Crusade

8

Princess Alusair of House Obarskyr smiled and held out her hands to her father. Still numb from the surprise meeting, King Azoun hurried to his daughter and embraced her tightly. After a moment, he pulled back and studied her face.

In the four years since she'd left Suzail, Alusair had changed quite a bit. Now twenty-five, the princess was possessed of a mature beauty. A few wrinkles gathered at the corners of her oak-brown eyes, and her golden hair haloed her face like morning sunlight. Smiling, the princess stepped back from Azoun and said, "Well, where's the anger I expected?"

The king continued to stare. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered if she was an illusion or if this was merely a dream. "I–I haven't had time to be angry, Allie." He choked back a tear and dropped his eyes. "Your mother and I… we hoped you weren't…"

"Dead?" The princess laughed and moved to the table. "Hardly. I've been in some tight spots in the last four years, but never that close to the realm of Lord Cyric. The God of Death will have to wait awhile for me."

By now, sufficient time had passed for Vangerdahast to recover from the shock of seeing Alusair, too. "You ungrateful little snipe! I ought to blast you into pieces for the worry you've caused your family!" The wizard curled his hands into tight fists and practically shook with rage.

Alusair moved farther into the tent and sighed. "I've missed you, too, Vangy." The wizard scowled and looked away. A shadow of anger crossed the princess's features, but she quickly brought up another subject.

"How is Mother? And Tanalasta?" Alusair filled a mug with strong dwarven ale and set it down.

Azoun returned to his place at the long, low table. "Your mother and sister are both fine. Worried about you, of course." He rubbed his eyes and gestured to the camp outside. "What are you doing here?"

With a slight groan, Alusair opened the clasps on her brassards, the armor on her arms. "I've been helping King Torg defend his land against some ambitious orcs and goblins from the north." She slipped the heavy plate off her arms and let it fall to the pavilion's grass floor.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Azoun looked to Vangerdahast for direction. The wizard had turned to face the conversation again, but his features were clouded with anger. "So how did you elude my wizards for all this time?" the king asked at last.

Alusair undid the straps of the cuirass that protected her chest. "It really wasn't that difficult," she said, glancing at Vangerdahast. "No offense to Vangy, but this was all I needed."

The princess dropped the cuirass beside the brassards, then held up her left hand. A bright gold band hugged her ring finger. "I bought it from a mage in Ravens Bluff. A spell on the ring makes it impossible for someone to detect my whereabouts through magical means."

"I knew it had to be something foolish like that," Vangerdahast grumbled.

The king looked closely at Alusair's hands as she adjusted the padded doublet she wore under her armor. They were grimy with sweat and hardened from years of gripping a sword, but that was not what Azoun noticed. "Where is your signet ring?" the king demanded.

Her smile fled completely, and Alusair sat down at the low dwarven table. She moved stiffly, not surprising since she'd not removed the brichette from her hips or the cuisses from her legs. "I threw it away, dropped it into the sea."

"Why?" Azoun snapped as he stood. "That ring could have saved your life. It identified you as a princess of House Obarskyr."

"Which is exactly why I had to get rid of it. I didn't want a bounty hunter to capture me and try to ransom me back to Cormyr." The princess took a long, slow swallow of ale.

"So you tossed your heritage into the sea?" In the quiet minute that followed the rebuke, Azoun slumped into his chair. "Make me understand, Allie. Why?"

"I told you, I didn't want someone to blackmail the family. I don't think you realize how much danger you put me in by offering a reward for my return."

Azoun shook his head and waved his hand angrily. "No, no. Why did you run away in the first place?"

After another sip of the ale, Alusair leaned forward, her head resting on her hand. "The note I left should have explained everything, Father. I just couldn't stand it at court any longer. You and Mother were always tied up with some petty political problem, Tanalasta spent more time worrying about fashion than the state of the country." She took a deep breath and rubbed her eyes with the tips of her fingers. "I don't want to go over all of this again."

"Then why are you here?" Vangerdahast interjected from the other side of the tent. His face was hidden in the shadows, but Alusair could imagine the look of puzzlement it held.

Her eyes still closed, the princess sighed. "I thought it might be time to forget the past." She turned to her father, her mask of cocky self-assurance cracking for the first time. "I thought you would finally accept me for what I am, not what you want me to be."

Vangerdahast walked to Azoun's side. "I'll explore the camp for a while," he said softly in the king's ear.

Once Vangerdahast had gone, Azoun waited for Alusair to say something. After a few moments of continued silence, he gave up. "You threw away your heritage, Allie." The king paused, trying to push the anger from his voice. The more he thought about his daughter, however, the angrier he became. "And for what did you give it up?" the king snapped after a moment. "To become a sell-sword? A freebooter? You could have ruled Cormyr one day!"

Alusair laughed bitterly. "Tanalasta is older, remember? She'll be queen, alongside whomever you and Mother decide will make a suitable king. Even if I could rule," she added, turning away from the king, "I wouldn't want to."

"You've no respect for responsibility," Azoun replied. "That's your biggest problem. You're a princess. But do you use the gifts with which the Goddess of Luck has blessed you? Of course not." He pointed an accusing finger at Alusair. "You waste your life roaming the countryside."

The princess stood, her back still to Azoun. "This was a mistake," she said, a measure of hardness returning to her voice. "You're just not ready."

Hearing the pain in his child's voice did more to wipe away Azoun's fury than anything he could have done himself. "I can't help but be angry, Allie," he said. "I just don't see why you couldn't live at court. Was life so terrible that you had to run?"

When the princess turned around again, bright tears sparkled in her eyes. The light from the lanterns made each drop look like a diamond as it rolled down Alusair's cheek. "I am not a politician, Father. I don't belong in the court." She wiped her eyes with her doublet's sleeve. "You used to tell me stories about the King's Men, how you used to sneak out and go on adventures. What I did isn't all that different."

"Of course it's different," Azoun said almost automatically. "I was never gone for long, and I always returned."

Alusair started to say something, then paused and shook her head.

"What is it, Allie?" the king asked, holding his hand out to his daughter. "You can be honest."

Looking into her father's eyes, Alusair wondered if she really should speak her mind or let the subject drop. No, she decided, things will never be resolved if I avoid this conflict. "You must regret it," she said softly.

A look of confusion crossed the king's face. "Regret what?"

Alusair swallowed the last of her tears and sat down across from Azoun. "Coming back. You must regret ever coming back from your adventures with Dimswart and Winefiddle and the others."

"I had responsibilities, Allie. I couldn't-"

"No, Father. Not couldn't, didn't." She squeezed the king's hand. "Even when I was a little girl, I heard it in your voice when you told me about the King's Men."

"Perhaps I regret it a little," the king conceded. He gently pulled his hand away from Alusair and steepled his fingers before his face. "But I had a responsibility to Cormyr-as you do-and I fulfilled it. Anyway," he added, smiling a little, "I never could have had a family or done what good I've managed for Cormyr gallivanting around the countryside as Balin the Cavalier."

"And you wouldn't have been forced to do so many petty wrongs either," the princess noted firmly. "You can't worry about each individual in Cormyr, only the state as a whole. So when you tax, you can't consider the minority it really hurts. You take away freedom in deference to law. That's wrong."

Azoun frowned as he considered his daughter's words. "What's the alternative? I do good for the most people by creating and upholding the country's laws."

The princess reached behind her, picked up the cuirass she had dropped onto the ground, and placed it on the table between her and her father. "With a good suit of armor," Alusair began, running her finger along the fantastically carved metal, "and a sharp sword, I can right as many wrongs as I can find between sunup and sundown."

"That's all fine, Allie, but you can't make any significant change as an adventurer. I tried, remember? That's what the King's Men was all about."

Alusair stared at the light reflecting on the armor before her. "I guess I just don't want the responsibility for anyone else. I only kill myself if I try to rescue someone from an ogre or if I decide to take a side in a war." She traced a dent in the armor, recently but not completely mended. "And if I die, I know I fought for a good cause."

Reflexively running a hand through his gray-shot beard, Azoun stood up and paced around the pavilion. The wind was picking up outside, and occasional strong breezes made the sides of the tent snap and bow. After a few circuits around the long table, the king faced his daughter. "What have you been fighting for, Allie? What have you done with the last four years?"

The princess looked up from her armor. "I've been to Waterdeep, Ravens Bluff, Damara, even the Moonshae Isles. I lived for a while on the money I took with me when I left the castle. After that, I worked as a caravan guard, helped a fishing village make a bargain with a dragon turtle, even hunted for the Ring of Winter for a season or two."

The mention of the Ring of Winter, a powerful artifact that had been missing for many, many years, made Azoun start. Most of the beings who sought it were power-mad and very often evil. "These are jobs any mercenary would take, Allie. How can you say you've been fighting for good causes?"

"I always knew who I was working for, Father. I always knew what their goals were."

Azoun fell silent again and paced for a few more minutes. After that, he asked the princess more questions, but each yielded a short, dry answer. The king learned where his daughter had been, what she had done there, but very little about her life. "And did you always travel alone?" Azoun asked after she told him of the time she'd been captured by a party of drow north of Waterdeep. "I'd heard that you'd run away with a cleric from Tilverton."

The comment had an immediate effect on Alusair. She paled noticeably, even in the shadowy tent, and her voice trembled slightly when she replied. "Yes, Father. I… traveled with a cleric from Tilverton, Gharri of Gond. He died as we tried to escape some bounty hunters. They were after the reward you'd put on my return."

Azoun moved to his daughter's side. "I don't know what to say … other than I'm sorry for your loss."

"For a long time I blamed his death on you, Father," the princess said, her face betraying the strain the topic was putting on her. "I only recently decided that you couldn't have known what the bounty hunters would do."

The silence that followed the revelation of Gharri's death was longer and more deadening than the last. Alusair sat, her head bowed slightly, remembering her lost love. Azoun stood over his daughter, his hand on her shoulder. The king considered breaking the silence again, but found there was nothing he could say that wouldn't sound maudlin or foolish.

The high, shrill sound of a trumpet crying out over the dwarven camp broke the sad calm in the pavilion. The king heard low, rumbling voices, speaking in Dwarvish. The hushed voices were echoed by faint sounds of metal clanging. With a slight shock, Azoun realized that this was the first noise he'd heard from the dwarven camp all evening. After the drilling had ended at sundown, the camp had become deathly silent, highly unusual for a large gathering of soldiers.

Alusair grabbed her cuirass and stood up. The trumpet called out again, a harsh, trilling note. "Orcs," the princess hissed. "The sentries have spotted orcs."

As Alusair retrieved the brassards that would cover her arms, Azoun moved to the tent's door. Dwarven troops mustered quietly in the darkness outside. The stocky soldiers marched quickly out of their tents, toward the edges of the camp. Their faces were set in grim determination.

"We've got to go, Father," Alusair said. The king turned to see his daughter, her armor slung over her shoulder, waiting to leave. "This isn't a particularly safe spot. I'll escort you across the compound to Torg's tent, then you and Vangy should head back to the ship."

The king frowned. "I'll see Torg, but I'm not all that sure I'm leaving just yet."

With the skittering sound of metal sliding across metal, the princess drew her sword. "You don't have a weapon, do you?"

Smiling, Azoun reached to his high leather boot and withdrew a slender silver dagger. The lanterns cast small glints of light off the stiletto's razor edge. "I've had too many attempts on my life to ever travel unarmed."

The king and the princess crossed the central square of the dwarven camp. Soldiers continued to march through the square, heading toward their assigned mustering stations. The troops were fully armored and carried crossbows and swords. Apart from an occasional trumpet blast or shouted order, the camp remained strangely silent.

"Silence is a virtue for Earthfast's soldiers," Alusair explained as they walked toward Torg's compound. "They're used to fighting underground. Any noise made in the caves and tunnels would echo, and that could hide an enemy's location."

Azoun watched a mail-clad dwarf pull a pointed helmet over his head, then trudge off. "Don't you find it disconcerting?" he asked. "I don't think human troops are ever this quiet."

"I'd know who to place a wager on in a battle, wouldn't you?" Alusair asked in response. She stopped alongside a firepit, its flames low, the fire mostly extinguished. The princess kicked dirt into the stone-encircled pit to douse the feeble blaze. Before her father could ask why, she said, "They're used to fighting in the dark, remember? Any light like this-" She gestured at the smoldering ash with her toe. "It could take away their advantage in a night battle."

The pair soon reached the ironlord's tent, directly across the open square from the pavilion Azoun had occupied. Breathless messengers hurried in and out of the large, black tent. The runners wore leather armor studded with metal. Even with that heavy burden, they dashed as quickly as their short legs could carry them, relaying orders for the dwarven commanders. Two guards holding pikes stood at strict attention in front of the royal tent.

"Tell the ironlord I've brought King Azoun of Cormyr to the safety of his presence," the princess commanded one of the guards in perfect Dwarvish. The sentry nodded his helmeted head once and spun sharply to the door. When he opened the heavy cloth covering the entryway, Azoun heard Torg growling what must have been orders. The ironlord's loud voice contrasted sharply with the quiet of the camp. As soon as the door fell closed again, the voice was muffled to near silence.

"The tent is made of thick felt, laced with metal," Alusair whispered in response to the king's puzzled look. "They designed it especially for Torg to use in this campaign."

The guard exited the tent and held the door open, a sign for the princess and the king to enter. As he went in, Azoun was amazed at the contrast between the dark, silent camp and Torg's bright, noisy headquarters. The dwarven monarch sat on a stone dais across from the door. He already wore much of his armor; a squire was fastening the last straps of the cuisses on the ironlord's legs. To Torg's left, a tall golden birdcage stood. Three small, brilliantly colored birds fluttered about inside the cage, chirping happily.

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

"The Bloody Skull?" the princess asked.

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

Azoun stepped forward. "How many?"

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

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

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

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

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

Alusair sighed. "The wizard, Ironlord. Where is he?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Torg leaned forward. "Uniform?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Torg took his helmet from his squire and cradled it under an arm. He pointed to the center of the enemy's line, where a huge skull, probably belonging to a giant, sat atop a pole. "Their leader, if you can call these savages organized, is probably right there."

At Azoun's signal, Vangerdahast murmured a spell. When the incantation was complete, the mage put his hands to his mouth and said, "Leader of the orcs, we wish to parley." The words, magically boosted in volume by the spell, easily carried over the silent dwarven troops and even the noisy, grumbling orcs. "I hope they understand Common," Vangerdahast said after he'd delivered his message.

There was a commotion around the giant skull standard. Across the fifty or so yards that separated the armies, Azoun could see a few orcish soldiers brandishing swords, gesturing wildly at a particularly large soldier. This orc in turn grabbed another soldier by the throat and pushed him toward the dwarven line.

The abused orc staggered to his feet, shouted a curse or two over his shoulder in Orcish, and took a step toward the dwarves. "No kill," he shouted in broken Common. "Me speaker for Vrakk."

Azoun quietly conferred with Torg and Vangerdahast for a moment. All three men stepped to the fore. The wizard readied a protective spell as Azoun moved past the lines and held out his empty hands. "I am King Azoun of Cormyr," he yelled in Common, enunciating each word slowly for the creatures arrayed before him. "We don't want to fight, but we will if necessary."

Something Azoun said had an electrifying effect on the orcish troops. The soldier that had been pushed forward rushed back to the large orc, presumably Vrakk. The leather-armored troops broke into loud debate. A few waved their weapons menacingly at the king and some continued to sprawl on the ground, but most argued heatedly with their comrades.

Finally the large orc stepped forward, punching a trooper who stood in his way. He took a dozen steps into the space between the armies and slapped his hands to his hips. "You Ak-soon," he growled in horribly belabored Common. After pounding his chest with one long-nailed hand, he added, "I Vrakk from Zhentil Keep. I here to fight horsemen with you."