Crusade

2

Initially at least, King Azoun had far more trouble recruiting support for the crusade than Vangerdahast had predicted in the tower on that day. It wasn't that the monarch's persuasive powers were less than the royal wizard claimed. In fact, Azoun and his wife, Queen Filfaeril, had spent much of the winter speaking to their nobles and their neighbors; most of the rulers considered a preemptive attack on the Tuigan vital to preserving their countries, their cultures, and, most importantly, their treasuries.

In politics, however, rhetorical support and actual support sometimes have little in common. As the time for action grew near, few of the statesmen who seemed eager to lend troops to Azoun followed through on their promises. The source of this change of heart could be traced to a simple fear of popular unrest.

As in Cormyr, certain guilds throughout the Heartlands opposed any proposed crusade. Guilds were an important part of commerce and even everyday life in Faerun. Each trade, whether it be thieving, forestry, or smithing, had its own guild, and to become a lawful, certified member in any profession meant joining the appropriate organization. In this way, guilds insured that standards be met in the production of crafts and prices remained reasonable. The guilds also represented their members before governments, provided retirement funds, and even took care of members' widows and orphans.

Not all guilds stood against the proposed crusade. The armorers, fletchers, bowyers, and swordsmiths all stood to gain from the war. Even the teamsters and shipwrights knew that they would see an immediate profit from the expedition against the Tuigan. The merchants who stood to garner little from the conflict-the trappers who worked the Heartlands' wildernesses; the tanners who made leather from animal hides; even the butchers, who would lose business since the army would kill and dress its own meat knew only that higher taxes would come their way.

To counter the fear of guild opposition to the crusade, Azoun held conferences with those lords he could visit personally and dealt through messengers and magical communications with those located farther away. He encouraged the leaders to put the Tuigan matter before their people, allowing them to comment on the proposed crusade outside the restrictions of guild politics. Surprisingly, it was only a vocal minority that opposed the venture; most of the people supported a peremptory strike against the barbarians.

By weakening the nobles' fear of popular unrest, Azoun won back most of the troops committed to him during the winter. With the promise of strong dwarven support, the king won a few more tentative troop commitments. His charisma won still others. Finally, after a seemingly endless parade of small conferences, King Azoun called together all the leaders who he felt might support his cause.

"If I can persuade the Dales and Sembia to give me troops," the king said as he straightened his ornate ceremonial tunic, "I will stop the khahan before he breaks out of Thesk." He paused. "I do wish the queen could attend the meeting today. But… other matters of state demand at least one of us be present in the royal court."

Vangerdahast, sitting at a table covered with various parchment notes, nodded absently. "Don't forget to remind them of the dwarven support Ironlord Torg promised." The wizard rubbed his eyes slowly and put down the letter he was reading. "The Lords of Waterdeep send their regards."

Azoun froze. "They're not dispatching a representative to the meeting?" His sharp tone was muffled by the carpets and tapestries that covered the cold stone walls of the study.

"Far too busy running the 'City of Splendors.' " Vangerdahast shook his head. "No. That's not quite fair. They note here-" He picked up the parchment again." 'Though we recognize the importance of quelling the Tuigan incursion, we do not feel that it would be prudent for us to commit any of our forces at this time.'"

"I don't really blame them," the king sighed. "They lost a sizable part of their city guard during the Godswar."

The wizard nodded. "If Cormyr had been attacked by a troop of creatures from the Realm of the Dead, horsemen eating up territory on the other side of the continent wouldn't be our priority right now, either."

" 'The gods save men from some disasters only to thrust them into the middle of others.' " The king opened a dark wooden chest and took out a ceremonial sword. "Isn't that how the old saying goes?"

The heavy, earthy smell of pine wafted from the open trunk. Azoun inhaled deeply, soaking in the familiar, comforting scent. He closed his eyes for an instant and let the tension flow from his neck, then his arms, then his back. When he opened his eyes again, Vangerdahast was looking at him curiously.

"Nervous, Your Highness?"

"This is a very important meeting, Vangy. I can save hundreds, perhaps even thousands of lives if I-sorry, we-can persuade the people to our plans."

"This crusade is your plan, Azoun, not mine."

The king smiled warmly. "I know that you don't think a strike against the khahan is important, Vangy, but you've been invaluable to me in the last tenday. A few of the dalelords are here only from your prompting. I appreciate your aid."

"You're wrong about one thing, Azoun. I do believe that the campaign to stop the Tuigan is necessary. The khahan is a bloodthirsty savage intent on destroying as much as he can in as short a time as possible. The frightening old woman here to represent Rashemen at the meeting convinced me of that."

As Azoun turned to face the wizard, he couldn't hide his surprise. "If you agree that the crusade is necessary, why don't you agree with my plans?"

"Because I don't think you're the right person to lead the armies." The wizard raised his hand before Azoun could respond. "Not that I think you incapable of commanding the troops or making sound decisions… I just don't know if you realize what you're getting into."

A puzzled look replaced the shock on the king's face. "Why help me further my plans at all, Vangy?"

"I am, above all, your servant." The wizard bowed his head formally.

"Not friend?"

Vangerdahast was gathering the scattered stack of letters. He paused and studied the king. "Yes. Friend, too." The wizard fumbled with the stiff papers, then added, "But in the matter of the crusade, I will be of more aid to you as a servant of the crown."

The king strapped on the brightly gilded scabbard. "And why is that?"

"As your obedient subject, I will organize the crusade." The wizard stuffed the papers into a worn leather satchel, considering how to word the rest of his reply. After a moment, he concluded, "As your friend, I'd try to stop you from making what I see as a grave mistake."

Azoun shook his head. "I don't understand how can you separate your allegiances. I can only do what I think is right. And what's right is always right. The situation shouldn't have any bearing on it."

Anger clouded the wizard's features. He dropped the satchel onto the table, then quickly moved to the king's side and pulled the ceremonial sword from its scabbard. "You've been in battles before, Azoun, but never in a war. Charging into combat by yourself to face an ogre just isn't the same as leading thousands of men onto a battlefield."

The wizard slashed at the air angrily with the ornate weapon. "And you've grown more accustomed to ceremonial blades than real ones, Your Highness."

Azoun was more surprised by the anger in the wizard's voice than his actions. He gently took the saber from his friend's hands and replaced it at his side. "I know far more about warfare than you, Vangy. I've stood against enemies who should have beaten me, creatures that might have killed me with a single, bloody swipe. Perhaps-"

"That was more than twenty years ago," Vangerdahast interrupted. "Look in the mirror. You're not a young man anymore."

The silver-backed, full length mirror that stood in one corner of the room was an expensive rarity in Cormyr, but the king really wasn't concerned with the mirror's pure glass or the intricately wrought wooden frame. What caught Azoun's attention was the middle-aged man he saw reflected in the looking glass. His earth-brown eyes still gazed alertly back at him, but the king saw that the rest of his face and frame was showing the wear of his fifty-three years.

The most noticeable signs of aging visible to the king were the streaks of silver in his brown hair and beard. Azoun had been graying for much of the last twenty years, though, so that wasn't a surprise. Today, however, the creases around his eyes looked deeper, the bags under them a little darker, his cheeks more hollow and sunken. Although he exercised every day with sword and shield, the king's shoulders were bent, no doubt from the hours he spent poring over books or decrees in his study or the tower room. The king dismissed those things and decided that he was tired after the long nights of planning he'd gone through recently.

"Perhaps I am a bit worn down," he said brightly, "and I know that I'm no longer a young man… but I'm more experienced now than I ever was when traveling with the King's Men. Besides, I'm willing to gather strong, intelligent advisors about me."

The wizard didn't respond to the obvious compliment. "The dalelords will probably be waiting downstairs by now, and the others will be arriving shortly."

"Then you should make sure that the 'frightening old woman' from Rashemen is ready to address them," Azoun told Vangerdahast. He glanced into the mirror once more and straightened the ceremonial purple sash across his chest.

"You can joke about that woman because you haven't had to spend much time with her, listening to her tales about the Tuigan invading her land," the wizard said, picking up his satchel and opening the door. "I'll see you in the meeting hall in a few moments," he added as he left the room.

The king stared at the closed wooden door for a moment, not really seeing anything. He considered what Vangerdahast had said about his inexperience, then frowned. The wizard was right: He had seen battles, but never a war. Cormyr had been at peace, apart from a few border skirmishes, for his entire life.

Spinning abruptly on the toe of one highly polished boot, Azoun turned toward the high, dark-wood bookshelf that covered an entire wall of the study. He walked briskly to the shelves, his heels thudding on the carpeted floor.

As he got close to the rows of ancient tomes he kept in the study, Azoun could smell the familiar, musty odor of old, well-read books. He ran his index finger along the spines of the mostly leather-bound volumes, searching for a particular book, a fifty-year-old family history.

Though most of the older books did not have their titles embossed on their spines, Azoun had little trouble finding the one that he wanted. It had a worn red cover and was the thickest volume in the study. The king quickly located the tome between his own treatise on the history of polearms in warfare and a collection of notes on falconry. He pulled the book from the shelf and headed for his desk.

A small, thin black tube rested on the dark oaken desk. As Azoun sat down he lifted it, and the rod of steel that the tube had covered cast a bright yellow-white light over the desk. The glowing rod, a simple piece of shaped metal with a spell cast upon it, was a product of Vangerdahast's magic; the radiance cast by the steel augmented the weak natural light in the study.

Gingerly Azoun unsnapped the chipped metal band from around the book and allowed it to fall open. A tight, neat script covered the yellowed pages, broken only by a handful of beautifully detailed illuminations, some done in ink laced with gold or silver dust. The king flipped cracked pages until he reached the section detailing the end of his grandfather's reign. Azoun III had died when his son was only six years old. The king's brother, Salember, had taken control of the kingdom as regent until young Prince Rhigaerd grew old enough to seize the throne.

Azoun knew the family history's version of what happened next almost by heart. The wear on the pages certainly attested to this particular chapter's use over the years.

Civil war, the section began, was almost inevitable from the day Salember, "the Rebel Prince," became regent. Salember was a shiftless, lecherous traitor to Cormyr's crown, and within a year after taking hold of the government, he began plotting the demise of Prince Rhigaerd. The details of the Rebel Prince's crimes against our fair land will not darken these pages. It is enough to note that the bloody revolt that eventually claimed Salember's life was of the regent's own making.

The king licked his dry lips and continued to read. The text on the next page, under a stylized rendition of Rhigaerd II, Azoun's father, leading troops against his uncle, contained the information for which Azoun searched.

Cormyr has been cursed-or blessed-with few wars. The War of the Regency, however, should remain a bloody reminder of what grief war can bring. In 1260 and 1261, the span of the conflict, the land was wracked with strife and famine. In the Battle of Hilp alone, three thousand men died. Corpses rested in the fields instead of crops in the fall of that year, and plague ravaged the countryside.

Few were prepared for the sacrifices the conflict demanded. However, as King Rhigaerd, ruler of Cormyr at the time this history is written, so rightly points out-

" 'War is an endeavor never entered into lightly, though there are many reasons to fight,' " the king quoted as he closed the tome. He heard his father's voice behind those words, heard his strength and his commitment to the land.

"I've found one of those reasons, Father," Azoun said softly as he covered the light. "Now I must convince the others that I don't enter into this conflict lightly."

The crowd gathered in the castle's large meeting hall that day included representatives from Sembia, the Dales, the various free city-states around the Inner Sea, and many of the most important Cormyrian nobles. Each dignitary was allowed, by Azoun's consent, one advisor or guard at the meeting. Some representatives, ever fearful of assassination attempts, brought powerful wizards or well-trained warriors with them. Others required only the company of a scribe.

All were there to hear Azoun give one final request for aid. Most did not know that the king had asked a representative of Rashemen, a country far to the east of Cormyr, a country already overrun by the Tuigan horselords, to speak to the assembly. Azoun hoped that the old woman would be able to sway the politicians who were still reluctant to commit any sizable number of troops or large sums of money to the crusade.

The king was wondering just how effective the woman would be, when a page knocked on the study door. "The lords and ladies are all gathered, Your Highness," the young boy said, bowing deeply. His mind racing ahead, full of speculations about the meeting's outcome, Azoun absently dismissed the youth and left the study.

The hallways the king paced through on his way to the meeting were a sharp contrast to his study. No soft carpets lined the hard stone floors, and no richly woven tapestries covered the whitewashed stone walls to prevent drafts. Where they butted against the castle's outer walls, the corridors were bordered with small windows. These cast only weak light in most places. The real light sources for the hallways, in fact much of the castle, were small metal globes that had been magically prepared to cast light continuously. Shadows hung thick in many places despite the regularly spaced magical globes.

Pages bowed and soldiers saluted as Azoun made his way to the court's central meeting hall. The king snapped automatic greetings to some of the servants and courtiers whom he passed. To others he simply nodded. By the time he reached the meeting hall, its doors guarded by a dozen well-armed soldiers, Azoun had gone over the outline of his speech three times.

Whatever comments he had prepared about Tuigan troop strength and the khahan's tactical abilities flew from Azoun's mind when he entered the hall. The burst of loud laughter that greeted him as he opened the door drove such organized thoughts away and replaced them with unsettling confusion.

The herald standing inside the hall started as the monarch entered, and the grin on his boyish face weakened to a faint smile. He quickly bowed to Azoun. "His Highness, King Azoun of Cormyr," the herald announced loudly, and the laughter died away.

The stylishly dressed men and women who sat at the three long trestle tables turned from something at the front of the large room and faced the door. Those few who were sitting immediately stood. All bowed to Azoun in the silence that had suddenly overtaken the room.

"Please, my friends," the king said, "there's no need for that. We are here as allies, to solve a common problem." He slowly scanned the crowd, meeting the gaze of as many people as he could. "Let us relax and speak as friends."

The lords and ladies, magicians and generals, visibly relaxed, and a murmur of renewed conversation washed over the room. Many of the thirty or so people sat down again. When they did, the king saw a handsome, dark-haired man sitting alone in front of the room. The blood-red shirt the royal bard wore was neat and proper, and it mirrored the embarrassed flush on his face quite well. Azoun smiled and walked to the young man's side.

"No doubt you were the cause of that outburst when I entered the room," the king said. "Just what story were you telling them, Thom?"

"I was trying to lighten the mood a bit, Your Highness," the man said, bowing his head and hugging his harp tight to his chest. His fingers slid nervously over the whales carved into the instrument's neck. "Vangerdahast told me to play for the gathering until you arrived. They were all rather somber … so I told them the tale of Sune and the hayward."

Azoun flinched slightly. That particular story of Sune Firehair, the Goddess of Beauty, was one of Thom Reaverson's better. Still, though not vulgar, the tale was a bit bawdy for mixed company. "Was that a wise choice, Thom?" the king asked, turning to look at the gathered nobles. Various polite excuses ran through his mind as he studied the assembled rulers of the most powerful cities and countries in Faerun.

"They requested it, milord."

"What?"

Thom smiled and pointed to an attractive young woman. As the king watched, the Cormyrian lady tossed her head back slightly, laughing at another noble's jest, letting her hair dance luxuriously around her bared shoulders. "She asked if I knew that particular story," the bard quietly told the king. "When I said yes, she requested I tell it. I tried to suggest another, more appropriate tale, but the other lords and ladies followed her lead."

King Azoun sighed, then smiled. "Thank you, Thom. You did the right thing. They probably wanted a little light fare to cut the tension before the meeting started." He pointed toward the doorway. "I'd like you to remain in the meeting hall, but at the back of the room. Observe what you can. We'll talk again later."

The bard nodded, then quietly moved from the front of the room. A few of the nobles applauded Thom, and he smiled and bowed in response. As the bard reached the door, Vangerdahast and a very, very old woman entered.

"Time for us to begin," Azoun announced, and the assembled men and women took their places at the long, polished wooden tables. Chairs lined one side of each table instead of the benches often used with them, and the three tables themselves formed a large U. The opening in the tables' arrangement faced the front of the room, where Thom Reaverson had played and Azoun now stood.

The room in which the dignitaries gathered was large and had a high ceiling, with brightly colored pennants hanging from the rafters. The king had purposefully chosen the meeting hall, located deep inside the castle, because it had no windows, a single door, and thick walls of stone. If someone thought to assault the assembled leaders, he would have found the task difficult, if not impossible.

Still, though the hall was secure, it was rather drab, apart from the pennants hanging near the ceiling. Barren stone walls, whitewashed like all the walls in the castle, surrounded most of the room. Brightly glowing globes hung at regular intervals around the hall and sat upon each table, but shadows crept into corners and made many a face look far more ominous than it did in daylight. The only unusual ornamentation, a large, colorful cloth-and-thread map of Faerun, covered much of the wall behind the king.

Azoun stood framed by the tapestry, waiting for the assemblage to settle down. After a moment, he inclined his head slightly. Everyone recognized the subtle request for silence. Vangerdahast and the old woman continued toward the front of the room as Azoun said, "May Torm, God of Duty, help us discover our responsibilities to Faerun, and may the gods of all gathered here aid them in their search for the best path to the truth."

By now the royal magician had reached the front of the room. A servant quickly brought a chair for the old woman, but she waved it away silently. Her tight-skinned, age-spotted face remained impassive and unreadable, even when Azoun smiled at her in greeting. Looking at the woman, the king realized why she so unsettled Vangerdahast. A prominent, knife-thin nose jutted out from between her close-set violet eyes, and it, like the rest of the woman's thin face, was covered with ash-gray skin pulled taut. In all, it seemed to Azoun that he was gazing at an ancient, but well-preserved corpse.

"Go ahead, Vangy," the king said softly as he pulled his eyes from the old woman's steady gaze.

Vangerdahast patted his beard, and his eyes seemed to lose focus under the bushy covering of his eyebrows. He inhaled deeply once, then again. Closing his eyes, the mage started to mutter a low, rumbling incantation. The few wizards in the room, members of various delegations, leaned to their companions and whispered that the royal magician was casting a spell to detect scrying. If anyone was attempting to magically eavesdrop on the conference, Vangerdahast would be able to ferret out their spell.

At the front of the room, Vangerdahast's chant grew louder, more frantic. His hands wove a complex pattern in the air. Without warning, he raised his fingertips to his temples, opened his eyes, and uttered the spell's final word. A brilliant blue-white flash burned through the room.

"By Mystra's wound!" Vangerdahast cried. The wizard covered his eyes and fell backward onto the floor.

The skittering sound of swords leaving their sheaths and daggers sliding from boot tops hissed in the room. A few well-trained soldiers, guards for various dignitaries, crouched next to their lords, ready for battle. A mage cast a spell, and a glowing sphere of protection appeared around one of the dalelords.

The few Cormyrian guards in the room rushed to Azoun's side, but the king paid them no attention. "What's going on, Vangy?" he asked as he helped his mentor from the gray stone floor.

The wizard rubbed his eyes with both hands and muttered curses under his breath. "Someone close by had a very powerful spell locked on this room. That flash was caused by my incantation uncovering the other mage's scrying spell. Their contact with the room has been severed."

Many of the dignitaries relaxed, but few of the bodyguards put their weapons away. A large, middle-aged man slammed the hilt of his broadsword against the tabletop, breaking the room's uneasy silence. "If we could trace that spell," he growled, "we'd find a Zhentish agent to be the spellcaster."

"How do you know that, Lord Mourngrym?" asked a quivering merchant from Sembia.

All eyes turned to the nobleman who had spoken first: Mourngrym, lord of Shadowdale. The dalelord frowned as he slipped his broadsword into its jeweled sheath, but when he saw that he commanded the room's attention, he straightened his thick-muscled frame to its full height and smoothed his immaculate, stylish surcoat. Almost casually he cast an appraising eye over the crowd and drew his mouth into a hard line in the midst of his neatly trimmed beard and mustache. The politicians in the room who were allied with the dalelord would later call the look on his face as he spoke benign, even paternalistic. Those who thought less of the nobleman labeled the expression condescending.

"Who else but Zhentil Keep would want to spy on this gathering?" Mourngrym touched the symbol of Shadowdale-a twisted tower in front of an upturned crescent moon-which lay over his heart on his impeccably tailored surcoat. "We from the Dales know of the Keep's evil better than anyone."

Vangerdahast shook his head and stepped forward. "The mages at the Keep would have used a far more subtle spell than the one I discovered."

"What about the Trappers' Guild, then?" the dalelord returned. "I hear you're having trouble with them about the crusade."

"A few grouchy hunters hardly constitute 'trouble,' " Azoun offered. He bowed slightly to the delegates from the important merchant kingdom of Sembia, "Though we certainly have the highest respect for our trade guilds."

The leader of the Sembian delegation, Overmaster Elduth Yarmmaster, stood. A rather flabby man with a relaxed, almost discourteous air about him, the overmaster was resplendent in rich purple robes that morning. "We have heard of the trade unrest in your land, Your Highness, and it does trouble us. However, isn't it more likely the Tuigan themselves are spying upon us?" He waved a fat-fingered, gold-ringed hand in lazy circles. "They, above all, would dearly love to learn our plans."

"You obviously know little of the Tuigan."

The voice was low and gravelly, but strong. All heads turned to the front of the room, where the old woman stood. She regarded the assembly coldly, through hooded eyes. After running her fingers along the fold of her plain white wrap, the woman added, "The Tuigan do not value magic as we do, and they care little for what you do here in Cormyr."

Gasps and mutters answered the woman's slight. Vangerdahast and Azoun both stepped to her side and held up their hands in an attempt to calm the crowd.

"Do not quiet them on my account, Azoun of Cormyr," the old woman said flatly, turning her sharp gray features toward the king. "Once they hear the wisdom of my words they will be respectful enough."

The muttering grew angrier, and Azoun silently wished that they had not been blessed with the woman's presence. She may have won Vangerdahast to his side, but she was about to alienate most of his allies. "Please, noble lords and ladies, Fonjara Galth is a representative from Rashemen. Hear what she has to say."

When Azoun identified the woman, the assembly quieted almost instantly. Though many in Faerun traded with Rashemen, which lay on the easternmost fringes of the "civilized Realms," few westerners were very comfortable in the presence of that country's people. Ballads often referred to Rashemen as the "Land of Berserkers," for many of its inhabitants were savage, relentless fighters. More mysterious still were the country's rulers. A huhrong nominally guided the land from his steel-walled palace in the city of Immilmar. In reality, a powerful, secretive group of witches held the reins of Rashemen's government.

Though the witches rarely traveled outside their country without adopting foolproof disguises, the lords and ladies who stood and sat in shocked silence wondered if Fonjara might indeed be one of Rashemen's real rulers.

The short old woman held her body still, her thin, bony arms folded across her chest. She surveyed the room for a moment, paying particular attention to the wizards who waited, slack-jawed, for her to speak. "I will not pretend or play games with you. I am here on behalf of Huhrong Huzzilthar, lord of Immilmar and commander of our standing army-and the sisterhood who also rule the land."

Gasps and murmurs washed over the room anew at Fonjara's overt reference to the witches. A faint, fleeting half-smile crossed the woman's gray face as she listened to the astonished hum from the nobles. A few of the Cormyrian lords looked to Azoun and Vangerdahast for some kind of confirmation. The king and his advisor remained stone-faced as best they could, though Azoun was finding it difficult to contain his excitement.

"My people have battled the dire Red Wizards of Thay, our villainous neighbors to the north, for many years," the woman rasped after a moment. "We have kept those vile sorcerers in check with little help from the rest of Faerun. Now, we face another threat, the Tuigan-and our magic and the bloodied steel of our bravest warriors are not enough to stop this barbaric horde."

For the first time since reaching the front of the room, the old woman moved her body. She unfurled her spindly arms and traced a complex symbol in front of her. Fonjara's voice remained low and threatening, and her incantation sounded more like a curse than a chant. Not even Vangerdahast could identify the spell she was attempting to cast, the power she was trying to summon. In less than a minute, the witch pulled a tiny pouch from her bone-white robe and emptied its contents into the air.

The faintly transparent image of a squat, unwashed man, wearing heavy leather leggings and soiled scale mail, appeared next to Fonjara. His long reddish hair was bound into braids, which fell below the simple silver helmet he wore. The ghostly image turned, unseeing, to the crowd, and Azoun noticed the pale, jagged scar that ran across the bridge of his nose and down his cheek. A second scar, grayer and therefore probably older, pulled the man's upper lip into a slight sneer.

"This is Yamun Khahan," the old woman noted, "self-proclaimed emperor of all the world-at least an image of him as he currently is. Presently, he is in camp with one hundred thousand warriors in Ashanath, near the Lake of Tears, immediately to the west of my country."

After a moment's pause, Fonjara Galth wrapped her arms tightly around herself again. Turning only her head toward King Azoun, she hissed, "This is the man who will gladly destroy all of Faerun if given the opportunity. He will attempt to kill anyone who stands in his way-even a king."

Her statement was no revelation to Azoun or the nobles gathered in the court, but coming from the witch's lips, it sounded ominous, like a promise of events that must inevitably come to pass. Cormyr's ruler shuddered slightly, but shook off the feeling of dread immediately. He walked close to the Yamun Khahan's slightly flickering form.

The witch looked at the king, then at the nobles. Slowly, methodically, she began a description of the typical military encounter with the horsewarriors. Fonjara detailed the terrible slaughter and suffering that had been inflicted both on Rashemen's army and its civilians. Looks of shock and disgust hung on most of the faces in the room. Only then did the witch smile very slightly and note, "And they will continue across all of Faerun like this unless they are stopped. Ashanath is a thousand miles to your east, but the barbarians will not stay there for long."

Fonjara's steady, icy gaze fell upon Azoun. "In addition to the five score thousand Tuigan with the khahan, there are, perhaps, twenty thousand or more still in my land. We have eliminated at least five thousand Tuigan soldiers since early last winter, when they first entered our borders."

Overmaster Elduth Yarmmaster, leader of the Sembians, ruffled his thick purple sleeve, then tugged at one of his flabby chins and stood up. "Excuse me, er, Lady Fonjara, but it seems to me that twenty thousand soldiers should not be a problem to Rashemen's legendary army."

"If we had only to face the Tuigan, there would be no problem at all," the old woman rumbled. "However, Zulkir Szass Tam, the undead ruler of the Red Wizards of Thay, made a pact with Yamun Khahan: if the Tuigan would pass through Rashemen instead of Thay, he and his wizards would part the Lake of Tears, allowing them easy access to the open lands beyond." She regarded the room coldly. "The countries of Ashanath, Thesk, and eventually your own lands."

Vangerdahast cleared his throat noisily and added, "The Red Wizards of Thay have used this attack as a convenient diversion. Their armies of gnolls, goblins, and even undead creatures have been expanding their borders. Aglarond, Thesk, Ashanath, and, of course, Rashemen are currently fighting two wars-one with the Tuigan, the other with the agents of Thay."

"So who are we supposed to battle on this crusade: Thay or the barbarians?" a gruff, unshaven commander from Tantras called out.

Fonjara uncurled, then clenched her gnarled fingers impatiently. Azoun looked away from the conjured khahan and said, "The Tuigan. The local armies can handle the incursions from Thay. For now, at least, the Red Wizards seem to be testing the waters and aren't launching any large-scale invasions."

Mourngrym, lord of Shadowdale, sighed and shook his head. "What you're saying is that we'll be fighting this khahan and his horde without any help from the people we're saving."

King Azoun frowned. "You're helping yourself, too, Lord Mourngrym. The Tuigan could cross Faerun and be sitting on our doorsteps in a little over one year."

The dalelord waved his hand in front of him, dismissing the idea completely. "That's all as may be, Your Highness."

Vangerdahast, his face flushed with anger, started to speak, but Fonjara held up a bony finger to stop him. The wizard swallowed his retort as the witch moved cautiously across the room. The conjured image of Yamun Khahan blinked, then disappeared as Fonjara reached the spot where Mourngrym sat.

"You would like to dismiss the Tuigan as easily as I have banished the noncorporeal khahan who stood before us," she began, leaning slowly toward the dalelord.

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Mourngrym said, "You must realize that we have problems of our own." The unassuming, bespectacled scribe at the dalelord's side nodded, but remained as silent as he had throughout the meeting.

Fonjara narrowed her eyes and whispered, "How old is your child, dalelord?"

Mourngrym Amcathra snapped to his feet, his handsome features contorted in anger. "What's my child have to do with this?"

"The twisted tower that you call your home will not save you from Yamun Khahan if he reaches the Dales." The witch spread her fingers like talons and raked the air in front of Mourngrym. "Not even the great Elminster himself, who I understand resides in Shadowdale at present, could stop a thousand Tuigan arrows from striking you, or your wife, or your young child."

The dalelord sputtered, then began, "Elminster could-"

"— do nothing," Fonjara finished for him flatly. Her violet eyes paled, almost to the color of her ash-gray skin. "Magic is always a force to be reckoned with, but the horsewarriors vastly outnumber the wizards you could muster to fight them."

"By the way," Vangerdahast chimed in, the sarcasm evident in his voice, "where is Elminster?"

Mourngrym's scribe stood. The short, inoffensive man had a slightly vague look about him, which was heightened by the casual way he cleared his throat before he spoke. "He was too busy to come, Master Vangerdahast."

Fonjara cackled low in her throat and turned away from the dalesmen. Azoun arched one eyebrow and asked, "Too busy, Lhaeo?"

The dark-skinned scribe glanced around the room, then resettled his spectacles on his nose. "His exact words were, 'Let the kings and nobles go off and-' " Lhaeo paused and swallowed hard " '-play at war. My time is far too valuable.' "

"Unsurprisingly," Fonjara noted as she returned to Azoun's side, "your wizards will be far more interested in poring over the contents of their libraries than in saving the ground those same buildings stand upon."

As Mourngrym and Lhaeo sat down, the beautiful, dark-haired woman who had requested the Sune tale from Thom rose to her feet. She'd had enough of the dalelord's stalling and wanted to get the real agenda for the meeting underway. "For those here who know me not," she began, "I am Myrmeen Lhal, lord of the Cormyrian city of Arabel. The people of my city are ready to pledge three hundred soldiers and thirty mages to the cause."

The Cormyrian lords and generals gave a short but enthusiastic cheer. King Azoun bowed his head in acknowledgment. "My thanks, Myrmeen. And what of the rest of my nobles?" He smiled secretly; one could always count on the beautiful lord of Arabel to cut to the heart of such matters.

A gaunt man stood up, ringing his hands nervously. Tiny beads of sweat worked their way down his pale face and into his overly starched white collar. "Ildool, the king's lord in Marsember, pledges, uh, the same as Myrmeen Lhal."

"What?" Vangerdahast snapped. "Marsember is at least twice, if not three times the size of Arabel." The royal magician looked to the wizard who sat at Ildool's side and asked, "Are you sure you've counted correctly?"

The young wizard frowned in response to Vangerdahast's steady glare, then fluttered through some papers. "Lord Ildool is mistaken," he said after a moment. "These calculations tell me that King Azoun can expect eight hundred men-at-arms, seventy wizards, and-" the mage paused and looked up at Ildool, who rubbed his hands with a bit more speed and nodded, "-and as many ships as we can spare to transport you to the east."

Azoun smiled and moved quickly to Ildool's side. "My thanks. The valor of your subjects reflects well upon you." The gaunt man stopped twisting his hands and bowed to the king.

"It's the least I could do," he concluded and sat down with a flourish.

Vangerdahast rolled his eyes and muttered, "No doubt," under his breath.

The other Cormyrian lords followed the lead set by Myrmeen Lhal and Ildool of Marsember. Before the representatives from Sembia, the Dales, or any of the free cities around the Inner Sea spoke, Azoun had gathered ten thousand warriors and almost three hundred wizards for his crusade. But this was as the king had expected. Azoun knew that his nobles-even Ildool-were generally loyal and that they would raise as many troops as possible. In fact, the nobles owed him a certain number of troops in lieu of their own military service under Cormyrian law. The real question remained the free cities, the Dales, and Sembia.

Sembia declared its intentions first. After the Cormyrians had all pledged their troops and ships to further their king's mission, Overmaster Elduth Yarmmaster heaved his bulk to a standing position and addressed the assembly.

"I will not promise Sembian troops to the crusade."

Chaos erupted in the room. Azoun stood, shocked into silence, at the head of the assembly; this was not what he had expected at all. Sembia was a large country, a very important part of the Heartlands and vital to the effort against the Tuigan. Azoun badly needed the merchant nation's support.

A few Cormyrian nobles, including Myrmeen Lhal, voiced not-so-veiled threats to the Sembian dignitaries sitting near them. The merchants, for their part, either sat silently, ignoring the jibes, or noisily gathered their papers in preparation to leave. Mourngrym and the other dalelords huddled in smug satisfaction, certain that they were not alone in their belief that fighting other peoples' battles was a mistake.

The overmaster rapped his flabby fist on the table. "Sembia will, however, give any ships the crusaders need, as well as money for mercenaries and supplies."

That promise only quieted the room slightly, but it was all that the Sembian leader was willing to offer. His country did not have a large standing army, and if Sembian commoners were going to be recruited, Azoun's personality would not be enough to lure them into battle with the Tuigan.

Azoun understood the Sembians' military position. Though he did not relish the idea of fighting alongside mercenaries, the king knew that he had little choice but accept them if he wished to stop Yamun Khahan.

"Your offer is generous," Azoun said as loudly as he could, short of yelling. "We appreciate it greatly."

The Cormyrian nobles took this as an order for silence and immediately quieted down. The overmaster's offer, while doing little to sway the dalesmen, was generous enough that the representatives from the free cities of Tantras, Hillsfar, and Ravens Bluff all agreed to raise contingents for the crusade. Azoun was glad for this, not only because the troops raised from Hillsfar and Tantras promised to be well-trained warriors, but because the free cities could provide more wizards for his ranks.

Finally, after the representative from Ravens Bluff returned to her seat, Lord Mourngrym ordered his scribe to pack up their papers. "You've done nothing-other than let an old woman threaten me-that might persuade me to join the fight."

Vangerdahast, who was resting in a straight-backed chair, pointed at the dalelord. "You've chosen to find no reason to join us," the wizard said bitterly.

"If that's your opinion," snapped a red-haired general from Battledale, "then we all might as well leave right now!"

Azoun shot an angry glance at his friend. It was clear that Vangerdahast's approach would only alienate the dalesmen further. "Please, friends," the king began, "how can I convince you of our task's importance?"

"It's not the importance of the crusade that eludes us," Mourngrym told Azoun. "However, Your Highness, you seem unable to see that any troops we send to Thesk will be men who can't stand with us against the Zhentish if they decide to attack."

"And if the Tuigan didn't try to magically spy on us at the start of the meeting," someone noted from the crowd, "then it was certainly the Zhentish."

Mourngrym nodded his approval of the comment. After glancing around for effect, he added, "I don't even see a representative from Zhentil Keep here."

"Of course not," Azoun said calmly. "I did not invite their ambassador. We will hold separate meetings after I know your dispositions."

The soldier from Battledale snorted a laugh. "We can hardly give you our 'disposition' until we know what the Keep intends to do." The steady light from the magical globe on the table cast ominous shadows on the man's face. His flaming red hair only made him look all the more demonic.

A few of the others gathered in the room bristled at the dalesman's impertinence. Mourngrym was known to be a good ruler, protective of his people, so they could excuse the edge in his voice. But this man, a member of the Battledale militia, was intolerable.

Lord Mourngrym recognized this, too, and quickly moved to head off a nasty confrontation. "Thank you for your input, General Elventree." He turned to Azoun, and the hard line of his mouth softened slightly. "If Your Highness can secure the cooperation of the Zhentish, we will consider raising troops for the crusade."

Cormyrian nobles smiled at the concession, but the other dalesmen's objections to the offer were apparent on their faces. "However," Mourngrym added, more to his fellow dalelords than to Azoun, "any troops levied from the Dales will be put under commanders from the Dales."

After a short silence, Azoun nodded slowly. "There is nothing more for me to say, then. Unless someone else has something to add, this meeting is at an end." The king waited for a moment, then bowed his head again in prayer to the God of Duty.

As soon as the prayer was over, Mourngrym again signaled to his scribe, who quickly gathered up his papers. "We appreciate being included in this conference, Your Highness," the dalelord told Azoun, a genuine warmth in his voice, "but waiting here any longer might be counterproductive. We wish you luck with the Zhentish. We will await Your Highness's word on their reply."

With that, Mourngrym snatched up his fur-trimmed cloak and headed for the door, his scribe in tow. The other dalesmen-including General Elventree from Battledale-quickly followed the lord, leaving a subdued, milling assembly in their wake. The Cormyrian nobles and other representatives soon paid their respects to Azoun and left, too. When Fonjara Galth made her way from the room, Thom Reaverson was at her side. The royal bard, prompted only slightly by the king, was intent on learning more of Rashemen. Within half an hour, Azoun was once again alone with Vangerdahast.

The king sat on a table's edge, studying the tapestry that hung at the end of the hall. He had stood in front of the hanging for the entire meeting, but only now considered the backdrop from the assembly's perspective.

Woven from threads of gold, silver, and other precious metals, the tapestry depicted the continent of Faerun, with Cormyr purposefully prominent at its center. Around the hanging's edge, the artist had placed renderings of Cormyr's kings from the last thousand years. Azoun saw his forefathers, from Pryntaler to his own father, Rhigaerd II, staring emotionlessly at him from the wall.

"My father had them leave Salember, 'the Rebel Prince,' off the tapestry, even though he ruled the country for almost eleven years," Azoun said absently.

Vangerdahast took a seat behind the king. "If Salember had been the victor of the civil war, your father wouldn't be on the tapestry and I daresay you probably wouldn't be alive."

Azoun frowned, thinking about all he knew of Salember's reign. "He wasn't a bad ruler, Vangy-Salember, I mean-and some say he had a right to the throne."

"Why bring this up now?"

Shifting to face his advisor, Azoun mulled over a thought for a moment, then said, "I wonder how my ancestors will portray me, Vangy. I've been a good king, but I could do something so wrong that all my good deeds would be forgotten. Salember forces me to remember that."

" 'You will make history,' " the wizard quoted from his old lessons to, then, Prince Azoun, " 'but history can unmake you.'"

Azoun laughed and nodded. "What will history say about the council today?"

Raggedly Vangerdahast sighed and drummed his fingers on his not inconsiderable paunch. "You controlled it as best you could, I suppose."

"If that's the best you can say, we're in sorry shape."

The wizard rubbed his eyes and started to add something, then stopped. In actuality, Vangerdahast wasn't quite sure what to think of the meeting. He settled for a noncommittal reply. "At least your nobles followed your lead."

Azoun was quick to pick up the hesitancy in his advisor's responses. "As we expected," he noted as he studied Vangerdahast's face for some clue as to his true opinion. "But what about Sembia, or, more to the point, the Dales?"

The wizard shrugged. "We got what we could from Yarmmaster and Sembia. Their army is so small it has trouble keeping the peace at home, so we shouldn't expect anything other than financial support."

"I'm still not all that comfortable with hiring mercenaries, Vangy."

"You have no choice," the wizard replied. "At least Sembia will pay for some of them."

"And the Dales?"

"Not even a witch from Rashemen could predict what they will do," Vangerdahast said flatly. "It mostly depends on your meeting with the Zhentish delegate two days from now." The wizard paused and stood up. "Even if you do get Zhentish support, you're going to have trouble placing the dalesmen in the army."

"Ah, Mourngrym's ridiculous demand for dalesmen leading themselves."

"Ridiculous?" Vangerdahast repeated, his eyes wide with surprise.

Azoun nodded, wondering why his friend was taken aback by his comment. "I'll not have anyone undermining my command of these forces, Vangy. For us to succeed, there must be one clear leader on the expedition."

"You're being inflexible."

"Not inflexible, Vangy. I'm right. Military history shows that-"

Vangerdahast threw his arms into the air and looked up at the ceiling. "One minute you're damning fickle historians and the next you're basing your army's organization upon their advice."

Azoun scowled and crossed his arms over his chest. "I find good advice where I can."

"No, Azoun," Vangerdahast began, then shook his head. "It's just like Alusair used to-"

All the color drained from the king's face at the mention of his youngest daughter. Vangerdahast saw the pained expression that took hold of his friend and instantly regretted the slip. The princess's opinion of her father's stubbornness was, however, a very valid point to bring up.

It was Azoun's inflexibility that caused his conflict with Alusair. No one really believed that it was entirely the king's fault his daughter had run away four years past, for Alusair was as headstrong and willful as her father was sure that she had a duty to the state. Still, if Azoun hadn't pressed her to abandon her desire to see the rest of the world before settling down to a life of royal responsibility, she wouldn't have fled. And though Azoun had offered a generous reward for her return, Alusair remained hidden from even Vangerdahast's considerable magical talent.

All these facts, and more personal things, raced through Azoun's mind. Vangerdahast bowed his head and mumbled, "I'm sorry, Azoun."

The king closed his eyes for a moment and banished the memories as best he could. "As I was saying," he began dully, trying to avoid the topic altogether, "it is important that one person be recognized as the crusade's leader. For this venture to be successful, we need to dissuade our soldiers of their national loyalties. We should fight as one, and this means Mourngrym's demand for dalesmen leading dalesmen is utterly impossible."

"Have you even considered letting another man lead the crusade?" Vangerdahast asked quietly.

"Cormyr is committing the most troops," replied Azoun sharply. "Are you willing to give them over to another leader?"

"That depends upon who stepped forward," Vangerdahast said, though there was little conviction in his voice. His spirit still muffled by his painful error, the wizard meekly returned to his seat.

"Who, Vangy? Mourngrym, perhaps? How about the Sembians' mercenaries? Would they have my training in strategy? How about that hotheaded general from Battledale-Elventree?" The king hammered the table with a fist, anger roiling inside of him. "I am the only one to lead this crusade. I am the best trained. I-"

Azoun ran a hand through his beard and straightened the scabbard at his side. When he spoke again, Vangerdahast heard the cold resolve in his voice. "I know that I'm fighting for what's right. I fight for Cormyr and for Faerun, not for myself."

A deeper sadness took hold of the royal magician as he realized that Azoun was correct. There was no other ruler in Faerun better suited for the crusade, no one who could muster as many troops or lead them against the Tuigan with as much zeal. The wizard pushed himself up from the table and headed toward the door.

Azoun moved to Vangerdahast's side, putting a hand on his shoulder. "I want you to see that I'm right," the king said softly.

"Your Highness knows this matter best. As your servant, I will support you in any way I can."

Vangerdahast heard Azoun's sigh. "And as my friend?"

The wizard gazed deep into the king's oak-brown eyes. "As your friend I am sorry that you are the best man to lead the army against the horsewarriors."

"Then that will have to do," Azoun said. He took his hand off Vangerdahast's shoulder. The wizard turned and exited the room, leaving the king alone to study the faces on the tapestry once more.

"Sure flights! Razor points!"

The fletcher's cry rang out over the marketplace. Other wandering sellers called, "Nice red apples!" or "Boots mended! Leather repaired!" The fletcher's call, borne by his deep, resonant voice, carried over these and other noises.

"Sure flights! Razor points! Buy your arrows from John the Fletcher! Only the best from Razor John!" Pausing a moment to settle the heavy cart in his hands, John the Fletcher took in the sights and sounds of Suzail's market.

It was a beautiful morning. Winter was finally loosing its grip on Cormyr, and the sun shone brightly in the cloudless azure sky. The nights were still chilly, of course, but the days were getting more and more pleasant all the time. The nice weather brought people out to the market, so merchants and shoppers now crowded the open area reserved for tradesmen like John. A few permanent tents and stalls dotted the dusty expanse, but the place was mostly packed with small-time sellers and farmers. Shoppers bustled from one stall to the next. Cooks frowned at unripe imported fruits and vegetables, and merchants smiled endearingly, trying to lure people toward their goods. Ham and beef and other, more exotic meats roasted over small fires, sending tempting smells and black, greasy smoke twisting into the air. Pack animals brayed, gulls screamed overhead, and people jabbered and bartered, creating a steady, roaring hum that would hang over the square until the sun set.

"Morning, milady," John said to a passing flower peddler. He lifted his black felt hat with one gloved hand and grinned at the pretty young woman. John had seen her around the market before, and by the purple sash she wore around her waist, he could tell that she was a maiden looking for a mate.

She passed the fletcher by without so much as a second glance. John shrugged, hefted his cart again, and set off toward the docks.

"Sure flights! Only the best from Razor John!"

The fletcher had walked but twenty yards or so, calling out his wares, when a stout man signaled him to stop. The man's sunburned face was almost hidden by the fur cloak he wore over his earth-brown tunic. The fletcher immediately assumed him to be an itinerant mercenary from the grimy, unkempt state of his dress.

"What'll it be today, good sir?" John asked as he unrolled the cloth on the top of his cart. A dozen different types of arrows and crossbow bolts lay on display.

The man glanced at the weapons, then looked to the fletcher. "I heard you call 'Razor John.' Is there anyone else in the market who uses that name?"

John rubbed the dark stubble on his chin. "Not that I know of, though I'd wager there are other fletchers in Suzail who go by the name of John."

The fur-clad man nodded. "No, my good man. If you are the Razor John, then you're the only fletcher I seek." He picked up a silver-tipped longbow arrow and turned it over in his hands. Sunlight glinted off the finely honed arrowhead.

"You've got a good eye," John noted casually, studying the customer. "That type of arrow is one of my specialties."

"You make the arrowheads, too?"

"Aye. I've been trained as an arrowsmith as well as a fletcher."

The man looked at John suspiciously. "Do you pay dues in the Fletchers' Guild and the Arrowsmiths' Guild?"

John shrugged his left arm toward the customer. "Of course," he said, slapping his hand over two patches tied around his arm. The small leather circles had the symbols of the Fletchers' and Arrowsmiths' Guilds stamped into them. "Licenses are up to date, as well."

An odd smile crossed the man's face. "A guildsman. Good. I'll take two hundred of your silver-tipped arrows, then."

John raised one eyebrow in surprise. He was accustomed to selling such quantities of arrows, but only to ships' stewards, the royal guard, or the city watch. "My apologies, good sir, but I don't have that many on hand." John rolled the cloth display aside and opened his cart. He removed four batches of ten arrows each.

"I don't need them right now," the customer said. "I'll be in the market to pick up the rest in-" John held up one finger. "A tenday, it is."

They discussed how and where John was to deliver the arrows. The terms were simple enough, and the fur-clad man paid the fletcher thirty pieces of silver as a down payment. John was pleased with the sale, for it seemed to indicate that his reputation as a craftsman was spreading. Still, he wondered why the man wanted so many arrows.

"Outfitting a mercenary company?" John asked as he pocketed the silver coins. "The king is going to be hiring well-outfitted sell-swords for the crusade against the barbarian invaders in Thesk."

The man's sunburned face paled noticeably. "You'd sell arrows to someone supporting Azoun's foolish plan?" he asked, his lips curling into an almost feral snarl. "I'm tempted to cancel my order, even if you are a guildsman!" Not taking his eyes off John, he slipped his hand into his purse and removed a small leather badge similar to the ones the fletcher wore-this one, though, bore an open, jagged-toothed bear trap stamped into it.

John stared at the badge. The man wasn't a mercenary; he was a trapper. The opposition the Trappers' Guild was fomenting against the king was rumor throughout Suzail, but the trappers had yet to brave any truly public statement of their opinion about the proposed crusade. Suddenly, the fletcher realized that the grimy trapper might be needing the arrows for just such a statement.

"I may be a guildsman, but I'm also a good subject of the king," John said gruffly. He dug the silver coins out of his pocket and dropped them into the dirt. "I'll not be selling weapons to malcontents for them to use in a revolt."

"Better a malcontent than a fool," the trapper snapped. He quickly snatched up the coins and turned to go. "You'll remember this when the king's tax collector takes your shop away." Without another word, the fur-clad man disappeared into the crowded marketplace.

John simply shook his head in dismay and packed up his cart. He'd heard a great deal about Azoun's crusade-and the trappers' opposition to it-in the last few tendays. It was common knowledge that the king was meeting with important nobles and even the leaders of Sembia and the Dales, trying to get their cooperation. The fletcher wondered for a moment if he should report the trapper to the city guard, then decided he would that evening.

Not that he thought the trappers posed any real threat to the king. Azoun's army, known as Purple Dragons, could certainly thwart any minor uprising. More importantly, Azoun was going to make a public speech that very afternoon-a speech, rumor had it, in which the king would formally announce the crusade. After the official declaration of war, the government would swiftly equip the crusading army and move it to the east. If the trappers hadn't yet done anything to unify the scattered groups that were against the venture, it might soon be too late.

Shielding his eyes, John looked into the sky and estimated from the sun's position that he had enough time to make one delivery before the king's speech. He quickly lifted the wooden cart and set off for the Black Rat, a tavern near the docks, east of the marketplace. On his way through the crowded streets, the fletcher thought not of battles in faraway lands, but of the apprentice in his shop. He'd have to visit him before his delivery at the tavern.

A few blocks from the Black Rat, John left his cart at home. The fletcher lived above his forge and workshop. He sometimes sold his wares from the shop, but it was located far from the market. John found that by traveling part of the day, showing examples of his work, he could drum up much more business than came looking for him.

His apprentice was a young lad with sandy brown hair and nimble, long fingers. As the fletcher entered the bright, open-fronted shop, the boy was stripping feathers, preparing them to become fletching. "Take time out at highsun to hear the king," John told the boy, examining his work over his shoulder.

"Thank you, Master John," the apprentice chimed.

The fletcher laughed. "It's your duty to King Azoun to listen to his proclamations, Loreth, not a gift I can give you." John tossed some poorly prepared fletching onto the dirty wooden floor and patted the boy on the back. "Take more care with these. Tell Mikael and Rolf at the guildhall that I'll have work for them for the next few days. You'll be busy, too," he added as an afterthought. Then John gathered up the arrows he needed to deliver at the tavern and left.

The Black Rat was crowded when he arrived. Smoke hung in the low-ceilinged taproom, making the dark interior only darker. Two dozen men and a few women squatted on wobbly chairs around uneven tables, smoking pipes, eating breakfast, and telling wild tales.

"No," John heard someone yell, "storm giants are at least twice that size!" He turned to see an elf wearing leather armor. The exotic-looking man, his fine-boned cheeks flushed with wine or the argument in which he was engaged, leaned back in his chair and gestured wildly.

A squinting, tomato-nosed dwarf sitting across from the elf folded his arms across his long, white beard and barrel-like chest. "Bah!" he rumbled. "I've killed more giants in my time than you ever saw!"

The elf leaned forward, made some comment about orcs, and continued the argument more quietly. John couldn't hear what was said next, but he caught snatches of dozens of other conversations, some more interesting, some less than the one going on between the elf and dwarf. Mixed in with these, men and women called for the barmaid. The woman usually responded with a shrill, "In a minute."

Over this cacophony, the fletcher heard someone yell, "Hey, Razor John! Over here!"

He scanned the room for his customer, a sailor named Geoff from a Sembian merchant ship. Eventually the fletcher spotted the man sitting at a table near the back of the room. Pulling the bundle of arrows close to his chest to avoid jostling anyone in the taproom, John made his way to the sailor.

"Well met!" the Sembian said, clapping John on the shoulder as he reached the table. "I see my arrows are ready."

John smiled amicably and opened one of the bundles. The arrows it contained had the standard shaft and fletching of those used by many hunters. Their heads, though, were quite different from those on typical, pointed hunting arrows. Shaped like crescent moons, these arrowheads were meant primarily to cut through rigging on ships.

Geoff glanced at them and nodded. "The pirates off the Turmish coast will be surprised to see these slash through their lines." He slapped down a few gold pieces in payment, then signaled to the barmaid and motioned for John to join him at the table.

"I suppose you're waiting to hear King Azoun's speech this afternoon," the sailor said once the barmaid had delivered an ale for John and another for him.

The fletcher sipped the warm, bitter brew and nodded. "I've heard he's going to announce another heir is on the way. I don't much believe that, though."

"Nah," Geoff snorted. "He's much too old." When he saw John's scowl, he added, "Not that I meant that as disrespectful or nothing."

A brawny, ham-fisted man, sitting at the next table, spun and grabbed the sailor by the collar. "You just wish you had a king like Azoun," he snarled. "All you've got is your pitiful merchants' council."

The Sembian pulled away from the bigger man, but knocked over his own mug of ale in the process. The heavy metal tankard bounced off the table, spewing ale everywhere, and clattered to the floor.

Whole tables quieted quickly at the first sounds of conflict. A member of the king's guard who sat near the door stood and started to move across the room. However, Geoff was neither drunk enough nor foolish enough to start a fight in a Cormyrian tavern, especially by insulting the king who was perhaps the most popular leader in Faerun.

The Sembian reached over and snatched John's mug. "To King Azoun," he called, "the bravest ruler on the continent." No one in the room considered the sailor's toast genuine, but it was a suitable apology. After raising their own mugs, the tavern's patrons turned back to their business and the Purple Dragon returned to his seat.

Geoff bought the ham-fisted man a drink and replaced John's. Silently, he said a thanks to King Azoun for forbidding anyone from bearing arms not bound by peacestrings in the city. Then, after a few moments of small talk, he awkwardly excused himself and left the Black Rat, intent on returning to his ship and fellow countrymen.

As the Sembian took his leave, the big man from the next table leaned toward John and grumbled, "He didn't belong in here in the first place."

The fletcher agreed. He didn't much like Sembians. They were far too interested in money and leisure rather than honest hard work. And they had little in common with Cormyrians, as far as John was concerned. Sembians had only a weak loyalty to their country, and their rulers were salesmen, like many of their subjects. They didn't even have a strong standing army.

"If His Highness does call this crusade," John said to his countryman by way of a reply, "you won't find many Sembians on the battlefield-not unless they're mercenaries."

"You mean you haven't heard?" the man exclaimed, pushing a lock of his curly blond hair from his eyes with a meaty hand. "We are going to Thesk to fight the barbarians. Tuigan, they call them. Azoun had a meeting with a bunch of nobles a few days ago."

John nodded. "That's what the king will announce today, I suppose."

"Aye," the brawny man said, his voice betraying his excitement. "He'll be calling for volunteers. A friend of mine from Arabel told me just yesterday that Lord Lhal has already started rounding up soldiers and wizards."

"Azoun should be able to raise quite a few in Suzail," John noted, finishing off his ale.

With exaggerated motions, the big man slapped himself on his broad chest. "And I'll be one of the first to sign on!"

"And me," said a woman from a nearby table. "I'll be going, too, Mal. I wouldn't let you gather all the glory for yourself."

"I'd expect as much, Kiri," Mal replied, breaking into a loud, jolly fit of laughter.

John turned to look at the woman called Kiri. She was thin, but had a slightly round face. Her feature were attractive but unremarkable-except for her eyes. Kiri's eyes, sparkling brown and full of laughter, drew the fletcher's gaze instantly. He felt himself grin rather fatuously when he saw her. The grin widened when Kiri smiled back at him affably.

A few others adventurers sitting near John broke the spell as they loudly informed anyone who'd listen that they intended to go to Thesk and fight the barbarians. Drinks were bought, bravery and the king saluted. John wondered how many of the would-be Tuigan-slayers would actually ship out when the time came.

"And what about you, fletcher?" Mal asked. "Are you going to stay here with the children and old folks?"

"I don't know," John replied pensively. "I haven't really thought about it."

That was the truth, too. John put little stock in gossip, and that was all he'd heard concerning the crusade. Still, if the king himself asked for soldiers, the fletcher would probably volunteer. He was a brave man and a good archer. Above all, John the Fletcher was loyal to his king and country.

Azoun IV had ruled Cormyr for John's entire lifetime. In his twenty-one years, all of which had been spent in Suzail, he'd known no other monarch. Every year since he could remember, John had devotedly pledged his allegiance to King Azoun at the High Festival of Winter.

Like most other commoners in Cormyr, John knew that his king belonged to House Obarskyr and that his land's calendar was based upon the date Azoun's family had established themselves as rulers in Suzail. This information, along with a smattering of math and the rudiments of Common, the trade tongue of the Inner Sea, was all John had gained from his brief formal education.

Still, this was enough to instill a great sense of loyalty toward Azoun in John. To the craftsman, the king was Cormyr, not just a representative or a figurehead, but a real embodiment of everything that was good about the land. And since Cormyr, and especially Suzail, had flourished during Azoun's reign, John could only assume that the gods of Good approved of the monarch.

"If King Azoun is going to lead the armies," Razor John decided aloud after a moment's pause, "then I suppose I'll go."

Mal immediately bought John another ale, but the fletcher drank only a little of the murky, pungent liquid before he announced that he was off to the castle to hear the king's speech.

"Why?" the burly, blond man asked, scooping up the fletcher's unfinished drink. "The wizards'll make sure Azoun's voice carries over the city. We're just going to go outside."

The woman Mal had called Kiri stood up and attempted to pull the big man from his seat. "Let's go with John," she said between tugs. "I don't think I've ever seen His Highness in person before."

Mal sighed, shrugged out of Kiri's grasp irritably, and downed the rest of the ale in one, long gulp. "All right, all right. We'd best get moving."

So Razor John, Mal, and Kiri made their way out of the Black Rat and started off in the direction of the palace.

"Pawn to king's four."

Queen Filfaeril smiled warmly and scanned the chessboard with her ice-blue eyes. "Your game has become rather predictable, husband," she said, moving her hand to the board. She lifted a knight of purest ivory. "Knight takes pawn."

Consternation crossed King Azoun's face. "You know that I'll take that knight with my queen," he said. "Losing it for a pawn seems rather pointless." The king slid an onyx queen across the board and picked up the white knight in one smooth motion. "Queen takes knight."

Filfaeril studied the board for a moment, then moved her bishop. "Bishop takes queen." Azoun cursed softly. "In three moves I'll have you in checkmate," his wife added.

Azoun lifted a rook, then moved it closer to his king.

The queen's smile faded. "Are you sure you want to play this out?"

"Of course. I never quit before the game's over."

Positioning her queen to place Azoun in check, Filfaeril prepared to finish the game. As she had guessed, it lasted only three more moves.

The king and queen set the pieces up for a future game. When the board was reorganized, Azoun asked, "Am I really that predictable?"

The queen considered her answer for a moment, then nodded. "There are certain things I can count on you to do, and others I can count on you never to do."

"Such as?"

Filfaeril picked up a pawn. "You don't trade pieces well, my husband. That's why you didn't see my logic in sacrificing the knight."

Azoun took the pawn from his wife's hand and replaced it on the board. "There should be some way to win that doesn't involve losing one piece for another."

"As I said," the queen repeated as she smiled and took her husband's hand, "there are certain things I can count on you never to do."

The king laughed, patted Filfaeril's white, slender fingers, and stood up. "I guess I'm still mulling over what Vangerdahast said the other day after the meeting. I don't really think of myself as inflexible, predictable." Azoun paused and looked into his wife's eyes. "Still, what he said about Alusair…"

Filfaeril saw the pain in her husband's face when he mentioned their daughter's name. What had happened with Alusair pained her, too, though she knew that Azoun considered himself directly responsible for driving the girl from home. "Alusair was willful, my husband," she said after a moment. "Much like her father."

The queen rose and moved to Azoun's side. She embraced him tightly. "If you're looking for proof that you're a good father, Tanalasta should stand as example enough."

Azoun nodded, though the furrow in his brow did not lessen. He certainly loved Tanalasta, his eldest daughter, and she had given him plenty of reasons to be immensely proud of her. Still, she lacked the spirit, the fire her younger sister possessed. No, Tanalasta's devotion could never cover the rift between the king and Alusair.

Filfaeril knew this, but had hoped her words would pull Azoun from the dark mood into which he had fallen. She caressed her husband's cheek and turned his eyes toward hers. "And you have me. You are not so unbearably rigid that I cannot love you."

That last comment brought out Azoun's smile again. Looking at his queen, he noted that she was as lovely now as the day they'd married. Many around the court said that Filfaeril was classically beautiful, and Azoun agreed. The queen's delicate features seemed to have been smoothed out of the purest alabaster. And fifty years of life-thirty in the court-had done little to dull this loveliness. Even the wrinkles that pulled at the corners of Filfaeril's startlingly blue eyes seemed intentionally carved there by some artist.

But it wasn't simply for her beauty that Azoun had first fallen in love with his queen. Filfaeril was far more than a nobleman's statuesque daughter; she was a bright and insightful woman, as well. In fact, she had won Prince Azoun's love more by her refusal to surround herself with flattering courtiers than by her slender figure and flowing blond hair. Filfaeril's ice-blue eyes were lovely to behold, but the young Azoun had quickly learned that they saw through illusion and idealism, down to harsh reality.

Finally Azoun mocked a sigh and said, "Yes, at least I have you." Filfaeril wrinkled her brow in feigned anger, and Azoun kissed her, long and tenderly.

After a moment, the king heard Vangerdahast clear his throat noisily. He glanced at the study's door to see his advisor standing there, red-faced and fidgeting, staring at the ceiling. "Come in, Vangy," Azoun sighed. "I suppose it's time for the ceremony and my speech."

Filfaeril leaned close to the king and whispered, "We'll continue our discussion later, Your Highness." The queen gently pushed herself from Azoun's arms and moved toward the door. "I'll be waiting for you both in the throne room," she announced as she left the room.

Vangerdahast waited until the queen closed the door behind her before he spoke. "Yes, it's almost highsun. I've already cast the necessary wards on the platform. Are you ready to begin the procession?"

The king looked down at his ceremonial uniform. The purple surcoat was embroidered with thread spun from platinum and gold, and the hose were woven from the finest imported silk from Shou Lung. Azoun didn't like the outfit much; he considered it gaudy. It was, however, necessary for him to wear it in the formal crowning ceremony that was to precede his public address.

Straightening an epaulet, Azoun said, "I suppose I'm ready to begin. I just wish we didn't have to make such a production out of this."

"If you wish to-"

Azoun quickly held up a hand. "I know, Vangy. An emphasis on pageant today will help to convey the crusade's importance." He moved to the window and looked out on the inner bailey. Servants and messengers rushed from the castle to the gate, their hurried pace an indication of the day's importance.

"We should go, Your Highness."

Azoun watched a page, who wore the royal purple, rush from the keep and hurry past the gatehouses. The sight reminded him of an errand he had assigned to the royal wizard earlier that morning. "Any news from Zhentil Keep?" the king asked as he turned to his advisor.

The wizard spun about abruptly and headed through the door in an effort to move Azoun toward the throne room.

"Actually, I did receive a message from the Zhentish hierarchy just before I came to get you," the wizard noted quietly. He bowed in response to a guard's salute as he and the king entered the drafty stone corridor, then added, "They're sending someone to talk to you about the Tuigan tomorrow."

Azoun stopped short. The wizard took a step or two past the king, then wheeled about. "So soon?" Azoun exclaimed. "That doesn't give us much time to prepare."

Vangerdahast hooked an arm around the king's elbow and started walking again. "I believe that's the whole idea, Your Highness."

Queen Filfaeril was waiting in the throne room when Azoun and Vangerdahast got there. Crowds of musicians and nobles filled the long, sumptuously appointed hall, waiting for the king to arrive. Handmaidens straightened the queen's long dress of lavender silk as the royal steward ran to the king and announced that his crown, scepter, and medallion-the trappings of his heritage-were ready. Vangerdahast left the king's side without any leave-taking and went to find the other royal wizards who were to participate in the ceremony.

Azoun soon joined his wife near the large, ornately carved wooden thrones that dominated the front of the hall. The queen already wore the symbol of her office-a small but beautiful silver crown. The white metal seemed to glow around Filfaeril's golden hair and catch the blue in her eyes. After nodding a silent greeting to his wife, the king took his chain of state from the spot on his throne where it traditionally rested. The thick gold chain felt reassuring in Azoun's hands as he lifted it over his head. The gold medallion had a skillfully wrought dragon, guardant and statant, covering its entire face.

Next, the steward solemnly presented the king's crown, couched on a pillow of pure purple silk. Everyone in the room bowed as Azoun reached for the bejeweled crown and lifted it.

Gold, silver, and gems twinkled in the sunlight streaming in from the stained glass windows lining the throne room as Azoun studied the crown. The sinewy, lithe form of a dragon curled around its rim, and the monster's head reared, openmouthed, at the headpiece's front. A priceless wine-red ruby stood captured in the dragon's open jaws, throwing off tiny, enthralling beams of light. This crown-the most ancient of three possessed by the king-was only used for very special occasions. Azoun wondered how many Cormyrians had ever seen this particular artifact as he placed it on his head.

Finally the steward, still bowed, presented the king's scepter. Like a vine, a slender, scaled dragon curled around the two-foot-long staff from tip to crown. A glittering, golden head, like that of a mace, topped the scepter. The king grasped the staff firmly and held it outstretched toward the hall. The crowning was complete.

"Arise, subjects," Azoun said formally, repeating the ancient rite. "Look upon your king."

That said, he glanced around the throne room and found that the procession was ready, filed neatly into rows that would fall in line behind him and Filfaeril as they left the hall. All that remained now was for the king to lead the nobles to the Royal Gardens, where the speech was to occur. Taking a deep breath, Azoun turned to his wife and smiled, then started through the room.

Drums rattled softly, marking a slow cadence for the parade. Azoun and Filfaeril reached the center of the room, and Vangerdahast, accompanied by a few other mages, moved into place behind the king and queen. Next came the nobles, then a contingent of the king's guard, then a few musicians. In all, forty people walked through the castle's halls. A few servants and guards stood in the corridors, bowing as their king passed by, but most of the keep's staff was assembled outside, in the castle's inner bailey.

The king moved quickly through the bailey, the large open courtyard inside the castle's high stone wall. Occasionally Azoun nodded to a familiar servant or knight as he made his way out of the southern gate. The trumpets called almost continually once the procession reached the open air outside the walls. The music of expertly played instruments mixed with the loud roar of the drums in the blue sky.

Animated by nervous excitement, the crowd milled restlessly outside the keep, waiting for their king and queen to walk slowly past. The procession, almost mindless of the masses, kept the castle's sun-bleached walls on their right and made their way through the cheering throng to the gardens at the rear of the keep. The trumpets blared more loudly as Azoun and his entourage approached the castle's western corner.

Even that pompous heralding couldn't completely drown out a louder, more insistent noise.

"Can you hear that?" Filfaeril whispered in Azoun's ear. Turning his head slightly, he listened. High, gray stone walls still stood between the king and the Royal Gardens, the location of his speech. Despite this barrier, the blaring trumpets, and rumbling drums, he could hear the Cormyrians gathered there. By the time the procession reached the westernmost tip of the wall, the murmuring crowd collected outside the walls drowned out even the musicians.

As the king rounded the corner into the gardens, Vangerdahast gave a signal. On the battlements, the line of trumpeters snapped to attention. The brightly colored pennants hanging from their instruments flapped in the breeze. The crowd grew louder, more anxious.

With almost military precision, the royal wizard glanced toward the handful of mages who stood with him. At his nod, a fat, balding wizard started to weave a spell. He was joined by a stooped old woman and a pock-faced young boy. The three sorcerers mumbled incantations and traced obscure patterns in the air. Suddenly, simultaneously, they stopped and nodded at Vangerdahast.

The paunchy wizard winked at Azoun, then signaled the trumpeters along the wall again. They, in turn, lifted their polished brass to their lips and blew. A single high, clear note rang out over the gardens. Thanks to the spells cast by the wizards, the trumpeters' call didn't stop there. All over Suzail, no matter where he was, each Cormyrian citizen heard the note as if he were standing at the foot of the wall, before Azoun's keep.

"Good luck, Your Highness," Queen Filfaeril said softly. She reached down and squeezed Azoun's hand for an instant.

The king smiled at his wife warmly, then strode through the garden. The procession followed behind Azoun as he climbed briskly onto the large wooden platform that had been built at the garden's edge especially for the speech. When he reached the top of the stairs and stepped onto the broad, polished deck, King Azoun looked out over hundreds and hundreds of people.

He glanced back quickly at Vangerdahast, who was only then clearing the last step onto the platform. The gray-bearded old man bent over, winded after chasing the king up the stairs. Finally he took a deep breath and stood. The other wizards had joined him by now, and together they softly repeated their incantation, this time directing the spell at their monarch.

Azoun thought he saw a small, intense spark of blue-white light form in the air in front of the wizards, but before he could focus on the spark, the spell was complete and the ember disappeared. He felt a sharp, burning prickle in his throat as he turned back to the milling throng.

"My people," the king said, and his words called through the entire city.

A thousand eyes looked up at Azoun from the Royal Gardens. Nobles with spyglasses lined the roofs of their homes to the north of the keep and watched the king. He, in turn, looked out on the sea of faces and smiled. He saw respect and awe and, perhaps, a little fear there. Those looks, the wide-eyed faces, momentarily eclipsed the speech Azoun had prepared in his mind. A warmth, a feeling of paternal duty and love, now filled the king's thoughts.

"My friends and countrymen," King Azoun said, correcting himself. "Faerun is in great danger, and I need your help." He paused then, and let his subjects realize that he was asking them for assistance, that he needed them.

That fact alone would have shocked most of the throng into silence, but the intensity and emotion in Azoun's voice fell upon the crowd and riveted them in place. Throughout the city, smiths put down their hammers and shipwrights lay down their awls, clerics put aside their holy books and tutors let their students set down their grammars and writing tablets.

From where he stood, near the garden's edge, John the Fletcher couldn't see Azoun's face, but he imagined it was dark with passion. He'd never been closer to the king than he was that day, not even when Azoun had opened the previous year's spring fair, only a few hundred feet from his shop. John's proximity to the monarch made him happy, and the craftsman listened intently as Azoun described the Tuigan menace and the plight of Thesk and Rashemen.

"I'm not in this to help witches or foreigners," Mal grumbled. A jowl-heavy baker held up a flour-covered finger and shushed the warrior. Mal scowled, but held his tongue. Silently John said a prayer of thanks that the warrior hadn't started a fight with the fat man.

On the platform, Azoun was warming to the topic, falling into the same impassioned argument he'd used on some of his nobles to gain their support. "But the horsewarriors threaten more than our neighbors to the east," the king said, waving an open hand toward the horizon. "No. The Tuigan will not be content with that end of the Inner Sea, nor will they be happy if they conquer the Dales or Sembia."

Azoun ran his gaze slowly over the crowd, letting their expectation of his next words build for a moment. He could sense in their expressions that he'd won many of his subjects over already. "Do you know what else they want?" the king asked softly.

A ripple of hesitant answers rolled over the crowd. Azoun heard a few of these replies, and they revealed the names of his people's fears. He singled out some and used them as rallying cries.

"Will we let the horsewarriors take our land?" the king asked.

The crowd shouted a ragged reply of "No!" and "Never!"

Azoun balled his hands into tight, quivering fists and held them in front of him. "Will we let the horsewarriors take our homes?"

"No!" the people screamed. Men and women mirrored the king's stance, holding their own fists clenched before them.

Out of the corner of his eye, Azoun saw that a few of the guards that lined the platform to either side of him were shouting with the crowd.

At the garden's edge, Razor John felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck as he screamed his reply to Azoun's challenge. He glanced at Mal and Kiri, and saw that they, too, were caught up in the king's speech. In fact, almost everyone around the fletcher seemed to be shouting his or her defiance to the Tuigan threat.

Everyone, John realized, except a lone man, who stood next to the fat baker. He was tight-lipped and rigid, as if immobilized. Thin, almost emaciated, the man stood silently, his hard gaze locked on the stage.

The fletcher stared at the man for a moment, mesmerized by the contradiction he presented in the wildly screaming crowd. The rigid, green-clad man didn't notice John's gaze, though, as he stiffly pulled his tattered forest-green cloak a little tighter around his shoulders. He narrowed his eyes and glared at the king on the stage.

"Will we let the horsewarriors take our lives?" Razor John heard Azoun cry. A unified reply went up, and people raised their fists into the air. The fletcher glanced back at the platform and saw that the crowd again mirrored the king's stance. When John returned his gaze to who seemed to be the one silent person in the gardens, he saw that the ragged man had pulled a rolled, yellowing piece of parchment from under his tattered cloak.

He held the scroll up quickly, and his lips began to move. Because of the shouting, John couldn't tell if he was actually speaking. No one else seemed to be paying attention to the tight-lipped man, so John was the only one who saw the parchment he held in his bony fingers begin to glow with a pale red luminescence.

For a moment, the light puzzled the fletcher. Then the realization dawned on him: The man was casting a spell.

"I challenge every able-bodied citizen of Suzail," Azoun continued from the stage. "Citizens from any part of Cormyr. Be prepared to help me to defend our country."

The crowd roared, and John looked quickly from the glowing paper to the platform. "No!" he cried.

Shoving Mal out of his way, the fletcher lunged toward the assassin. He was too late. A second before Razor John touched the man's torn and threadbare surcoat, the parchment disappeared in a gout of red-orange flame.

Three things happened at once.

Azoun had just told the crowd that they should report to the city watch to sign up for the crusade. The king was about to inform them that several churches devoted to gods of Good were ready to enlist volunteers, too. He never got the chance.

A pinpoint of red light arched from the crowd and sped toward the stage. As it got closer to the king, it grew larger and larger, until, at last, it resembled nothing less than a miniature sun, blazing toward the platform. The ball of fire singed the hair of those it passed over and blinded those foolish enough to look directly at it. It left a trail of smoke and the smell of burned skin in its wake.

Razor John saw none of this as he slammed into the assassin, knocking him to the ground. The fletcher rolled on top of the man and grabbed him by the shoulders. Only after the assassin's elbow smashed into John's ribs did he realize that the ragged man was far stronger than he looked. That blow was the only one struck, as the fletcher's work-hardened muscles were enough to pin the man until help arrived.

"The city'll thank me," the man rasped over and over.

After the incident earlier that morning, the fletcher was only slightly surprised when the man's tattered green cloak flew back and revealed the bear trap badge of the Trappers' Guild bound to his thin arm.

On the platform, Azoun had only a second to react to the fireball rushing at him. Turning toward his wife, the king made what he knew was a futile effort to shield her from the blast. A few guards stepped toward the king and queen, but no one was fast enough to block the doom that hurtled toward the stage.

For his part, Vangerdahast seemed riveted with fear. In truth, he was reciting a brief but sincere prayer to the Goddess of Magic that the wards he'd placed on the stage held.

The fireball struck the front of the platform. All the king, the queen, or the others on the stage could see was a splash of brilliant red, though they could faintly feel the heat from the blast. Still, the flames never touched them. The magical attack struck the invisible wall Vangerdahast's wards created in front of the stage and exploded.

Guards and nobles hustled Azoun and Filfaeril off the stage, back through the gates and into the keep. Once he was sure that the king was safe, Vangerdahast returned to the platform to assess the damage. Though his vision was slightly blurred from observing the fireball too closely, the royal magician could hear the screams and smell the burned flesh quite clearly.

The wards had kept the king safe, but hadn't protected the people standing close to the stage.