Crusade

17

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 side. "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 same 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.

"I don't see how the princess fought beside those cold little men for the three months before the crusade," Thom added to himself. From everything Alusair had revealed, the bard saw Earthfast as a lonely, embattled place, devoid of hope. It was hard to believe that Azoun's daughter, who seemed full of life, had stayed there.

That was before I met her, Thom decided. That was before she and the king were reconciled.

He shook his head and tried to dismiss the idle thoughts that dragged him away from the chronicles. Today was the first time in the month since the Second Battle of the Golden Way, as the conflict was now known, that the bard had stolen a chance to write. And since he wanted to have the notes on the crusade finished before the army returned to Cormyr, Thom had to get back to work.

Stretching once to get comfortable, the bard started to write once more.

It was clear on the day following the battle that the Tuigan were actually retreating. Scouts returned to report that the barbarians were covering an astonishing distance each day-a figure I would relate here but for fear of being called a liar. The death of Yamun Khahan at the hands of King Azoun, the illustrious hero of the crusade-

"Getting a bit carried away there," Thom said softly. Azoun had given the bard strict instructions after the battle that he was not to be valorized over the common troopers in the chronicles. "You'll surely ask me to strike this out," Thom noted, "so I'll do it now and save you the trouble."

After marking through the last phrase with heavy, dark lines, the bard repeated the last fragment he'd penned." 'The death of Yamun Khahan at the hands of King Azoun-'"

— broke the spirit of the barbarian invaders. The prisoners made it clear, with some help from the mages, that without the khahan to lead them, their horsewarrior brethren would surely scatter to the four winds. Experience has taught the Alliance that this was the case.

As the crusading army has moved east, following the retreating horde, it has met with little resistance. Pockets of Tuigan warriors, broken from the main column, have made valiant stands against our forces. Yet flight seems the more common strategy for the tiny bands of Tuigan. As soon as they spot the Alliance, they hurriedly break camp and ride away, pushing their swift ponies to the limits of endurance.

Of great relief to Azoun's generals, too, is the civil war that is obviously tearing at what remains of the Tuigan army. Princess Alusair, with the aid of the falcon and magical bracelet given her by the centaur chieftain, has been able to keep careful track of the barbarians. The sons of the khahan seem to be locked in bitter contention with one of the horde's generals, Chanar Ong Kho. More small bands of warriors break off every day and disappear into the open plains of Thesk.

A few of the barbarians captured in the Second Battle of the Golden Way are released each day to join these groups of fleeing comrades. "The Tuigan are prisoners from a war that's over," Azoun told his generals. "There is no reason for us to prevent them from going home, as we all will soon do."

Thom paused to study the page he'd just completed. Apart from the single blotch where he'd marked over his comment about the king, the sheet was neatly crammed with tight, controlled handwriting. He laid the paper flat to dry, then started a new page.

Even without fighting, traveling through Thesk has not been easy for the Army of the Alliance, and the going promises to be harder still the farther east we go. Few of the fields have been cultivated in the wake of the invasion, and the retreating barbarians have been killing much of the game. Food, while not terribly scarce, is still a concern, since the army's supply lines grow longer each day and more vulnerable to attack from other dark forces in the area.

The villages along the Golden Way are deserted, and most have been pillaged by the Tuigan. Where the peasants simply abandoned their homes, some of the structures remain intact. In towns and villages where the people made a stand-

Sadly Thom looked around at the interior of the shattered farmhouse. The cottage was one of the only buildings left on the outskirts of the town of Tammar. The thatch that normally covered its roof had been pulled down in many places, perhaps as food for hungry Tuigan horses. The furniture was little more than splintered fragments, and even the hut's wooden door had been smashed in. If any other possessions once lined the walls of the cottage they were gone now, but whether the peasants or the barbarians had taken them Thom would never know.

The bard closed his eyes for a moment, then glanced at the parchment. The carnage left in the horde's wake would have to be noted, but not today. Such dark topics were best left for other times, days when the sun wasn't shining so brightly and the late summer air wasn't so warm and relaxing. Thom blew the partially finished page dry, gathered the other sheets he'd finished that morning, and tucked them under his arm.

I think it's time for a walk, he decided as he collected his pens and the rest of his writing tools. Then I'll head back to town and get something to eat.

With full intention of carrying out that simple plan, the bard stepped over the broken doorjamb. Being free of the crooked, shadow-heavy cottage made him feel better than he'd expected, so he whistled a bright tune and set off in no particular direction.

"Well met, Master Bard," called a voice from behind.

Without turning around, the bard knew that it was King Azoun who had hailed him. When he did look, Thom wasn't surprised to see that Vangerdahast accompanied the king. The presence of a third person-a little, bald Khazari priest who'd been captured in the Second Battle of the Golden Way-did make him pause for an instant.

Koja, as the bard had come to know the Tuigan historian and former advisor to Yamun Khahan himself, strode beside King Azoun. Though he had been captured in the last battle, he wasn't really a prisoner, for the king had offered the man his freedom long ago. Koja had asked to stay with the Alliance, claiming that there were many Tuigan who would gladly see him dead now that the khahan was no more. His sincerity in this had been obvious, so Azoun let him stay.

"Interesting news, Thom," the king said happily. From the expression on Azoun's face, the bard could tell that it was at least partially good news, too.

Vangerdahast, still aged from the affects of the magic-dead area, tottered along beside Azoun. The wizard, once rather hale and hearty for a man in his eighties, now looked tired and haggard. His face was a nest of wrinkles, and his hands quivered slightly. The wizard clutched a staff, and his weight drove its tip into the ground with each plodding step.

"We're finally going home," Vangerdahast said before Azoun could elaborate on his comment.

For a moment the fact didn't register in Thom's mind. He stood, slack-jawed and staring, as Azoun nodded to confirm the wizard's claim. "B-but, the Tuigan," he stammered.

Vangerdahast smiled, an act which made his eyes disappear into the mass of wrinkles around them. That pleasant expression almost astonished Thom as much as the news, for Vangerdahast had been in an understandably sour mood ever since his longevity spells had been nullified. "I've just received word from Fonjara Galth-you remember her, eh, Thom? The witch from Rashemen?" Thom nodded and the wizard continued. "Her cronies finally closed the route between the Horse Plains and the West, the one through the Lake of Tears."

"And the Red Wizards who had attacked Rashemen after the Tuigan had stormed through that land have now retreated south, back to their own borders," Azoun added. "Thesk, Rashemen, and the other local armies can put their full attention into routing the remaining barbarians."

The Khazari priest had been standing silently to the side during the conversation. Now, however, he bowed to Azoun and said, "I do not wish to contradict you, Your Highness, but I will repeat what I told you earlier: I do not believe the Tuigan will be dealt with that easily. It is far more likely that the majority of the army will scatter throughout Thesk rather than return to the Horse Plains. They will be as difficult to catch as the wind itself."

"But their families?" Azoun said. "Their homes-"

"They're nomads, Your Highness," Thom noted, a look of concern on his face. "Families and homes mean little to them."

Koja rubbed his bald scalp in slight agitation. "Before Yamun Khahan gathered the various tribes together, they lived by raiding and pillaging each other's camps and the trade caravans that passed through the Horse Plains." He looked around at the open grasslands that surrounded the Theskan town of Tammar. "This is good grazing land, and it is populated so sparsely that they will be able to elude the armies that hunt them."

Vangerdahast's smile vanished. "That's not our problem," he grumbled.

After a short silence, Azoun agreed. With Thay abandoning its plans of conquest and the Tuigan on the run, the Army of the Alliance could return to the Heartlands. "Our responsibility is fulfilled," the king noted, and the four men set off for the center of Tammar, where the majority of the army was billeted.

"Your Highness," Koja said as they walked, "what was your impression of the khahan?"

The question took the king by surprise, and after recalling their brief meeting, Azoun shrugged. "He seemed to be quite intelligent. No," he corrected quickly, "not that. Wise, perhaps. And very driven. Why do you ask?"

"When I was first sent to the Tuigan capital of Quaraband, I was to report back to my prince, tell him what the khahan was like" the priest replied. "I burned those notes long ago, but I think I might try to put something about Yamun Khahan on paper." After a pause, Koja added, "Master Reaverson tells me you are interested in history. Perhaps you will read these notes if I write them?"

"Of course," Azoun said, turning to face the priest. Koja was looking at the shattered road, however, and a wistful smile clung to his lips. "You will miss the khahan, won't you?"

"I was his anda," Koja said wistfully, then scowled. "I don't know if I can translate anda into your tongue-friend, perhaps, is closest." He cast his gaze to the clear blue sky. "Yamun chose the perilous path on his own, however. He chose to be a great man."

Sentries greeted Azoun as he and the others passed into the fringes of the western camp. Tents and campfires covered the broken streets of Tammar, scattered amidst the ruins of the buildings. Soldiers relaxed. A few loud groups sang bawdy songs, while others played at dice. Discipline was lax, perhaps too much so, but the men had fought and marched hard since arriving in Thesk, and Azoun knew that they deserved a rest.

"Is that the philosophy of your land?" the king asked as he passed a group of archers testing their skill against a blackened post. "That a man chooses to be great?"

The priest answered without hesitation, and Azoun noted the pedantic tone Koja's voice took on as he spoke. It was a tone Vangerdahast often adopted when discussing politics. "In the Yanitsava, the book of the Enlightened One's teachings, it is written that, 'Some men take the thread of their life and weave their own destiny'. The priests of the Red Mountain believe that these men are evil, that they do not accept the will of the Enlightened One, that they force their own will over the pattern of the world."

"And you, Koja," Azoun said. "Do you believe that?"

The priest laughed. "I was once a lama of the Red Mountain, but I am now as much that as I am an envoy of the Khazari. My time with the Tuigan taught me that I am a far better historian than philosopher."

Koja then turned to Azoun. "Still, I know this much about men like Yamun Khahan: the world cannot bear their presence for too long. Yamun tried to make the world over in his image, to weave a picture that would encompass the entire globe." He gestured with an open hand at the army spread around the two of them. "But the world always has other great men to oppose such plans."

"Your Highness," Farl Bloodaxe interrupted. The general, dressed casually in the tunic and breeches of a Cormyrian soldier, bowed formally. "I've just passed the word on to the infantry captains, and Brunthar has done the same with the archers. The army should be ready to move tomorrow morning."

"Good," Azoun replied, placing his hand on Farl's shoulder. "See that the men draw fresh water from the wells tonight and double the foraging parties. I'm sure the troops will want to get back to the coast as quickly as possible, so the fewer times we need to slow to hunt for food the better."

Thom and Vangerdahast caught up to Azoun, and Koja bowed and went off with them. When the others had gone, Farl stepped close to the king. "There seems to be a problem with the orcs, Your Highness. When I told Vrakk the news, he informed me that the Zhentish troops weren't leaving."

After giving Farl a few more suggestions about stocking the supply wagons, Azoun went directly to the orcs' camp. The men had grown used to the Zhentish soldiers, but Vrakk and his troops still maintained their own compound, away from the humans. They had proven their worth in battle, and the other soldiers would have likely let the orcs integrate their tents with the rest of the Alliance. For some mysterious reason, Vrakk always refused.

As the king entered the Zhentish camp, he decided that that was probably a good thing. The orcs had chosen the most run-down section of Tammar for their home. Their torn and dirty tents were pitched only a few yards from where the town's garbage had been dumped and the funeral pyres had been built for the townsfolk. The place smelled rancid, but the orcs didn't seem to notice. They lounged in their tents, hidden from the bright sunlight.

Only a few Zhentish troopers seemed to be awake, and most of these were sprawled around smoking campfires, swilling wine and eating their midday meal.

Vrakk was seated near one such collection of orcs. He still wore his black leather armor, and Azoun noticed for the first time that, while the orcs' surroundings were like a sty, their piecemeal armor and scavenged weapons were relatively clean.

"General Bloodaxe tells me you are reluctant to leave," Azoun said casually. He held his hand up when another orc offered him a wineskin. "Thank you, but, no."

Vrakk snarled at the orc with the wineskin, and the smaller, brown-furred trooper slouched down and concentrated on the hunk of meat he had burning in the fire. "Orcs not go home," Vrakk replied. "That our orders."

"Orders?" Azoun asked. "From whom?"

"Zhentil Keep," the orc replied. Vrakk's tone revealed that he was surprised at Azoun's ignorance. "We new outpost. They order us stay in Thesk."

A frown crept across Azoun's face as he regarded the orcish commander. "And you've had these orders from the time you left the Keep, haven't you?"

Vrakk smiled, or what passed for that expression with the orc. His large teeth showed yellow and filmy in the sunshine. "Keep say we stay with Alliance till Tuigan gone. They say orcs trust Ak-soon to let leave in Thesk."

I gave my word to those villains, the king concluded silently, and they've used me to place a damned Zhentish outpost of almost nine hundred orcs in the middle of an ally's territory. Azoun sighed. "I don't suppose you'll be setting up your camp here in Tammar, so take your share of the supplies and leave right after sunset. I know your troops can travel by night, so that shouldn't be a problem."

The Zhentish commander found this agreeable, and wasn't offended at all when the king refused his invitation to share the noon meal with him. Though Vrakk appeared rather ignorant, he knew exactly why Azoun was distressed by the revelation of their plans.

"I will tell the Theskan authorities that your troops stayed in their territory," Azoun warned solemnly as he prepared to leave. "They'll consider you trespassers, Vrakk."

The orc's toothy grin widened. "We good soldiers, Ak-soon, but we better raiders, better thieves. Thesk big place with plenty spots to hide." He grabbed the wineskin from his brown-haired comrade and took a long swallow." 'Sides, we learn plenty about war from you. We be safe."

That thought didn't comfort Azoun at all. As he walked back to the royal compound, the king wondered if Koja was right. For all the good that he had intended to do on the crusade, Azoun now saw very little evidence that he'd succeeded. The town of Tammar, like so many other villages and hamlets in Thesk, Ashanath, and Rashemen, lay in ruins, the buildings toppled and the fields uncultivated. The Tuigan army was broken, but not gone from the West. The small groups of bandits that remained would likely plague traders and farmers for years to come. And now the orcs. The Theskan government would not be happy to learn that a band of professional Zhentish soldiers was loose in their land.

I've freed Thesk from Yamun Khahan and made it safe for bandits and spies, Azoun concluded darkly.

The king scowled at himself for being so morose. "I've won far more than that," he said as he looked around at the Army of the Alliance.

The troopers were celebrating the news that the war was officially over. Men went happily about the task of breaking down the camp, and the soldiers Azoun passed greeted him loudly. Some even cheered him. However, it was more than the mood of the camp that made the king realize that he'd won more than was lost. As he looked out on the faces of the archers and infantrymen, he no longer saw the motley collection of dalesmen and Sembians, Cormyrians and mercenaries, that had left Suzail those many months ago. Azoun saw a unified force, a group of men and women brought together to fight for Faerun.

And if these disparate soldiers could be forged together for such a cause, why not their countries?

With that ambitious thought in mind, the king crossed royal compound. His pavilion still stood, its brightly colored sides flapping gaily in the light breeze. For a moment, he considered giving the order to have it dismantled; the rest of the army would likely sleep on the ground tonight so that they would not be delayed with packing their tents come morning. Perhaps when I'm done talking to Alusair, he decided, and turned toward her tent.

Azoun found the princess stuffing her few belongings into a rough canvas sack. The falcon that Jad Eyesbright had loaned to her sat on a makeshift perch, its head covered with a leather hood, next to Alusair's armor. Whenever the princess would bump into the dwarven plate mail, the bird would give a little screech in complaint of the disturbing noise.

"Hello, Father," she said as the king entered. Alusair tied the canvas sack and tossed it near the door. "I've heard the news. You're leaving tomorrow morning?"

"What do you mean, 'you're leaving?' " Azoun asked. He sat down on the tent's sole cot and shook his head in disbelief. "Aren't you coming home?"

Alusair sat down next to Azoun. "Yes," she said. "But not just yet."

The king choked on his words, then sputtered, "Not now? When, Allie? Your mother and sister expect you-"

"Please," the princess broke in. She bowed her head. "I don't want to argue. Not now."

Gripping Alusair's hands tightly, the king fought back the confusion that was growing inside of him. In the course of the crusade, his relationship with his daughter had grown beyond the conflict that had stood between them. Azoun was proud of Alusair, and he thought she realized that. "It's all right, Allie. Just tell me why."

"I have things I have to do before I can come home. I've made some promises over the last few years, and I have some debts to settle." She laughed. "I have responsibilities to fulfill."

The king didn't miss the irony in his daughter's words. "When will you come home, then?"

Alusair sighed, a bit raggedly. "I think I'll be home in a few months. Probably before winter sets in." After a short pause, she added, "Thank you for understanding, Father. This is just something I have to do."

"My reaction shouldn't be a surprise, Allie. You have your own life. I just want you to make your family part of that life again." The king glanced at the canvas sack beside the door. "You're leaving this afternoon, aren't you?"

With a nod, the princess stood. She gathered up the pieces of her armor and started to bundle it for travel. "I want to get to the Forest of Lethyr as soon as possible," she said as she spread the armor but. "The centaur chieftain asked me to return the falcon and the bracelet when the fighting was over."

"A falcon's quite a burden on campaign," Azoun noted idly, trying to appear at ease. "They take a lot of care and attention. You don't give it to them, they go wild again. Not much good for hunting or scouting after that."

The princess made a few comments about the falcon and how wonderful it was seeing through the bird's eyes. Then, as she was stacking the cuisses and brassards of her armor in the breastplate, the king reached over and rearranged them.

"If you stack the armor this way," Azoun said as he cupped the pieces together, "it'll make a tighter bundle." He smiled at his daughter. "I have had some experience with this sort of thing … though that was a long time ago."

"Not so long that you've forgotten it," Alusair replied. After an awkward pause, she leaned close to her father and embraced him.

For an hour or so, the king and his daughter talked. Azoun told her about his times with the King's Men, and the princess responded with fragments about her adventures. They laughed, and for a short time it seemed as if they were back in Suzail, before the war, before the princess had run away. Too soon, it was time for Alusair to go.

They said good-bye without tears, and Alusair promised to keep the king's signet ring so the family could find her if the need arose. It was almost a happy parting, for both Azoun and Alusair knew that when next they met, they would be father and daughter again, and more. They would also be friends.

As he watched his daughter ride away on one of the few horses the army could spare, Azoun decided that his greatest victories of the crusade would never be recorded in Thom's chronicles. His ancestors might know that Azoun IV once brought peace to Thesk with his victory over the Tuigan, but they would probably never realize he also made peace with his daughter and with himself. After all, such sentimental matters were not the stuff of histories.

Long after Alusair disappeared into the tall grass of the plain, the king could see the falcon spiraling in the sky as it followed her. The bird, which in time appeared as no more than a dark speck, held Azoun's attention until it, too, faded into the horizon. With a contented sigh, the king returned to camp, where the Army of the Alliance awaited his command.

"Sure flights! Razor points!"

John the Fletcher paused and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Though autumn was swiftly fading into winter, pushing a heavy cart along the Promenade was hot and tiring work. Not as bad as fighting Tuigan, he decided with a smile. He hefted his cart and called out his wares again.

"Sure flights! Razor points! Buy your arrows from John the Fletcher! Only the best from Razor John!"

Like most of the Army of the Alliance, Razor John had returned to Suzail a few months ago. He had been a bit surprised to find his business doing well, but his apprentice had taken readily to the heavy workload. More importantly, new customers were frequenting the shop. Razor John was, after all, a war hero.

Not that he had done anything superlative during the crusade. None of his customers ever actually asked John about the battles themselves, and they really didn't care to hear the truth. John was a war hero because the people of Suzail, in fact the citizens of most of the crusading countries, had decided that Azoun's venture against the barbarians had resulted in a heroic conflict. Bards readily took up their lutes and wove stories about the crusaders, always vastly outnumbered and fighting for their lives. John, like the rest of the Alliance, was part of a popular legend-based partially in truth, of course, but growing more fantastic every day.

A horse-drawn wagon forced its way up the Promenade, and John heaved his cart to the side of the road. "Damned teamsters think they can drive their rigs anywhere," he grumbled as the wagon passed. He shoved his cart forward again, right into a woman carrying a basket of apples.

The elderly lady, a heavy shawl pulled over her stooped shoulders, turned, ready to scold the owner of the cart. She stopped short when she saw the medal Razor John wore over his heart. "Pardon me," she murmured and went on her way.

John shook his head and looked down at the silver disk. The medal had a longbow engraved in it, with the words "Order of the Golden Way" etched around the image. It had been given to each of the archers who'd fought on the crusade, and ones like it-engraved with either pikes or horses-had been cast for each infantryman or cavalryman. The latter was a posthumous honor.

The medals garnered the wearer a great many courtesies in the city. The deference shown John by the elderly woman was only a small sample. The fletcher had found that the silver disk increased his business on the street, got him better service in taverns, even attracted the attention of single ladies. Not that John was all that concerned with such matters; Kiri had survived the crusade, too, and they were planning a wedding for the spring.

Razor John wore the medal because he was proud of the service he'd done Faerun. He'd gone on the crusade believing in Azoun's cause, and the attention the expedition now received only made John feel that much more pride in the Alliance and all it stood for. There was even talk in the inns that King Azoun wanted the bonds between Cormyr, Sembia, and the Dales to become more permanent. Such a union would make any invasion of the Heartlands almost impossible.

John looked to his right. The sprawl of government buildings known as "the Royal Court" lined the Promenade for a long way. Tax collectors and other city officials scurried about in the court's twisted hallways, and the policies enacted there had a great effect on John's life. However, those structures seemed insignificant when compared to the impressive castle that rose behind them. The fletcher stared up at the palace and wondered if the king would be able to unite Faerun.

At that moment, Azoun himself was wondering the same thing. He paced back in forth in the castle's highest tower, his hands clenched behind his back. Every few steps his left leg twinged slightly, but that wasn't a surprise. The arrow wound tended to give him trouble right before it rained.

Moving to the chessboard that lay on a table at the side of the room, the king shifted a knight, then resumed his pacing. His chess game had improved since his return from Thesk, much to Queen Filfaeril's dismay. She now beat the king only three games out of four.

"I hope you're done reading Thom's text, Your Highness," a voice called from the stairs. "The clerics are here to pick up the last pages."

Azoun turned to see Vangerdahast emerge from the open trapdoor. The wizard looked much more healthy these days; he'd spent most of the last two months in his laboratory, restoring the vitality the magic-dead area had stolen from him. His face was still wrinkled and his gait a little slower than in years past, but the wizard was once again the "Vangy" that Azoun knew and loved.

"Of course I'm finished," the king said. He reached down and handed a sheaf of parchment to his friend. "If you see Thom before I do, you can tell him the chronicles are just fine."

Without comment, the wizard took the pages and placed them neatly in his leather satchel. From there they would be delivered to the priests who awaited them in the palace's main hall. The clerics, worshipers of Denier, the God of Art, had been commissioned to copy Thom Reaverson's history of the crusade. The chronicles were then to be bound with Koja's notes on the Tuigan and his life of Yamun Khahan. Demand for the resulting book, which was to be stunningly illuminated by the priests, was already high, and the growing interest in the crusade promised to make the work even more sought after in the months to come.

"Yes, our bard does need encouragement these days," Vangerdahast noted sarcastically. "I understand that he's been offered quite a lot of money by one of our nobles to write a family history."

The wizard's comment brought no response from Azoun. He was confident that the bard would stay at the palace, at least for a little while. After all, when Alusair returned home in a few days, Thom was planning to finish his notes on her adventures. Those stories could then be added to the history of House Obarskyr.

Azoun had resumed his pacing, and Vangerdahast started for the trapdoor. The wizard was reaching to close the door behind him when the king suddenly looked in his direction.

"Thank you, Vangy," Azoun said sincerely. "By the way, have you heard anything from Lord Mourngrym or the other dalelords?"

"They'll come, Azoun. The crusade has earned you enough influence that they'll have no choice," the wizard said-a bit sourly, the king noted. "To be honest, I don't know why you're wasting your time. They'll never agree to unification with Cormyr. Neither will Sembia." When he noted the determined look crossing the king's face, he added. "Of course, that's just my opinion."

The wizard knew better than to argue certain matters of state-like the unification of the Heartlands-with Azoun since the crusade. The success of the foray against the Tuigan had bolstered the king's opinion that the tenets of Law and Good could be used to govern. In the wizard's opinion, that made Azoun rather intractable. Still, the old mage found that he respected the king more these days, even if he did believe his plans to be unrealistic. Like most people, Vangerdahast found it hard not to respect someone so dedicated to the welfare of others.

With a short bow, the wizard disappeared into the stairwell and closed the trapdoor behind him. The heavy wooden door forced a breeze into the small tower room, making the tapestries wave on the walls. The echo of the iron ring clanking against the wood had barely died before the king was pacing again.

In his mind the arguments for uniting Cormyr, Sembia, and the Dales turned over and over, arranging themselves into the best logical order. Azoun occasionally dismissed a reason for the extension of the union, and every few steps a new argument for or against the plan would present itself to him. At the heart of the king's thinking lay one thing: The crusade had proven, on a very limited scale, that such an alliance was beneficial.

No one could deny that. Relations between the three countries and the independent city-states that had offered troops for the crusade had never been better. With the exception of Zhentil Keep, of course. The increased activities of the raiding parties out of Darkhold troubled everyone, and the Keep now found itself politically isolated more often than not.

Most importantly, the crusade had shown Azoun that he could change the world. After all, the Alliance had been founded upon his ideals, his dreams. Certainly he had faltered once or twice, falling prey to the easy solutions of political necessity. Even now, the dalesmen pointed the finger of blame at Azoun for the problems with Darkhold. After explaining the treaty he'd signed with the Keep, the king had offered no excuse for his actions. The guilt was his, and he accepted it.

That was what his conscience advised him to do, and more and more these days Azoun followed that guide. It also told him to forge a new country from the Heartlands, a new empire dedicated to Law and Good. If possible, he was going to do that, too.

The king stopped pacing for a moment and opened the window. Suzail spread before him in the late autumn sunshine, still peaceful, still prosperous. The whole of Faerun could be like this, he thought.

Koja's comment about the world and great men came unbidden to the king's mind. His humility rebelled at naming himself great, but Azoun realized that the priest had been talking about him as much as Yamun Khahan. He pondered that thought as he watched the gulls wheel over the docks, the tradesmen and peasants hustle down the Promenade.

Closing the window, the king shut the chill breeze out of the room. If Koja is correct, Azoun decided as he began to pace again, then I must achieve what I can in what little time I have.