The king and his daughter talked for a short time on various minor topics, then the princess went off in search of Thom Reaverson. She had promised the bard earlier in the day to relate some of her adventures. Azoun in turn walked back to camp, favoring his leg slightly. The damp night air seemed to make the pain worse, and the king wondered if he was going to put up with the discomfort for the rest of his life. The clerics had done the best they could, so it seemed likely.
It will hurt at least until tomorrow, he concluded grimly.
The dwarves had already begun their long, grueling task by the time Azoun reached the Alliance's front line. And though he couldn't see the troops from Earthfast, the king could hear their tools biting into the road and the field. The sounds weren't all that different from the hammering and digging going on around him, as Farl's troops completed their barricades and the archers finished the palisades. Hopefully the Tuigan wouldn't be able to uncover the trap through the sound alone.
For a moment, the king wondered what he should do. The pain from his leg was getting more intense, though not unbearable, and he was very tired. Sleep certainly seemed in order. However, another trip through the ranks might provide a little comfort for the troops, provide a bit more reassurance that their leader was working late into the night, too. Perhaps, then, sleep might come more easily to the soldiers.
Remembering his daughter's advice, Azoun sighed. His heart was very clear on how the night should be spent. Limping slightly, the king set off for the nearest campfire and the group of weary soldiers clustered around it.
16
The Golden Way stretched east before the Army of the Alliance, weaving a broad path through the fields of swaying grass. Clouds filled the sky, and the dawn sun, just rising in the east, shed only a pale light over the battlefield. It was a relief to Azoun's generals that the Tuigan wouldn't be able to use a bright sun at their backs to blind the Alliance's archers.
A quiet tension reigned over the western camp. Actually, no one would call the collection of scattered fires surrounded by bedrolls a formal camp. The soldiers had done little more than set up their defensive lines, with the wagons of supplies behind them. Most now were sprawled in an exhausted sleep near where they would fight later in the day. If the gods were kind and the Alliance won-and many believed that it would take the gods' power to equalize the odds in the battle-they might set up a real camp. If they lost, it wouldn't matter.
Not that the western troops had given up hope. Azoun had discovered, much to his surprise, that there were few soldiers in the ranks sodden with despair. The king's trek around the camp the previous night had revealed that most of the army still believed in the crusade, that they weren't afraid to die as long as the cause was good. The soldiers felt, as Azoun still did, that they were all that stood between their homes and the Tuigan horde.
At first he had thought the men were only telling him what they believed he wanted to hear. After all, few of the soldiers had spoken to a king before, and most of the Cormyrians spent their time bowing instead of discussing their plight with Azoun. To test this, the monarch had passed the word through Farl that anyone wishing to leave camp could do so before dawn without fear of recrimination. It was a risky ploy, and one opposed by all the Alliance's generals; Azoun had hoped it would reveal the army's true disposition and forge a sense of unity in the troops that remained.
It worked far better than he had imagined.
"You must have counted wrong," Vangerdahast gasped, shaking his head. "I don't believe it."
Alusair smiled and handed the parchment to her father. "Farl said that, too, Vangy. We had the captains count twice."
Relief showing clearly on his weary face, Azoun threw his head back and sighed. "Only one hundred gone," he murmured. "One hundred out of over fifteen thousand."
"And most of those were mercenaries," Alusair reminded the king. She took the parchment from his hands and reviewed the figures noted there. "I don't think we lost a single Cormyrian regular, dwarf, orc, or even a dalesman. Only hired swords."
Still numb from the surprise, Azoun looked out over the lines. Some of the men were sleeping, their heads covered to block out the weak sunlight. Morningfeast occupied most of the troops, but a few nervous men and women checked and rechecked the palisades and ditches. "They're all good soldiers," he said.
"Idiots, you mean," Vangerdahast corrected sharply. He looked away, still shaking his head. "I'm going to review the War Wizards."
Alusair looked up from the parchment. "None of the wizards left either," she reminded the mage. "Does that make them idiots, too?"
Vangerdahast stopped short and wheeled around. "Having your father needle me is enough," he snapped. He shook a finger at the princess, then his features softened. "Gods, your whole family exists only to shorten my life. Anyway, I never even bothered to count the War Wizards," he noted as he turned away again.
"Wait, Vangy," Azoun said, taking a few steps forward. "Why not?"
Without turning around again, Vangy held up his palsied left hand. "They know that I'd come back from the grave to haunt them all if they left me here to fight the Tuigan alone." He shuffled past the barricades and disappeared into the western army.
"I believe he might," Alusair said to herself. She rolled the parchment up and stuffed it into her belt. "I'll give the numbers to Thom for the chronicles, Father."
The king was still looking in the direction where Vangerdahast had disappeared. "I couldn't make him stay in Cormyr, you know," he said absently.
"Who?" Alusair asked, moving to her father's side. "Vangy?"
Azoun nodded. "I wanted him to stay in Suzail in case there was trouble. Someone else could have commanded the War Wizards." The king shook his head as he remembered the mage's vehement defense of his position as general. "Sometimes I don't understand why."
"Because he's your friend," Alusair offered.
"He's been like a father to me, too," noted Azoun. He looked out across the Golden Way. "Gods, how he didn't want me to lead this crusade. He was so unreasonable."
Alusair laughed. "Fathers are like that," she said and headed off to find Thom Reaverson.
The king, who was already wearing the padded doublet and chain mail coif that went under his plate armor, decided it was time to fully arm himself. As he donned the rest of his shining silver armor, Azoun took reports from returning scouts. At first they had little to tell, but soon it became clear that the Tuigan were on the move again.
"Send for Vrakk and Torg," Azoun told one messenger. He slipped his surcoat over his breastplate so that the purple dragon reared squarely on his chest. Finally, he looked to the standard-bearer. "Signal the troops into position."
The king's standard rose high into the air. The effect the purple dragon symbol had on the army was astonishing. A murmur ran over the mass of troops, and those still sleeping were quickly roused. Armor was donned and weapons gathered. Archers planted their bunches of arrows point first in the ground at their feet, making them easy to pick up in battle. Wizards reviewed spells in their minds, and soldiers softly recited prayers to their gods. The men who hadn't eaten morningfeast grabbed their meals of hard biscuits and dried meat and rushed to their place in line. Captains and sergeants began to prowl the ranks, shouting orders and arranging the troops in the strongest formations possible.
The dwarven king appeared at Azoun's side. Like Azoun, Torg was dressed in his full plate armor. Whereas the Cormyrian monarch's short beard was tucked into the chin of his mail coif, the ironlord's hung down across his chest, bound as always in gold chain. The finely polished metal of the dwarf's armor and the gold entwined in his beard gave off a dull reflection of the morning sunlight.