This was the fourth note Vangerdahast had sent to Queen Filfaeril since the army left Telflamm, almost a month past. Like all other "wasteful magic," spells of communication were forbidden unless used in emergencies. Still, the wizard had promised to stay in contact with the queen and keep her updated on the crusade. Vangerdahast abhorred calling them reports, and he used any other word but that to describe them-missives, notes, letters, even dispatches. In fact, the communiques were reports, and Azoun kidded his friend about them constantly.
For the king knew that his wife had requested Vangerdahast to send updates to her regularly; Filfaeril herself had told him. It wasn't that she didn't trust Azoun to contact her himself-which he did at least once a tenday-nor did she think he might not tell her everything. Indeed, the queen knew Azoun would never lie to her. It was just that she realized that the king's letters would be far from objective, simply because Azoun himself found it difficult to be objective. Vangerdahast, she knew, would be painfully honest in assessing the crusaders' situation.
The latest dispatch sent, Vangerdahast lay down to relax for a few minutes before the evening meal was announced. His eyes were just fluttering closed when a commotion outside his tent startled him awake.
"Gather the generals!" someone yelled.
"Is the king in his tent?"
The sound of men splashing across the muddy compound was punctuated by other shouts. Vangerdahast had just sat up, his mind still half-clouded with sleep, when Thom Reaverson burst into the tent. The bard's homespun tunic was only spattered with rain, an indication of the speed with which he'd crossed from Azoun's tent to the wizard's.
"One of the emissaries is back," Thom gasped.
"One?" Vangerdahast asked as he stood up, rubbing his eyes. "Where's the other?"
The bard frowned. "Dead. The khahan killed him this morning, right after our men reached the Tuigan camp."
Vangerdahast paused for an instant, then put his hand to his forehead. Waking so suddenly and to such tumult had brought on a throbbing headache. Ignoring the pain as best he could, the wizard followed Thom back to the king's pavilion, where the generals had already gathered to hear the report.
The surviving scout-a Cormyrian captain-sat at the center of the tent, surrounded by Azoun, Farl Bloodaxe, Brunthar Elventree, and Lord Harcourt. A cleric was examining some lacerations on the soldier's forehead, but the captain continued to speak as salves were dabbed into his wounds and bandages wrapped around his head.
"They're monsters, Your Highness," he said just as Thom entered the tent with Vangerdahast. The captain glanced around nervously. "When we met their scouts, Kyrok- that's the Theskan you sent with me-he told them we were delivering a message to their leader. They laughed, but took us into their camp."
The cleric handed the soldier a vial of pale amber liquid to drink, which he did quickly. Without another pause, he continued his report in an excited tone. He told a grim tale of how Yamun Khahan, whom he depicted as little more than a raving madman, treated the emissaries with scorn. And when the Theskan soldier had refused to drink a sour-smelling, milky white liquid, fearing poison, the khahan and his generals had grown furious. The Theskan was beheaded on the spot.
"One of the Red Wizards from Thay was at the meeting. The khahan's historian and his generals, too," the soldier noted hurriedly. "They were all savages." He bowed his head. "I'm sorry to have failed you, Your Highness. I think the only reason they let me live was to deliver that message."
"And their troop strength?" Azoun asked softly.
The soldier shrugged. "At least one hundred thousand. Probably more. Their scouts took us straight to the khahan, and we didn't really see all that much of the camp."
After a brief silence, Azoun dismissed the wounded soldier and the cleric. The generals scattered to various seats throughout the pavilion, while Thom took up his customary observer position near the door.
"Sorry I was late, Your Highness. Did the khahan send any message back with the captain?" Vangerdahast asked after everyone had settled down.
The wizard noted the frowns that quickly took root on the faces of the other military leaders. Azoun caught Vangerdahast's eyes with his own and held the wizard's gaze for an instant. That was long enough for Vangerdahast to guess what the khahan wanted-and what the king's reply would be.
"The captain gave me the message before you arrived, Vangy. Yamun Khahan wants me to come to his camp." Azoun laced his fingers together before him and paced around the tent. "He promises my safety and says that the only way to avoid 'the utter slaughter of my armies and the destruction of my lands' is to meet with him in person."
Vangerdahast frowned now, too, though his expression was deeper and more pained than the other generals'. For an instant, he considered taking back the kind things he'd said about Azoun in his letter to Filfaeril, then dismissed the idea as petty. "And you're going."
This last wasn't so much a question as a statement. Everyone in the pavilion had served with King Azoun long enough to know that he would accept Yamun Khahan's invitation.
The rain stopped some time during the night, and early the next morning, over the objections of all his advisors, King Azoun set out for the enemy's camp. He knew he'd be in danger, but that was of little concern. He'd never have proposed the crusade if he feared death. No, Azoun realized that this was the last peaceful alternative to open conflict in his dealings with the khahan.
The king was realist enough to know that a friendly outcome to the meeting was unlikely. All he really hoped was that Vangerdahast could keep him safe with magic so he could stall the Tuigan horde for one more day. With any delay, Torg's dwarves might have a chance to finally join up with the rest of the Alliance. The king realized, in the battle that was almost sure to begin before the tenday was out, he'd need all the support he could muster.
Vangerdahast, Thom Reaverson, and an elite guard of fifty men rode with the king, most on horses borrowed from Lord Harcourt's cavalry. The handpicked soldiers all wore plate armor and silk surcoats bearing the purple dragon. They passed quietly through the jumble of tents, cookfires, and corrals of horses that made up the Alliance's camp. Cormyrian soldiers rushed to see their king, bowing low as he passed. The dalesmen and mercenaries saluted their commander, but thought it silly to bow.
As Azoun reached the outskirts of the main camp, Vrakk rushed in front of the procession. The leader of the orcs was followed by a dozen or so pig-snouted Zhentish troopers. "We go with you, Ak-soon," Vrakk called, pounding a hand on his muscular, black-armored chest.
Vangerdahast opened his mouth to speak, but Azoun cut him off.
"Thank you for your offer, Commander Vrakk," the king said, loud enough for the humans who were gathering nearby to hear. He paused for an uncomfortable instant, looking for a reason to politely reject the orc's offer. "But I need you to stand guard here, in case the horsewarriors plan a sneak attack while I'm away."
Vrakk closed one eye and squinted up at the king. "OK, Ak-soon. We wait here." He stepped aside for the procession, which quickly went on its way. The king nodded to the orcish leader as he passed.
Azoun admired the orcs' bravery, for few men had seemed happy to accompany him on this most dangerous journey. However, the king was adept enough as a statesman to realize the unpolished orcs might open a conflict in the Tuigan camp merely by being there. If Yamun and his men were anything like Torg-or even Azoun's own troops-Vrakk would start a battle simply by being orcish.
Once the procession left the main area of the camp, which ended with the orcs' circle of tents, they passed into the squalid grounds held by the refugees and lowlifes who had attached themselves to the army. Any large collection of soldiers attracted a certain number of prostitutes, black marketeers, and con men. Armies also drew a small contingent of camp followers-unemployed men looking to earn a few coppers in the service of a knight or young boys hoping to sneak into the ranks and find adventure. While the collection of people swarming around the army contained many of these types, it was largely made up of frightened, displaced farmers and merchants.