"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."