Squinting against the rain, the wizard ducked out of the Royal Pavilion and made his way across the muddy ground to his own dwelling. Brunthar Elventree, the dalesman who commanded the archers, was hurrying through the compound, too, his head bowed against the rain. "Any problem with the orcs?" the wizard asked loudly.
The rain-soaked dalesman stopped, wiped the wet red hair out of his eyes, then nodded to the royal magician. "Well met, Vangerdahast," he said apologetically. "I didn't-"
The wizard scowled and hugged his pouch tighter to his side. "Forget the greeting," he said coldly. "Just answer my question before I drown." The dalesman had grown a little more respectful of Azoun's position during the march through Thesk, but Vangerdahast still saw him as a brash upstart.
Brunthar shook his head, sending beads of water sailing from his hair. "No. No trouble with the orcs since last night. We've put-"
Nodding and motioning for the man to go on his way, Vangerdahast muttered, "Fine, thank you," and continued toward his tent. He breathed a sigh of relief through his sodden beard, thanking the gods for small favors.
As Azoun and Vangerdahast had expected, the human troops did not accept the Zhentish orcs any more readily than the dwarves had. The Cormyrian soldier who'd been hanged outside of Telflamm for killing a fellow crusader had served as adequate warning against violence for most of the troops. And though insults and cruel, even dangerous practical jokes were often hurled at the orcs, no one had seemed intent on starting a fight with them-until last night.
The fistfight had been only one of a half-dozen in camp that evening. Word of the Tuigan's proximity and the delay of the dwarven troops had put everyone on edge. But while most of the scuffles were easily settled, swords had been drawn at the edge of the orcs' ring of tents, and it took Azoun himself to avert bloodshed.
"We should probably just let them kill each other and go home before the barbarians get here," Vangerdahast muttered to himself as reached his tent. The guard stationed outside, his surcoat soaked onto his armor, gave the wizard a short bow. Vangerdahast returned it perfunctorily and ducked inside.
The tent was dark and musty. Vangerdahast recalled a spell that would kindle a warm light, but quickly dismissed it. The Tuigan might attack at any time, so every spell, no matter how simple, might prove useful. With a string of grumbled expletives, the wizard dumped his pouch onto his cot and fumbled with a tinderbox. After lighting the lantern that hung from the tent's center support, he shucked off his wet robe.
The lantern spread a weak light through the tent, revealing a huge assortment of books, scrolls, and other, more curious items. A live hedgehog lay sleeping in a large glass jar, which itself was bumped up against a box of dragon scales of various colors. Oils and liquids stood in neat rows, their tightly stoppered containers clearly labeled. Mortars and pestals were stored neatly in one corner, next to a large shelf filled with spellbooks. In short, the tent was incredibly organized for the amount of material it held.
But then, that was Vangerdahast's way. He hated clutter and confusion. "An untidy room is the sign of a sloppy mind," he always said. "And people with sloppy minds can't be trusted in a pinch." That saying applied to the fabled mage, Elminster of Shadowdale, too. Vangerdahast had visited the ancient sorcerer's home many times. He was always astounded to find the place in utter disarray-though Elminster claimed to know where every item was.
Vangerdahast doubted that the Sage of Shadowdale even knew what every item in the cluttered tower was, let alone its location.
As he glanced around the tent, the royal mage thought of Elminster, then cursed again. "I wish ye were in this gods-forsaken place instead of me," he muttered, using the dialect Elminster favored. Vangerdahast talked to himself aloud quite often when he was alone. It was a habit he'd picked up in his sixty-odd years of magical research, conducted largely in isolation.
That habit did not reflect a deteriorating mind, however. For a man of almost eighty years, Vangerdahast was in good shape, both mentally and physically. An occasional spell had bolstered his health and perhaps added a few years to his life, but all in all the royal wizard was as fit as most men half his age. His weight was a bit of a problem, to be sure, but his paunch had been the result of too little physical activity, not too much wild living.
With a heavy sigh, Vangerdahast folded his robe and placed it neatly on a chair to dry. He then picked up his satchel and removed the lists of spells the army's mages knew. After placing the papers in a small steel box, protected by wards in case a spy should attempt to open it or even move it, the wizard pulled a dry robe from a chest and shrugged it on. For a moment, he considered contacting Fonjara Galth, the representative from Rashemen, but decided against it. Her country was almost three hundred miles to the east, now well behind the Tuigan's front rank. The special powder the witch had left for contacting her would be wasted if used to gather information that might prove inconsequential to the Alliance's current predicament.
"There are other letters to be sent!" Vangerdahast said a little too loudly. His voice filled the tent and surprised him a bit. He smiled sheepishly, straightened his robe, and went to the small table set up next to his bed. After opening a pen case and a jar of ink, the wizard located a piece of fresh parchment and set to work.
To Queen Filfaeril of Cormyr, the note began. We are now camped in Thesk, part way between the free city of Telflamm and the Theskan city of Tammar. We have encountered the enemy through scouts. Emissaries have been dispatched to the Tuigan camp, and we now await their return.
Again a trumpet sounded over the camp, and Vangerdahast looked up reflexively. Just another scout returning, he decided. Frowning, the wizard turned back to the letter.
The army is tense, but in relatively good spirits. The orcs I mentioned in my last missive have caused little trouble with the troops, but they are scarcely welcome. They keep to themselves at the edge of the main encampment, and most of the men have yet to see them but from afar. King Torg still has not arrived with his dwarves.
The wizard paused and considered his next comment carefully. After tapping the pen against his lips, he nodded and added, The princess was possessed of better spirits when we spoke to her last. I am unsure of the reason, but I think something occurred on the march that has changed her perception of the ironlord. For this, both Azoun and I are glad.
After rereading what he had written, Vangerdahast gently scattered pinches of fine sand on the paper to dry the ink. After a moment, he composed two more short paragraphs.
Not surprisingly, the king looks forward to the conflict with the khahan. The refugees sadden and anger him, and seeing them drives him on. He has infected some of the men with his cause, too. An army might yet be forged out of these varied mercenaries and farmhands.
Azoun has surprised me more than once on this crusade-as he did the princess in the dwarves' camp, I'm certain. I pray to Tempus, God of War, that he has a few surprises left.
After signing the letter "Your Obedient Servant," the royal wizard again sanded the letter to dry the flowing, ornate script. He deftly rolled the parchment thin and enclosed it in a bone-white metal tube. "Guard!" he called sharply.
There was no answer. No doubt, the wizard concluded with a chuckle, the boy thinks I'm just talking to myself. He had to yell twice more to get the rain-soaked sentry's attention.
"Take this to the king, and ask him if he has any messages going back to Suzail. If not, bring the tube back to me so I can seal it." Vangerdahast handed the sniffling guard the container and dismissed him.