.

It was likely that the plans had not been shared. Vangerdahast was secretive, and he tended to reveal only a little about his projects, even to Azoun. That tendency was the source of the king's other big dilemma, as well. With Vangerdahast unable to cast any spells, Azoun had no way to contact Queen Filfaeril or Princess Alusair. The royal mage had made it very clear that only he knew how to home in on the Obarskyr family's signet rings. Vangerdahast always claimed that this insured no one could abuse the tracking devices, but Azoun now cursed himself for not demanding some other way to contact his family quickly.

With these problems weighing heavily on his mind, the king returned to his pavilion and met with the generals. Farl, Brunthar, and Lord Harcourt were sitting around the large table in Azoun's tent, a map of the immediate area spread between them. The king briefly explained that Vangerdahast was still unconscious and outlined the ramifications of that problem.

"The Tuigan should be here in an hour or two," Farl offered, drawing a large red arrow on the map to indicate the enemy's movement. "We've just been discussing alternative troop placements."

Walking to the head of the table, Azoun glanced down at the map and shook his head. "It's far too late to consider changing our plans. Our soldiers will expect us to array as we've practiced." He turned a meaningful eye to the commanders of the archers and cavalry. "As has been proven to my satisfaction, we can't undermine the men's expectations at this late date."

"But Torg isn't here," Brunthar Elventree noted. "Without his infantry support, my archers will be vulnerable."

Farl took a drink from a mug that was holding one corner of the map flat. As the paper curled slightly, he glanced at the dalesman. "The infantry we have now will be enough. Two thousand dwarves wouldn't make that much difference anyway." He smoothed the map and replaced the mug. "I agree with Azoun. We should stay the course we've plotted already."

Clearing his throat, Lord Harcourt added, "The plans we've set are sound. They follow all the dictums and suggestions of the great battles of King Rhigaerd II."

Following his father's rules of war was not what Azoun had had in mind when he suggested an organization for the battle lines. Common sense dictated most of the placement, and the little the generals knew of Tuigan tactics suggested the rest. The king scanned the map and picked up a pen.

"This really isn't a matter for debate. We'll array as we planned," he said, inking the pen. "At least for this engagement. . though with a bit of luck, we'll hurt the khahan enough that he'll turn now."

The generals all smiled and murmured their approval, but none of them truly believed such an easy victory was possible. Azoun didn't either, but he knew that he had to present his facade of confidence to his commanders as well as his troops. "Of course we can't rely on chance too much," the king added with a sincere smile. "Lady Tymora always favors those who make their own luck."

Azoun bent his attention to the map and sketched out the position he would take in the Alliance's battle lines. After marking a small blue crown, the king handed the pen to Farl, who positioned the infantry.

In a steady, smooth hand, the black general marked two lines to represent the footsoldiers under his command. The first line was centered slightly in front of Azoun's crown and ran wide to either side of the king's mark. "This will be the main body of infantry," he noted with his deep voice, glancing up at the king. "It holds most of our pikemen, spears, and so on."

Farl then added a second, thinner line behind the first. "And this is the second rank, made up of swordsmen rather than men with polearms." As the generals all knew, the second line was not there to stop a Tuigan charge, but to fight at close quarters once the battle got under way. Shorter weapons, like swords and axes, would be of far more use in a press than spears or pikes.

After taking the pen from Farl, Brunthar Elventree inked it again. "The archers go here, here, here, and here." Each location to which the dalesman pointed received a blotchy triangle of ink. When the archers' commander was done, four large groups of bowmen were interspersed along the second line of infantry.

Next, Lord Harcourt took the pen. With sweeping, ornate strokes, he added wings to the lines of infantry. "And the nobles will guard the flanks," he said, then bent down and added a few more marks to the map. "My cavalry will sweep in as soon as the infantry and archers have stopped the barbarians."

The last comment was stated as fact, and Azoun was pleased by the confidence Lord Harcourt seemed to be putting in the less experienced generals. Neither Farl nor Brunthar had been involved in a campaign on this scale before.

Finally the pen passed back to the king. He inked it again and added the remaining details to the Alliance's battle lines. A large W denoted the wizards' position, behind the line of mixed infantry and archers. To the mages' rear would lie the camp itself, which Azoun depicted as a number of blocks.

"I want the refugees gathered behind this pavilion," the king noted after he'd finished drawing. "That will put our army and most of the camp between them and the fighting."

The three generals nodded in agreement, and Farl volunteered to see that the king's wishes were fulfilled. That settled, Azoun reviewed the signals the standard-bearers would use to relay his orders, then asked for questions. There were none.

"May the Goddess of Luck and the God of Battle look favorably upon us," the king concluded. As General Elventree and Lord Harcourt turned to go, Azoun clapped them both on the shoulder. "I don't suppose I'll see you before the Tuigan arrive, so fare well. I know you'll both fight bravely."

Lord Harcourt dismissed the parting with a wave. "The barbarians will be routed by sunset," he said firmly as he left.

Brunthar Elventree and Farl Bloodaxe exchanged worried glances. "Let's hope," the dalesman said and followed the cavalry commander to the lines.

"What was that all about?" Azoun asked Farl when the others had gone.

The infantry commander paused, then pursed his lips. "We-Brunthar and I-feel that, well, Lord Harcourt may be underestimating the Tuigan's strength. Given the chance, he'd probably try to rout them with the nobles alone."

Guiding Farl to the exit, Azoun said, "I agree with your assessment, my friend, but Lord Harcourt is a good soldier. He'll follow my commands when it comes down to a fight, so his mistaken disregard for the enemy's strength doesn't matter." When the infantry commander paused at the door, the king added, "Besides, there are plenty of things I'm counting on you for already. Leave the command of the generals to me; it gives me something to occupy my time."

A sly smile on his face, Farl bowed and headed into the heart of the camp to oversee the movement of the refugees. Azoun watched the commander go, then called for a squire to help him don the rest of his armor.

Less than an hour later, after a quick visit to the temporary head of the War Wizards, the king was touring the battle lines. He walked a little stiffly in his full suit of plate mail, but with the practiced gait of one accustomed to the heavy burden of armor. Azoun personally favored training in battle conditions, and he'd often spent an hour or two in the height of summer practicing his swordsmanship dressed in his full armor. Seeing the distress in some of his soldiers' faces as the early morning sun beat down upon their heavy mail made the king thankful it was a habit he had maintained. Even though it was relatively cool for a day in mid-Flamerule, any sun hammering on an armored body could be brutal.

Soldiers scurried along the front, fortifying their positions or simply taking their place in line. As the generals had agreed, the bulk of the army was split into two lines, but the map had not shown that they were spread across the slope of a wide, low hill. This positioning afforded the bowmen in the second rank a good view of the field. Azoun glanced behind him at the four groups of archers and prayed their longbows would prove a match for the short, curved bows the barbarians fired from horseback.

Adjusting his coif of mail, the king wiped the sweat from his forehead. The hill itself will help the archers, too, he concluded silently. The field's long slope will almost certainly slow the Tuigan charge enough for the bowmen to whittle their numbers down a little before the first sally.

"Your Highness!" a messenger shouted and dropped to his knees behind the king.

Azoun spun around to see a dirty, panting youth. "What is it, boy?"

"The barbarians, Your Highness. I seen 'em coming when I was on scout," the youth reported between gasps. "I raced here as fast as my horse'd carry me."

Flipping back a mailed glove, Azoun arched his hand over his eyes and looked to the east. The morning sun was low enough in the sky to be blinding to someone scanning the horizon, and the glare prevented the king from seeing any movement in the distance. Only mile after mile of rolling wild grain, intersected by the dark scar of the trade road, met his anxious eyes. Still, the king didn't doubt the report, and he immediately told the standard-bearer waiting nearby to signal the army to form battle lines.

Azoun patted the scout on the head and sent him to his place at the rear of the army, where he'd be ready as a messenger if the need arose. Trailing the standard-bearer and a few knights behind him, the king walked to the rear of the lines himself. With the help of a wooden ramp, Azoun mounted his fully barded horse. The white destrier pranced nervously, then trotted to the front lines under the king's guidance.

As Azoun watched, a few soldiers scattered caltrops over the field far in front of the Alliance's lines. These spiked metal balls, like the wooden barricades that also littered the field, were meant to slow a cavalry charge. All along the first line, the men tightened the straps on their leather armor or shifted under the weight of their hauberks of chain mail. Spear points and pike blades glinted in the morning sunlight as the weapons sat on the ground near their owners, who also rested in anticipation of the conflict. Wineskins passed surreptitiously from man to man as the waiting began.

The experienced campaigners knew that a period of tense expectation, when the lines were formed but the enemy had yet to charge, would be part of the battle that day. They took the delay in stride. Many listened to the sergeants and captains barking orders or tossing encouragement to the men. Others heard the murmur of hushed, worried conversations, and, closing their eyes, dreamed that they were in a tavern far from this particular battlefield. Whatever they did, the soldiers who had seen a large battle before tried their best not to look for the Tuigan on the horizon.

They knew that the enemy would come soon enough.

In fact, it was only one half-hour after the king had signaled the lines to form that the dust from the Tuigan advance became visible, even against the bright morning sun. The signal to prepare for assault rippled through the standards, and the men got slowly to their feet. Last gulps of wine were swallowed, and prayers were quickly murmured. The more hardened mercenaries placed final bets on the number of men they might kill or how many hours the fight might take. Most of the soldiers simply stood and stared at the dark line growing across the horizon.

"Can you see how they're arrayed?" Azoun asked the armored horseman to his right.

As infantry commander, Farl's position for the start of the battle was near the king, to the rear of the first line. Be squinted at the enemy troops rushing toward them and, after a moment, shook his head. "I can't tell from this distance." Farl's horse shifted nervously beneath him, and he steadied it with a pat on the flank. "If there are as many warriors as you said, their front isn't long enough for them to be riding in less than two, perhaps three lines."

Fear knotted Azoun's stomach, and he suddenly knew why the men had been so quiet, so tense in the hours before the battle. The king's work had kept his mind occupied with hundreds of details, and his position had called on him to make a myriad of decisions, all of which drew his attention away from the reality of the conflict. As Azoun sat on his destrier, watching the Tuigan advance, he knew with horrible certainty the battle that might end his life was charging toward him at a fast gallop.

Azoun glanced at the helmet in his hands. The basinet was ovoid, with a high point at the summit that tapered to the ornate gold rim of the Cormyrian war crown. "In a battle against Zhentil Keep this crown might guarantee my safety," he said vaguely as he slid the helmet over his coif of mail.

"But the khahan has expressed a wish to make my skull into a cup, so I suppose this makes me stand out more than a full purse at a thieves' guild meeting."

Having been in many battles before, though none nearly as monumental as the one that faced him now, Farl Bloodaxe recognized the fear in the king's voice. That's good, he thought. Fear keeps men alive in war.

He didn't tell that to Azoun. Instead, the infantry commander leaned close and said, "Thom once told me a story of an ancient Cormyrian king who fought a glorious battle against an enemy who outnumbered him twelve-to-one."

Frowning, Azoun slid his visor closed. "I've heard that story, too, Farl. The king and all his knights but one die in the conflict. Hardly a tale to lighten our moods."

"Our odds are far better, Your Highness," Farl said, closing the visor on his own helmet. "We're only outnumbered three-to-one. At least a dozen of us should make it back to Cormyr." With a flourish he drew his sword and bowed it in salute to the king.

Beneath his helmet, Azoun chuckled. He meant to return a witty retort to his friend's dark humor, but when he glanced at the Tuigan line, it was closer than he had expected. The signal went out again to prepare for first assault. Pikes and spears bristled from the Alliance's first rank, and the tension in the air made the whole army grow as tight as the string on a longbow.

The formation of the Tuigan charge was clear now, but the sun at the enemy's back and the high, waving grain sometimes hid the horsewarriors from Azoun's sight. As Farl had guessed, the khahan had organized his men into three rough lines, each about three men deep. Azoun was amazed that the barbarians managed to maintain a straight, orderly charge as they raced across the plain. If Lord Harcourt can see the precision with which the Tuigan are advancing, the king decided, he's probably modified his opinion of them considerably.

At a few hundred yards, the bulk of the enemy reined in their horses and stopped. A group about half the size of the Army of the Alliance, perhaps fifteen thousand men, raced forward. A steady rumble of drums accompanied the heavy thunder of their horses' hooves pounding the ground.

"They're going to test the line!" Farl shouted, waving his sword in the air. The first line gripped their shields a little tighter and braced their polearms for the impact. In the second rank, captains bellowed orders to the archers, who tested the pull of their bowstrings one last time.

Azoun shifted in the saddle to get a better look at the four groups of archers, then drew his sword. The king could see Brunthar Elventree's standard-the mace, spear, and chain symbol of Battledale in gold upon red cloth-at the rear of the closest formation of bowmen. Like all the groups of archers, the dalesman's was fortified with dozens of long, sharpened stakes. The palisade formed a wall of spikes that tilted down the hill, ready to repulse an enemy charge.

The king gave the signal for the archers to fire when ready, and Brunthar's standard wavered in the light wind crossing the field. Six thousand archers drew their bows as one and leaned back, seemingly to point their arrows at the low-hanging sun.

Just as Azoun turned to the battlefield again, the archers fired. Six thousand arrows sliced through the air, and the thunder of the Tuigan advance was momentarily drowned out by the hollow whistle of the deadly missiles. After arcing up into the sky, the arrows seemed to hang at the zenith of their flight, then, in an instant, they dropped onto the charging barbarians.

The black curtain reached the Tuigan charge about one hundred yards from the Alliance's front rank. Hundreds of horses tumbled into the grass, screaming in pain, tossing their riders under the hooves of other charging steeds. Some arrows struck the riders themselves, often killing their targets instantly. In all, the first volley dropped almost one tenth of the entire charge. This heavy toll might have been a surprise, had not the barbarians' orderly advance made them easy targets for the skilled western longbow-men.

The attack seemed to surprise the charging horsewarriors, for some of them faltered momentarily. The majority of the Tuigan line galloped on, however, leaping their horses over the dead and wounded on the battlefield. And as the charge picked up speed, another sound rang out over the field: a shrill war cry. The Tuigan screeched their rage at the Alliance as they hurtled forward, brandishing their bows over their heads in defiance.

When the horsewarriors were a little more than fifty yards away, Brunthar Elventree signaled the archers to fire again. Another swarm of arrows sliced through the air, the sound of their passing contending with the war cry in the ears of the western troops. At this relatively short range, the longbows did even more damage to the massed Tuigan troops. Thousands of horses and soldiers sprouted brightly fletched arrows. Their shouts of shock and pain wavered under the shrill war cry.

"Ready for assault," Azoun said, and the signal was passed. At the right and left flanks, the armored noblemen who made up the majority of the cavalry readied their weapons and anxiously held their horses in place. In the second rank, Brunthar gave the signal to fire at will, and arrows sailed over Azoun's head in squalls.

The Tuigan reined in their horses and fired their strong short bows. Thousands of arrows bit into the western lines. Azoun reflexively threw his shield up, and he heard two arrows strike it with surprising force. Luckily, the Tuigan seemed to take aim at the front ranks, where many of the men had shields, too. Still, what sounded like a single pained groan went up around Azoun as some of the missiles found their mark.

"Signal the mages!" Farl cried at Azoun's side.

The king lowered his shield and looked to the Tuigan lines. If the infantry commander had been able to see Azoun's face, he would have seen a look of shock; the horsewarriors were wheeling their swift little horses about and fleeing. "We should save the wizards for when we really need them," the king shouted. He pointed at the retreating enemy. "What's going on?" The Tuigan fired over their shoulders occasionally, but it seemed as if they were running away.

Farl flipped back his visor. His face, too, was a mask of surprise. "That had to be a test," he ventured. "Maybe they didn't know the range of our bows or what kind of battle magic we had."

A hearty cry went up from the Army of the Alliance. The king signaled the archers to cease fire and watched as a much-weakened group of riders rejoined the khahan's army. "Losses?" Azoun asked as he lifted his own visor.

After scanning the field for a moment, Farl said, "They lost four, perhaps even five thousand. We wounded more than that." He shook his head. "The khahan must care very little for his men to condone that kind of carnage for a test."

"Or his men think highly enough of him to go to it willingly," Azoun corrected. "Save for an instant when our first volley hit them, they didn't pause. This was a familiar drill for them." He looked across his own first rank. "Have the captains tally our losses. We may just frighten them off."

The dead were counted as they were dragged out of line, and the king was relieved to find that only about three hundred had been killed in the first assault. The thought of any men dying under his command troubled Azoun, but he pushed those guilty thoughts aside.

The wounded were far more numerous, but many of the arrow wounds required only simple dressings or minor healing spells. Most of the wounded bragged about their new badges of honor or invited their neighbors in the ranks to see where the Tuigan arrows had pierced their shields or split their leather jerkins. The sergeants let this nervous bravado continue as the minutes of waiting for a new assault wore into an hour, and the sun rose high over the field.

By midday, crows began to flock to the battlefield. The corpses of the Tuigan horses and soldiers slain in the first assault lay in the field, growing cold in the sunlight. Many of the less-traveled soldiers in the Alliance were shocked to find the birds gathered so quickly. Some even spoke of the dark-winged scavengers as a bad omen or the result of evil sorcery. The experienced mercenaries knew the crows were neither of these things. The large black birds, so common in fields throughout Faerun, were like any other animal; food attracted them, and a battle always proved to be a seemingly endless source of carrion for their greedy beaks.

Still, the crows' steady cawing unnerved some of the troops. Brunthar had to discipline a few archers for wasting arrows by shooting at the birds, and Farl found himself yelling at a member of the king's guard for betting on which Tuigan body the birds would land on next.

At last someone shouted, "Here they come again!" A murmur of odd relief ran through the western lines.

"By Torm's mailed fist," Farl said, "they're scouting us again!" He slammed his visor down and raised his shield on his arm.

The crows quickly leaped in to the air, out of the path of the galloping horses. Azoun attempted to ignore the coarse squawking as he gazed out upon the advancing Tuigan line. There were perhaps twice as many riders charging toward the Alliance as last time. The odds were now even.

As before, the longbows rained arrows on the Tuigan charge twice before the horsewarriors stopped. Azoun then ordered Brunthar to have the archers attack in unison again as the barbarians turned to fire. This third sheet of arrows, launched just as the khahan's men were readying to fire themselves, had a terrible impact. Not only did the attack take a toll in Tuigan lives, it spoiled many of the mounted archers' shots. But this wasn't the only surprise the king had prepared for the second Tuigan charge.

As the horsewarriors reined in their mounts fifty yards from the Alliance's front rank and the longbowmen launched their own counterattack, the wizards entered the war.

With a crackling hiss, over two hundred flaring balls of fire leaped from the rear of the western army's ranks and struck the Tuigan charge. Like liquid, the fireballs splashed against the horsewarriors, killing hundreds and horribly burning many more. Had the field not been dampened by recent rains, a massive wildfire would have spread from the attack. As it was, blazes broke out all around the barbarians' line, sending thick black smoke coiling across the field.

Unaccustomed to such an awesome use of magic, many of the Tuigan faltered. Panicked horsemen wheeled their steeds about for a retreat or tried to fire their bows as ordered. The Alliance's archers loosed another volley, and a few of the wizards behind them completed a more complicated incantation begun a few moments earlier.

In twenty-eight spots along the Tuigan charge, the ground burst up, showering the horsewarriors with earth and uprooted grass. In each of those ravaged places, a massive creature of stone climbed out of the ground, swinging huge fists of rock and dirt. The stone creatures had cold, expressionless faces and eyes made of sparkling gems that reflected the fires still growing around the enemy.

Azoun sat motionless as the earth elementals lumbered into the Tuigan line, scattering horses and soldiers. From ten to fifteen feet tall, the creatures found it easy to dash the troops from their path, and the Tuigan arrows had little effect on their hard, rocky bodies.

Rays of glittering golden dust and swarms of glowing blue darts accompanied the arrows that rained down on the retreating enemy. The Army of the Alliance shouted out their victory as the Tuigan wheeled in the burning field and tried to escape the shambling monsters and shower of magic that drove them from their horses and crushed them into the earth.

"They didn't even have a chance to fire a second time," the king said to Farl. He raised his sword high into the air and added his voice to the army's triumphant cry.

The infantry commander shouted something the king could not hear. After an instant, Farl flipped up his visor and slapped Azoun on the shoulder. "Your Highness, look!"

Following the general's outstretched arm, the king saw what so upset Farl. Far to the right, the Alliance's cavalry was breaking from the flank, sweeping in on the retreating Tuigan line. "By the gods," the king whispered, the color draining from his face. Lord Harcourt's banner charged through the ranks of cavalry as they raced toward the fleeing enemy.

After an instant of hesitation, the king grabbed his own standard and shouted, "Call them back!" to the young knight carrying it. The king's banner, emblazoned with the purple dragon of Cormyr, ordered a retreat. The signal was to no avail; the nobles continued their charge.

"What does Harcourt think he's doing?" Azoun cried bitterly to no one in particular. "Has he gone mad?"

The cavalry meant to guard the left flank saw its counterpart's charge and followed suit. In helpless anguish, the king watched the silver dots he knew to be armored knights race across the field and cut off the Tuigan retreat. Some of the fighting was obscured by smoke, but it was clear that the better armored western nobles were having an easy time wiping out what little remained of the broken Tuigan charge.

A messenger, sweaty from an obviously furious dash through the lines, made his way to the king's side. "Words from Lord Harcourt," he said, neither bowing to nor saluting the monarch.

Azoun shook a mailed fist at the boy. "What's going on?" he snapped. "Why did he charge?"

"Th-the nobles, sire. They, uh-"

Seeing the fear in the messenger's eyes made Azoun realize what he was doing, and he tried to calm himself. His face still red with anger, the king said, "The message, boy. Don't be afraid."

"Lord Harcourt sends his apologies, Your Highness." The boy swallowed nervously and glanced around. "The nobles disobeyed his orders and charged."

"By the gods, why?"

The boy wiped a gummy hand across his forehead. "Lord Darstan and some others said they could easily chase down the horsewarriors when you, one wizard, and a few knights escaped from the Tuigan camp on your own. I heard 'em say it, Your Highness."

The shock from that statement had little time to settle on Azoun. A deep, rolling rumble crossed the field, and for an instant, the king thought the wizards had cast another powerful spell. A single look at the battlefield revealed how wrong that guess was. Through the patches of smoke and fire, Azoun could clearly see the entirety of the khahan's army advancing at a gallop across the body-strewn field.

The black line on the horizon spread as it moved closer, and the king realized why Yamun Khahan had waited until now to attack in force.

"They're going to surround us," he said, turning to Farl. "The khahan was hoping to bait the cavalry forward so he could surround us easily."

The infantry commander scowled. "Without cavalry on the wings, the Tuigan will outflank us without trying." He spurred his horse and charged away from the king, shouting orders.

By now the rest of the Alliance had realized what was happening, too. The wizards, unprotected by any kind of armor, pushed from the rear of the formation to the short space between the first line of infantry and the mixed line of swordsmen and archers. Shoving their way to protection, the mages threw the second rank into turmoil. In a few places scuffles broke out, though the captains saw to these with harsh efficiency.

Assessing the situation as quickly as possible, Azoun decided to force both lines up the hill farther. In a normal assault, the archers' palisades would be used only if the frontal assault drove the first rank into retreat. Then, the wooden spikes would hamper a full-scale charge. However, if the Tuigan got to the rear of the Alliance and forced the second rank downhill, the palisades would be useless.

"Front rank retreat to the second rank's position!" the king cried, waving his sword to motion the retrenchment. The standard-bearer echoed the order, and sergeants and captains barked out the command all down both lines.

For a well-trained army, this maneuver would have proved little problem, but the Army of the Alliance had had only a limited amount of time to drill. As a result, the retrenchment took far too long. By the time the ranks were in place, the Tuigan had outflanked the army and were closing in on three sides.

Azoun didn't see Lord Harcourt's standard waver, then fall, as the bulk of the khahan's troops rolled over the Alliance's cavalry. The nobles had wiped out the last of the retreating Tuigan line, but at the cost of their lives to a man.

The fires and the earth elementals slowed the charge a little, too, but not enough. Eighty thousand barbarians, crying out for vengeance, screaming for western blood, emerged from the smoke, brandishing their bows.

Without warning, a Tuigan arrow bit into Azoun's leg. Fired at a distance of only thirty yards, the black shaft pierced the king's cuisse and pinned his leg to his horse. The destrier reared as Azoun threw back his head and screamed in agony. The sky he saw through tears of pain was black.

Above the Army of the Alliance, the crows swarmed. Their numbers seemed to blot out the sun, and their cries drowned out Azoun's scream. Almost hidden in the sea of black feathers, a lighter-colored falcon circled the battle, watching the Tuigan surround the crusaders.